Cookie Chaos

It recently occurred to me that while I write about eating, potato chips, drinking and cleaning the kitchen, I never write about actual cooking. Clarification... I have written about cooking, but only in regards to: A) that I don't love to do it; B) I don't spend hours pouring over cookbooks and dreaming about the next magical meal I'm going to whip up; C) that my kids are semi-picky eaters in regards to texture, cheesiness, sauciness, and spiciness; and D) Christmas cookies.

For eleven months out of the year, my cookie baking skills consist of a handy plastic package of pre-made cookie dough purchased in the dairy section. In addition to this being due to the fact that I'm almost always too lazy to haul the stand mixer out and I'm too anal to have the bulky space hog sitting on my counter year round, it's also due to the fact that the only reason I ever make cookies is because my kids want them. And even though my kids want them, they do not need to have five dozen cookies sitting in the house because, inevitably, four dozen of them will go uneaten. For me - having softened butter and creamed the butter and mixed the butter with the dry ingredients and then watched this butter mixture morph into something besides a burnt cookie - chucking those stale little suckers into the garbage can makes me, well, despise baking. And it makes me resentful. And who needs to be resentful about baking when, as parents, we have so many other things to be resentful about?

Anyway, each December, something happens to my brain that I'm sure most psychologists would put into the same classification as Bat Shit Insanity. I start hoarding butter and sugar when it's on sale, dig through recipes and clear a day on my calendar so that I can spend several hours standing in my kitchen.

This year, after several muttered (and a few shouted) obscenities, yards of parchment paper and too many sticks of butter to acknowledge without dry heaving, I ended up with approximately 22 dozen cookies. After Thursday, when I bake the sugar and gingerbread, there will be what is commonly known in the baking world as a fuck ton of cookies. But hey, I have some appreciative friends, a satisfied mailman, a perplexed garbage man and some happy children so, ya know, it was worth it. I guess.

Since I, the non-baker, managed to crank out so many circles of fat without even so much as over-browning one bottom or giving anyone food poisoning, I've decided to share some of my cookie baking tips. If you want to incorporate them into your own holiday baking extravaganza, feel free. If you want me to go burn in a fiery hell because I'm not supposed to talk about anything besides drinking and beating children, I completely understand.

HOLIDAY COOKIE BAKING WITH

THE MEAN MOM

IN WICH COCKTAILS ARE CONSUMED

AND NO BURNS ARE SUSTAINED

• Buy and use parchment paper. I buy mine at Costco because you get several football field lengths for not that much money. Use it on every pan, even the ones that claim to be nonstick because then not only will your cookies look better in the end, but you won't have to wash any pans.
• Another bonus of parchment paper: you can just slide the whole paper off of the pan, directly onto the cooling rack. No more trying to wedge a spatula under a too-warm cookie, resulting in a destroyed/deformed cookie.
• For those of you that own Silpat/silicone baking mats, do what I did and STOP USING THEM. They are a pain in the ass to wash, no pan ever created fits them exactly without either wasted space and/or the mat lopping over the edges and did I mention that they're a pain in the ass?
• If you don't have a palm tree in your yard and can't wear shorts year round, the fastest way to cool the cookie sheets between batches is to put them outside.
• I use the insulated cookie sheets, but have also used the edgeless non-insulated kind. It really is a matter of preference and keep in mind that cookies baked on the non-insulated sheets will have browner edges and bottoms. Also, I am convinced that the burn-rate is much higher for the non-insulated.
• This may sound a lot like Martha and for that I apologize, but I never make drop cookies without a spring-lever scoop. It's like a mini ice cream scoop and it makes plopping that lump of dough so much easier. Plus, all your cookies will be the same size and if you're anal like me, you get a little bit neurotic if all your cookies aren't the same size.
• Unless you happen to own 25 cooling racks, cover a giant flat surface with freezer paper, waxy side down. Then, once your cookies have cooled on the parchment paper, move them to the freezer paper to finish setting (especially important when making the always-popular peanut butter/Hershey's Kiss cookies). The waxy surface will prevent any grease/butter/fat from soaking through to the table.
• Don't frost the sugar cookies too soon before Christmas because storing them is a pain in the ass.
• This is common sense, but if you need to chill some dough for three hours, make that dough first and then move it to a different bowl to chill so that your mixer bowl is free to make something else. Otherwise you'll just spend those three hours sitting around, during which you may start cocktailing, which will result in some really interesting cookies and probably a few burns (no, I'm not talking about the cookies). Since I am still staring at a scar from a Thanksgiving mishap, I am very much against charred flesh.
• If you see the peppermint candy cane Hershey's Kisses, buy two bags. They sell out fast. And if you aren't able to find them, then you won't be able to make these:

Candy Cane Kiss Cookies

1/2 c. butter-flavored shortening

1/2 c. butter, softened

1 c. brown sugar

1 c. white sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

2 1/2 c. flower, spooned and leveled

1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder

1 - 12 oz. bag dark chocolate chips

a bag of Hershey's Candy Cane Kisses, unwrapped (duh)

Preheat oven to 350

Cream together butter, shortening, brown sugar and white sugar for 1-2 minutes on medium-high speed or until light and fluffy, aka the stuff is stuck together enough that it stops flying out of the mixer bowl. Add the eggs (one at a time) and vanilla. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, use a whisk to combine the baking powder, baking soda, salt, flour and cocoa powder. Add to the butter/sugar glop and mix until combined. At this point, if you're like me and don't like chocolate, try not to gag. Mix in the chocolate chips.

Refrigerate dough for 30-60 minutes. Make a drink.

Drop the dough by the tablespoonful onto an ungreased baking sheet, aka parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake until just set, but centers are still soft, about 9 minutes. Remove from oven without burning yourself and allow to cool for 1-2 minutes. Use a metal spatula to move cookies to cooling rack, or, since you were super smart and used the parchment paper, simply slide the entire piece of paper to the cooling rack and then put the cookie sheet outside to cool. Top each cookie with a candy cane thing.

This is critical, allow to cool completely. Those Kisses take longer than an 82 year old man to harden. After the cookie part seems like you can pick it up without it breaking, you can carefully move it from the cooling rack to the paper covered table, but try not to bump the Kiss. Unless you're like my kid who intentionally bumps it and then says "oops this one is wrecked guess I better just eat it."

Serve the cookies. Make another drink.

And happy holidays.

The ugly details...

You are reading this post because you are obviously:

1. Bored;
2. Enjoy reading about other people suffering;
3. Trying to figure out what I'm whining about;
4. You saw a lady standing in the grocery store, giving a death glare to a texting, gum-chomping cow that was blocking the entire aisle in the frozen food section and you're trying to figure out if it was really me (Yes, it was.); or, most likely it's because...
5. You are nice.

5:32am... I woke up, eight minutes before my alarm clock goes off. Or, more accurately, I woke up for the 6th time in the last two hours, but this time it wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep. And of course the first thing I thought of was "I'm tired as fuck," which was immediately followed by "No, really. Fuck. Tired as fuck." I pulled on my mom uniform (running shorts, long sleeve shirt, ponytail) and headed downstairs to dishwasher emptying/newspaper fetching/coffee making/dog feeding/breakfast making bliss.

6:00... Because I'm lame and would feel a little bit guilty if I were to sleep in while my oldest kids found their own breakfast and got themselves to the bus stop, I made something to eat for kid #1: scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with jelly. Upon seeing this hot, well-balanced first meal of the day, he said "Oh, well, there's no way I'm going to eat all this. If I eat those eggs I'll just feel uuuugggghgh." Because I hadn't ingested much caffeine yet, I only had enough energy to say "Fine. Eat whatever" instead of "Fine. Eat whatever and then I'll shove the rest of it up your nose." Note to self: Frosted Lucky Charms are magically delicious, and a bowl of cold cereal is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

6:50... After kid #1 glared at me a few times and then stumbled out the door in time to catch the bus, kid #2 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing his plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, he muttered something like "I hope this doesn't make me sick" before taking a few very unenthusiastic bites. Note to self: A smack in the face is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

7:45... After kid #2 left for the bus, kid #3 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing her plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and a muffin, she declared the eggs as "too hot to eat" and proceeded to eat the muffin. Note to self: Aruba is very nice this time of year.

9:10... Several hours (well, technically only an hour or so, but it felt like several) later, and after a couple dozen pleas of "get dressed, brush your teeth, practice piano, pack your backpack, brush your teeth, where are your socks," I dropped kid #3 off at school and headed to the grocery store, still wearing my running shorts, shirt, ponytail plus two additional items: a fancy lip balm called Carmex and a baseball hat.

9:30... Do you have any lettuce that doesn't look like it's been sitting in a monsoon? Oh, ha ha, I know it looks that way but no, I haven't worked out this morning. You seem to be out of the mild Italian sausage that is on sale, so can I substitute a different brand? Oh, hi, wow, yes, you do sound very busy! I don't care if that's the coupon item, that ham tastes like cardboard. Excuse me, but can I get past your cart? No, I need the 10.5 oz box of Cheez-Its because that's what's listed on your stupid coupon. Do you have a gallon of 1% milk that doesn't expire in two days? No, ma'am, I'm not that Chinese lady that taught your daughter how to ice skate. Gawd, do I ever love grocery shopping, especially with coupons!

10:30... Because I'm lame, I went to a second grocery store (yes, Byerly's) where they have the most amazing chicken tenders, which happened to be BOGO, and since I have to bring dinner to tennis for the boys on Wednesdays I thought I'd be nice and make sandwiches with these chicken tenders. And of course I also made sure to get fresh buns for these sandwiches. Because I'm lame. Oh, and also according to more than a couple people, now that the kids are in school I have ALL KINDS OF TIME TO MYSELF SO I CAN SHOP ALL THE TIME!

11:15... Finally home, just in time to finish the laundry, clean part of the house, put the groceries away, walk the dog and inhale some lunch. And then I need to brush and floss my teeth so that I can get to my dentist appointment! It's really super important to be on time to the dentist! So I'm sure to be punctual and get there five minutes early because, in addition to being lame, I just loooove going to the dentist! Mmm, gotta love that dentist office smell!

1:35... Twenty minutes after my appointment was scheduled -- after I was assured that the hygienist was running on time -- I'm sitting in the waiting room, thinking about the 142 things I still need to get done. So I did what I've always wanted to do: told them to cancel my appointment and then walked out. And anyway, I had just flossed and brushed in the middle of the day, so my teeth already felt cleaner than usual.

2:30... Kid #1 walks in the door, followed by... his friend? The friend who wasn't supposed to ride the bus to our house and is instead supposed to be at his own house, waiting for his mom to pick him up. So now I have an extra kid (who happens to have the loudest voice ever given to a teenage boy) in my house for the next hour, and he's hungry. Like, really hungry. And really loud.

3:10... Kid #2 walks in the door, gets ready for tennis, and then immediately walks out the door. Their ride arrived... over ten minutes early. Goodbye, loud talker!

3:45... I walk out the door carrying a cooler packed with dinner (yum, chicken sandwiches!), kid #3's tennis bag and my tote bag so that I can pick the youngest kid up at the elementary school, aka Parking Lot of Torture. Today is no different, and I somehow resist honking and/or gesturing toward five different people, including one dude that nearly ran over a child because he should have the right to go the wrong way on a one-way.

5:30... After arriving at the club, quickly feeding kid #3, sending her to her tennis lesson and then (because I still have my running shorts on) hammering out a three mile walk/run, the boys wrap up their tennis lesson and appear for dinner. I pull out the sandwiches and, five minutes into eating them, kid #1 declares them "a pain in the butt to eat because the bread is too chewy." Note to self: Stop feeding children anything besides gruel and knuckle sandwiches.

Add to all of this the smooshing of my child, the fact that no one else in my family has the ability to recognize when the recycling bin is full, children that are still genuinely shocked that bedtime arrives each and every night, a dog that wants in when he's out and out when he's in, a school I.D. that was distributed to a child and lost by the child on the same day and finally, the worst part of all: I was supposed to go out with friends. But by 9:00, I really didn't have the energy to be all high maintenance and get myself dressed in anything besides pajamas, so I skipped out on the cathartic fun and stayed home. I know this makes me sound even lamer, but at that moment, just having enough energy to brush my teeth was doubtful. I figured that would be okay, though, because after all, I had already brushed them twice.

Sometimes, I Trip

I am going to take this opportunity to say that this past weekend, I was not the nicest person in the world. I tried, really I did. But due to circumstances that were a little bit out of my control, the niceness success rate was not quite 100%. It wasn't that I didn't try to suck it up and put on a smile, it's just that it all seemed so, well, pointless and unpleasant. Like trying to convince yourself that eating the fat free salad dressing isn't really that bad and that the bitter metallic taste isn't really that noticeable even though you know damn well that the full fat salad dressing isn't going to kill you, so what's the point of pretending that you like the fat free kind?

Okay, that was random.

So like I said, there isn't just one reason for my edginess, but rather a combination, an amalgamation if you will, of many different types of sticks to my eye.

Maybe it's because my week started out with a sick kid. Like, a freakishly-high-fever-three-nights-in-a-row, oh-look-she-has-pneumonia, now-she's-home-from-school-for-4 1/2-days sick kid.

Maybe it's because after being loyal to the same piano teacher for the past nine years and always delivering her check at the first lesson of the month, she was unwilling to compromise with me regarding her cancellation policy, even though I had a kid at home with a 104 fever.

Maybe it's because Doug got a chest cold and I ended up with the same chest cold and strep throat, just in time for the weekend.

Maybe it's because throughout the entire weekend, people still wanted me to make food for them (without touching it too much or coughing on it) and the only meal that was considered take-out was the single-serving cheese pizza that I bought for Zoe while we waited for my prescription at Target.

Maybe it's because my attempt at taking a ten-minute nap on Saturday before I drove Zoe to a birthday party was interrupted by a boy saying "Hey there's something wrong with my Xbox Live account, can you come fix it before you leave?"

After quickly glancing at the back of my throat while sitting at a stoplight and seeing what appeared to be a couple red ping pong balls with white polka dots, I decided that a visit to urgent care on my way home from the birthday party would be a good idea. Zoe thought that this was the perfect time to embark on a pain-in-the-ass marathon, touching everything in sight, failing to follow even the simplest directions, begging for 22,000 items in Target, and giving me a look that says "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want to do because you probably won't beat me in public." This super-pleasant two hours, followed up with a difficult bedtime, might have had something to do with my mood on Saturday evening.

It could even be that after waking up with a fever on Sunday morning, I fed the dog, got the paper, emptied the dishwasher, started laundry and made chili...while the rest of my family slept in.

Maybe it's because there's an elaborate board game that's been sitting out, taking up the entire surface of our wet bar, since November, and even though I've asked, on numerous occasions, that it be picked up and put away, it has continued to sit there. So when the oldest kid finds me coughing and sprawled out on my bed and says "Hey, should I pick that game up today?" and I say something like well, gee, I've only been asking for it to be picked up for the last month or so, so yes, picking it up today might be a good idea and then he says "Wow, sorry I asked. What's the big deal," it may not put me in the best frame of mind and/or make me leap around the room in jubilation.

Or maybe it's because when I quietly snuck upstairs in an attempt to take a nap on Sunday afternoon (between loads of laundry), I was immediately woke up with the pressing question of "Hey mom, can I have a juice box?"

So like I said before, I know there were times this weekend that I wasn't the nicest person and honestly, all I can say is...oops.

Married to the Mean Mom Has a Birthday

Yay for today being my husband's birthday! Ideally, I would have loved to have been the kind of wonderful wife who plans an entire weekend of festivities based on birthday based fun fun fun, but since we live in reality and have these things called 'kids', not only did that not happen, but it's not going to happen today, either.

Good news: He had a lot of time to himself over the weekend to sleep in, read, play Xbox, workout and watch the Australian Open.

Bad news: He had a lot of time to himself because the kids and I were at a tennis tournament, which means that he had to play with the 24-hour play machine, also known as the puppy. Also, all time spent reading or playing a game was constantly interrupted by texts from me saying things like "Up 3-2, playing great, missing some forehands" or "please bail me out of jail after I kill a few of these moms." In addition, the kids and I knew the results of the men's and women's Australian Open finals, but because he managed to resist the urge to check the results, we couldn't even talk about the match while he watched it by himself. And sleeping in didn't really happen either because even though I tried to be quiet at 6:45 in the morning, I'm sure he heard me whispering "We are leaving in five minutes! Get your teeth brushed and your tennis bag packed NOW!"

Good news: He had Zoe home on Sunday to play with the dog and keep him company while I took the boys to their matches.

Bad news: Zoe woke up with a cough and a low fever, which meant that she spent the day on the couch, coughing and moaning about her low fever, but not really playing with the dog very much.

Good news: Zoe was feeling better last night so we went out to dinner to celebrate.

Bad news: Zoe felt better for the length of the car ride, after which she promptly declared herself as 'freezing to death' before her fever instantly spiked to 102. Mozzarella sticks eaten = one, which coincidentally is also the number of beers that each of us had.

Worse news: Like I said before, we each only had one beer! And he had to drive home so that I could hold fever girl in the car.

Good news: He had the whole bed to himself last night, with the door completely shut, and was able to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Bad news: He had the whole bed to himself last night because I was sleeping in Zoe's room, waking up every half-hour or so to hear her either cough coughity cough or talk in her sleep saying "sorry I'm really sorry oops did I do that I didn't mean to sorry." And it wasn't the fact that she was talking in her sleep that was freaking me out, it was that I didn't really know she was capable of saying the word 'sorry'. Anyway, since I managed to get about 2.6 hours of sleep last night, Doug may want to think twice before he opens that bedroom door and tries to communicate with me.

Good news: He took today off so that we could sleep in a little and we could see a Coen brothers movie.

Bad news: Zach managed to suffer from alarm clock user error AGAIN so I was whispering AGAIN, something like "oh my god I'm going to put that phone somewhere that you will never be able to not notice that alarm going off." Also, the boys don't have the motor skills necessary to shut the bathroom door without anything less than a sharp thunking sound. And even though Zoe took a break from the fever for a few hours last night, it has returned just in time for Monday morning. Which means that a bloody, obscenity-filled movie and fatty popcorn has now morphed into girl on couch, Buzz & Woody and Orville Redenbacher.

Good news: I'm going to make him something great for dinner today.

Bad news: I have no idea what that great thing is because since I was home for exactly 10 hours this weekend, we have nothing in the house that screams "the preparation and sauteeing of me will result in a delectable birthday dinner." We do, however, have something that says "Look at me, I'm a frozen pizza."

Worse news: Whatever I do end up whipping together will have to be eaten early, because the boys have a piano lesson tonight.

Good news: Like I said before, he took the day off from work and coincidentally, it snowed last night. Yay for not having to celebrate a birthday by sitting in two hours of morning traffic on a Monday morning!

Better news: I shoveled the driveway this morning.

Bad news: I now smell like I shoveled the driveway this morning, and for all of you that live in a cold, snowy climate and have spent any amount of time outdoors doing something besides standing still, you know what smell I'm talking about. And since Zoe is sick and will be expecting me to be her beck-and-call girl, who knows when I'll be able to find time for a shower.

Good news: I wrote a birthday blog for Doug last year, and hopefully if he reads it again, it'll make him feel happy enough to be able to forget about how potentially crappy this year's birthday could turn out to be.

Mobile Multitasking

A few fun facts:

1. My kids play tennis. Clarification, Zoe plays tennis, but my boys play a lot of tennis.
2. We live in a northwest suburb of Minneapolis.
3. Apparently, the Tennis Court Construction Guys feel that indoor courts are an unnecessary luxury for those of us in the northwest suburbs.
4. After a hop, skip, jump, leap, dos-y-dos and gallop, along with jamming my foot down on the accelerator and cursing at a few other drivers for 17 miles three times a week, we safely arrive at indoor courts.
5. Don't even get me started on how far we drive for weekend tournaments like, for example, I did this past weekend.

When I made the conscious decision to sign my kids up for extracurricular activities, I knew that I would be spending more time in the car than if they were to just sit at home all day with an Xbox controller in their hands and a bag of Chex Mix wedged next to them on the couch. What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how much time I spend in the car. Between the tennis lessons and tournaments, orthodontist appointments, piano lessons, errands, elementary school pick-up and drop-off, more errands and more tennis lessons, it gets to the point where I don't even want to get in my car to go to the bar on a Saturday night. And that's wrong. So very, very wrong.

Most mornings, I try to be organized before I head out the door. This usually means a grocery list, an errand list, a to-do list, maybe a tennis bag or two thrown in the back and a bag of snacks in case someone is absolutely starving after they get picked up. Also, if there are any calls I need to make or emails I need to return, I bring a list of numbers. Then when I'm singing along to the radio and waiting for a kid to appear, I can get something done besides just feeling like an idiot, waiting. And waiting. And getting angry because I'm waiting. This way, when the kid finally appears, I feel productive and angry.

There are times, though, when I find myself sitting behind the wheel with nothing to do. And it's moments like these that make me wonder: what else could I be getting done? I mean, I know I can't cook a pot roast or shake up a martini, and I could always pass the time spying on what the other moms are doing in the school parking lot, (Like last year when, I shit you not, I saw a woman trimming her nose hair.) but there has to be some sort of task that could be completed to make me feel like I'm not wasting decades of my life in the car. And then I found these ideas in the newspaper:

Do menu planning. I think this means I should plan nutritious meals for the entire week that are to be cooked in my home, with ingredients that I have written down and will have time to purchase, and then served at a reasonable time. What this fails to take into consideration is the fact that during the week, when we walk in the door at 6:30 or later, there isn't a lot of time for chopping, braising, saucing and serving. It's more like nuking, yelling, scarfing and homework-ing. At least I can get my grocery list done: hot dogs, buns, noodles, jar of sauce, limes, tonic.

Make doctors' appointments. This suggestion would work for someone that hauls around a ginormous planner with their entire life etched out in ballpoint pen. And although I have a color-coded wall calendar at home (stop laughing), most people I know, including myself, have switched to electronic calendars for when we're on-the-go. Which means that in order to schedule an appointment from my iPhone I'd have to keep saying "Hold on a second, I'll see if that day would work" and then hope like hell that I don't accidentally drop the call while I'm seeing if I can wedge the time between an ortho appointment and a tennis match. Luckily, I don't have to schedule very many doctor appointments. On the other hand, vet appointments for a puppy? Don't even get me started.

Plan date night. For me, hearing the term "date night" churns up the same nausea that the term "play date" manages to trigger. And everyone knows that if you plan anything that requires reservations of any kind, advance tickets, the booking of a babysitter and the purchase of a new piece of apparel, the babysitter will cancel and/or a kid will get sick, probably all over that new piece of apparel. If Doug and I happen to find ourselves with a free Friday night and we're extra thirsty, we go to the bar for beer, onion rings, more beer and hopefully a live band where people are dancing so that we can laugh at them. And we don't call it "date night," we call it "having fun" or "getting drunk."

Pay bills. I won't be doing this in the car, since the sounds of my screaming and crying might make other people worry.

Read. The article says I'm supposed to rip out newspaper and magazine articles and throw them in a tote bag for moments just like these, and this tip makes me laugh. One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is riding around on Sunday mornings in the back of my parents' Buick. The sun was blinding, I was tired and my brothers were on either side of me, still reeking of whatever party they were at the night before. Worst of all, my parents always brought a thermos of coffee and a couple sections of the Sunday paper. The amalgam of all those smells, paired together with the sloshy suspension of a Buick sedan, always resulted in the same thing for me: carsick. So now, even though I can tolerate the smell of my brothers and even like the smell of coffee, one whiff of a newspaper in a car makes my stomach turn. And I'm pretty sure no one needs to see me barfing in the school parking lot.

Catch up with a friend with a phone call. I try to limit the amount of time I spend talking on the phone when I'm actually driving, but because I'd like my conversations to consist of more than "Green means go, Moron!" I admit that I will never not answer my phone. Unless it's that one person. You know who you are. Anyway, for those times that I find myself sitting in a parking lot for the 18th time in a week, this tip is actually useful. But it only works if I'm waiting by myself, because even though it seems like my kids never hear a word I say at home, they hear everything I say when I'm on the phone.

Write birthday cards. Since most people I know would rather receive a phone call or email on their birthday, I don't waste $4.00 (or more) to send birthday cards anymore. I suppose, though, if all birthday cards were like this one, I might reconsider...

The Mom Cave

For years now, the concept of a man cave has been increasing in popularity. These man caves range from the extravagant (including such items as leather recliners, a pool table, humidor, a urinal in the bathroom, multiple flat screen TV's and, for the truly tasteless, a stripper pole or two) to barely covering the basics (a moldy couch thrown in an extra garage stall, a dorm fridge, a shrub outside the garage, a TV with rabbit ears, and a stripper pole). Either way, a man's need is fulfilled, and that need is to get the hell away from everyone and enjoy some solitude.

I recently came across an article about a designer that is trying to introduce the concept of a mom cave. After all, if guys can have a getaway on their own property, it seems only fair that a mom should be able to say adios to her family once in a while and have access to the same kind of space. A space that "isn't as extravagant as a man cave," but is decorated her way and is used "for everything a woman loves, like knitting, doing crafts, writing letters, or even paying bills."

Umm...what? The fuck?

So let me get this straight -- a guy gets to watch some football from his leather Barcalounger with one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other hand plunged into a bag of Funyuns, and I get to sequester myself in a craft room, pay the electric bill and knit some booties? Who is the crazy bitch that came up with this concept?

Now I don't know about you, but if this is the extent of what a mom cave should be then I'm pretty sure the idea will die an expedited death. So in order to prevent that from happening, I'm going to take matters into my own hands and come up with a list of things that a mom cave should actually include.

• A guard dog (that can't be bribed with treats) sitting outside the door, trained to bark and growl at everyone except: A) me; B) those that have been invited by me; and C) anyone delivering booze.
• Soundproof walls.
• A large TV, but 3D is not necessary because the glasses are ugly.
• A stocked Blu Ray DVD library. Yes to Apatow, the Cohen's and Zombieland. No to anything that is considered a chick flick, rom com or involves Julia Roberts.
• A massage chair, but not the leather kind found at Brookstone that all the teenagers sit in. I want the one that comes with face papers and includes someone with strong thumbs that is only capable of massaging for an hour or more.
• A bar, complete with a bartender that can't say anything except "You're welcome" and "Would you like a refill?"
• Half of the floor should be sand, like the white sand found in the Caribbean. And it should be heated so that my bare feet don't get cold.
• Furniture that is incapable of accumulating dust.
• An absence of all things that could be considered "collectible."
• A weekly cleaning lady.
• An automatically replenishing supply of kettle chips, Skittles and Twizzlers.
• A self-cleaning bathroom. Or actually, if it is only me using the bathroom, then it won't need to be cleaned.
• A closet that contains already completed science projects.
• A phone that only makes outgoing calls.
• Twice a month, someone manages to sneak past the guard dog and says "It's time for your facial and pedicure."

Now, I realize that some of these items may seem extravagant, but keep in mind that I'm willing to compromise. Like the massage chair -- I guess I'd be happy with half-an-hour. And it's not like I'd automatically expect people to understand my need for a mom cave and the indulgent items it contains. I'd explain it to them by hanging this sign on the door, right above where the guard dog sits:

Job Recognition

It's a well known fact that I'm sure non-moms/working moms/ working non-moms and virtually the entire male species gets tired of hearing: Stay-at-home-mom's don't get enough credit for the work that they do. Sure, Oprah chirps away with her belief that "being a mom is the hardest job in the world," but has she ever taken an audience full of moms to a kidless, spouseless, all-expenses paid exotic destination? It could very well be that she has, but I wouldn't know because I don't watch Oprah. And this is when so many people gasp and say WHAT? NO OPRAH? BUT ALL STAY AT HOME MOM'S WATCH OPRAH! No, they don't. Why? Because in addition to her being completely annoying and punchable, her show is on during the day when the sun is out, right during the time that I'm trying to figure out what to make for dinner while simultaneously picking Zoe up from school and making sure the boys get their homework done and piano practiced. And did I mention that Oprah is punchable?

And then there's the people that claim they understand how overworked/underappreciated you are and nod their heads sympathetically while you talk about pink eye, field trip forms and the need for yet another oil change, but the second you have a free hour to do something really indulgent like get a bikini wax, they're all OH SURE! GO AHEAD AND GET THE HAIR RIPPED FROM YOUR CROTCH AREA! MUST BE NICE!

(And actually, it is. Because trying to explain a bikini wax to a toddler that is standing in the corner of the esthetician's room with her mouth hanging open and wondering why mommy is whimpering like she's giving birth all over again is tricky territory. So being able to go to that appointment by myself? It's a dream come true.)

So instead of always being pissed because people think my job consists of nothing more than cooking, shopping for groceries, wiping noses, eating mac and cheese, playing Candyland and making sure the pajamas don't have any weird stains on them, I figured I'd try to get the job recognition I deserve by handing the doubters a copy of my resume. Maybe after reviewing it, they'll finally see that I'm entitled to a little respect. And a lot of booze.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jody Adkins

4321 Cul De Sac Hell

Overpriced Suburb, MN 55___

Home phone: Just call my cell, because I'm never home

Email: Yes. Checked? Not always

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OBJECTIVE

Seeking respect and recognition for a job that not many people want to do because it involves bad hair days, arguing with short people, bodily fluids and the preparation of food that will always include carbs as an ingredient.

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SUMMARY OF QUALIFICATIONS

Excellent leadership qualities; 99% success rate in solving the case of the missing library book; ability to teach even the youngest children the difference between "blended" and "on the rocks"; able to determine with frightening accuracy, without leaving the car, which are the most violent children on the playground; knowledge in the areas of car maintenance, computer tech support, Xbox and home theater installation (including programming the remote control), pet care, accounting, groundskeeping, how to cook a nutritious meal with five minutes notice, how to fling dog poop with pinpoint accuracy and um, about 9500 other things.

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PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE

(please note all positions are from 8/1996 to present)

Chauffeur: Delivered kids at required times to appointments, lessons, recitals, tournaments, concerts and birthday parties, and have done so without ever denting my minivan, running out of gas, killing a small animal or locking my keys in the car.

Errand Runner: Manage to complete seven stops within an hour and a half, using minimal amounts of gas, without ever letting the ice cream melt. I have also displayed superhero-like abilities when having to wait for people like Change Counting Old Lady, Check Writing Old Man, Cell Phone Addict Teenager, Aisle Hogging Car Cart Pusher and Mr. I'm Going To Turn These Deli Samples Into A Free Lunch.

Coach: In addition to actually coaching one year of soccer, a couple years of baseball and gymnastics before I was even a parent, I am currently responsible for building confidence, coming up with words of encouragement even when they're sucking, consoling bruised egos, and managing the sports calendars.

Medical Technician: There is always a cold ice pack in the freezer, an assortment of Band-Aids in a designated jar and a tube of hydrocortisone in case someone gets bitten by a bug. I am also able to treat stomach aches by saying "go poop," differentiate between a fake cough and a real one, administer Advil, send kids to bed early and show sympathy for bruises by saying "Where? Right there?" as I forcefully point at it.

Not-Quite-A-Short Order Cook: Just because I enjoy eating zucchini, red onion, mushrooms and giant salads, would be content never eating cheese again and have a tendency to put sriracha on everything, I don't expect my kids to follow the same dietary habits. Therefore, since I still want to eat what I enjoy without listening to them complain, I often make them a modified version of whatever it is I made for myself. Except for the oldest kid -- he'll eat anything. As long as it's not too cheesy.

Schedule Coordinator, Activities Director, Therapist, Arbitration Mediator, Professional Organizer, Cleaning Lady, Personal Shopper, Psychic, Tutor, Stain Removal Specialist...: Yes.

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EDUCATION

No, I don't have an MPA, BBA, B.Eng, Ch.E., DPT, DDM, Ph.D., or even an AS. But I did manage to graduate from the Forest Lake school system somewhere near the top of my class and then survived a short stint in chemical engineering at the University of Minnesota before acquiring the coveted distinction of SAHM.

Summer, Please Slow Down

While I am more than happy to embrace the upcoming three-day weekend and submerge myself in beer, bratwurst and potato chips, watch some fireworks and remember the important rule of "Stop, drop and roll!" I am a little pissed off because typically, the 4th of July means two things: 1) Zoe will have a hard time going to bed because of the random fireworks that last until midnight; and 2) Summer is half-over.

Normally I'm an optimist that says things like "Yay, I still have half of a beer left" or "Mmm, someone left half a bag of jalapeno kettle chips, it must be my lucky day!" And some people will say something lame like oh boy, good sleeping weather is right around the corner! But half of the summer being over is just that: half of the summer. Oh-Ver.

In an attempt to put some sort of positive spin on the holiday and not dwell on the reality that some grocery stores are already stocking back-to-school supplies, I decided to find some new recipes to try. Nothing spectacular or fancy, just little additions here and there to help differentiate this weekend's cookout from the typical weeknight burgers on the grill.

The first thing I found was this macaroni salad. It's so good and reminds me of every neighborhood potluck that I used to attend as a kid, in the days before bringing a bag of chips was considered a suitable potluck contribution. Substitutions and fat-reductions are easily made, I've yet to use exact measurements and it always turns out the same: delicious. Please note, though: It makes a hell of a lot of salad, so unless there are ten people in your family and they all love macaroni salad, cutting the recipe in half is not a horrible idea.

Then I found an article in the paper promoting the benefits of making your own hot dog buns. According to the article, homemade buns "enhance whatever comes off the grill, elevate any cookout to a peak experience" and can become "a memorable part of your meal." Even though the thought of spending several hours in the kitchen to make hot dog buns that could be bought at the store in 42 seconds seemed completely stupid, the picture of the eggy, poppyseed-encrusted bun that accompanied the article did look good, and I imagined it would be even better paired up with an all-beef dog, sport peppers, onions, mustard and relish. So I read the recipe:

• 3 1/4 c. all-purpose flour
• 1/2 c. whole wheat flour
• 1 1/4 tsp. instant yeast
• 1 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1 1/2 c. room-temperature water
• 1 tbsp. honey
• 1/4 c. olive oil
• sesame, poppy or other seeds for the topping
• beaten egg for brushing the buns

Combine the dry stuff with a whisk, add the water, honey and oil and mix with a wooden spoon. The ball of dough will look a bit shaggy. (WTF is "shaggy?" Honesty, that adjective should never, ever be used to describe something that will at some point be eaten.)

Put it on a floured surface and knead the crap out of it, flouring only your hands if necessary, which will probably result in flouring the floor, the fridge handle, your hair, the phone and the dog. The dough should then pass the windowpane test, whatever the hell that is.

Put dough in a lightly oiled bowl, turning to coat. Cover with plastic wrap, or if you're out of plastic wrap, go to the store and buy a package of hot dog buns. If you did have plastic wrap, let rise 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until doubled and an indentation remains when you poke it with your finger. Poke it about as hard as you poke your kid when you're trying to get their attention and have said their name four times but they haven't responded so you reach over and poke that super-fleshy part of their arm.

Gently remove the dough from the bowl and put it on a lightly floured surface. Or, if it's stuck because you forgot to oil the bowl, tug the shit out of it. Shape it into a square, or something that sort of resembles a square, cut it in half, or as close to half as you can, then cut each half into four rectangles. At this point, you should have eight hunks of unrecognizable dough, that may or may not end up resembling hot dog buns.

There are more directions for shaping the dough into specific buns, which involves more kneading, pinching, squeezing, shaping, scraping and another hour of rising. When the dough eventually looks like something you think you'd want to jam a hunk of meat into, before you bake it brush it with the egg and dump on some seeds. At least I think this is what you're supposed to do, because I sort of lost interest.

It turns out that homemade buns, from start to finish, take about four hours. Now, I don't know about you, but I say fuck it to the concept of homemade buns. I think I'll continue to buy my buns, use booze to elevate my cookout to peak experience and I'm pretty sure the memorable part of the meal will be spending four hours watching drunk Uncle Mike fall out of the canoe before passing out on a picnic table, using the store-bought package of hot dog buns as a pillow.

Just when I thought that macaroni salad was going to be my only new addition, a hyper-intelligent person named Jennie, who somehow detected my lack of baking skills but sensed that I had excellent drinking skills, gave me a recipe for bourbon slush. Now this is a recipe that justifies having to lug an extra cooler to the cookout.

Bourbon Slush/Double Batch

2 cups boiling water

4 tea bags

7 c. water

1 1/2 c. sugar

1 1/2 c. bourbon

12 oz. frozen concentrate orange juice, thawed

12 oz. frozen concentrate lemonade, thawed

Club soda

Steep the tea bags in the boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. In a large, freezer-safe container mix together the tea, water and sugar until the sugar has dissolved. Add the bourbon, orange concentrate, and lemonade concentrate. Mix well, then cover and place in freezer.

Remove from freezer ten minutes before serving. Scrape with a spoon, fill glass about 3/4 full, then top with club soda and stir.

Or do like I'm planning and randomly grab hunks out of the freezer throughout the day and pop them straight into your mouth like ice cubes.

Thanks, Mom

(Originally posted on November 23, 2009)

One question that a stay-at-home mom deals with all the time is, "So what exactly do you do all day anyway?" In addition to sitting on the couch with a bag of chips watching a Meredith Baxter Birney marathon on Lifetime, there are times when I find it necessary to mutate into more than a few dozen other people in order to create an efficient, happy household. Several of these roles are often overlooked and taken for granted in the chaos of our day-to-day lives. With the craziness of the holidays quickly approaching, I always carve out some time to reflect on the past and give thanks to these people, just in case my kids get too busy asking for stuff and forget to.

Cleaning Lady. In addition to the monotonous vacuuming/dusting/ de-gunking/scrubbing/sweeping, this kind lady also wipes up sticky spills that mysteriously appear, gets dog barf out of the carpet, unclogs toilets, organizes closets, kills bugs, does endless loads of laundry, and has even been known to iron.

Human Resources. Thank you for encouraging cooperation and empathy, teaching the five-year-old how to use words instead of her clenched fists, solving the famous "Who Touched Who First" dilemma, and managing to get the teenager to say something besides, "Maybe you could be lamer, Charlie."

Landscape Contractor. The lawn is always a welcome place for a picnic or a game of baseball, thanks to the person that weeds, mows, trims, and picks up the dog crap. And contrary to popular belief, I know that this person does not appreciate hearing, "Gross Mom, you missed a pile over here."

Hospitality Manager. After making sure that the bar fridge is stocked with an assortment of beverages and always having snacks on hand, I appreciate this individual's willingness to host science project get-togethers, video game marathons, and the occasional sleepover, no matter how weird the other kids might smell.

Dog Groomer. After brushing the dog, washing the dog, clipping the nails, and drying the dog, the dog seems a little less revolting for at least five hours, unless the stupid dog runs into the backyard and promptly rolls in goose shit. And since the dog groomer isn't insane, expressing the anal glands is not in the job description.

Anesthesiologist. Thank you, Benadryl.

Nurse. An extra-hearty thank you for never giving the 32-pound child an overdose of Motrin, knowing all the tricks to reduce a fever, never doing the dreaded "gasp loudly and make giant eyes" reaction when a kid falls down, spotting a phony, dishing out just the right amount of sympathy when necessary, and making soup.

Psychologist. Somehow, this person is almost always able to win a battle and doesn't care if the kids get mad about the result. She can also tell the difference between when a kid is about to lose it and needs a break, and when the kid needs to suck it up and push himself. The psychologist also knows that the oldest kid doesn't talk very much; but when he finally does, she bakes some pre-made cookie dough and actually listens.

Chauffeur. How do I thank this person enough? Constantly getting kids, sports equipment and backpacks in and out of the car, sometimes passing herself on the freeway, rarely being late, never relinqishing power over the radio, and somehow always having a granola bar and a bottle of water available for a hungry/thirsty kid. How she manages to not scream obscenities at all of the stupid, horrible, texting drivers out there is beyond me.

Activities Coordinator. Scheduling dentist, doctor, and eye appointments, violin, piano, and tennis lessons, haircuts, tennis tournaments, and piano recitals in coordination with the school calendar is no easy feat. At least this person is smart enough to also make time for happy hours and vacations.

Nutritionist. Thank you for having the backbone to say, "No. You cannot have a Sour Patch Kids sandwich for lunch," always having fresh fruit in the house, making dinner every night, and even remembering to feed the dog. Creating a meal that isn't too cheesy, spicy, fatty, gooey, meaty, vegetabley, or squishy is not the easiest thing to do.

There are so many things that moms do everyday, and it's easy to feel like no one notices that the house is clean, there's food in the fridge, the school projects are completed on time, and the beds are made. Some people will try to make you feel better by saying: "It's a thankless job, get used to it," "But the kids are so sweet, treasure every moment," "It's such a privilege that you should appreciate," or some other pointless cliche. I know it's a privilege to not have to drive to work, I wouldn't trade being a mom for anything, and while most days are great, some are the absolute opposite of great. At some point every year, I think every mom should be able to say... "SOMETIMES THIS SUCKS! SAY THANK YOU! And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make a drink. Or three."

It Just Doesn't Matter

I could use this post as a way to complain about the fact that the oldest kid almost missed the bus Wednesday morning because he was busy reading the paper.

Or maybe I should be complaining that the 11-year-old started his day out by informing me that he needed a three-ring report cover for a project that is due...tomorrow.

I could also be annoyed by the fact that the friend Zoe was supposed to play with this afternoon while I was busy drinking beer at the Twins game now has a certain digestive disturbance that may require medical treatment, but I'm sure that a five-year-old doesn't get diarrhea on purpose. And fortunately I was able to find another responsible person to hang out with my daughter while I sit in the sun and imbibe.

There was also that issue with the dress that I am having altered, and the fact that I went to pick it up (in rush hour traffic) after being assured that it was completed, only to find out that they forgot to put in a zipper. Not a dart or a hem, but an entire fucking zipper.

I should be pissed because when I thought I was being super prepared by making spaghetti sauce and putting it in a crock pot so that it would be hot when I got home from Charlie's violin lesson, I was actually being an idiot because when I got home I realized that the shit in the pot doesn't get hot unless you turn the god damn pot on.

Honestly, though, none of these things matter anymore because the project is completed, the child care is covered, the kid didn't miss the bus, the sauce turned out just fine, the dress will be done in two days, and despite the fact that I didn't have a chance to talk to Doug even one time during the day, the first words out of his mouth when he walked in the door from the office were: "Are you ready to go to the bar?"

Sometimes, I'm Speechless

There have been a few conversations with my kids lately that seem to serve no purpose but to make me question my abilities as a parent. I mean, really, it would be great to be able to say that I have witnessed actual use of common sense, traces of self-sufficiency and improvements when it comes to their listening skills since the beginning of the school year, and at times I think I'm making progress. But then I end up having conversations like these:

Me: I reminded you three times to put the book in your tennis bag. It's in there, right?

Kid: (pause) Oh, well, I think it's already in there, so I should be fine.

Me: That's not what I asked. Either you know it's there or you don't. You either put it there, or you checked to make sure it was there when you realized that it wasn't where it normally belongs. So, did you check?

Kid: Well, no, but I'm pretty sure it's there.

Me: Maybe you could just admit that you didn't listen and that you forgot about it and you have no idea where it is. Right?

Kid: Kinda.

Kid: We had a different person who teached us today.

Me: Cool, but you mean "taught." Teached is not a word.

Kid: No, I mean she teached. Because she was there teaching, so I was teached.

Me: Yes, I know. But she taught you, she didn't teached.

Kid: We had a, um, a different person be our teacher today.

Me: It's windy today, and you'll be in the sun all day. You should probably put some Carmex on at least once or twice.

Kid: I don't have any Carmex, so don't worry about it.

Me: There's stuff in your bag, I saw it there.

Kid: Oh, well that's not Carmex. It's Chap Stick.

Me: (sigh)

Doug: Are you excited about today?

Kid:

Doug: I said, are you excited about today?

Kid:

Me: Don't be crabby, and please answer your dad.

Kid: Did you know that it's hard to be super still? It's like making my brain frozen.

Me: Those shoes are falling apart. You should wear your new tennis shoes tomorrow.

Kid: Then what should I do with my old ones?

Me: Throw them away.

Kid: Okay.

Kid: (the following day) So, should I wear my new shoes today?

Me: Yes, that's what I told you last night.

Kid: What am I supposed to do with my old shoes?

Me: Put them under your pillow.

Kid: Seriously?

Kid: I'll just change clothes at school.

Me: You won't have time. Just change when you get there.

Kid: Yeah, maybe I'll just change in the outhouse.

Me: (wretching sounds) Please. Do. Not. Change. In. The. Outhouse.

Kid: Oh, okay. So I won't change in the outhouse. Or at least I won't tell you about it next time.

Kid: What's for dinner?

Me: I'm grilling pork chops.

Kid: Oh, I'm not really that hungry.

Me: Well, if no one is super hungry, then maybe I'll just make breakfast for dinner.

Kid: Yay! Pancakes for dinner! When are we eating?

Me: Wow, this weather is perfect for outdoor baseball. I love it.

Kid: Oh my god it's so hot. I'm hot. I'm sweating. I'm hot.

Me: Yeah, isn't it great!

Kid: I should have worn a white t-shirt. It's so hot.

Kid #2: My back is sweaty! I'm hot! Oooh, Fun Dip! Gimme!

Me: Beer, please.

Me: Should I steam the asparagus or grill it?

Kid: Oh, definitely grill it. Yum, grilled asparagus!

Me: Dinner's ready.

Kid: (two bites later) Do you want this?

Me: I thought you liked asparagus.

Kid: Last year I did, but now I don't.

Me: Where's my wine glass...

Me: You were supposed to be up at 7:30. Why isn't your alarm on?

Kid: Wuh? Huh? Oh, um, the alarm is on.

Me: No, it's not. I don't hear it.

Kid: Oh, that's because it's turned all the way down so it isn't too loud.

Me: (blink, blink)

Kid: Why do we need to bring empty water bottles to the baseball game?

Dad: So that you can't fill them with vodka.

Kid: Oh, bummer for mom.

Hmmm...maybe they're learning more than I thought.

Buzz-Kill

Even though the winter was long and cold and seemed never-ending, I kind of liked it because it provided a great reason to not have to talk to anyone. There were no afternoons spent at the park, everyone was in a hurry to get into their car and out of the cold and during flu season, no one wanted to get within 25-feet of anyone else unless they were wearing a Hazmat suit.

Now that spring has officially sprung and I hate being in the house when it's nice outside, I find myself dealing with a bunch of people that want to chit-chat, catch-up, be nosy and tell me about themselves and why they're tan and I'm not. Since I like to be organized I tend to put these conversations into categories:

1. Really, really entertaining. Very interesting. Tell me more about her.
2. You're not annoying. We can be friends.
3. Please stop bragging about yourself. Stop. STOP IT!
4. I'm acting like I care, even though I don't care.
5. If a hawk came swooping down and used it's talons to rip off my face, thereby getting me out of this conversation, it would be worth the sacrifice.
6. Umm, what? I'm sorry. I was listening to my hair grow.
7. Your anger toward life is stressing me out.
8. You're the queen of the backhanded compliment. Let me get your crown.
9. You are not funny. In fact, you're the opposite of funny.
10. You're dumb and you don't like sports. We can't be friends.

The good thing about these conversations is that they eventually end, or I walk away, or they end because I walked away. Sadly, this is not the case when it comes to kids, because with kids it seems that there are some days when the bits of bad news never stop coming, and these bits all fall into one category: buzz-kill.

1. I forgot the _____ at the _______.
2. I think the toilet is plugged.
3. I have to do another science project.
4. I think the Xbox is broken.
5. I forgot to give you this last week. It's from school.
6. My throat is sore/stomach hurts/arm is itchy.
7. The dog just pooped on the floor.
8. You want me to do that now? I was going to do it later.
9. I need to bring a yard of fabric, some beads and an empty soup can to school. When? Oh, I need it by tomorrow.
10. What's for breakfast? Oh...

It's not like when I hear these things I instantly regret voluntarily having sex without birth control, and if I had to choose then I guess I would rather deal with a plugged toilet every day than listen to a riveting debate about public vs. private schools with another mom while her nanny helps her kid on the monkey bars. And I would rather deal with both of these things simultaneously than get to the front of the line at a bar and be told "Sorry, but we're all out of beer," which is what happened at the Twins game last week. I'm still recovering from that one.

I'm not expecting everything I hear from my kids to be on the same level of awesomeness as "Why yes, Mrs. Adkins. Of course those shoes come in a wide width," but COME ON KID! Figure out that maybe you don't need so much toilet paper, the dog is old and can't hold it for very long so he needs to go out NOW and once in a while, not every time because I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, be happy in the morning and eat the damn breakfast.