Again? Seriously?

I have a woefully limited set of natural skills. You can count on one hand minus at least a couple fingers the things I do really well.

Cooking is certainly not one of them.

I should point out, however, that no one in our family has starved to death, at least not yet. Before we moved to Billings, Gerald did most of the cooking, so maybe that's why everyone is still alive? Here, his job requires him to work 3 pm to midnight, so preparing the evening meal is left to me. We're still not starving, but to be perfectly honest, that is mostly thanks to such lovely establishments as McDonald's, Wendy's, Arby's, and Taco Bell.

Thinking I should really cook at home more, I am always searching for decent recipes that are truly simple. And when I say simple, I mean it. More times than I care to remember, I've attempted to cook something because a well-meaning friend (unaware of my total lack of cooking skill) has assured me how "easy" it is, only to find a complicated set of instructions way beyond my ability, and the result is, well, use your imagination.

Recently, Shulamith gave me a new recipe. She, better than anyone, understands what I mean by "simple." Confident I would be able to do it, I was stoked. All you have to do is put a package of Italian seasoning mix and a package of au jus sauce mix into a crock pot with two cups of water and stir it up. Then you put in a beef roast and cook it on low for several hours. When it's done, you have meat for french dip sandwiches and tasty au jus sauce for dipping. What could be simpler? Even I should be able to handle this, right?

Eager, I got up this morning and followed the above instructions exactly. We were to host the sister missionaries for dinner this evening, and I would actually have something good to feed them. (They have endured some of my not-so-good meals in the past, and I hoped to at least partially redeem myself today). However, at church this morning, they told me they needed to reschedule due to several appointments and a baptism this evening. This turned out to be most providential.

We arrived home from church at around 2:30 to find....okay take a guess....alright I'll just tell you: NO POWER.

Again? Seriously?

In the past three months we have lost power in our neighborhood on four different occasions. Once was on Father's Day when we had the hailstorm and tornado, so yeah, I suppose a power outage would be expected. But the other three times were just like today. No storm. No rain. No wind. NO POWER! And I'm not talking about a little flicker, enough to make the clocks blink. I'm talking about no electricity for several hours. What is up with this?

My first thought, of course, was for my roast, my lovely roast that was on its way to becoming yummy french dip sandwiches. Fortunately, the crock pot was still hot, so once I was convinced the power wasn't coming back any time soon, I put the meat and sauce in the fridge (which, of course, also wasn't working, but this seemed a better idea than leaving it out), and hoped for the best. Quite hungry by this point, we headed out to Applebee's. Yes, I know it's Sunday, but we were hungry, and I really didn't have anything that could be prepared without electricity.

An hour or so later, we returned home to find our power restored. Woo hoo! I promptly removed my roast and sauce from the fridge, put everything back into the crock pot, and let it cook for another four hours. By then, we were hungry again, so at 9:00 p.m., it was time for the moment of truth.

Are you ready? Are you sitting on the edge of your seats just waiting for the result of this nearly- thwarted cooking endeavor?

The sandwiches were delicious. Really. And the sauce? Even better! Way yum. I can now add one more recipe to my tiny repertoire. So a big thank you goes to Shulamith, and also maybe to Matt's mom (from whom I think she got the recipe?). We loved it!

As for this string of power outages, blah. Double blah. I'm really tired of it. So no more, okay?

Seriously.

Eat to Live or Live to Eat?

Some people eat to live.

These people eat to satisfy hunger, a basic human need. They eat because their bodies require food in order to function properly. Quite literally, they eat in order to live. People who eat to live don't care much what they eat. So long as they get adequate nutrition from their food, it doesn't really matter what that food is. For such people, sticking to a weight-control diet is no problem. They simply choose low fat/low calorie items to satisfy their hunger. For example, they are more than happy to order the Fresco style items (read: leave out the cheese, ranch dressing, and sour cream and replace it with salsa, so the taco tastes gross) at Taco Bell. Accordingly, they have no problem getting a Southwest Chicken Salad or Grilled Snack Wrap at McDonald's. They don't drool one drop over those fresh, piping hot fries. Nope, these people are perfectly content eating veggie burgers, tofu, salads with yucky fat-free dressing, or baked lean chicken breast every single solitary day of the week.

Some people eat to live.

Others live to eat! They have an ongoing love affair with food.

People who live to eat think about food practically all the time. When they are dieting, they spend time plotting out their next meal, counting calories and fat grams, wondering how much exercise they will need to do in order to offset whatever low fat, low calorie, low taste thing they last ate. At the same time, they dream of the next time they get to take a "day off" from their regimen and actually eat something good. Food, food, food. It's their every thought.

And when they are not dieting, watch out! Still consumed with the idea of food, these people carefully consider all the glorious options. Will they eat a slice of Cheesecake Factory Dulce de leche cheesecake, or will they instead opt for a half dozen freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies? Will they go out to their favorite restaurant (Olive Garden?) for some Fettuccine Alfredo, salad, and buttered bread-sticks, or will they stay in and prepare some amazing cream cheese chicken, cheese enchiladas, or burgers?

Yes, some people live to eat. Now I realize it's overly simplistic to group people like this; most fall somewhere in between. I, myself, however, am smack dab in the second group. I live to eat! I don't do anything in moderation, so I'm either "on" my diet program, counting every fat gram and dreaming of the next time I get to eat whatever I want, or I am "off" my program and indulging recklessly in the delightful array of high calorie, high fat, delicious food.

I just spent six incredible days off my plan. It was heaven. I won't bore you with the details; most of you have already read my food diaries from previous trips to Salt Lake City (most recent: The Very Hungry Mom, May 2010). Suffice it to say that this time was no different. And now I'm back home, attempting to reverse six days' worth of damage in the next 3-1/2 weeks before we're off to Costa Rica where I will need to wear a bathing suit pretty much all the time.

I have often wondered if it would be preferable to be a person who simply eats to live. Clearly, it would have its advantages. Maintaining a healthy weight (Okay, I'm lying: what I really care about is maintaining an attractive body) would be so much easier. On the other hand, think of all one would miss. The joy of anticipating a slice of Dulce de leche cheesecake would be lost. Gone as well would be the full enjoyment of movies without that greasy and oh so delectable movie popcorn.

Easier? Yes. Worth it? No.

Eat to live or live to eat?

I live to eat.

Real or Fake?

If you've read my earlier blog posts this summer, you may remember that we have two major trips planned, one this weekend to Oregon to attend my niece's wedding and another in August to Costa Rica. I travel often, but 90% of my trips are between Billings and Salt Lake City because I am the wimpiest mom ever and can't go a single month without spending time with my daughter. Trips to Salt Lake City are easy; I barely take anything at all. I use all Shulamith's hair and cosmetic products, and for the most part, just wear her clothes. I pack a small carry-on bag with a few essentials, jump on the plane, and that's it.

The two trips this summer, however, especially the one next month to Costa Rica, have taken and will take just a bit more planning. Gerald, Seth, and I will leave early this Friday and drive to Salt Lake City, spend the night, and then fly over to Portland first thing Saturday morning, in plenty of time for the 3:00 p.m. wedding. So my planning is well under way. A few days ago, I mentioned to Gerald some of the items on my list of things to accomplish before we leave. Along with getting laundry and packing done for Seth and me, some beautification is also a must:

1. Buy more of my gradual fake tanning lotion, so my legs don't look totally white.
2. Get my eyebrows waxed.
3. Have my hair cut and highlighted.
4. Get a pedicure to match my dress.

Oh yeah, the dress saga. Let me be the first to tell you, in case you didn't know, that Billings, Montana is NOT the shopping capital of the world. I know, right? You are overcome with shock. But no. We have one little mall with a few stores (Dillard's, Maurice's, JCPenney, the Buckle, Abercrombie) and a couple strip malls with Old Navy, Ross, Target and Kohl's. That's really all there is. How do I survive here? Who knows? Anyway, a couple weekends ago, I dragged Gerald through every one of the above-mentioned stores in attempt to find a simple dress to wear to this wedding. I tried on every potential dress in each store. The styles this year seem to be about 2 inches shorter than last year, making them just a tad too short. Combine that with the lack of sleeves in most of the styles, and I wound up exhausted from trying on clothes and entirely empty handed.

At the exact same time I was shopping, Shulamith and Matt pranced into a Down East Basics store in Salt Lake City. Matt pulled a dress off the rack, Shulamith tried it on, and voila! It was totally adorable. She sent me a picture right there from her phone. So cute! At that point, lamenting the fact that we don't have a Down East store here, I decided to go to their website and order a dress. Shulamith and I looked online at the same time and found one we really liked, but when I went to place the order, the dress was not available in my size. Grrrr. Persistence pays off, though. I began calling Down East stores near where Shulamith lives, asking if they had the dress in my size, and finally, after several calls, I found it! I begged them to hold it for me, and the following day Shulamith and Matt went to the store and bought it. Well, first Shulamith tried it on and sent me a picture, so I could be sure it was as cute as I thought, and fortunately it was. So I have a dress. I haven't actually seen it in person yet, but I have it. It's hanging in Shulamith's apartment, and I'll get it Friday night. Whew!

Okay, back to my "to do" list: tanning lotion, eyebrow waxing, hair cut and color, pedicure. When I mentioned these "to do" items to Gerald, he had this to say:

"So when you're all finished, I won't see the 'real' you any longer. Your skin color won't be normal. You're hair color won't be normal. Your toenail color won't be normal."

Nope, I guess not. I guess I'm a totally fake person. But can you blame me? My natural skin color is a pale, pasty white. My natural hair color is a mousy, boring brown. And my toenails, well every girl needs pretty toenails, but especially girls who have ugly toes from years of cramming them into pointe shoes.

Real or fake? I'd like to believe I'm quite genuine on the inside where it counts, but I am indeed thankful for the various advantages cosmetology has to offer.

A Midsummer Nightmare

Today marks the mid point in my summer. At the college where I teach, we are fortunate to have a lovely, long summer break, four whole months, May through August. In honor of the absolute mid point, I thought it would be nice to have a midsummer night's dream, you know, the kind with delightful dancing fairies, etc. Instead, I had a midsummer nightmare, and one of the worst ever!

To fully grasp the depth of this nightmare, you need to understand something about me. I have a phobia. Notice, I didn't say "fear," or "dislike," or "hatred," although all of those words would also be true. I said "PHOBIA." I have a phobia in the purest definition of that word. Phobia: A morbid fear, an irrational, intense and persistent fear of certain situations, activities, or objects. Yup, that's what I have. I can't remember a time when I wasn't deathly afraid of a particular type of animal, those long creatures that slither around with no arms or legs. Ugh! Just thinking about them makes me shudder. To understand the depth of my phobia, I should confess that I cannot even look at these creatures in books or in movies. My children are not allowed to have so much as the beanie baby variety, let alone the toy ones that look real. I have to concentrate really hard, like totally focus, even to use everyday objects that resemble the disgusting things, such as garden hoses. It's uncomfortable for me to watch people roll out dough to make soft pretzels or cinnamon rolls. Yeah, it's that bad.

When Gerald and I got married, one of the first things we did was consolidate our libraries into one. As he was flipping through one of my college psychology textbooks, he noticed some pages with pieces of construction paper taped over the pictures. Of course! I still needed to read and study my text, but I couldn't look at those awful pictures in the chapters that discussed systematic desensitization. And in case you're wondering, no, I've never tried systematic desensitization to overcome this phobia. I do not want to look at pictures of snakes, even for short periods of time from across the room. I am not a masochist. No!

Okay, so now that you understand just how serious this is, back to what led up to my awful dream. Earlier in the evening, I had gone out for my daily 4-mile walk on the bike trail near our home. I have walked this particular route literally hundreds of times. Occasionally, during the summer, my walking partners and I will encounter the garden variety of the above-mentioned gross creatures, but my walking partners are all very well trained. The second they see one, they calmly but firmly declare, "Terrianne, we're turning around now," and I OBEY. Immediately. I ask no questions. I know exactly what is going on. So the other night, we had just come through the tunnel, when a woman on a bike came up behind us and asked, "Did you see the rattlesnake back there?"

Gasp. Heart sinking right down into stomach. We continued walking. Our generally brisk walk became suddenly brisker. As long as I was headed away from the snake's location, I remained functional. Then we arrived at the place where we turn around. Wait....I have to go back now, back in the direction of that thing? How am I supposed to do that? The closer we got to the tunnel, the more my emotional well-being deteriorated. Finally, when I could go no farther, my friend suggested that we leave the bike trail and take an alternate route, bypassing the tunnel entirely. Barely able to speak by this point, I nodded in agreement.

We made it home unscathed, or so I thought. Slipping into blissful sleep, I was sure nothing else could possibly go wrong. However, my subconscious mind was evidently still traumatized by this near miss. I "awoke" to the most horrific experience, a snake in my bed, a long white one right there beside me! In a cold sweat, I leaped from my bed and sprinted downstairs to the dining room where Gerald was on his computer having just arrived home from work at midnight.

"There's a snake in our bed!" I shouted. "You have to go find it."

"Um, are you sure you weren't dreaming?" he inquired.

"No, I wasn't dreaming! It is really there, and you have to go up and find it."

So, Gerald goes upstairs and returns to report that there is no snake.

"Did you look under all the covers?" He goes upstairs to check under the covers. No snake.

"Did you look under the bed?" He goes back up to look under the bed. No snake.

"Did you look in the closet?" He goes back up to check the closet. No snake.

"I think you should look under the covers again, and make sure you look under every one." (You see, he's not really that good at finding things, so I was still pretty worried.) He goes up again.

"I really think it was just a dream," he insisted. And......finally....., I was convinced enough to go back to bed.

So much for my delightful midsummer night's dream.

Welcome Noelle Elise!

Now that our "capstone child" is a very grown up ten years old, I am left to celebrate the births of my friends' children. This lovely new little person, fresh from Heaven, is Noelle Elise, the fourth daughter of my friend Celeste and her husband Matt. Isn't she about the sweetest thing you have ever seen? Oh how I long to just pick her up and cuddle her....except she lives in San Antonio, so I can't. Noelle was born on June 23rd and joins sisters Kylie, Megan, and Molly. Watch out, Matt! You are significantly outnumbered.

The circumstances of Noelle's birth in some ways parallel the birth of our fourth child, Eli, 17 years ago. Noelle's daddy has a brand new job, so he doesn't have a lot of time off, leaving Celeste alone with her new baby and three young children. Those first few days and weeks with a newborn are always challenging no matter the circumstances, but being alone makes them more so. Such was the case for us after Eli's birth. Gerald had a new job, which required us to relocate from the Bay Area, California to Mt. Vernon, Washington. Because the geographical area covered by our HMO went only as far north as Longview, Washington, we had no choice but to deliver Eli at the hospital there. I had a grandmother who lived in a small retirement community 20 miles from Longview, so 2-year-old Isaiah and I stayed with her for a week, hoping Eli would decide to be born before his scheduled induction on his due date March 13, 1993. He didn't.

Instead, we went to the hospital that morning, I was induced, and Eli was born that afternoon. Gerald left Luke and Shulamith with his relatives in Northern Washington and met me at the hospital in Longview in time for the birth. He didn't, however, have enough time off work to stay any longer, so that same day he went right back up to Mt. Vernon, leaving me and Eli in the hospital, and Isaiah with my mother who had come up from Portland. The following day, my mom brought me Isaiah, and I left the hospital by myself with my two little boys in tow and headed north. Gerald decided to meet me at the Tacoma Mall when he got off work, so we'd at least be driving at the same time (albeit in separate cars) to our new home in Mt. Vernon. I reached the mall first, and carrying Eli in the infant seat with Isaiah by the hand, I went in. And right then, those lovely postpartum hormones decided to kick in. Right then. What timing, huh?

I was a mess. I must have looked like the most pathetic woman ever, crying uncontrollably, a newborn in one arm, chasing after a 2-year-old who was finally free from his car-seat after two hours. I remember one kind woman asking if she could help me. "No," I blubbered, "my husband is supposed to be here any time now." This was before we had cell phones, so I was only guessing that it would be soon, and eventually, Gerald did arrive. I regained a minimum of composure, and we got back in our cars and drove the remaining miles home. There, I found our new apartment in total disarray. It appeared that those who helped us move had simply dumped the contents of the U-Haul into the apartment. Furniture was scattered everywhere, couches on end, tables tipped over, utter disorder. Yikes! Gerald asked what he should do to make it tolerable at least temporarily. I told him I needed my rocking chair set up in front of a TV with videos for the kids. And I needed a path cleared to the kitchen and bathroom. That he did.

And that's the way the apartment remained for the next week until my friend Corrie arrived to help me. She took over everything, which included taking care of me, my new baby, and my three older children. She arranged furniture, set up beds, cooked us delicious meals, and created some harmony out the chaos. I will never forget her kindness. And I wish, more than anything, that I could do the same now for Celeste. Her mom can't be with her for another couple weeks, and I so wish I could be there now to help. Or that Lindsey could be there. Or better yet, both of us! I know Celeste will be fine on her own; she is one of the strongest people I know and the most incredible mother. Noelle is so lucky to have her. I still wish I was there.

So welcome to the world, little Noelle. You are loved by many, even by those of us who have yet to meet you. Your birth gave me reason to pause and think about the birth of my own fourth child 17 years ago: a challenging, but ultimately happy memory. So thank you.

Genetic or Learned Behavior?

So I fight a continuous battle, and I'm pretty sure I am not alone. I thrive in a very neat environment. I wilt in disorder. I love things clean and tidy. I detest clutter. The battle? Not everyone in my family is like me. In a recent conversation with Seth, I began to wonder: Is the tendency to be neat and tidy or messy and cluttered genetic, or is it learned? Is it dependent on gender? Hmmm.

Me (picking up a bathrobe from the floor): Ugh! Why can't people put their things away? It is so rude to leave things out lying around.

Seth: Mom, it runs in the family. Well, except for you and Shulamith. Because you are ladies. And ladies like things all tidy up, but guys don't care. Well, except Luke. He never makes messes. But Isaiah, Eli, Dad, and me....we don't care. We like things messy.

But do they really? Do they really like things messy, or do they just dislike cleaning? Do they thrive in mess the way I thrive in neatness? I wish I knew.

For me, the answer is so incredibly simple. Don't make messes in the first place; then you never have to clean them up. My motto: Maintain the Clean! If you use a dish, rinse it immediately and put it into the dishwasher. When you take off an item of clothing, either hang it up if you intend to wear it again, or put it right into the laundry basket. When cooking, put things away as you go. As food is simmering on the stove, use that time to rinse utensils, and throw them into the dishwasher. And if you have a bit of extra time, grab a rag and wipe off the counter. When you get out of bed, make the bed behind you right then. If you play a game, put the pieces away immediately when you finish. Only handle paper once. Dispose of junk mail before you even enter the house. Never set things down except for in their proper places, and have a place for every item.

This is really so easy.

But apparently not for everyone.

Most of the people in my family (I won't name names, but Seth has it pretty well figured out) seem to operate with an entirely opposite set of rules. Instead of maintaining the clean, they make huge messes and then lament the prospect of having to clean them up. When they use a dish, they set it right next to them, wherever they happen to be. Since they, themselves, are generally NOT positioned in the dishwasher, the dish doesn't get there. When they remove an item of clothing, they lay it down wherever they are, which is not usually in their closets or in the laundry basket. When cooking, they leave every single solitary item they use sitting out all over the counters. When they get out of bed, they simply throw the blankets into a ball and leave them. When the play a game, they leave the game board and pieces scattered all over the table. When they open mail (particularly Netflix items), they leave the torn envelopes and wrappers wherever.

This behavior leaves an incredible mess throughout the house every day. It also leaves a grumpy, frustrated, sometimes even resentful mom. I do not desire to be any of those things, but I also do not care to clean up after able-bodied, fully capable people. A recent status floating around Facebook read, "I wanted to clean up messes I didn't make, so I became a mom." You see, I am not alone.

Back to the original question: Genetic or learned? Probably both. I think people like me reduce anxiety as they establish order. Well, I don't just think this; I know it. The neater things are around me, the calmer I am. For others, though, I suspect it increases their anxiety to think constantly about being tidy. That difference is obviously genetic. On the other hand, I think we build habits as we live in various situations and with different people. Both my parents were incredibly neat and tidy, and I learned that behavior at a young age. So why hasn't this rubbed off on my children? It has, at least on a couple of them.

Gender specific? I don't think so. As Seth so eloquently pointed out, Luke never makes messes. Neither did my dad. I think we'll throw gender out the window this time and go back to a combination of genetics and conditioning.

"Ugh, why can't people put their things away? It is so rude to leave things out."

How many times in the past 20+ years do you suppose I've spoken those words? I'd guess in the thousands.

Sometimes God Calms the Storm

Sometimes God calms the storm. Other times, He lets the storm rage and calms His child.

Yesterday, it was the latter.

We arrived home from church around 2:30, a typical Sunday. Isaiah was at work at Walmart, and Eli was already in Utah headed for EFY, so it was just the three of us at home: Gerald, Seth, and I. We hung out for awhile, and then I decided to take a nap, my favorite Sunday activity. I lay down in my bed and was just at that point when you're almost asleep but not quite when the sky suddenly darkened. It seriously looked like dusk rather than mid-afternoon. Almost immediately, it began to rain. Hard. Then harder. Then the rain changed to hail. I've often heard the term "golf ball" to describe the size of large hailstones. Until yesterday, I had never seen such a thing. Indeed, the hail yesterday, at least some of it, was the size of golf balls.

About the time we opened our sliding glass door to gather up a couple of these huge stones (I wanted to put them in the freezer to show Eli when he gets back), the electrical storm began. Lightning lit up the sky; the crash of thunder bellowed immediately after. It was very close. At that point, we lost power. Seth, who had been putting on a brave front, came running into my arms. "Did the thunder scare you?" I asked. He replied in the affirmative. We hugged tight. I can't tell you for sure how long the storm lasted; it seemed relentless, one bolt of lightning after another, each followed closely by bellowing thunder.

It's always surprising to realize how much we rely on electricity. We surely take it for granted until we don't have it. Our land line phone was also down, so all we had with which to communicate with the outside world were our cell phones. Texting was sketchy--some messages got through; others didn't--, but thankfully, we could make and receive phone calls. We wanted to make sure Isaiah was okay at Walmart. He was. They locked down the entire store; neither customers nor employees were allowed to go outside. Isaiah actually saw the tornado before it ripped the roof off the Metra Park Arena and destroyed several businesses in the area. Fortunately, there was no event at the Metra yesterday, so the building was vacant as were most of the nearby businesses. It could have been so much worse had the Metra been occupied. Still, there is immense damage, and many will suffer emotionally and financially.

It ended as abruptly as it began. The sky turned blue, and everything was quiet. We went for a long walk breathing in the fresh, post-storm air.

Sometimes God calms the storm. Other times, He lets the storm rage, and calms His child. Yesterday, it was the latter.