Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Jeff reported the following exchange took place between he and Bob during bath-time this evening.


 “Everything alright down there, Buddy?”

“I need you to help me take out this ball.”

“Do what now?”

 “Take it out, I want to play with it.” Jeff discovers that Bob is attempting to remove his own left testicle.

 “We don't do that with our parts. They are attached.”

 “Daddy, on your parts, why are there hairs?”

 “Well, when you grow up and become a man –"

“No! I don't want to grow. I want to stop growing. I don't want to be a man!”

 “It's fun. Being a boy is fun too. Growing is a good thing.”

 “But I want to be a lady.”

“Um, yeah, ladies are fun too...”

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Reason #268 Why I Will Not Be Homeschooling

Bob and I are sitting together in the big chair.

“Mama, let’s read the book with Grover and the letters.”

“Those aren’t letters Boo, those are numbers. That book is about math. Math is all about numbers.”

Jeff yells out from the bedroom, “Math is not all about numbers!”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“Hey Bob, let’s read the Us Magazine and I can tell you all about the Kardashians. Us Magazine is all about the Kardashians.”

Monday, September 28, 2009

I'm Cool Like That

I am watching TV. During a commercial, I hear the water running in the bathroom. I go into the bathroom and remember that I had been brushing my teeth. I then pull the toothbrush out of my mouth.

The 3 year old is yelling, “Mama! Where are you going? This is not the way to the Von’s super market! You are going wrong!” He is correct and why am I pulling into someone else’s driveway?

I discover myself wandering aimlessly across the lawn with a Backyardigan action figure dressed as a pirate in my left hand and a Spring 2008 copy of the Auto Club magazine Westways in my right.

I put down the garden hose “for a sec” to check a text message. Four hours later the front lawn is flooded. (This happens twice in one week.)

I am sitting on the couch. Hear Daisy barking outside. Go to back door to let her in. She is not there. Search backyard frantically calling her name. Try to figure out how she could have escaped the yard. Realize it was actually the neighbor dog barking. Once back inside, I see Daisy sleeping on the couch where I left her.

The shirt I’m wearing is on inside-out, backwards, and I also realize, it's Jeff’s.

I am listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line. I can not remember who I am calling. I do not recognize the voice that answers. I abruptly hang up without leaving a message. I then realize that I was calling my own number to check my voicemail and failed to recognize the sound of my own voice.

High five everyone.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Smacksy Sunday Link: Lora Somoza at The Huffington Post

I have a precious girlie inner circle. This is not some euphemism for any of my lady parts but a reference to my amazing team of girlfriends. They are a gorgeous, kind, and creative, genius-y bunch. One of these Mensa-supermodels blogs for the Huffington Post and her name is Lora Somoza.

Lora is a sex educator, advice columnist and a beautiful and eloquent writer. She also possesses such a dirty sense of humor that it is, at times, unsanitary. (I like that in a gal.)


You can also find Lora at Bliss In the Bedroom.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Smacksy Saturday Photo: The Cone

My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate. - Thornton Wilder

Friday, September 25, 2009

Aiming Low

Back in the old-timey days, pre-2004, while you were listening to Maroon 5 and wondering how Adrien Brody would possibly follow up The Pianist, I was busy keeping my single gal apartment quite tidy. By “quite tidy” I mean pathological, OCD, combed the fringe on my carpets daily. When guests were coming over, I would purposely mess something up a little so as to appear more “casual,” this move, of course, proving just exactly how insane I was.

Then I met The Guy. Then we adopted The Puppy. Then I married The Guy. Then we made The Son. Then we moved to The House. There is nothing remotely tidy about any of that. I traded my diorama under glass of a life for a stinky, gorgeous, mess of people and pets and “white” sheets that by Saturday, resemble the Shroud of Turin. And I could not be happier.

Today, I have the good fortune to be recognized for my new levels of slovenly underachieving. The smacksy post, “What Not To Do: Bags” will be featured today on the brilliant Aiming Low website in their Three Day Weekend series. Please go there and read and comment about how clever and adorable you find all things smacksy so that they will realize that this was not all just some terrible mistake. (Like spending $18.99 for that Maroon 5 CD.)

You are very kind. That's why you are my favorite reader.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Location, Location, Location: A One Act

(I follow BOB as he runs into the bathroom. He has the awkward, unmistakable gait that accompanies an impending poop.)

Do you need some help with your pants?

Please! Hurry Mama!

There you go.

(BOB sits on the toilet, very still. He stares into the middle distance.)

Bob? Everything OK?


Where’s your poo?

It’s nowhere.


I think it went back down to my brain.


Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Six Hours

Bob, The Baby

Now that Bob is in pre-school, I am looking at six delicious hours to myself every week: two hours every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I have big plans for my sweet, sweet, new-found freedom.

The novel will be written. Or an outline for the novel will be completed. Or I will use up all 140 characters in my Twitter updates.

The house will be cleaner. Or straightened-er. Or I will get that sticky area off of the floor between the big chair and the bookcase that showed up last spring that I'm pretty sure is cat barf.

I will dress like the moms in Cookie Magazine. Or I will dress in street clothes instead of pajamas. Or I will wear actual clean pajamas, not “clean” as decided by a sniff test.

So, I have plans, lofty plans. Here's how it's going so far:

On Day One, I came home and used my two free hours to clean the baseboards, make a wish list on the Anthropologie website, and do some research for the novel.

On Day Two I watched 3½ Tivo'd episodes of How I Met Your Mother.

On Day Three I changed back into the pajamas I slept in and ate a 12 oz bag of Trader Joe’s Veggie and Flax Seed Tortilla Chips while getting misty watching baby videos of my son on YouTube. Then I counted the minutes until I could pick him up from school, drove back early and sat in my station wagon in the parking lot until that damned two hours was up.

I think I'm really hitting my stride.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Go Baseball Bats!

Bob, on Sunday we took you to your first baseball game. I’m not sure if you know this.

Here's what you do know:

You like hot dogs.

When it is 97°F in the parking lot, daddy sweats a lot. He does not want to carry you up the stairs to our seats but he will to stop your whining and that whole sudden-loss-of-leg-muscles routine. This will cause daddy to sweat more. You will then complain loudly that daddy is too sweaty to carry you.

They are not really “Giants.”

When the crowd starts yelling, you repeatedly chime in with, “Go baseball bats!”

Dodger is a funny word.

That free Webkinz frog they gave you at the entrance is, according to mama, “not a weapon.” You do not know what a “weapon” is but apparently it is not a frog.

You like chocolate malt ice cream cups.

You do, do not, do, do not, do, do not, no, no, no do not want a Dodger baseball cap, except that you want one and why can’t you have one? Don’t want one. Want it. No.

There is lots of grass down there and sand rakes.

At baseball there is a part where you sing about baseball.

40 minutes is a long time to sit on daddy’s sweaty lap. You will convey this by squirming mercilessly.

You like popcorn.

You like throwing popcorn.

According to daddy it’s time to go home because “two and a half innings is long enough.”

You love baseball.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Five Years Ago Today

Five years ago today, I put on my first date uniform (jeans/black high heeled sandals/black knit empire waist top), flat ironed my hair, and emailed my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong. This was to be my 53rd first date of the summer. I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet.

I had been on some second and third and even fourth dates, but it almost always only took one date to “know”. Know that his divorce is “sort of almost” final. (#22) Know that he was gay as a box of birds. (#15) Know that he had insisted on meeting for dinner at an expensive restaurant, then when the bill came tallied up my half – the only guy ever to not pick up the bill. (#36) Know that I had dated his brother - awkward. (#25) Know that he had looked at my resume on internet movie data base and oh-my-god was he actually pitching an animated sit-com to me over Korean barbecue? (#41)

When describing the guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, better not to learn their names. Due to a story he had shared with me via email, #53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment.

For some reason, I broke many of my first date safety rules with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went to dinner at Noshi Sushi. None of that is prudent behavior (including Noshi) and I do not recommend any of it.

Naked Drummer and I talked until the restaurant closed around us. When the bill came, Naked Drummer totaled my half with tax and tip. Again, I knew. I knew he was the best guy ever.

Reader, I married him.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Smacksy Sunday Link: Keeping Up With the Johnsons

You will, of course, recall my Sunday Link to our friend Garth Johnson’s delightful blog Extreme Craft. I know it's one of your favorite things now. You’re welcome.

Well, there is some big news in Johnsonland, folks. Garth and his wife Claire have bought their first house. Casa de Johnson is a big, gorgeous Victorian that this brilliant couple of artists will be renovating. They will be chronicling their home-reno adventures on their blog Keeping Up With the Johnsons, featured on the Ready Made website.

As Garth puts it, “Those of you who live in older homes will smile knowingly, while those of you who are still renting might feel a little happier writing that check to your landlord each month…”

Keeping Up With the Johnsons is like HGTV with cool people and without the daily nine hours of House Hunters International.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Genetics

The law of heredity is that all undesirable traits come from the other parent. - Anonymous

Friday, September 18, 2009

The First Day

I have spent much of the last four months preparing for last Wednesday: Bob’s first day of pre-school.

First there was the desperate potty training: Fun for the whole family.

Then because of Bob’s intense-ish separation anxiety, we enrolled him in a six-week summer school program at another school where I could stay in the class and work up to leaving him for longer and longer periods of time. He only cried until he threw up the first four times that I left him. From then on it was just the wailing without the projectile string cheese.

In the last two weeks, we bought a book for Bob called Llama Llama Misses Mama about a llama with issues. Somehow Bob only seemed to grasp the-whiny-little-llama-was-miserable-and-sad part, never the-he-made-friends-and-had-fun-and-mama-came-back part.

At the suggestion of another mom at school, Bob and I created a book together about his new school and routine. He seemed to enjoy working on our project but got fixated on the “Bob brushes his teeth” and “Bob puts on sunscreen” parts of his schedule. He focused only on wanting to re-write these parts of the story to include, "Bob watches another Toot and Puddle, the one with the tire swing" and "Bob eats ice cream sandwiches for breakfast."

When we arrived at school Wednesday morning, Bob was excited. He donned a red choo choo name tag and got to work on a sponge paint project and said goodbye to me. No tears. As I locked the yard gate behind me, I saw Bob running out of the classroom. He smiled at me and waved but ran in the opposite direction towards the bin of train toys. I heard a teacher call out from inside the room, “We’ve got a runner!” I trusted them to deal with it, made my way to the car and drove the eight blocks home. No tears.

Later when Bob came home, he told me that school was ok and that he liked the bike yard and the grapes parts the best. Then he sat on the couch and ate a green felt tipped pen.

They grow up so fast.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

My New Old Shoes

In my life P.B. (pre-Bob) there where two questions I would ask myself before buying a pair of shoes, “Are the heels at least 3" high?” and “Do I love them so much I want to marry them?” I did not do sneakers. Since having a kid, I have only one shoe buying criteria, “Wearing these, can I get across the playground fast enough to keep him from ingesting the rest of that handful of sand?”

I bought a pair of Skechers last year. They seemed cute enough for sneaker-y type items. I wore them for a couple of months. Then I bought them in two more colors – not because I wanted to marry them, or even have coffee with them, but because I already knew they would fit and I could order them online and Zappo’s was still doing that free overnight shipping thing. That's my style.

At first I got a lot of compliments on my Skecher trio, mostly from older women. By older, I mean 40-ish years older than me. Lately I have noticed many of these gals actually rocking my shoes. Gals with track suits and visors. Gals using those canes with the four little legs at the bottom. Gals with those big sunglasses they make you wear over your regular glasses after cataract surgery. I get it. I have geriatric sneakers. Three pairs. I am too cheap to turn back and buy replacements but obviously I am styling with the social-security-plus crowd. My feet are honorary Golden Girls.

After purchasing these shoes, it also came to my attention that Ashlee Simpson is the spokesperson for this particular style, which of course has its own perils.

I’ll stick with the Betty White crowd.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Daddy's Parts: A One Act

At some point we will get this whole anatomy deal all worked out. I fear that point is no time soon.


(BOB and I are in the backyard playing with bubbles.)

Mama has a bagina.


Daddy has a penis and a bagina.

No. I can assure you with certainty - that is not true.

He does. I saw it.

I saw it more and he doesn’t.

Then what is that? It’s Daddy’s bottom? Where poo comes out?

He does have a bottom.


Are you sure it’s not a bagina?


Tuesday, September 15, 2009

If Bob Had a Twitter Account...


My obsession with garbage trucks has ended. Don't tell my folks, it would kill them. #nowilovetractors

Can not face the day without Wonder Pets. (Coffee = Whatever)

My dream dinner party: Elmo, Thomas the Tank Engine, Iggy Pop, Darth Vader, Curious George, and Mr. Jerry our gardener.

I get crazy loud and annoying whenever my mom gets on the phone. I love watching her freak out while silently trying to shut me up.

I like candy.

Hair washing is apparently a legal form of torture. Ditto teeth brushing. #stoptheinsanity

I only pretend to know what they mean by “use your regular voice.” Whining IS my regular voice.

I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it. I want it. You heard me.

I see dead people. Just kidding.

My dog smells like wet corn chips. I don’t know what our cat smells like. She won’t let me near her after that time with the whistle.

It’s 3pm. Mom’s still in pajamas. #whatelseisnew

I’ve done the research. Sharing is overrated.

Re: the whole potty training deal. Crapping my pants was so much easier.

Monday, September 14, 2009

I Love Google and Moe

Last week Bob and I were having lunch downtown at Philippe’s (Home of the Famous French Dip and .09 cent cup of coffee). We were sharing a table with a friendly, older woman who was missing a finger and a man with only one eye and a hole in his face where a nose would usually be. Sitting on the table next to this gentleman was a gallon size Ziploc freezer bag, inside were three copies of a book called Moe.

When we got home, I googled the book and happened upon a 2008 newspaper article about the remarkable story of the couple we were sitting with and a chimp named Moe. I posted that. Wendi read it and then directed me to this article in Esquire. Amazing. It’s worth the read.

The story is fascinating.
I love Philippe’s.
And Google.
And Wendi.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Smacksy Sunday Link: F*** You Penguin

Matthew Gasteier describes his site F*** You, Penguin as “A blog where I tell cute animals what’s what.” Mr. Gasteier posts adorable pictures of sweet animals and then spares no filthy language in dressing them down for melting his heart. It’s funny and wrong and the guy got a book deal out of it and what are you waiting for?

Thanks to my friend Spider for sharing this one.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Smacksy Saturday Photos: Dinner

Ask your child what he wants for dinner only if he's buying. - Fran Lebowitz

Friday, September 11, 2009

Think Fast

The kid has questions, lots of questions...

Why are scrambled eggs not baby chicks but they are from the chicken egg?

Where is Star Wars?

If I want a bagina can I have one of those instead of a penis?

How can I get wings for flying?

How can Darth Vader be Luke’s father if Darth Vader is a robot?

Where do you feel your feelings when somebody hurts your feelings?
Related follow ups: What is a heart? It’s the heart shape? Where is it? What it do? How does it feel?

If I go into the sculptures with the rhinos then I am in Africa?

Why does Iggy Pop want to be a dog?

What is that rip in daddy’s under pants?
Follow up: Why is it called a “fly?”

When you are very, very, old and your body stops working, where do you go?

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Privates 2

Friday evening, I walked into the living room to find Bob lying on the large ottoman that serves as our “baby-proofed” coffee table. He was naked and thoughtfully caressing his boy parts.

“Bob? It’s just fine to touch your private parts, but you need to get used to doing that in private.”

“I am alone.”

“You are alone in the living room near our front window. That is not really alone and it’s not really private.”

“My bedroom is private?’

“Yes, and the bathroom too.”


“Thanks, pal. Now it’s time to put on some underpants and wash up for dinner.”

“Mama? You need to touch your private parts with yourself sometimes?”

I pause. (Hands spin on the clock dial. Seasons change. Pages rip from the calendar.)

“Um. Well. Yes, everything I do with my private parts is in private.”

I then returned to the kitchen and counted the seconds until Jeff got home.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Maximal Minimalism

I like the idea of simplicity, sometimes more than I like the actuality of it. (Please see my darling collection of silver demitasse spoons.) Yet, I try. I like order and systems. I have found that nothing tests a system like living with a pre-schooler, a big guy, and a couple of used-to-be-feral animals.

So there’s this deal called the "100 Things Challenge." I was checking it out at GuyNamedDave and With the name "100 Things," I had expected more of something like a revved up version of the 10 Things A Day thing where the challenge is to get rid of 10 possessions every day (Kleenex doesn’t count). I was not even close. These guys are talking about living with just 100 personal things. This includes clothing items counted separately. I can count all my earrings and barrettes and then I’m at 100.

This is not a challenge made for someone who has an eBay alert set for both of her china patterns and occasionally speaks about herself in the third person when trying to distance herself from certain behaviors. Fine. So maybe I’m more of a maximalist than I thought. The 10 Things a day deal could still happen. If I kick it off with a Lego purge, I think I could make it work.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

The Water's Fine

At the beginning of the summer, we signed Bob up for swimming classes at the YMCA. For 40 minutes every Saturday morning, Bob would cling to Jeff in the shallow end of the pool while yelling, “No! No! I don’t want to blow bubbles! The water tastes bad! It’s time to go home! I don’t like it! I don’t like it! I can’t like it!”

We took to calling them “screaming lessons.” After four Saturdays we stopped and decided to try again next year.

Last week, our friends were visiting from Chicago for a few days. We met up with them at their hotel pool. Everyone in the water but Bob. He stood at the edge and threw a beach ball back and forth with Jeff, but would get upset with all the splashing and was concerned that his bathing suit might get damp.

I left the pool to retrieve more sunscreen for the guys but when I returned, could not see them. I scanned the large pool deck and finally spied Jeff and Bob in the Jacuzzi. It was a breakthrough. Bob was actually in the water and appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Wow Bob! Look at you!”

“Mama, come in. It has such nice little bubbles.”

Thus proving that Bob Rosenberg is fast on his way to becoming a little old Jewish man.

Monday, September 7, 2009

From the Hive

Daisy, thrilled.

In 2005, Jeff purchased this fetching bee ensemble from Target for our dog Daisy. Yeah. I know.

This year, Bob insists on being a bee for Halloween. I of course hold Jeff responsible for this.

I have suggested other more butch big boy costumes to steer Bob away from this choice, knowing that when he becomes a surly 13-year-old he will look back on photos of himself as a darling bee and blame his mother for dressing him this way. I also understand that this is ridiculous and I should be ecstatic that our baby wants to look like a tiny stuffed animal this year. Next year, I‘m sure we’ll have a Ninja on our hands.

But anyway, my dear older Bob of the future, believe that I tried. This is my proof. Please address all complaints to your father.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Smacksy Sunday Link: Forgotten Bookmarks

30% of my 17 daily waking hours are spent in the management of poops. I mean this quite literally: potty training/cat box/doggie “lawn gifts.” This is just a fact and has nothing to do with today’s featured link except that in my number twos filled world, I look forward to a quiet little mystery sent to my email on most days – the latest post from Forgotten Bookmarks. The writer of this blog explains it like this, “I work at a used and rare bookstore, and I buy books from people everyday. These are the personal, funny, heartbreaking and weird things I find in those books.”

This site is fascinating, and addicting. and I can spend way too much time reading through the old posts.

There is also a new (beta) site by the same blogger called Handwritten Recipes, similarly highlighting recipes left behind.

Like I said, this has nothing to do with poop.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Sleep

There was never a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him to sleep.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Friday, September 4, 2009

Just the One

You may have read about some of my efforts to go a little more green. So just when I get all proud of myself for cutting our use of paper towels in half, (In half!) I read about these people and discover how lame I really am. In 2008 this couple in New Zealand challenged themselves to create no more than one bag of garbage for the whole year. You heard me, the whole year. And they did it. And not a giant Hefty Steel Sack of garbage either, they used a small grocery bag. I could fill that grocery bag in under an hour with just the help of one toddler, one Popsicle, and a package of Costco baby wipes

Sure, these amazingly greener-than-thou-will-ever-be people don’t have kids but I can hardly use that as my extreme garbage excuse since Bob is not the one in the habit of ordering a set of dessert plates on eBay that come packed in a box the size of an iron lung.

The whole one bag deal is inspiring and at the same time I get a little paralyzed by the idea of all the details that this project would involve. How much would we have to invest in laser hair removal to avoid a mass of disposed razors? Would we have to become those people that teach their pets to use the toilet? (Creepy, yet compelling idea.)

I’ve been getting all, “Worship my petite carbon footprint!” when I manage to fill only three of our four large outside garbage cans in a week. Thanks to a couple in Christchurch New Zealand, I’m now aiming to fill only two.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

My Little GPS

Small Bob and I had plans to meet Mary and her son Ivan at the Natural History Museum. We left a little early but still hit some traffic in downtown. After we finally made it off of the 110 onto the 10, the traffic lightened up but we were still running a few minutes late. We exited at La Brea and then cruised up to Wilshire, pulled into the parking lot, paid our $9.00 and then climbed the mile or so of steps to get over the hill and then down another flight to arrive at the entrance. As I looked up at the museum’s impressive façade, I realized that we were standing in front of the George C. Page Museum at the LaBrea Tar Pits in Mid-Wilshire, not the Natural History Museum which is near downtown, 9 miles and 25 minutes away.

I have never been a fan of the term “brain fart,” in fact it has long been a peeve of mine, along with the phrase “It’s all good,” the Rachel Ray-ism “EVOO” and the word “peeve.” But a "brain fart" is what it was, stinky and annoying. The worst was breaking the news to three-year-old Bob. Whenever he gets an inkling that I have made a wrong turn, the backseat driving begins. A mistake of this magnitude would be epic.

“Bob, we have to go back to the car. We are at the wrong museum.”

“We are at the wrong museum? What did you do?”

“Just get in the car. Let’s hurry. Mary and Ivan are waiting for us at the other museum.”

“You are turning around? We are lost?”

“We aren’t lost, I just went to the wrong place.”

“I don’t know how to go there! What is the name of this street? You are making a left? No! No! Go the other way!”

“Bob, you don’t know where we’re going, you’ve never been there before. This is La Brea.”

“We are lost! You have to call Daddy! Where we are going next?”

“We are getting back on the freeway and going towards downtown.”

“No! Go west! Go west!”

“Bob, I will remind you that you don’t even know what that means and also we need to go east.”

“No! We are very lost!

“We are not lost.”


“If you will drop it I will get you an ice cream at the museum.”

“Which museum? Do you know how to get there? Can I have cherry?”

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

You and Your Quinoa

Now that my new hobby is my gluten intolerance (So sexy!) I’ve come to realize that quinoa is the go-to grain, right after rice, and the Trader Joe’s faux-Cheetos cheese crunchy things that I now consider a grain.

Quinoa is fantastic because it cooks in a fraction of the time of brown rice. Just typing that last sentence so earnestly has confirmed that I have become the kind of person I never wanted to hang out with. What is happening? Where is my Bloomin' Onion™ ?

The following Quinoa and Summer Vegetables recipe was adapted from one I found on the Karina’s Kitchen website. (God love that Karina. Without her I’d just be gnawing on stale rice cakes for all three meals.) And by “adapted” I mean that instead of sticking to Karina’s list of fresh organic produce, I put in whatever vegetables were last-gasping it in the bottom of the refrigerator and it was still great. Feel free to do the same. After trying this a few different ways, I will tell you that I believe the key ingredient here is the balsamic, you can get creative with everything else, if you must.

Quinoa and Summer Vegetables
(I'll call it that because Karina calls it that and it also sounds fancier than Quinoa and Whatever.)

1 cup dry quinoa
Olive oil for sautéing

1/2 onion, diced

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1 yellow summer squash, chopped

1 zucchini squash, chopped
1/2 yellow bell pepper, chopped

1 cup white mushrooms, trimmed, sliced 

1 cup of grape tomatoes, halved

Sea salt and ground pepper

Handful of each - Fresh basil and Italian parsley, torn 

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

Extra virgin olive oil, to taste

Prepare the quinoa as directed on the box. For that you’ll need the quinoa and the water. I’m not re-typing that all here. Just read the box. They are the quinoa people. They know what they’re doing.

While the quinoa is cooking, in a separate pan sauté the onion until translucent, then add the garlic and heat for a minute or so, then add everything else that is vegetable, cooking until tender. Add salt, pepper, herbs and balsamic towards the end of the cooking time. Add the vegetable mixture to the prepared quinoa. Stir in just a little more olive oil.

Serve immediately, or refrigerate and eat it later as a cold salad. Before serving it cold, taste test again and adjust seasonings. When I have it the next day, it usually needs a little more balsamic.

It tastes good, it’s easy and now your fridge is cleaned out. Yay you.

Serves 4 people who better be doing the dishes because look how you slaved. *cough*

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Never Say Never... Again

Not too long ago, my friend Karen said that somewhere along the way she had become the “fanny pack and visor mom,” something she had vowed would never be her deal, and that after a momentary freak out, she decided that she didn’t care. (She is also gorgeous and if anyone can rock that look, it’s her.)

Since becoming a mom, I have realized that when I put anything into the Never column of my mental list, it creates a gravitational pull on that "anything" that is so strong that it takes just moments for the Never to become a Habit.

Just a few of the things that are Formerly Known as Never:

Refer to Bob as “young man” when I am impatient with him.

Refer to Jeff as “old man” when I am impatient with Bob.

Refer to Daisy as “Bob” when I am impatient with the random barking.

Have a living room/kitchen/dining room/bathroom/car that resembles what it would look like if Santa exploded.

Consider our dog the first position vacuum, and our actual vacuum the back up.

Be on target to finish Bob’s “My First Year” baby book in time for his wedding.

Define sweat pants as “pants” and old string cheese in the bottom of the diaper bag as “lunch.”

Refer to the diaper bag as my "purse" and continue carrying it even though Bob no longer wears diapers.

Abandon the three-second-rule for a two-minute-and-shake-off-the-germs-rule.

Refer to comments I leave on Facebook status updates and my Good Morning wave at our neighbor Miss Belva as my “social life.”

Use Crest White Strips as a stand-in for an actual trip to the dentist.

Like Karen, I too am embracing my new habits/ideas/behaviors. By “embracing” I mean that if you ask me about any of this, I will become extremely defensive.