tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70624759058529049082024-02-20T19:28:45.289-05:00Optimistic CynicismIs the glass really half one-way-or-the-other? I think it depends on what you're drinking.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.comBlogger296125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-19991513304239447972014-02-06T12:26:00.001-05:002014-02-06T12:26:50.944-05:00A Polar AffairIt's winter in Ohio, and you never know what you're gonna get. Just a couple years ago, I sent my son to school with not even a jacket because it was so warm - in February! But not today.<br />
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This year, we met Mr. Polar Vortex. He doesn't have many friends in these parts, but to be honest, I'm rather enjoying his company. Don't tell anyone, but I've invited him to stay a while. In fact, I can almost feel an affair brewing. <br />
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Believe me, I've never felt this way about any weather pattern before. I never expected to get caught up in snowy romantics, but when a situation presents itself at just the right time, well... sometimes that's when magic happens. <br />
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I love my husband. I do. But he can't compete with my new love. Mr.Vortex has the power to freeze air! I cannot fully describe what this gift means to me, but I'll try.<br />
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Layers of blankets and fuzzy socks. Snow days full of snuggling up with my boy and good read-together books. It's an excuse to not drive, because I'm a horrible winter drive (I hit a house, for goodness sake! I wreck every single time I try to drive on icy roads). It means fleece pajamas and a bathrobe! Which in turn means cookie dough, bean dip, pizza and potato chips, because I cannot feel how constricting my clothes have become. It means winter hats, so I don't even have to comb my hair (let alone dye it) and scarves that cover my face so there's no need for makeup. Boots! No uncomfortable dressy shoes. It's not having to get the dog groomed because she needs her fuzz to keep her warm. It means being free of guilt for not taking Monsoon for a bike ride or to the park. Actually, it's a freedom from guilt of almost any variety.<br />
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I've heard how affairs can ruin a person. When my Polar Vortex leaves me and the days become too warm for sweatpants, I'll try to unstick my jelly-rolled body from the electric blanket and move on. Maybe I'll even be able to use my bathing suit as an article of clothing again, instead of a napkin (not really - I dropped caramel on it last week, so I ate it. It was really good caramel).<br />
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Three cheers to winter. I'm dreading shorts season.<br />
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<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-5276575258672092192013-09-30T12:25:00.001-04:002013-09-30T12:25:38.044-04:00I'm losing himHe's slipping away. I can feel it in the way he lets his hand - so big now - fall from mine as we walk down the sidewalk. When, if I'm lucky, he will freeze in place as I lean in to kiss his cheek. Or worse, he pulls back or turns away, and I only graze a few hairs on his head. I miss that soft cheek and those grasping hands.<br />
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Those hands once squeezed my face and pulled me in for a slobbery kiss a hundred times a day. They would reach for me at all hours of the day and night. Those sweet chubby fingers that held onto as much of me as they possibly could, because somehow I could never be too close. <br />
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It's good that he doesn't need me, that he's growing independent. I know this in my head, but the rest of me is having a moment. The rest of me isn't finished being that person he used to call "The BEST Mommy in the world!" The rest of me is not at all prepared to be the equivalent of a blinking red nose on the face of my son's social life. I need more years. I've still got so much mommy awesomeness to give. <br />
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So forgive me when he skins his knee and I brighten a little. Don't judge me when I revel in his next sick day. Bare with me if I look forward to hearing a terrified voice scream, "Mommy!" after a 2 a.m. nightmare. Let me have these things, because even though my brain knows they're bad, the rest of me needs to recover from days like today, when he calls me MOM (eye-roll included) in front of his friends and does not want me to stay and have lunch with him at school. <br />
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Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-20467493964433102422013-09-18T11:18:00.001-04:002013-09-18T11:18:21.368-04:00Nomommy's Perfect"Mommmmmmyyy! I spiiiiiiilllled iiiiiit!" <br />
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I bump and stumble out of bed, my 7 a.m.-zombified self, trying to find the door. <br />
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Monsoon is sitting on the couch with a full bowl of Lucky Charms and milk, which would be fine, except it's upside down in his lap. He isn't moving, he's just waiting for me. He looks mildly uncomfortable, but not at all harried. "It's cold," he says, and he just keeps sitting in it.<br />
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Clearly, he has no intention of rectifying this situation himself.<br />
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It's early. I'm not even awake, really. I get distracted with daydreams of a new couch; one that isn't a secret patchwork of dog barf, baby poop, bean dip, fruit juice, sticky granola crumbs, and now milk. <br />
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He's staring at me, and I'm pretty sure I can tell what he's thinking. I'm interrupting his morning cartoon with my laziness. How can he enjoy himself with this cold mess in his lap? Come on, lady. Get it together. You're staring. <br />
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I decide, being that I'm offended by my perception of his thoughts, that I do too much. He's 8. He should clean up his own mess. I pump my fists in the air and stomp to the bathroom, screaming unintelligibly at the ceiling. I stomp back and throw a towel at him. <br />
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He just keeps staring. <br />
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I take a breath, explain that he needs to clean it up, and walk away.<br />
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Two minutes later, there are soggy cereal parts smashed into the cushion, milk spread and soaking into three different pillows, white crumby footprints covering the floor, and rehydrated rainbow marshmallows glued to the clean-up towel. <br />
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...And the towel was in the laundry hamper. I'm calling it a win.<br />
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Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-76130252121604290472013-09-13T10:59:00.000-04:002013-09-13T10:59:10.661-04:00Grown-Up ThingsResponsible. Reasonable. Mature. <br />
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Grown-Up. <br />
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I don't want to be any of those things today.<br />
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A grown-up wakes up at 4 a.m. with heartburn and it takes a half hour of middle-of-the-night introspection to realize she's anxious because she is halfway through her thirties and what the hell has she done with her life?<br />
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A mature wife doesn't make her husband drink the "other" coffee because she wants the good stuff all to herself.<br />
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Reasonable women clean the 5 dog turds off their kid's bed right away this morning - and while the good coffee gets cold - because waiting would be gross. A reasonable mother would not dump the dog at a farm, tell her kid it pooped itself to death, and quietly celebrate the end of having to worry about dog barf seeping into her couch.<br />
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A grown-up would agree to take her son Subway for lunch, because he wants to celebrate her birthday with her. She wouldn't even think about how she doesn't really even like Subway and she might want to stay home and read a book and pretend her house is still as clean as it was yesterday before anyone else came home!<br />
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Just for one day, I'd like to be the opposite of those things. One day to be selfish, childish, immature and completely unreasonable. Just one day to pretend I'm not closing in on middle-age. Channel my self-consumed 19-year-old self who would simply throw the mattress out with the sheets and not even know the difference between great coffee and gas station decaf.<br />
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I want to talk my husband into skipping work and lounging around the house with me, eating Spaghettio's from the pot and wearing nothing but a blanket. <br />
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I want to get in my tiny car and race through the back roads in the boonies where I grew up, and the words "safety" and "insurance" to not even occur to me.<br />
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I want to feel embarrassed by my mother, because that is absolutely less humiliating than being the mother in that scenario.<br />
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Most of all, after that one day, I wish for everything to return to normal, because suddenly I remember that I like myself better now than I did when I wasn't quite grown-up.<br />
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Happy birthday, self. May your candles blow and your day not suck. <br />
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Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-44007628937126293402013-05-30T12:07:00.000-04:002013-05-30T12:07:51.076-04:00The Incredible Doofy Gardener Mostly when I see people doing yard work, they look like they're enjoying it. They have big, beautiful landscapes and weedless yards. I see ladies in pink pants and matching gardening gloves, gently patting the ground with their tiny hand-shovel (I know it has a real name, I just don't know the name of it). They wear clean white visors and only get dirt on their floral-pattern aprons. They smile, for goodness sake. They're not even sweating!<br />
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When I attempt yard work (I won't say "do" yard work, because that's not entirely accurate), I look like I'm putting on a one-woman circus show with way too many acts.<br />
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I don't have cute gardening gear or matchy yard work clothes. I have my husband's elastic-shot boxer shorts with a scrunchy tied around one end of the waist to hold them up. I wear a gigantic t-shirt with red paint stains and a stinky baseball cap to shield my eyes. I have a pair of kid's winter mittens instead of gardening gloves. My tools are rusty and the handles fall off. I have a wheel barrow with a flat tire and broken cardboard boxes that serve as a tarp for dragging stuff around when it's too heavy to life into the barrow. <br />
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Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... The Incredible Doofy Gardener.<br />
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Act 1: The Forgetful Clown - It doesn't matter how many times I prep for yard work or how organized I leave my tools from the day before. I will inevitably make fifteen back-and-forth trips from the front yard to the back garage, and once I finally get it all set to work, I'll realize I did the front yard yesterday and it all needs to be moved to the back. There's also an angry dance, but I won't describe that here.<br />
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Act 2: The Sweaty Lady/Mud Man - Please tell me other people look like they took a shower with their clothes on during yard work. Sweat+Dirt = Mud Monster. Maybe don't wait til now to ask an impressionable young child for help - he might lock the doors on you.<br />
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Act 3: Elephant Weeds - Have you ever pulled a really, really big weed? Like a weed that's as tall as you if you count the root? When we moved here, not much had been done with the yard in years, so the weeds were pretty deep. I'm 5 feet tall and I've never had a functional equilibrium. It goes likes this: Pull, pull, pull, pull, nothing. Change footing. Pull, pull, pull, pull, a little budge. Secure footing, grasp root with both hands, put my back into it. Pull, pull, pull, pull, fly backwards and land on my head with my butt in the air. Weed's out! Thank myself for remembering underwear under those boxer shorts and move on to the next job.<br />
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Act 4: Balancing Act - Sometimes when you dig with a big shovel and you're maybe not as strong as the dirt, you have to jump on the shovel to get it into the ground. It's kind of like a pogo stick, without the bouncing. Due to my above-mentioned lack of equilibrium, this is about as tricky as walking a tight-rope, and just as dangerous. Shovels fall over - they don't have an equilibrium, either. On the few occasions when I do manage to step off the shovel before I hit the ground with it, I usually over correct and end up spinning around to land on my face. <br />
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Curtain Call. I'm pretty sure I hear Sprinkles barking from inside the window until I drag myself back up. It could be the neighbors laughing from across the street, but I'm gonna just keep pretending Sprinkles has my back. <br />
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Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-23533580497326605292013-04-12T08:24:00.001-04:002013-04-12T08:28:13.662-04:00Leave? Ha!The week of preparation before 2 days of relaxation is like running a marathon just to eat a slice a cake.<br />
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Leaving my boys at home while I go have fun on a girl's weekend should be exciting - and I'm sure it will be, as soon a I finish cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, laundry washing... oh, and actually packing myself for the trip. <br />
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Why do I feel like I need to do all that? Is it some form of OCD that occurs only for mothers - or maybe only mothers of boys? Because let's face it, boys are dirty creatures and if I leave the house a mess, maybe I'll come home to a landfill instead of a home.<br />
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Lawd-a-mercy, what if they run out of milk? Heaven forbid somebody orders a pizza (which is what they're gonna do anyway - even if there's perfectly respectable casserole made up in the fridge with simple instructions called STICK IT IN THE OVEN FOR 30 MINUTES AND THAT'S ALL!). Make sure the toilet paper holder is stocked - They couldn't possibly figure out how to open the closet door to get more. Put a box of tissues in every room so Monsoon doesn't "redecorate" the wall (because really, that'll help. Sure).<br />
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Maybe I just like pretending they can't live without me. <br />
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Probably I'll forget to pack myself underwear and a toothbrush, but at least Monsoon will be able to tramp mud onto a sparkling floor. It's all about having straight <strike>jacket</strike> priorities, you know. Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-48249998273560879462013-04-04T10:16:00.000-04:002013-04-04T10:16:31.166-04:00Mean Girl KarmaWhat are the odds that the girl you tortured in high school would have a kid at the same time as you? Apparently, pretty good.<br />
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There were plenty of pros and cons we went back and forth with before we decided to send Monsoon to the same school in the same town that we grew up in. Him becoming best friends with children whose parents I physically and emotionally abused... well, that didn't come up in one single list. If it had, I'd have skedaddled across the state line and changed my name. <br />
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I'd like to thank Monsoon for the lessons I've learned in the past year+.<br />
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1. Hiding from the girl you tortured in high school is not an appropriate way to deal with the fact that your son is friends with her kid. You look like a creeper.<br />
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2. Pretending to talk on your phone to avoid awkward conversation with her (or lack thereof) while waiting on school to let out... is dumb. Your phone will ring. It just will.<br />
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3. When you tell your kid he can't go to So-and-So's house because you have to wash your hair (every day for three weeks) does not discourage him from wanting to play with So-and-So. Probably he just figures you're an idiot.<br />
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4. Discussing your guilty feelings with your husband is unhelpful. "Wow babe, you were a _itch."<br />
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5. Hoping she doesn't remember you is unreasonable and highly unlikely. Even if she didn't, her new first impressions of you are "creeper" and "idiot." <br />
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So let me ask you this: How far does sharing a few bottles of wine and slobbering profuse apologies go toward convincing someone you're not that mean anymore? <br />
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Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-28964255937881923072012-11-07T10:53:00.000-05:002012-11-07T10:55:11.295-05:00On Once-A-Month Cooking and lost pants.I've heard a lot of questions recently about the once-a-month cooking thing, so I'm posting run-down. If you want an entire website dedicated to it, see <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/">onceamonthmom.com</a>. That's where I started and I still find great recipes and tips from her.<br />
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<strong><u>Why would I torture myself with an entire day of cooking?</u></strong><br />
<strong>It's not</strong> actually an entire day - I can get it all done while Monsoon is in school. <br />
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<strong>It's healthier.</strong> Even if the meals I cook aren't necessarily "health foods," they're still much better for us than eating out. I've found that when we have food ready, we're going to stay in and eat what's here 99% of the time. <br />
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<strong>It's cheap!</strong> Each dinner usually averages out to under $5. That's for the whole meal, not per person. Since there are only 3 of us, we usually have enough left over for lunch the next day, too. Healthier than McD's and basically a free lunch.<br />
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<strong><u>Up front honesty portion:</u></strong> <br />
The grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning up part all blow banana chunks, BUT they are so worth it for the end result: an entire month of dinners, ready to go. No more, "I don't know what to fix for dinner" 5 minutes before bedtime and then all the "That again?!?!" <br />
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<strong><u>The gist of it:</u></strong><br />
<strong>You take one day</strong> to put together a bunch of dinners for the whole month so that they're all ready to stick in the oven or crock pot on the day you want to eat them.<br />
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<strong>I find 10 recipes</strong> that we'll want to eat that month, and plan on doubling them. That gives us 2 of each dinner, enough for 4 weeks of Monday-Friday dinners. This means I only have to find dinner 8 nights of the month (we like Pajamas & Pizza Friday and quick-n-easy stuff like spaghetti or sloppy joes or grilled cheese). <br />
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<strong>The grocery list</strong> seems a little intimidating, but it can actually be very simple. I get my recipes, blank paper, a pencil and a cup of coffee (optional). I make categories (produce, frozen, meat, canned, dairy, etc...) because it's easier for me to shop in categories. Then I go through each recipe, writing down the name of the item in it's correct category and - here's where it gets simple - make a tally mark for however many I need for that recipe. Some call for a # of cans, amounts in ounces, measurements in cups, and so forth - I put a < next to the item and mark oz or cups or whatever. As I go along, writing ingredients for each recipe, I add to the list and mark amounts or tallies for each repeat item. At the end, I can add each one up and get a total amount. <br />
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<strong>Organizing</strong> that one cooking/put-together day took some practice on my part. I am the type of person who organizes herself into confusion and maybe can't find her pants when she rearranges her closet. You just have to look at what you've got and decide on the best way to go about it. While one thing is on the stove and doesn't need much attention, use that time to dump something else into a freezer bag or measure out your ingredients for another dish. You'll probably get it faster than I did - you can probably find your pants, too.<br />
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<strong>First thing</strong> you need to know: You don't have to cook all the meals on the big cooking day! YAY!!! That's my favorite part. I look for "dump" recipes where you can just throw all the ingredients into a freezer bag and that's it until you stick in the crock pot or oven for dinner. <br />
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<strong>Here's a fun trick</strong>: Figure up how many total pounds of chicken or beef need to be cooked before freezing (NOTE that some meals do not require the meat to be cooked prior to freezing), and put it in the crock pot overnight with enough water to cover. I do chicken in the crockpot and ground beef the regular stove top way (in a huge pan or stock pot). If all your meat is already cooked, it makes even less work on your one cooking day. <br />
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<strong><u>More Tips:</u></strong><br />
<strong>Freezer bags</strong>, freezer bags, freezer bags. Gallon size or smaller, depending on how many you have to feed. If you want to save the planet, wash and reuse your freezer bags. Yeah, you can do that.<br />
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<strong>For lasagna</strong> or other meals that need to be layered in a pan, the cheap disposable ones from the dollar store work just fine but are not reusable (it's not very green of me - I know). Important: DO NOT bake the lasagna until you defrost it for your dinner. <br />
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<strong>For casseroles</strong> that you have to cook in a pan, you can still just dump them into a plastic bag for freezing - when you thaw them out, you can just dump the mixture into a pan before you cook it. Again, don't bake the casserole until you're ready to serve it.<br />
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<strong>Pinterest</strong> and Bloggers. I've found most of my recipes on cooking blogs (many through pinterest). I look for easy stuff with normal ingredients that might be in season or on sale this time of year.<br />
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<strong>Think about sides</strong>. My family is easy - we'll do mac-n-cheese or a can of veggies. Carrots, celery (stuff that keeps a little longer) or frozen garlic bread are all good things to have around. <br />
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<strong>For picky eaters</strong>, cook a little extra chicken and ground beef to keep on-hand for those nights you serve something he/she won't eat. Add some BBQ or plain old salt & pepper the chicken, and there ya go. Scoop some ground beef into a taco shell (keep in a zip-loc bag so they don't get stale after they're opened) with some cheese. I always put whatever we're having on Monsoon's plate and ask him to at least lick it. **Before you go judging me for making an extra meal for my picky eater, know this: Pttthhh!!! Ok, commence judgement - but keep it to yourself. <br />
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I've made my grocery list for this month and will soon be on my way to the store (in my pajamas, unless I can find my pants). Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-43480005204311140212012-10-23T09:56:00.001-04:002012-10-23T09:56:18.727-04:00Love with food"Love" and "food" go together like "couch" and "butt."<br />
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<em>**In case you hadn't noticed by that first sentence, health nuts beware: This post has not yet been rated by the nutritionally invisible society**</em><br />
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I so love to eat food, make food, share food, re-pin food, photograph food (to the public embarrassment of friends and family), and relive food in memory the way high school football stars relive their teen glory days. I just love food. I love <em>with</em> food, too. Not in the creepy way - I would probably keep that to myself. No, no. Food is a gift. Think about it.<br />
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What do people give the family when someone dies? How do we help a girlfriend handle a break-up? What is the one staple at every birthday celebration? Isn't there an old saying about the way to a man's heart? Whose hand are you not supposed to bite? (the one that feeds you, in case that one threw you).<br />
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How do you feel when the weather chills and the leaves turn? I feel caramel apples and pumpkin bread and broccoli cheese soup. It's a feeling, I swear.<br />
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Christmas morning feels like chocolate chip pancakes with pecans and maple syrup. Valentine's Day feels like Esther Price chocolates. Friday nights feel like pizza; hormonal stress feels like a snickers and some hot wings. A windfall (of the surprise cash variety) feels like medium rare Filet Mignon with a side of sweet stewed tomatoes and salty onion rings. <br />
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What better gift than emotional contentment through food? <em>Insert gasp of horror if you never had a southern(ish) grandma who taught you that food is nourishment for the soul.</em><br />
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This morning we ate "I'm sorry for picking a fight with you and saying mean things" baked french toast. Last night, it was "So glad you're home from work" fresh bread and butter. My personal favorite is my husband's signature "Thanks for being a great mom" box of Junior Mints, other times known as "I'm sorry" Junior Mints or "I was thinking of you today" Junior Mints. <br />
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Do you love with food? Are you also wearing stretchy pants?Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-74899791380718282742012-07-18T11:09:00.000-04:002012-07-18T11:09:42.700-04:00Facebook ProfilingMy Facebook stalking phase ended a while ago, but I still like to do a Mrs. Cravits scroll-through a couple times a day. I've noticed a few trends. It seems like all my 200+ closest friends have fallen into a "type" of posting rut. Here are a few I've noticed:<br />
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<strong>1. The GRIPER.</strong> Everything is a complaint - and there's always an ALL CAPS word or twenty. Even good news is downgraded to a more positive negitive. <br />
<em>EX: I cannot BELIEVE I just got a promotion and now I have to do more WORK just because they're paying me more</em>! Ugh!<br />
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<strong>2. The FU-er.</strong> This guy has some unresolved anger issues. Also, he rarely names the person to which he is directing the stream of curses. I suspect he is a weenie in real life. I am tempted to delete, but his posts are such a train wreck, I can't look away.<br />
<em>EX: Hey you F*ing Mother F*er! Yeah you! Watch your C*-Sucking back mofo!</em> <br />
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<strong>3. The Pinner.</strong> It takes five minutes to scroll down past the seemingly infinite number of Pinterest-style humor pictures. I like these posters, but wonder if this is a passive form of the FU-er.<br />
<em>EX</em>: <img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="184" data-width="274" height="184" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRW-k14lIi1kuOczQhPyyXknQjNkcQMGd4pQBfsHEDDrifRt2va" style="height: 184px; width: 274px;" width="274" /><br />
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<strong>4. The You-Tuber.</strong> Same as #3, but with videos. I'll spare you an example.<br />
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<strong>5. Gamer</strong>. She just earned 50 bazillion coins in Slotty-Zingo-Jewel-Extravaganzia!! So did thirty of her friends and they're all posted on top of one another. Again, you know what I'm talking about without an example.<br />
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<strong>6. The New Chain Letter Sender.</strong> He probably still won't step on a crack because it might break his mother's back. <br />
<em>EX: Repost this post if you're human! Ignore if you're a big fat smelly turd.</em><br />
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<strong>7. See my kids? See my pets?</strong> Nothing but photos and bragging and stories about her kids or pets. (sidenote: I think this is my category).<br />
<em>EX: My dog just sneezed and then my kid laughed and then we all had ice cream! It was amazing!</em><br />
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<strong>8. Inspiration Pusher.</strong> Affirmations are this guy's crack (the drug, not the butt kind), and he wants everyone else to get hooked, too. They make everything seem possible. Corny doesn't even begin to describe. (sidenote: I might be an addict - I do love reading these).<br />
<em>EX: Did you know... YOU can make the choice to stand up and put your boogers in a tissue instead of on the wall! You can! You can! I know you can do it! Go for it, you fabulous snot-blower, you!!</em><br />
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<strong>9. What-the-what?</strong> Some people write things that sound really smart, but that I just don't understand. Then I feel stupid. <br />
<em>EX: Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious. Look it up.</em><br />
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<strong>10.</strong> <strong>Normal people.</strong> You just never know what they're gonna do. <br />
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Have you noticed many of these? Have any other Facebook Profiles to add?Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-47037215416468205332012-07-06T09:42:00.000-04:002012-07-06T09:48:36.286-04:00Everything's CrookedMoving sucks rotten eggs. It's why we stayed in our first house so long - the one we fixed up over the course of a decade. We put in new windows and a deck, added light fixtures and upgraded electrical outlets that somehow ended up with EVERY single one of them being crooked. <br />
<br />
Anyway, moving stinks, and I'm bad at it. Even after the 4th move in 18 months, I'm bad at it. Each time, I think, "Hey, I'm getting the hang of this!" Then we get settled and I can't find my favorite shoes or my toothbrush or my dog. That rusted cookie sheet that should've been pitched five years ago - yep, that's here. Now where the flip is my TV remote?! <br />
<br />
Thankfully, we've finally settled for good. My husband has promised not to apply for any jobs out of driving range - at least for the next five or six or twenty years. We made the decision to stay put so that Monsoon can grow up around family. <br />
<br />
That being said, I was leary about the rash decision to buy our little house. I like to mull things over, consider all my options, wade around the shallow end before jumping off the high dive. Dear husband has the tendancy to cannon ball himself into the pool next to me, soaking me with his tidal wave before I've even dipped my little toe. <br />
<br />
So it was like that when he wanted this house and I went along with it, nervous and figety for weeks while we painted walls and refinished floors.<br />
When were almost ready to move in, I took the liberty of returning all the outlet covers to their rightful place on the walls. And guess what?<br />
<br />
EVERY single one of them is crooked. Every. Single. One. <br />
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I'm home!Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-13049012643708023772012-02-10T08:59:00.007-05:002012-02-10T10:12:45.065-05:00I'm Old-FashionedAs many of us all over the world did, I watched the video of the dad who shot the laptop because his daughter is a teenage brat.<br /><br />It was nostalgic, really. I also realized how much I appreciate having grown up in the era before social media.<br /><br />For instance, there was no video evidence of the night I said "F*** You!" to my dad, and my sister thought I was going to die. It would be totally embarrassing if anyone saw how tough I really was... hiding in a closet.<br /><br />Back then, when some kid took topless pictures of half the Senior girls, he got in trouble for DEVELOPING FILM in class. It's comforting to know that if somebody wanted to be <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">pervy</span> with an up-close of my chest, he'd have to go through the photography teacher.<br /><br />If I had a crush on a boy, I wrote "Ryan Ashley Boys-Last-Name" a hundred and twenty times in PRIVATE. The only type of hacking that would help some busy-body find my love notes would be prying open my combination locker.<br /><br />When I snuck out to a wild party, not once did I ever worry about a random video posting of my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Boones</span> Farm stupidity making it's way back to my parents.<br /><br />Maybe I'm just old-fashioned. I like my private pictures on photo paper, my secret love notes folded into a triangle, and all of it stuffed into a shoe box in the back of my closet.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-9268634493613314792011-12-19T20:43:00.004-05:002011-12-19T21:34:24.804-05:00Up-Down, Up-DownI've watched the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin maybe 5 times in my whole life, beginning when I was a tween. Every time I watch it, I seem to be in a different section of life. Tween, teen, early twenties, late twenties right after Monsoon was born, and just now in my early thirties. Every time I see it, I find something new and hilarious that I can relate with - something I never even noticed in the movie before.<br /><br />There's one scene that has stuck with me since that very first viewing at the By-Jo Theatre when I must have been only 11 or 12 years old.<br /><br />When life seems like a perpetual string of insanity, I think of Batty old Grandma from Parenthood, chittering about her first roller coaster ride. "Up, down, up, down, oh what a ride... Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. Hmph..."<br /><br />Sometimes life does feel like that first ride, climbing a hill for far too long. It's exhilarating and uncomfortable. It makes you feel sick half way up and might even be a little regrettable, but once you finally get to the top, you only have a few fleeting moments of fear before the momentum catches you and you can't help but smile through the screams.<br /><br />There are two lessons in riding twice. You know what's coming the second time around. You're prepared, and there are fewer surprises along the way.<br /><br />Lesson 1 - The more you ride, the more comfortable you get.<br /><br />Lesson 2 - Those unexpected twists and turns, those hidden loops and surprise falls... they were a really big part of the fun.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-77220666677803165512011-09-19T06:40:00.001-04:002011-09-19T06:40:00.056-04:00Bad Mommy: I was never a star student<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RmNfaBh7Yzo/SvAjCTsXASI/AAAAAAAAAek/9cD1CanBxeo/s1600-h/Bad+Mommy+Weekly.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 167px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399854475770265890" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RmNfaBh7Yzo/SvAjCTsXASI/AAAAAAAAAek/9cD1CanBxeo/s400/Bad+Mommy+Weekly.jpg" /></a><br />Screaming, for me, is a regular element in the finishing of course work. It's been that way since first grade - or whenever it was we started learning about math (math is stupid, by the way).<br /><br />In elementary, it often went like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At the time, I probably would rather have lived in a box and had no parents than actually sit down and think about subtracting 3 from 7.<br /><br />In Junior High, it went more like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At that time, I definitely would rather have lived in a box and had no parents. Except for the box part - I needed my curling iron and hair spray.<br /><br />High School was a little different. "I hate EVERYTHING! I hate YOU! YOU'RE stupid! I don't CARE!!!" I did actually move out for a couple of days - not to a box, but it might as well have been. I still didn't care if I had parents, but they did buy my Guess Jeans, so I didn't stay gone long.<br /><br />Now, as an adult going back to school, things have changed just a tad. There's less blaming of my parents, and boxes don't hold the same intrique; but there's still yelling, more eloquent "bleeping," and sometimes I throw things.<br /><br />Today, Monsoon said to me, "I'm sorry you're computer doesn't work when you want it to, Mommy. But maybe you should get off those not-nice-words when you're angry."<br /><br />I feel like I should probably set a better example of how you're supposed to behave while studying. Or maybe he'll make a note of not being an idiot like his mother?Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-55868472868846085912011-09-12T11:55:00.004-04:002011-09-12T12:55:31.232-04:00Bam. Right when I least expected it.I didn't cry the day Monsoon started Kindergarten. I fully expected to be a soggy mess. I waited all day, but the tears just never came.<br /><br />The morning went nothing like I anticipated, though. The bus was twenty minutes late, and then it passed our house so we had to run down the street to catch it. I got right in my car and drove straight to school, but all the surrounding streets were packed, so I had to park two blocks away. As soon as I stepped out of the car, his bus passed me. I told him I would be waiting when he got off the bus, so what else could I do? I booked it all the way to the school, half of the path being straight up a huge hill. I couldn't feel my legs by the time I got to him, but he was just stepping onto the sidewalk. I was just in time. We walked to his room together, holding hands, and when we got there, his eyes lit up and he was ready to begin his new adventure. Such a big boy.<br /><br />I still didn't cry. Probably when I could feel my legs again, I'll be able to cry, I thought. A handful of people called or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">texted</span> to see how I was doing (funny, they knew I was the one the worry about, not the boy). I couldn't believe it myself, but I was completely fine. Maybe I had grown and matured, too. Maybe I could enjoy the sweetness of this day, rather than finding it just a tad bitter.<br /><br />Today, I was out running errands and happened to drive by his old preschool. The one he went to for 2 1/2 years; the one he started when he was barely three.<br /><br />As I drove by, a memory drifted through my head of a little boy with baby-fine hair, ears too big for his head, wearing his tiny navy winter coat that went all the way down to his knees, holding my hand as we walked into that school. I saw his big eyes taking in everything new, saw his little feet pattering down the hall, trying to keep up with my pace. I felt his gentle kiss on my cheek, his short chubby arms around my neck... I heard him squeal, "Mommy!!" in his three year old voice and remembered how he would say<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">,</span> "I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Yike</span> school," when he couldn't make the L sound.<br /><br />So this is how it happened. This is how it finally hit me, and I cried all the way home.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-36052613820924384972011-09-06T06:14:00.000-04:002011-09-06T09:20:43.554-04:00And so it begins...Kindergarten starts today.<br /><br />I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.<br /><br />I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">screeeeech</span>... <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Puffffff</span>" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.<br /><br />I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.<br /><br />I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.<br /><br />He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."<br /><br />They are silly, I tell him.<br /><br />I don't tell him I'm silly, too.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-78966533716256554932011-09-05T07:18:00.001-04:002011-09-05T07:18:00.682-04:00Enemim KingHello, my name is Ashley and I'm a chocoholic.
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<br />My dad gave me half of his Hershey bar when I was barely old enough to eat jarred mush. My mom once picked me up from Kindergarten with an unopened pack of M&Ms in her winter coat pocket, and the first words out of my mouth when I closed the car door were, "I smell chocolate." I can tell the difference between brands of chocolate used in homemade ice cream (FYI: the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Valrhona</span> was better than the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ghirardelli</span>). My husband makes me brownies when I'm having a bad week - and he knows not to eat more than one. The rest of the pan is mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have eaten an entire devil's food cake on more than one occasion. I can honestly not remember the last time I went an entire day without chocolate in some form or another.
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<br />So the other day, after Monsoon played the <a href="http://ryanashleyscott.blogspot.com/2011/09/good-joke-huh-mommy.html">pretty funny joke</a> on me, I was going to need a quick <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">choco</span>-fix or I was going to lose my cool. I ran to the cupboard, knowing all I had were a couple <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">measly</span> bags of chocolate chips. I had to reach up to get them, but when they came down, something else - something bigger - fell on my head.
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<br />It was the biggest bag of M&Ms I've ever seen, a parting gift from a coworker before we moved, and I had completely forgotten about them. It was like they were glowing under the florescent light above the kitchen sink and I could almost hear angels singing on high as I stared down at the unopened bag. Of course the boy walked in before I could regain my composure (or hide them), so I poured us a bowl and we played Rummy while we snacked.
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<br />After a while, he said, "There's only one left, Mommy. Do you want it? Or can I have it?"
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<br />"Monsoon, there are 4 M&Ms left in that bowl."
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<br />He looked at me like I was an idiot, rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. I eat them four at a time."
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<br />Apparently this addiction is genetic.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-64672793093476458792011-09-03T07:48:00.000-04:002011-09-03T07:48:00.296-04:00A Good Joke, Huh Mommy?Monsoon wasn't feeling too hot the other night, so I gave him a cool, wet compress to put on his forehead. He thought it was awesome and it helped him enough so that he could go to sleep.
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<br />The next day, I told him I was going to take a nap. "Go ahead and play, I'll just lay here on your bed and sleep for a bit." Of course I would loved to have taken a nap, but I didn't actually intend to.
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<br />I hadn't closed my eyes for an entire minute when I heard him sneak close to me to check if I was asleep yet. I kept my eyes shut. He got excited and quickly left the room, whispering, "I know what I can do for Mommy!" with a giggle. Then I heard the bathroom water running.
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<br />How sweet, I thought. He's going to give me a cool compress to help me sleep. I love that kid!
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<br />So I waited, keeping my eyes shut, barely able to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">suppress</span> a grin when I heard him creep back into the room.
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<br />He lifted the sopping wet, ice cold wash cloth over me, and squeezed it as hard as he could.
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<br />Then he cackled. "That was a pretty good joke, huh Mommy?" More cackling.
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<br />I just don't know where he gets this demented sense of humor.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-77726792337062153882011-09-02T07:39:00.005-04:002011-09-02T08:42:24.404-04:00My Brother and the SawI've been writing ever since I can remember. One particular story I wrote as a kid was, like most fiction, based on a real life experience. It was immediately wadded up and pitched out, probably because it scared my mom.
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<br />My brother, who couldn't have been more than ten at the time, was working on a project. He had to make something out of wood, I don't know what or why - possibly a race car and possibly for Boy Scouts. I only remember it was wood because he had to use the electric saw in my dad's "workshop" (the garage).
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<br />I didn't know anything about saws except the kind in the garage were loud - even from inside the house with all the doors shut - and they could chop off your arm. I probably knew that leaving a child alone in the garage, working on one of them, was not a good idea. I don't recall why my dad wasn't in there with him, either - he could have stepped out for a second to feed the cats or he could have gone on a fishing trip for the weekend, I really can't remember (must be that temporary loss of brain power that I've come to know so well. Apparently my parent's had it, too).
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<br />All I know is, my mom and sister and me were watching TV when we heard the most awful, earsplitting cries of agony coming from the garage. Mom jumped up and raced to the garage door; my sister and I tripped over each other to get right behind her. She shoved her tiny body through the door and stopped short. We bumped into her butt and each took a side to peek around.
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<br />He was singing.
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<br />My sister laughed. Mom cried. I wrote a story with an alternate ending. My mom didn't like it.
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<br />We all deal with anxiety and stress in our own way.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-30888098023461412252011-08-26T07:27:00.000-04:002011-08-26T07:27:01.092-04:00Holy Underwear, Batman!I should mention that it took me three tries to figure out how to spell underwear. These are the types of holes that are worrisome - the ones in my memory. Hopefully by the time I forget everything else, I will have forgotten that I ever knew those things to begin with.
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<br />Other types of holes, however, are just plain bothersome. Holes in my underwear, for instance. Why do I even still have them? Because I don't remember they have holes until I'm using the bathroom with nothing else to look at.
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<br />Mornings are rushed. I went to work with my skirt on in-side-out recently, so obviously I pay close attention to my appearance before leaving the house. Even if I do glance in the mirror, I will certainly never do it in my skivvies. I made that mistake once before and there's still a pain in my gut when I think about it. Expanding and sagging don't mix, and that's all I'll say about that.
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<br />By the time I've drowned myself in half a pot of coffee, I'm usually out of the house, on with my day, and ready for my first daylight trip to the bathroom. This is when I notice the holes and give myself a '<em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hmm</span>. That's right, these need to be replaced' </em>mental note.
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<br />A moment later and I'm concentrating on how best to shut off the water and dry my hands without touching anything. The only holes left on my mind are the ones the paper towel might provide as I'm opening the door with it.
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<br />Who inspects their undies when they take them off and throw them in the dirty laundry? If I'm not looking at them when I put them on, what's the point when I'm done with them? Therein lies the problem, I suppose.
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<br />The holy underwear cycle continues.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-19445709659718970622011-08-25T09:07:00.004-04:002011-08-25T09:44:01.017-04:00Frivolousness of BeingI took a very rare indulgence in turning on The Today Show for a minute this morning, and I watched a segment on the Super Mom of our generation and why she's depressed. It got me to thinking...
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<br />When I got married, I knew what I wanted. I wanted that 50's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">housewife</span> life where I stayed home to keep house, cook dinner, and care for a load of children. I loved the idea of being that woman. I could relate to that woman.
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<br />What I didn't realize until a few years later was that homemakers in the 50's were mostly depressed; popping pills, sticking their heads in the oven, and mixing bleach with ammonia in the bathroom. I could also relate to that woman.
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<br />A few years after that, it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occurred</span> to me that <em>that</em> woman <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">wasn't permitted</span> to have any sort of true passion or self. She was expected to be extatic about keeping the household in order. That was it. Organizing the Mister's suits and keeping track of his golf bag; making sure little Jimmy made it to his ball game; teaching Suzie to sew and cook and be just as perfectly pretend happy as her mother. After a while, it probably <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occurred</span> to her, too. This is it? This is my life? What about me?
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<br />While I loved being at home with the house and I did enjoy cooking, it just wasn't enough. It was more like I was doing all those things to keep busy. To keep from really feeling anything. To keep from thinking about how I was essentially doing nothing.
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<br />What that woman needed was a passion. I found mine in writing. It didn't matter if I was good at it. I just loved funneling thoughts through a pen. It made me feel free. It made my heart speed up, almost like I was doing something <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">completely</span> frivolous just for myself.
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<br />So that's it, I think. We get caught up in what other people expect of us, what they think we should be doing, the socially <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">acceptable</span> version of importance. We don't put enough stock in what we need for ourselves.
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<br />It's not frivolous at all. It might be the difference between putting a roast in the oven, or sticking your head in.
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<br />What's your passion? When did you find it?
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-17129385573017287242011-08-24T09:58:00.004-04:002011-08-24T10:31:43.087-04:00So Many ReasonsThere's a reason schools start Kindergarten registration months in advance. It takes a year just to fill out all the paperwork and make sure your child knows enough "personal information" to make the cut before he starts (more like his address & phone number, less like "Mommy has long utters").
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<br />There's a reason people don't start University courses the same week they plan to move from one city to another. People who hook up the Internet for your courses don't come on time and you miss deadlines. You could have gone to McDonald's for free wi-fi, but you're feeling a little lazy after packing & hauling.
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<br />There's a reason landlords do not move into houses they have rented out. The dishwasher won't drain, the ceiling fan will mildly electrocute your husband, and there will be dog poop petrified to the floor of your garage.
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<br />There's a reason you <em>pack</em> your appliances rather than <em>sell</em> them when you move. If you need them again, you won't have to use a toaster oven and a dorm-sized fridge until you get new ones. You child, however, might enjoy having a house full of things just his size for once.
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<br />Lastly, there must be a reason why no one will attempt to buy your house... until the day after you move back into it. I just haven't figured that one out yet.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-76990315416923025842011-08-21T22:22:00.004-04:002011-08-22T06:41:35.978-04:00On Moving CrapMy mom moves stuff. All the time. I've never quite figured out if she likes moving crap, or if she just needs to feel like she's getting something done. Mostly, she rearranges boxes (many of them mine) around her house. Could be she's passively telling me to get them the heck out of her basement, but I'm going to assume she just likes having them there for something to do with her weekends.
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<br />I, for one, can't see the enjoyment. We've moved twice now in the past 8 months and I'm pretty sure I'd rather have the flu than do it again.
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<br />Aside from the manual labor portion, once you finally get everything you own tightly packed and taped into boxes, maneuvered into an overpriced U-Haul, bounced into the new place, and strategically placed in all the wrong rooms... you go to bed for a few hours and wake up to find that instead of your stuff, you must have packed rabbits because there are twice as many boxes than there were last time you looked - and none of them hold what you need at the moment.
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<br />We moved Saturday. It is now Sunday evening, and I can only find socks and underwear. Hopefully I can locate at least one bag-o-clothes that are mine because I'm pretty sure the people at Monsoon's new school won't appreciate my husband's-boxers-and-a-sports-bra ensemble, which I've been rocking for the past 24 hours, when I take him in for Kindergarten registration.
<br />Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-77247874791114443152011-08-10T06:18:00.000-04:002011-08-10T06:18:01.210-04:00Guys n BombsIt feels like only a few weeks ago we brought our screaming bundle of joy home from the hospital, swaddled and held tightly in my arms... idealistic notions of perfect parenthood still floating in our heads. We were going to kick this parenting thing's butt. Right after a quick nap...
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<br />My baby is six years old today, and has made out quite a specific birthday list.
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<br />Apparently this is what happens to children of "no guns allowed" parents... in addition to being a creative type who can turn ANYTHING into a gun (a stick, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">legos</span>, his foot, even a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">marshmallow</span> chewed to pistol-perfection). I don't even know how he KNEW about shooting crap, but he was figuring it out by the time he could talk.
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<br />The List:
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<br /><ul>
<br /><li>tank that shoots</li>
<br /><li>airplane with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">torpedoes</span></li>
<br /><li>cannon soldiers</li>
<br /><li>soldier action figures</li>
<br /><li><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Lego</span> plane with bombs</li>
<br /><li>bombs</li></ul>
<br /><p>I'm still holding out for that nap. </p>Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7062475905852904908.post-24935974820290512632011-08-08T06:25:00.000-04:002011-08-08T06:25:00.264-04:00Eat and be EatenSome people believe those who dream often have higher <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">IQs</span>. Others keep dream interpretation books on their nightstands. Some claim to never dream at all, and a few say they know they have dreams but just can't remember anything about them. I don't really buy into all that.<br /><br />Sometimes they're just dreams and are better forgotten, no matter how realistic they seem. Like when I woke up and repeatedly kicked my husband in the back until he woke up so I could yell at him for cheating on me in my sleep. I was angry for two days.<br /><br />Occasionally though, it's pretty obvious that your <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">subconscious</span> is sending you a message.<br /><br />The other night I dreamt I was being chased around a shopping mall by a live T-Rex who kept alternately transforming into a woman in a business suit who bought me snacks. I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">could</span> have left the mall, of course, but I then I wouldn't get any more snacks. I woke up as the T-Rex version was just about to chomp down on me, and mostly I was thinking how I wouldn't even get to finish my cinnamon soft pretzel.<br /><br />I'm pretty sure my relationship with food is getting dangerous.Ryan Ashley Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13515371602427605756noreply@blogger.com1