Forgotten Chicken

I know you're thinking "How could she forget about her chickens? Is this woman qualified to own animals?!"   Trust me, the girls are fine.

No, no.  I'm talking about a chicken dinner.  That I forgot.  For 2 hours.

Here's the story:

I decided to make a roast chicken for dinner before soccer practice.  I looked up recipes online which told me to roast it at 425 for 30 minutes, and then 350 for an hour.  I thought "great!  I can do the first part before we leave, turn the oven down and it will continue to roast while we are at soccer, and when we get home it will be ready to eat!  Bueno."

But no bueno.  Somehow, I did not correctly adjust the temperature on my oven before we left for soccer (even though I could have sworn that I had), and left the bird in there cooking away, uncovered, at 425 for a further hour.  Then, of course, practice went long.  We were at soccer for an hour and a half.  I got home, smelled the chicken cooking - and NOT burned, and checked the oven.  When I saw that it was still roasting away at 425 I panicked.  I thought "Oh no!  It's ruined.  We are about to renact the Christmas dinner scene from Christmas Vacation.  No one is going to eat this, and I am going to have to take everyone out for dinner."  J had the same thoughts when I pulled this chicken out of the oven.

I reluctantly told everyone to get their shoes on, and decide on a place to eat for dinner, and braced myself for the barage of mom jokes that were sure to come.  It has become a regular thing at my house that whenever I mess something up, it is henceforth referred to as a "Jessi Project".  I don't know why my kids find this so funny, as they were the first two Jessi Projects, but I digress.

As we were about to walk out the door, I decided that I would just check.  If it wasn't too dry, I would eat it when we got home, or I could toss it in soup or something.  Maybe there was some way I could salvage this chicken, and in doing so, my own pride.

Guys, it was perfect.  It was crispy on the outside.  Juicy and tender on the inside.  I gleefully told them "ha ha!  I didn't ruin it!  Set the table!"  We sat down to what has to be the best roasted chicken I have ever made.  It was legendary.  We still talk about it.

Tonight, I got out the chicken to get it washed and ready for roasting.  Instead of the usual groans and sighs of disappointed resignation, I was greeted with "Yes! Forgotten chicken!  This is going to be great! When is dinner?"

I tossed it in the oven, and promptly forgot about it.  I am sure it is going to be just as delicious as last time.  And I can't wait.

Washable Crayons

While J will help me put away laundry, and if I have been really behind on taming the laundry beast that week, he WILL help me wash – I am generally on my own when it comes to the loading, sorting, drying, folding… blah blah blah blah.  I hate laundry. 

One particular day I was folding clothes that I had just pulled out of the dryer.  You know that fresh, hot, wonderful newly-cleaned feeling when you have laundry that just came out of the dryer?  That’s the best.  Of course that wasn’t what I was dealing with, because that would imply that I had actually pulled the laundry OUT of the dryer as soon as it was done.  And that’s just crazy talk.  No, this was cold, rumpled, and as I got further into the load I noticed something else that was a bit peculiar.  It was stained. Like, bright red blotches of stain all over every single piece of clothing that I had in that over-loaded hamper.  Of course I had to investigate.  The empty, partially-disintegrated crayon wrappers in the dryer lent trap that I totally always empty before every load (guilty look) confirmed that it was melted crayon.  Ugh.

photo credit

At this point you just throw your head back, let out a frustrated groan and think “really? REALLY?”  Oh well, they’re little boys, right?  They don’t know any better.  I calmly called them into the room with me, and said “Boys?  When you put your clothes in the hamper, can you make sure your pockets are empty?  Someone left a crayon in their pockets and look…” I hold up the now-ruined clothes to show them.  To my dismay there were no gasps of outrage, no tears of injustice, no mourning for the clothing budget spent on sharp-looking school clothes that were now relegated to play clothes only. 

G1 didn’t even look up he just said “Okay mom, sure.” And leaves the room

 G2 says “No its ok mom, it says on the box that they’re washable crayons.” 

All you can do is blink a few times to try to process that information, and then move on.  

Now its just me and the ruined laundry pile, getting to be GREAT buddies.  At least I'm getting those stains out.  IF you find yourself in the same situation, grab you some of these little miracles.  Wish me luck!

Starving To Death

We all know that one person in the group that is always eating.  Whenever you see them, they have something in their hand that will shortly be stuffed into their mouth.  Usually its me.  Not going to lie.  When I worked outside the home, I always had food.  There was a dog that came to the office with one of my co-workers occasionally.  This dog was not overly social, but when he came to the office he didn’t leave my side.  Why? Because I always have food. 

Well, I think this is a trait that G2 has inherited.  Who knew you could inherit an appetite?  At first it was cute.  When he was a toddler, he could hear a snack wrapper from across the house – even if you were hiding with said chocolately treat in your closet (not that that ever happened for real *ahem*) and he would toddle over to you with his sweet little face and his chubby cheeks and tilt his head to the side and say “Schnaaaaack?”  Adorable.  Unless you weren’t familiar with it, in which case it was creepy – as my mother found out.  She cracked up when she asked me what was happening one night while babysitting and my response was “Oh, give him food.” 

He’s 8 now and he has never outgrown this.  The child is literally ALWAYS hungry for something.  I shudder when I think of his teenage years.  We’re going to have to become one of those crazy coupon families that has shelves and racks of canned goods.  People will come over and say “Oh, are you preppers?” to which we will respond “No, those are G2’s snacks for this week.” 

One of the issues that we encounter with him and his sensory issues is that he isn’t always aware of what the feelings he experiences mean, he just knows that he’s feeling them.  Being full is one of the things I would like him to feel.  He will always say that his stomach hurts, but I was convinced that it was just that he was feeling something and couldn’t place what the feeling related to.  So I was really working with him on identifying these feelings.  He would say “Mom? My tummy hurts.” And I would say “Ok, now think about that feeling – does it really hurt? Or are you full? Or are you hungry?” Sometimes it would work and I could see him really starting to get in tune with his body.  And then one day came the sass.  Also something he most likely inherited from me.

 “Mom? My tummy hurts.”

“Does it really hurt?  What does it feel like?”

 “It feels like I’m starving to death.”

 Now – recall my earlier comment on his sweet little face and his chubby cheeks?  There has literally NEVER been a moment in this child’s life when he has been STARVING.  Hungry?  Yes.  Ready to eat? Sure.  Starving? Never.  Enter MY sass and sarcasm: “Really?  Starving to death?  And what does THAT feel like?” A split-second pause. “It feels like my heart is breaking and if you loved me, you would give me food.” Ah.  Spot-on, right in the guilt center of my mom-heart. 

A few minutes later I was kissing his chubby little cheeks as fast as he could stuff them full of what I’m sure was a fairly elaborate meal.

The Smell

Last night, after J got home from work, he wanted to take a shower.  Perfectly reasonable.  

He also wanted to take a HOT shower.  Again, not an unrealistic expectation. 

  

However, apparently it was on this occasion, because there was no hot water to be had in the entire house.  After a few snippy remarks to each other about whose fault it was or wasn’t, we remembered that our home is still under the home warranty that we purchased when we closed on the house.  The next morning, I called the warranty company, and was pleased to find that they were able to send a plumber to our house that afternoon.  What wonderful customer service! 

  Before  the plumber arrived, we first had to do some finagling.  Both Toffee and Max had to be put in the kennel, because we can’t teach them to not jump and knock over our guests.  I also needed to entertain G1 and G2 while the plumber was here, so that I was able to participate in an adult conversation.  And since they hadn’t yet taken their bunnies out for some exercise and play time, this was the perfect opportunity.  OK, now that I had a game plan, it was time to put it into action.  

Catch the dogs, drag them into the kennel.  Whoops!  One got away, so lock up the first one, chase the fugitive through the house, grab by the collar and shove in the kennel.  But make sure you don’t let the first dog out in the process.  Get out the baby pool, some lettuce, and a towel so that the kids can play with their bunnies.  Go into the mud room to grab the bunnies and hand one to each boy, making sure that they are safely set up in the family room.  Might as well take this opportunity to clean out the rabbit hutch, too.  I got too caught up in doing that, and before I knew it the plumber was ringing the doorbell which set the dogs into a barking frenzy.  I welcomed him into the house, showed him the hot water heater (which is located in the laundry room with the dogs’ kennel), assuring him all the while that they can’t get out, and they’re very friendly, just jumpy.  He seemed happy enough to just get to work, and quickly told me that our water heater is super old and leaking internally, causing the electric components to short out.  “No problem”, he tells me.  “Your warranty covers a new one.” 

Wahoo!  This is my lucky day!  

The plumber leaves to go pick up a new water heater, and I get to making the kids a snack and setting up a movie for them.  The plumber comes back, and gets to work removing the old water heater.  After a few minutes, I hear “Oh my god!” and the dogs start barking again.  He comes around to the kitchen and says “Um, ma’am?  I got your old water heater out, but… um… Well, there was a dead lizard in your pipe.” “In my pipe? How?” “Ma’am, I have no idea.  I’ve never seen that before.  But… it’s been in there for a long time.  That’s what The Smell is.”  Just as he said that, this smell unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life comes crashing into my kitchen.  I was punched in the nose by this horrible, noxious odor.  I’m pretty sure I turned 3 different shades of green before I could cover my nose and mouth.  I ran to the windows and doors and threw them open – who cares if the air conditioner is running?  I had to get The Smell out of there!  I asked him “Wait a minute, if it was in the pipe, was it in my water?”  To my horror he says “Yes ma’am.  Every time you turned on the hot water.”  

I couldn’t even process this information.  I refused to process this information.  

We went on with the afternoon, got a new top-of-the-line water heater installed, and the plumber tells me “This is a great water heater, you’re going to save a lot on your electric and water bills!  Oh, and by the way, I left the lizard in the corner of the closet.” And then he left.  As soon as he was gone, I ran to the laundry room to get rid of the lizard and free my house from this smell.  As I turn the corner into the room, out comes Toffee, looking very guilty.  I peek into the closet and see that the lizard is gone.  Toffee ate it.  A rotten, decomposed, nasty, stinking lizard body.  She’s disgusting.  I could just vomit.  I went through the house and went through an entire bottle of Febreze, and when that ran out and hadn’t made a dent in The Smell, I started in with an aerosol can of disinfectant spray.  The kids fled to their rooms and closed their doors, leaving me to cook dinner and suffocate in The Smell.  When J got home from work, he figured that it was just that he had been at work all day – he never suspected the true origin of The Smell.  After we had eaten, and were relaxing around the dinner table and discussing our day, I told him the truth about The Smell.  I could see the realization hit him.  Every time we used the hot water.  Washing dishes.  Washing our clothes.  Washing ourselves.  Lizard water.  Every single time.  Lizard water.  We vowed to take extensive showers that night and to wash all of our clothes and dishes immediately.  Just as we were about to finish this conversation and pick out a movie to watch with the kids, the dogs came back into the room with us.  Pow!  The Smell returned with a vengeance.  “It’s coming from the DOGS!” I exclaimed.  “I need to brush their teeth. Now.” 

Now, brushing their teeth is interesting.  Lots of experts say to start teaching them to tolerate having their teeth brushed when they are puppies, and I agree that this is the way to go.  However, this is not the way I went.  Instead, our teeth brushing occurs only when J can catch a dog, pin it down, and hold the mouth open while I brush their teeth as quickly and efficiently as I can.  This time was no different, except that having the dog THAT close to me made The Smell even worse.  Once we finished brushing both dogs’ teeth, we discovered that this hadn’t totally abated The Smell.  It was going to have to be a bath.  Max is just a treat to bathe.  He is a Spaniel, so he willingly jumps into any and all water and his bath is no different.  He happily hopped into the tub, and relaxed against my legs as I scrubbed his body from nose to tail.  When I got his head wet – the primary location of The Smell – he decided that this was the perfect time to do it.  All dogs do it.  They shake.  And when he shook, he shook right into my face.  I could almost see tiny particles of rotten lizard hit me in the face.  I actually started to cry. This was just the very last straw to my day.  All of a sudden, I hear J start shouting “What are you doing?! You’re getting me all wet!”  At first, I thought he was making a joke about crying, but then I realized that I was actually getting him all wet.  I had the shower spray nozzle in my hand, and when I jumped after Max shook, I turned the nozzle around and was dousing J! There was really nothing to be said, I mean, I just sprayed the guy with water, I couldn’t exactly act like it hadn’t happened.  So we finished up bathing Max.  We towel-dried him and released him into the house.  

Then it was time to wrangle Toffee.  Toffee is a diva.  Toffee hates the water.  She hates baths, rain, puddles, and anything that makes her even remotely damp.  God forbid she actually gets wet.  This is her, in the only place in the house where she will lay down.  See? Diva.

 We caught her and had to wrestle her into the bathtub where she quickly became the most pathetic mess I have ever seen in my life.  Her giant brown eyes blinking in the water, her ears turned down, her head hung low, her tail firmly tucked under.  The whole time I was scrubbing her I kept saying “This is what you get for eating lizards.”  After she was dried off and released into the house, she and Max did exactly what all dogs do when they’ve had a bath – run around the house like lunatics, growling, barking, nipping at each other and generally causing a ruckus.  

At least we finally got to the source of The Smell.  Now the house smells like dog shampoo, Febreze, and disinfectant spray.  At least I got a new water heater out of it, right?

When a Baptist Serves Communion

Today, I walked into church and the greeter says to me "Have you ever thought of serving communion?" "No." "Would you be interested?" "Sure." "Ok, come here." and then walks me over to the central area and says "Bob, I have a server for you"

I'm thinking "Ok, well, I guess today is as good a day as any, and they need the help, so here we go"

Bob says "Ok, this is how it works..." and explains the general idea of serving communion.

Now, this is obviously not the first time I've taken communion, but I had some questions:
- do I do every row? or every other row? "Whichever row your partner is not doing"
- do I say something ot the people? "You can if you'd like"
- what do I say to them? "I usually say 'thank you'..."
- what do i do when I'm done? "set your tray down and do the offering"

At this point, I feel like i can handle this. I have the instructions, I have my game plan, I'm ready. No, wait... I didn't put on mascara this morning! And I'm wearing boots - that's not very churchy... At least I'm in the court, and not the main sanctuary. I can still do this!

Listen to the sermon, worship, and when the pastor asks the servers to get ready, I think "That's me! Yes! I'm ready!" I head out to the foyer and take my communion, pick up my TWO trays (what?! they never said I would have TWO!) and head into the court.

Now, in case you couldn't tell from this post, I'm a little bit Type A. I prefer to know EVERYTHING that is going to happen so I can be prepared. So, here I go, up the aisle, pass the communion tray to the first person and say "Thank you" (wait! why are you saying thank you?) and then the next row and say "Thank you" (stop saying thank you! oh shoot! You were supposed to go every other row!) so then I jump up to the next 2 rows to catch the trays (and said 'thank you' both times) coming from my partner, and then back down the stairs to say 'thank you' and hand off the trays. Then I start thinking "Geez - I suck at this! Wait! You can't say the word 'suck' while you're holding a communion tray! There has to be a special level of hell for that... ah! Now you said 'suck' and 'hell'! Ah! Again! And stop saying 'thank you!' Ah you did it again! Shut! Up!" All the while catching trays and sending them back down the rows. Then I get to the end of my section, which is at the top of the bleachers in the court. And somehow I have 4 great, big, heavy communion trays. And I have to go down the stairs. And I'm afraid of heights. And I can't hold onto the rail or anything because I have the communion trays. "Ok, self... you are either going to sit down on your bum and slide down these stairs, or you are going to take it a step at a time and pray you don't biff it and slide down these stairs face-first in a mess of clanging communion trays, tiny cups of grape juice, and miniature crackers."

Step. Step. Step. I made it. I set the trays down. And realize "Oh man! I still need to do offering!" Quick! Grab the offering bag and pass it to the first row (saying 'thank you' of course) and the second row, and when I catch the third row and start to send it down the fourth, the poor guy was confused and tossed his communion cup into the offering bag. Now, I could have been saintly and angelic and just continued on discreetly. BUT I am a spaz and my mind would not shut up about how I was probably the most awkward communion server in history, so what did I do? I said, in a stern voice "no", and dug the cups out of the bag and handed them back and continued on. When I got to the top row, my partner had already finished, and headed down the stairs, but my bag was on his side of the aisle, and I could see the people questioning where it went, and starting to send it to anyone who would take it, and I realized I would be chasing this offering bag all over the sanctuary. So, delicately and discreetly I start waving my hand in the air and saying "I'll take it! I'm coming!" and weaving my way down the row, trying not to step on everyone. I finally caught the bag, and rushed over to the foyer to turn it in.

At this point, I reclaimed my purse and Bible from my seat and thought "Well, I tried something new, and I can now officially check off 'communion server' as a volunteer option"

Lean Pockets to the Rescue!

Ok, every week I sit down and comb through all of the grocery store ads that come in the circulars in my mail box.  I write out a list of groceries that we need for basic things (kids' lunches, breakfast, etc.) and then... the magic happens.  That's when I get to do it.  The 2 words that inspire ALL homemakers everywhere.  "MEAL PLAN".
I saw you shudder.  Don't lie.
I'm the same way.  I think "WHY?! Why do we have to eat every single day?"
And then I realize that I have to do the shopping, and the prepping, and the cooking, and the cleaning.  And I even though I am thoughtful and I post the weekly menu on a cute little "Menu" board on my refrigerator, I will still have to answer that dreaded question "What's for dinner?" a million times.  Every. Night.
So, I feel your pain.  It's ok.

This isn't a post about how to make your grocery list, or how to meal plan, or coupon, or anything like that.  This is totally just a story to embrace the chaos that is life, to join together in solidarity, and to say that "it happens" to all of us.

Yesterday morning, I got up early (shocking, but true). I made coffee for DH and I, did my Bible study (see mom?  I'm a good girl!), threw in a load of laundry, started the dishwasher, fed the chickens/rabbit/dogs, put dinner in the crock pot, and left for work on time.  That was an entire days' work right there, all by 8 am.  I was on top of the world.  I even bragged about it to my coworker when I clocked in.

Which is probably why the rest of this story happened.

I came home after work and going to the gym, and smelled... something.  It had to be dinner in the crock pot, but at the same time, I really didn't want it to be dinner in the crock pot.  I can't even describe what it smelled like, but it was SUPPOSED to smell like a honey-soy-garlic chicken with carrots and green beans.  That is NOT what I was detecting.  I checked to make sure that nothing had scorched, and that everything was turned on and working well.  Dang.  It was.

I waited until DH got home, and as he was walking in the door he says "I'm starving!".  He must not have been able to smell it.  Maybe working in a truck with a bunch of stinky guys has its advantages afterall.

I did my best June Cleaver bit and brought him a lovely plate of the stinkiest thing I have ever cooked, and a cold glass of sweet tea.  We always have sweet tea in the fridge.  It's the house wine of the South.  I reluctantly made myself a plate and sat down to eat dinner with my DH.  He took a bite of the chicken.  And then... he just... LOOKED at me.  I can't describe the studious lack of emotion in his face, but I know it had to be deliberately blank.  I took a bite.  I LOOKED at him.  He cut another piece of chicken off, and manfully swallowed.  I think neither one of us knew for sure whether the other was enjoying the meal, and so we didn't want to spoil it if they were.  As I'm mentally preparing myself to take another bite of this HORRENDOUS food, I finally just set my fork down and say "Please don't eat any more of this.  This is disgusting.  I am so sorry.  I am not eating this.  You don't have to either."

A huge sigh of relief from my husband as he sets his fork down and says "Oh thank God.  That was terrible."  The rush of guilt was quickly replaced with laughter when he adds "But I want credit.  I was going to eat that whole thing."  What a good man.

I cheerfully dumped the plates in the trashcan, and start rummaging around for what I can quickly make that will feed him and not keep him waiting forever.  You know what I found?  Pepperoni Lean Pockets.  Thank goodness I had bought the big pack!   Heated them up, then snuggled on the couch to watch an episode of Doctor Who, and the evening was saved thanks to Lean Pockets!