It's not gonna be good...

Sometimes you just know it isn't going to go well.  You plan for it.  You prepare for it.  But when it actually comes down to it...  well, you just never know.

Today is Friday, and I've had all I can take!  I'm burned out, stressed out, tired out, and I'm very grateful to be at the end of a very stressful week.  Why is it that the more you already have to do, the more gets heaped on you last minute?  Ugh.  I just want to climb in bed and pull the sheets over my head.

On a brighter note:  The Weekend has Arrived!  And I don't have to drive the Saturday morning 7:00am carpool...  Yippee!  Now I think I actually will climb into bed and hide!

Momzheimers

I've received my official diagnosis.  Apparently, my method of forgetful parenting cannot be attributed to Alzheimers Disease.  I am, in fact suffering from Momzheimers.

You might ask (in an angsty tone), "So, what does that mean...!?"

Well, let me explain.  People with Momzheimers are a misunderstood lot.  And likely as not, they are not exctly sympathetic figures.  It is unfortunate that it is the children who suffer when a  mom succombs to this tragic malady.

Are you afraid that you might be suffering from Momzheimers?  Here is a quick quiz to see if you should persue an official diagnosis.

Do you forget where you left your car keys (with alarming frequency)?

Do you remember to buy Diet Coke but forget to buy the milk, bread, eggs, etc.?

Have you ever sent your child to school in pajamas because you forgot to put the laundry into the dryer?

Have you ever forgotten (or been inexcusably late) to pick up your kids from school because you were distracted by Oprah?

Do you have a tendency to forget dentist appointments but retain the ability to remember a hair appointment?

If you can answer in the affirmative to any of the above scenarios, you may be in the early stages of Momzheimers.  Luckily there is treatment available. 

It has been my experience that chocolate helps.  Diet Coke is requisite.  A hug and/or a juicy kiss from a child is soothing.  A monthly pedicure is essential.  Take it from me, someone who is dealing with Momzheimers on a daily basis, you can survive this affliction.  Get treatment today and your family will thank you.

Perfectly Preserved

To some, summer never achieves a proper finale.  There is always one more picnic to plan.  One more BBQ to arrange.  One more day at the lake to anticipate.  But it seems like that one more is often aborted due to the failing of the weather. 

As much as those golden days of summer are relished, I always look with anticipation toward the waning days of the season.  I find contentment in the cooler evenings, the return to a schedule, the peace of knowing that I've done enough.  For me, the true culmination of summer is all about the segue into fall.  I love that shoulder season--cool enough to enjoy the evenings, warm enough to walk bare-foot through the cool grass. 

I love the gardens, once full of purple pansies and cheerful impatiens, now golden with chrysanthemums and the hint of the returning fall's rich hues.  I love the rose hips, the burning bush, the pyracantha with it's orange-berried clusters. 

Along with the return of the rich colors is the return of the harvest.  There isn't much that can be compared to fresh produce from your own garden.  My dad always has had an impressive garden filled with more than we could ever eat.  His garden provided peas and potatoes, corn and cucumbers, squash and carrots and zucchini.  But my favorite indulgence has always been the fruit. 

I love peaches, and apricots, and apples, and pears.  I love them fresh from the tree, still warm from the sunshine.  I could eat one handful after another of raspberries, strawberries, or blackberries.  And I always enjoy them most when they've come straight from my dad's berry patch.  I love a ripe watermelon, chilled and salted.   The truth is, if my dad can grow it--it's gonna be good.  Of course, those who know me know that I make that statement with two exceptions...  I don't eat cantaloupe (or camel-lope if you're a buddy) and I honestly do detest tomatoes--they're too darn squishy!

Along with my dislike for cantaloupe and tomatoes, I do have to confess to one other (very) small quirk.  When it comes to the consumption of fruit, I don't just like it fresh...  I insist upon it.  I really mean it when I say I want my fruit fresh from the tree and warm from the sunshine.  I don't want it bottled, baked, sugared, or pureed.  I want it to look like what it is.  I want the texture and color and flavor to be entirely unaltered, unadulterated...

When I was growing up, my mom was known for her fresh raspberry jam.  In fact, it's still a requested commodity.  But jam equals not only squished fruit, but sugared and cooked fruit.  I just can't get past that.  I don't eat apple pie or apple sauce, and I can't drink apple juice.  I'll skip the blueberry buckle, the fruit cocktail, and the baked pears.  Raisins?  Don't get me started...  And please, don't put fruit in my jello.

The funny thing is this...  I swoon at the smell of a cinnamon-dusted, apple pie baking in the oven.  I drool over photos of berry-jumbled crumbles.  I dream of cranberry speckled sweet breads...  And I oft admire the rows of pretty jars, filled with homemade preserves.  I appreciate the tidy bundles of beans, suspended in clear liquid.  The juicy slivers of peach, the floating berries.  I can't really explain it, but I'm drawn to those things.

Despite my flawed taste buds, I agreed to bottle peaches with my mom this week.   My mom thought I needed to learn how to preserve fruit.  I agreed, mostly because I wanted the opportunity to create my own bottles of home-grown sunshine to pretty my pantry shelves.  The Princess joined us, and we quickly filled all the jars.  It's unlikely that I'll ever taste the pretty fruit in the glossy jars, but I did find a unique sense of accomplishment in knowing that my family will enjoy those peachy chunks of summer when the snow starts to fly.

    

Where in the world...?

Where in the world is The Mister? People ususally look at me incredulously when I tell them I don't know. I'm The Mister's wife. I am the keeper of his house, and the mother of his children. My disinterest in where he is has nothing to do with my feelings about him. I love The Mister, but The Mister is a traveler.  Being on the road has become a somewhat undesirable component of The Mister's work.  He's gone at least a few days of each week.  When The Mister approaches the Hertz Car Rental counter, they see him coming and grab his keys.  When he hops a flight on Delta, they upgrade him to first class.  The flight attendants give him extra Biscoff cookies to bring home to me.  He gets the best rooms, free meals, he's leaned how to travel well.

Most people think I'm uncaring because I don't keep better track of The Mister.  But the truth is, if he's not here, I know he's working somewhere else.  No matter where that somewhere else is, he's not here...  And that's all I really need to know.  I like to have The Mister home to help with homework.  I need  The Mister home to take out the garbage.  I miss The Mister when I have nobody to warm my cold feet in bed.  And that's what it comes down to...  If he isn't here, he's somewhere else...  And if he's somewhere else, I'm on my own...  That's all I need to know.

I was going to meet The Mister in Las Vegas today.  We had grand plans to go to dinner, see a show, snuggle without interruption...  But apparently I'm not destined to be a traveler.  Life got in the way, and I'm home taking care of my own responsibilities.  I wish I could go...  I miss you, Mister!  Come on home and stay for a while, will you?