Melyssa Williams's Blog, page 4

The Great Pumpkin

Holy grownin' kids, Batman, I just realized that those photos on my sidebar of those three adorable gremlins ARE A YEAR OLD!

Here lies my children's childhood.
R.I.P.

Why don't you just grow up and run away and leave me to become the crazy cat lady, who pushes baby dolls around in a stroller, why don't you, children of mine?

Holy cow.
They're getting older.

Somebody make it stop!

Also, somebody make Genesis return from Ireland - the land of death and pestilence and horror and lack of Melyssas - so she can carve punkins and take photos, like last year and every last year for the past 12 years.

In the Great Pumpkin's Name,
Amen.

what I've been doing

Not working on the sequel to Shadows Gray. You'd think, since I consider it daily, that I would actually follow through, wouldn't you? Alas. You'd be wrong. I'm worried. You see, it's not about Sonnet...it's about Rose and a new character. I think my readers - all four of them - will be mad. I don't like making people mad. It turns the warm fuzzies in my tummy into butterflies. I need those four readers to continue loving me. They're all I've got.

Giving myself a scalp massage with coconut oil and tea tree oil. My hair has been so incredibly coarse and rough lately, and I found THIS RECIPE from Pinterest for Cora who I am beginning to think has psoriasis. I can't get her in to see a dermatologist until January, so we tried this. I had some left over and zowie, my hair is soft as a baby's bum now. I definitely recommend it if your hair is coarse, overly processed, or like me: coarse AND overly processed. Just make sure you shampoo twice after; otherwise you'll look like you went swimming in a vat of butter.

Bought Anna's Halloween costume (that sound you hear is the vacating of very conservative homeschoolers who heard I had a good blog, but just left in disappointment) at Goodwill; a wedding dress to be the Corpse Bride. It's a size 18. In women's. Umm, yes, let's just say that my sewing machine will be getting a work out. But it was only $10 including the great veil, so I'm pretty sure I can make it work. I think. Maybe. Ahem.

Considered giving up my two cups of coffee with cream and glass of wine. Cutting back to putting milk in my coffee and only having some vino on the weekends. You know, so I could maybe drop ten pounds...in a year...without exercising LIKE I PROMISED I WOULD HERE. But then I thought... nah. I'd rather be fluffy and who will take care of Gloria if I don't? A year of deprivation does not a happy mommy make.

Had coffee and a scone with my Alaskan friend, Camille, who I MET HERE...that was going to be a clickable link, too, but I can't find the original post. I must have deleted it due to it being written during an interesting time in our lives, you know the one. I probably said something like, we dared to crack a smile at our group home kids, and subsequently felt I must delete since that of course, was a no-no.

Mike has been cast in The Nutcracker this year, as Clara's father. He is now leaping through the house, practicing his jazz hands and making Anna very nervous. He warned the ballet studio's owners,

You know how every performer wants to be the Triple Threat? * I'm just a Double.

* a Triple Threat is a singer who can dance and act, or an actor who can dance and singer, or a dancer who can sing and act. You pick the two Mike is adept at.

Yesterday, at 4:32 or thereabouts, the following happened simultaneously:


I boiled over some poaching chicken, resulting in that icky smell and tough mess and frantic bubbling sound as the broth hits the stove top,


the phone rang,


Gianni threw a ball and knocked over this interesting bubble thermometer that Cora got from my grandmother. It's like a sealed vase and has these odd colored glass balls inside that have temperatures on them: when they float you can see how hot it is in the house. Anyway, we'd had this family heirloom for a grand total of three weeks before Pooky Head demolished it. It crashed to the hardwood in a spectacular fashion, sending shards of glass everywhere within a 500 foot radius, and the water - though I cleaned it up as quickly as a bare footed girl could - warped the floor. Sorry, landlords. 


I forgot that I had a breakfast casserole in the oven (make ahead breakfast for Mike, who is working an earlier shift). In spite of forgetting, I got it out in time. Yay, me.


The dog's paw started bleeding again. His toenails are gone, from some mysterious episode last week, and the bandages came off a few days ago. Maybe he stepped on the glass. Who knows. He's a close mouthed doggy. Very strong, silent, unemotional type.

Anyway, that all happened at the exact same time. Just another evening at the Williams' house.

I haven't been sleeping well for some reason, and my dreams these past three nights have consisted of (but not limited to):

my dad wrangling a posse with Andy Kohler and shooting some guy, avenging angel type, while the rest of us covered it up, but debated turning them in,Cora and I being stuck in a house with a crazy killer chasing us (this was the night we watched The Grey and there was a yucky preview of some Elizabeth Olsen horror movie with this premise, so I'm blaming Elizabeth Olsen. She should have done dumb sitcoms like her sisters and not scared me half to death in my sleep).my friend, Heather, bringing like five weenie dogs in my house (I have no theories for this one)my kindle was found floating in the bathtubother scariness that I no longer recall, but made me cuddle up with Mr. Double Threat in fear.P.S. The Grey was kinda dumb.
The end.

Behind the Pain Lies a Sandwich

Once upon a time, I had this baby. At first she was on the inside, then of course, she had to come out. Waving a cookie in front of my belly didn't bring her out, neither did caster oil, jumping up and down, bumpy car rides, spicy food, getting amorous, or any of the hundreds of other "helpful," "fool proof," ideas the population of the world told me about. Very funny, population of the world, very funny indeed.

After a million hours of torture (I'm keeping it vague cuz my sister-in-law is pregnant and I don't want to scare her off in case she's reading this...la la la, it was a beautiful birth! A lovely experience! Why, it didn't hurt at all! It was like mild PMS!) and an emergency C-section, I was sent to recovery. After surgery they give you drugs, and they also continue to give you Pitocin, which is the Anti-Christ, in order to keep your contractions going so you can get your uterus back into shape. Or something. I was on drugs. Whatever. I know they had removed the human being from my insides, stitched me back up, and I was still having contractions. Which wouldn't have been a big deal since I was on drugs, except I wasn't anymore, because my I.V. had busted and all my lovely drugs were pooling on the floor. Unbeknownst to me or the staff. I just knew I hurt like hell and since this wasn't my first rodeo, I knew something wasn't right.

By the time we discovered the broken I.V. and the nurses turned me into Swiss cheese looking for a vein, I was behind the pain.

Being behind the pain is not good. Not fun. I wanted death. Smooth and quick. I did not care that there was a helpless babe lying to my side somewhere, nor that I was too young to die. I didn't care that I hadn't sky dived (dove?) yet, nor gone to Europe, nor gotten a tattoo, nor tried caviar...I didn't care. Give me death.

Catching up with the pain meant a Morphine Clicker. I'm sure it has a name, but I don't know what it is, so we'll just call it a Morphine Clicker. I got to click it something like every three minutes or something, for another jolt. In a little while (three or four years. I think the wee babe was potty trained), when I finally caught up to the pain, I had enough morphine in me to down a horse.

All that to say,

Forgetting to eat breakfast on a busy day, is a little like getting behind the pain.

By the time you realize what's happening, it's too late for an easy fix. There's no catching up until some food hits your belly, and not only hits your belly, but your blood sugar stabilizes.  And by then, you're behind on everything else: the chores, the schooling, the to-do list. Everything's behind and you can't catch up. The slightest "wrong" in your day sends you into hopeless oblivion. What might have been a minor setback yesterday sends you shrieking through the house on a broomstick.

A Coffee and Sandwich Clicker would be an excellent invention for those moments.

That is all.

SAHMs - Heavy Weight Champs or Bullies?

I was reading a lovely post by a lovely blogger (mrs. darcy) and since I recently had an article published about Mommy Wars, it got me thinking about ANOTHER Mommy War:

SAHMs (that's Stay At Home Mom for you people living under a rock. Or men)

Vs

Working Mothers.

Yes, yes, I know all mothers are working mothers. That's not what this is about, silly.

The pendulum that swings on this is wide, loud, heavy, and will smack you in the face if you get too close. But let's do it anyway...

(And if you are comfortably in the middle, or even on the far side of one or the other, but not judgmentally in anyone's faces, then you can leave right now and go eat some cookies).

Mmm. Cookies.

The two extremes are these:

1. SAHMs who are smug and self righteous, while secretly hating tiny parts of their lives

and

2. Working mothers who are smug and self righteous, while secretly hating tiny parts of their lives.

Since it's no secret that SAHMs have felt looked down on by the ultra feminist movement, who thinks they (the SAHMs) are setting them back about a century with their love of bread baking, sewing, homeschooling, and apron wearing, we're gonna explore the other side. I know, surprising, huh? You didn't think I'd take the other side, didja?! Ha! The Blogging Ninja struck again...

The other side is this:

The way super conservative SAHMs make Working Mothers feel. Since I've been one, I feel like I can talk. And of course this doesn't apply to everybody - that goes without saying. But I said it anyway. So don't leave me nasty comments. Just pretend I'm talking to my bad self, not you.

For the very conservative, typically religious, SAHMs (of whom I have been one), here are some things you should know about SOME Working Mothers:

1. While you are making it work on your husband's income, not everybody can. Yes, I can hear you saying, give up your car payment, downsize your house, don't take vacations, shop used, put back the organic fruit, etc.  But you know what? Some have done all that, and their husband's income still doesn't pay the bills. Jobs do not grow on trees in this economy, and sometimes we take what we can get. Sometimes this means your college educated man takes a job with less per hour than he made right out of high school. I know you THINK everyone can do it, but that's just not the case. Is it the case in MOST cases? Yes, you're probably right. But it's not the case in my case, and it's not the case in other's cases. We literally could not make the budget if I didn't work. And guess what? We don't have any debt. We don't have car payments, we never vacation, we don't wear new clothes, we get our hair cut at the beauty college, we rent a small house. We are simply under-employed.

2.  Some don't have the fairy tale marriage you have (or claim you have on FB. Haha! Joking). Not every man is the Picture of Respectability. There are things you don't know about women's marriages, and they could be one of the reasons why she isn't staying at home. For instance: if there's threat of divorce, how long will the dream of staying home last? Or maybe he's just not into this SAHM point of view.

3. Some women genuinely feel that they are better moms for working. I know. This is a tough one for moms who spring on fairy wings through their houses, dusting, planting kisses on their well behaved offspring, and never having a bad day. But for some, those bad days aren't very few and far between. Do I think women should think long and hard about having children and dropping them off at daycare? Yep, and yep, and GOOD HEAVENS YEP.  I knew a gal who would take her kids to daycare on the days she DIDN'T work. This was so sad to me. I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now. But it doesn't mean the Working Mother loves her kids less than you do. I repeat: it doesn't mean she loves her kids less than you do. I know it feels like it to you, but it's simply not true. What if they love with a fierce, exhausted, passionate, busier kind of love than you feel? It isn't less than your coloring book, read aloud, SAHM kind of love. It's just different. Maybe they're scared of who they are when the walls of home are closing in on them. Maybe they feel like they neglect their kids when they're right in front of them, and do better when they get a chance to miss them a bit (I've felt this. Is it right? Probably not. But I think it's a common struggle. Did you know homeschooling SAHMs can neglect their children? They can).

Am I saying everyone should be a working mother? No. Do I think Moms should want/desire/TRY their best to stay home with their children? Yes. But is it helping to look down our noses at one another? Aren't we wasting our children's childhoods with patronizing judging when we could be meeting each other at the park, coffee in one hand, toddler's hand in the other? Whether it's in between naps, or in between meetings at the office, we all need it.

If every mom stayed home around the clock, where would you take Little Sue when she needed ballet classes? Who would show Annie that women can be fire fighters, too? Who would read aloud to Jake if library story hour went away?

This is the most feminist I've ever sounded...and I haven't been a feminist since third grade. Ironically enough, I don't have time to read over this and decide if it's worth publishing...because I have to go to work! HA! How's that for funny?

Have you ever felt like you perched on one side of the pendulum? Can there be a balance? Have you felt hit in the head by someone on the other side of the debate?

Back to Skool

So, today was the much dreaded anticipated First Day of School. 

I have had a bad attitude for about a week, a month, this year the not so distant past, and half our curricula is somewhere in Kentucky.

Major Hayward - "There is a war on, how is it that you are going to Kentucky?"
Hawkeye - "Well, i face north, and real sudden like, i turn left"
(Last of the Mohicans)

Hopefully, our vocabulary and science will make a sudden left soon. I mean, a sudden right. Wait. Did I buy any geography?

Anyway, I attempted to get my flying around on a broomstick under control, and here's how our day went:

The Good:

Anna was cheerful all day, and Gianni was very obliging as far as not flushing anything important down the toilet/scalping any chickens/stuffing beans up his nose.

The kids aren't on Facebook so they don't know I'm supposed to dress them up in their new clothes (of which they don't own any), hold up their cool lunch boxes and trendy backpacks (of which they don't own any), and take a photo with a delightfully witty caption, like all the good moms do (of which they don't own one).

not my kids


more like my kids. Except these girls look they comb their hair.

The Bad:

The girls wrote (in black Sharpie) on the front of their brand spankin' new notebooks, "Writting," and "Whriting," respectively.

I considered quitting.

Their dad is in charge of history and bible, and he planned circles around me.

I considered quitting.

The Ugly:

There was a nekked four year old sitting atop the table for a while. At least he was freshly bathed.

The Verdict:

If we quit now, we'll end on a high note.
We managed to get everything done, but like I said, half our stuff was MIA, and today is my only day off work, so it SHOULD have been an easy day. Hence, the stifling silence that would normally be filled with the smacking sound of me slapping myself on the back in a congratulatory fashion.

How'd your first day of school go?

Foodies!

This was my first month participating in the Foodie PenPals, and was it ever fun!

I got a gal from Missouri, and was lucky enough to get a professional cake decorator as my "sender."

My shopping list for Emily was anything tropical, or nutty.

I mentioned loving spices...

Here's what I got:



Yummy and spicy!




Sprinkled on my Asian rice the other day...delish.



The rest of the goodies: some noodles I plan to use for homemade Raman bowls, some chocolate biscuits my kids ate posthaste, and some adorable chopsticks and wasabi bowls.

How's that to get in the mail one rainy day? Better than a stack of bills, eh?

I think so, too.

Here's what I sent off: (excuse my toes)



Shopping is so much fun! And guess what, even when you don't know the person, it's still so fun! I put together a Tropical S'mores Kit: coconut marshmallows, local chocolate, and caramel cookies. Some licorice. Some lemon almonds. Banana chips. Harry and David coffee.

Want a foodie penpal?

Here are the rules, guys and girls!

http://www.theleangreenbean.com/foodie-penpals/

Conservatively Liberal

Election years make my brain shrivel up into yesterday’s raisin. They suck the life out of my normally optimistic mood, and make me want to unplug every social media site, television, phone, and news platforms. Because I hate politics?No, not really, though I confess to loving them about as much as I love a slight papercut. That is to say, uncomfortably ignoring them for the most part. There are the issues I care about, and about a million others that make my head swim. But that’s not the reason:
It’s because, like a gawky, awkward pre-teen, I don’t fit in anywhere.
To someone who knows cheerfully that they are Liberal, everything is black and white. Too someone who knows happily, that they are Conservative, everything is black and white.
Being a homeschooling, pro-life, Christian, in a heterosexual marriage, I’m much, much too conservative for the liberals.Being a short skirt wearing, gay friend having, reader of Harry Potter, sipper of wine, I am far too liberal for the conservatives.
Does that make me murky gray?
What’s a girl to do? Bury her head in the sand and refuse to come out? Tempting. It’s difficult to make friends of any sort when you say something like,After the baptism tonight, do you want to come over and watch Hells’ Kitchen?Or,Hey, let’s go to the Dave Ramsay conference and then go wine tasting!Or,We missed the church prayer vigil cuz we were out trick or treating.
I’m one of the most Goody Good Girls you’ll ever meet (ask anyone), yet I don’t even own a denim jumper. I make my bread from scratch, but I’ve also taken my kids to the Anheiser Busch Factory (that’s Budweiser, yes. The beer. Not butter beer, but there are those who would cry that that would be even worse). I wear sparkly eye shadow and high heels, but I believe in modesty. I love my Jesus, but there are times I hate praying over dinner because of the squirmy shenanigans going on and the fact that my hard work is getting cold (Martha, Martha, Martha…I know). I’m certainly not a Democrat, but I’m also the worst Christian you’ll ever meet. Is that me being humble, self deprecating, or just honest? Yes.
I have straight friends, gay friends, Calvinist friends, Buddhist friends, friends with eleventy-seven children with four more on the way, friends with one child and laser beam eyes that will shoot your way if you ask them how many more they want, friends who go to church four times a week, and friends who wouldn’t be caught dead in a church (or that’s the only time they’ll be in there!) Friends who would pray for my soul if they saw me in the beer aisle at the super market, and friends who consider me a light-weight because I draw the line at two. Friends who would never consider even celebrating Christmas, much less teach their kids that there is a Santa Claus, and friends who will only accept “Happy holidays,” instead of “Merry Christmas.”
Am I well rounded? Do I have such eclectic friends because I am non-judgmental, or because I am luke warm in my convictions? I honestly don’t know. I know my liberal friends don’t feel judged by me, because they’ve told me so. But have I watered down the scriptures in pursuit of friendships? Jesus told us to eat with tax collectors, the first century equivalent of lawyers. What to do? Crap, I don’t even know any lawyers.
I love my friends. They’re the greatest group of weirdos you’ll ever meet. But they make me sad sometimes, because while they’re yelling about someone hating them, they’re doing the same thing to my other friend. And even if they don’t know that person personally – well, wait. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Can’t we all just sit down at a Chik-Fil-A and have a book group about 50 Shades of Gray? Hahahaha: 50 Shades of Gray in a Chik-Fil-A. I slay myself.
But seriously, while you feel certain in your convictions, whatever they may be, slamming one of my friends isn’t okay. Because they disagree with you, doesn’t make them a hater. We all suck at love, anyway, don’t we? Who has cornered the market on that? The atheists? The Christians? The muslims? The homeschoolers? I repeat, we all suck at it. That frumpy mom you roll your eyes at for being so religious and close minded; she’s been on a journey you’ll never know about. That lesbian who has just come out of the closet; she was one of my only friends at a time when the religious were too busy for me. That teenager with a mouth like a sailor and no respect; given what he’s had modeled for him, it’s amazing he came out sane at all. That woman who’s been divorced twice; she already feels like a loser without you pointing it out. That mom with the autistic daughter; she doesn’t need your spanking methods. That man with the gay son; he doesn’t want your chicken sandwich shoved in his face.
Does this make me weak, meek, turn the other cheek, we’re okay, you’re okay, all we need is love, hold hands and share a Coca Cola and hum a Michael Jackson song? No way. I think everyone needs conviction and passion and should never stop learning. And do I think we all find our own way to God? Not really, no. Being a Christian I can’t say that and still be a Christian.
I’ve done the legalistic approach, where your spirituality is determined by the length of your hair and your skirt. And I’ve done the “God is in the trees” route, so “don’t you dare tell me what to do,” too. I am fiercely pro-life, but I don’t march in parades. I love my gay friends, but I haven’t been invited to any of their weddings, either. When I go to the library, I might leave with a devotional book and Twilight.
So, what am I, in this election year?
Mostly –
confused. And my nose is full of sand. Could someone smuggle me a People magazine and a glass of vino, please? 
What about you? Black, white, murky gray? Are elections easy for you? Seen anything in your friends that make you sad recently? Talk to me, Goose.

The Nutty Bird

When I was a pre-teen, my grandparents on my mummy's side, Rod and Joyce (you can seem him on this post ) owned a frozen yogurt and sandwich shop in Pendleton, Oregon. 

My sister and I worked there one summer (or two, I don't remember, but my grandparents were gypsies and never stayed in place for longer than a year, so I doubt they owned it that long). I have a couple funny memories of that place, the first being that Pendleton has a large Native American population and one gentleman in particular used to come in frequently. He always wanted the chili and he would walk in, cross his arms, and bellow,

"CHILI BEAN!" in this terrifying, deep voice.

Not "chili beans," in the plural form, just 

"CHILI BEAN!"

He was the largest man I had ever seen, and though he didn't dress in native garb completely (I seem to remember a cowboy hat, wranglers, and a more authentic looking Indian type jacket), he was very unmistakably Native American, and let me tell you, rather frightening.

He also would let out a massive fart before he left.
Also, rather frightening.

Anyway, my other fondest memory was of a sandwich they invented.

It was called The Nutty Bird.

Ruebens? Love 'em.
Turkey, cream cheese and cranberry? Delish.
Ham and swiss? Tasty.
Subway Italian Trio with all the veg, hold the cheese, extra banana peppers and salt and pepper? Yum.
But The Nutty Bird? The one and only? Divine. Heaven in a pita. Yes, ma'am.

Make one. 
You'll thank me later.

The Nutty Bird

Layer in one pita:
sliced turkey
cream cheese
avocado
tomato
sprouts! (Sprouts are underutilized and deserve an exclamation point). Also, you can have the kids grow them in a mason jar and call it skool.



Drizzle with Thousand Island dressing, your favorite brand or homemade.

Sprinkle with sunflower seeds. Lots of 'em.

Devour.

Along with the scent of Jafra cosmetics, this is a favorite Gramma Joyce legacy. 

Homemade Thousand Island

3/4 cup mayo, or half mayo and half sour cream
1/4 cup chili sauce or ketchup
1 tablespoon dill relish (use sweet if you want, just don't ever come back here. We are no longer friends)
1 teaspoon lemon juice
salt and freshly ground pepper

A Dapper Boy Have I

So the man cub has morphed from Dirty Goat Boy into a dapper, jaunty little gentleman lately. This is because his daddy squirted him with cologne a couple weeks ago, before church, and told him,

"All the girls will find you irresistible now. They won't be able to stop kissing and hugging you."

You'd think, wouldn't you, that he would have found this gross, since he is 4, not 14, but nope. A sparkle came into his brown eyes the likes of which I'd never seen. 

He sidled up to me, right under my nose. When I stared blankly at him, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

And Daddy was right! I couldn't stop kissing and hugging him. 

The problem now is two fold:

1. He won't stop applying it. It's a little much for a wee boy. You can smell him coming a mile away. I keep hiding it. He keeps finding it. And the eyebrow waggling begins anew and with endless passion.

2. I used to be attracted to it. Because my man wore it. On special occasions. You know? For kissing and hugging? And now it smells like my son. I'm confused.

And lest you worry about him becoming a dandy, a pansy, a well coiffed boy with a European shoulder bag... Don't fret. He still won't bathe.

Which makes the cologne even harder to swallow.
Because now it's Mountain Breeze mixed with chickens mixed with dirt mixed with graham cracker mixed with Ranch dressing.

A dandy he is not. Dapper, he is. A dapper rake.
Women, hold back your daughters. 

Give Away YAY Winner

Drum roll...



SHANNON!


In her words: "Wow! This would be such a help to organizing our busy home and school for our four young boys! I love the ability to create schedules for individual students!"

Everyone's comments were hilarious and much appreciated. Winner chosen by random.org.


Thanks for playing everyone, and Shannon, enjoy your planner and be sure to share with us what you decide to name it. 


Spunky? Frou-frou? Garfield? Imogene?



And now it's time for the celebratory dance to celebrate. For celebration's sake.


Party on, Wayne.
Party on, Garth.





Party on, Napoleon.




Party on, Pedro.




Party on, Shannon.