I am not a very good cook. I’ve had my moments and I can make some good meals, but that happens very rarely. I don’t really like to cook and don’t have a great desire to improve myself so its really not a big deal. And for the most part, people leave me alone about it. Its just not my thing and the people who really know me, understand that. I’ve met a few people who have let me know that my dislike of cooking is a reflection of my skills as a wife and a mother. I figure that as long as we are healthy and happy, then I’m probably doing ok without being a gourmet house cook. But for whatever reason, last night I got ambitious and decided that making French Onion soup sounded like a great idea.

I have never made French Onion soup and maybe had never even had French Onion soup, but I saw the recipe in Real Simple and it sounded delicious so I thought we’d try it. Plus, as you probably know, a major component of French Onion soup is a toasted hunk of bread with melty cheese on it and I am a sucker for toasted bread and melty cheese.

So Rusty and I set out to make this soup, and let me preface this next section by letting you know that I have terrible knives. Terrible, awful knives that require a sawing action to cut through tomatoes. Tomatoes! I am perfectly aware that my knives are crap so I knew that thinly slicing three large onions would take me about 8 years, not to mention the arm exertion and smelly hands I would have for three solid days. For some reason I happen to have a mandoline in my kitchen drawer. I have no idea where this scary kitchen tool came from, I certainly didn’t buy it, but I imagine Rusty’s mom had something to do with it’s existence in my drawer. I have acquired a corkscrew, a pie pan, and several cups via Carol’s Kitchen so it wouldn’t surprise me if the mandoline was another stolen utensil. Anyway, given the three large onions I had to thinly slice, and the prospect of smelly hands, and the crap knives, I decided the mandoline was the way to go, never mind the fact that I am a real dunce when it comes to sharp things and once tried to use a cheese knife to cut some lemons.

Basically I was planning to use scary kitchen utensil that I had never used before to make a soup I had never even tasted before. Maybe you can see where this is headed.

I got through the first 1/2 onion with no problem, but then one of the prongs broke out of the safety cover and since one was already broken out I was left with only one prong. I was ready to admit defeat and finish up with my crap knives but the onion smelling hands were just too much for me to handle so I thought I’d just wildly over-estimate my cutting skills and finish the onion slicing on the mandoline…without the safety cover.

Again, maybe you can see where this is headed.

There we are, Rusty and me in the kitchen with an ever growing pile of thinly sliced onions. My hand is precariously close to the sharp edge, sans safety cover, and Rusty has a look of dread on his face. “Don’t worry!” I say, mentally scoffing him for his lack of faith, “I’ll be careful!” Ahhh…those pompous words. They weren’t even out of my mouth before the outside of my right thumb went sliding through the slicer, just behind a hunk of onion.

We both gasped and then Rusty goes “Ack! Do you need stitches!?” And then I’m standing there in the kitchen holding my bloody thumb, looking around for something to put on it. What I really needed was a werewolf, ready to tear off his shirt and sop up my blood (New Moon, anyone?). So I’m just standing there, looking around, with blooding pouring off my finger,  and Rusty starts to back away from me going “Umm. I don’t do well with blood..” He was obviously looking for a place to pass out so I said “Well get away from me!” and then ran to the bathroom to finish trying to figure out what to do. And I’m still just standing there when Rusty comes in with the first aid kit and hands me some gauze.

We do all the appropriate things, like staring at the blood as it drips in the sink, putting pressure on the wound and wondering at my amazing amount of stupidity and then I decide that I should maybe wash it. There was onion juice in the wound, you know. So I tell Rusty to get the alcohol (rubbing alcohol, though tequila would have been alot funnier) and help me pour it on my finger. He reluctantly agrees and we go back into the bathroom. He carefully pours some alcohol into the cap and holds it over my hand, gritting his teeth and grimacing. He looks at me for permission because he knows its going to sting like the dickens.

And then he pours. And he’s bouncing up and down on the balls of hit feet yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh my gosh! It’s ok, you can yell if you want to!” and I’m just standing there looking at him because seriously? I don’t feel anything at all. And then Rusty, in true Rusty fashion says, “No really. It’s ok if you yell and cuss. I won’t get mad at you. They’ve scientifically proven that cussing helps deal with pain” and I’m like, “No really, Rusty. I don’t feel anything at all.” And then he walks away, amazed at my pain threshold.

Two onion scented hours later the soup was done, and wouldn’t you know it, it was gross.

So my finger is disabled and I had no idea how much I used my right thumb until today when I popped the cut open a good three or four times. The soup was a failure and I’ve been through more than my share of jumbo sized Band-Aids. But at least my hands don’t stink like onion.

My OB tends to think I am hilarious. Actually, most of my friends think I am pretty funny, too. What isn’t funny is being so damn hairy. Now that I think of it, maybe that is why they laugh at me….. it BETTER not be!

The other day, at our routine checkup, the amazing Dr. Crownover asked me how I was feeling. A blush came over my face and I started to explain:

Jasmine: Dr. Crownover, before you see my belly I have a confession to make…

*Dr. Crownover gave a very medical, yet attentive look…*

Jasmine: So…. as my belly has gotten bigger I have become increasingly insecure about how hairy my belly is. In a moment of weakness I decided I would wax my belly.

*Dr. Crownover’s attentive look melts away and he doubles over in laughter*

Jasmine: Seriously! Don’t laugh. I got into the first strip, and I thought, “Who the hell’s idea was this! But then I was already in over my head and I had to finish it… now it is growing back, and I am all itchy. GAW! What is wrong with me!!!!”

*Garrett interjects*

Garrett: I told her not to be insecure about it. I told her that her body was normal.

Jasmine: Shut up Garrett! You don’t get an opinion! You shaved your face into a trucker “stash” …. people who look like that don’t get opinions on what is normal.

*Side note: Days before Garrett shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and decided that he loved the trucker look. I laughed at him every time I looked at him. THEN he thought it was an awesome idea to wear it to my appointment. Because, ya know, that look is cool? What! No! It isn’t cool. All he needed was a cut- off flannel shirt and an “I love mom” tattoo… geez!

Dr. Crownover: OH! I didn’t even notice your mustache Garrett, I like it… I like it *Up until this point I believed my OB was a great honest man, now I believe he is a filthy filthy liar!*

My belly itches like an S.O.B and the little red bumps from my shirt rubbing the hair that is growing in is not very pretty… it is actually worse than being hairy. Because now I am hairy/bumpy/red. A dead sexy combination.

*Fast forward to today*

After a vigorous step aerobic workout Sadie and I decided to go to lunch. We talk about a plethora of things. Sadie is smart. She is a real brain. But today, she looked at me with all seriousness, she, “When we get closer to having the babies we should go get our nails done, and then make someone wax our lady parts so we will look all nice for the delivery…”

I evaded the remark. I was having flashbacks of a couple of weeks earlier where I got that dumbass bright idea to wax my belly. I don’t think Sadie and I can be friends if she starts suggesting things like this. Next she will ask me about anal bleaching….

Apparently all you need is a highball glass and a black maid to impress my husband;

Garrett: I think I miss the era of the 50’s and 60’s.

Jasmine: Why? You wouldn’t be able to legally marry me!

Garrett: No just the way they dressed… I watched Mad Men last night.

 I guess I need to NOT let him watch shows or movies later than the 60’s. Next he is gonna want me to call him “Mista”  or “Boss” while bringing him a Mint Julep *YUM* and commanding  me to mop the porch in my Mammy outfit. Garrett and I are not only from intensely different families, we e are different cultures and races that are light years apart. Garrett is a beautiful, kind, and open-minded man… he just…haa a vivid imagination. Movies and TV shows and books, sometimes, get him a little carried away.

(After watching Crooklyn, the movie)

Garrett: Did you ever live on a stoop?

Jasmine: I did grow up in the hood… but I am from OKLAHOMA not BROOKLYN.

Garrett: Well I was just wondering. Sounds like “stoop life” would be fun…

Jasmine: Yeah, I mean, since Brooklyn is the natural habitat of the black person? What the hell Garrett!

(When Isaiah, our son, was born)

Garrett: He has such smooth hair! Will this stuff fall out and then the nappy lamb’s wool stuff grow underneath.

Jasmine: NO Garrett! Jesus! He is PART African American… and “nappy” is a rude word!

Garrett: Well I know it is… but I am talking to my WIFE, and you knew what I meant. I would never say that to someone else.

Jasmine: Uhh yeah, because it is rude.

Garrrett: No, because they would probably have a knife or a gun!

Jasmine:…… I can’t even believe you.

(later)

Jasmine: Children who are biracial usually have smoother hair, but it isn’t a guarantee. White people have different textures of hair also, you know.

Garrett: I guess our different textures just aren’t as noticeable. So I am gonna have to learn how to “grease” his hair?

Jasmine: Yes. And if we ever have a daughter, you’ll have to learn how to braid too.

Garrett: I will leave that up to you, ya’ll are naturally good at corn rows.

Jasmine: WHAT! It isn’t a genetic disposition!

Garrett: Nooooo I was just saying that African Americans all grew up braiding and beading each other’s hair.

Jasmine: *Blank stare*

(After seeing an ethnic hair commercial)

Garrett: Can we Afro Isaiah’s hair! Oh my God! PLEASE! Can we!

Jasmine: Afros are only worn because our hair is so hard to manage. They aren’t REALLY fashion statements anymore! Afros, I think, are only cool to white people….

Garrett: OR we could totally cut his hair short and then cut lines into the back, like Chris Brown or Kanye West!

Jasmine: He is a two year old… he isn’t a performer. I swear! Next you are gonna request him a Gherri Curl!.

Garrett: Why do you ruin all my fun?

Jasmine: Because your fun is stupid- and stereotypical.

(Upon meeting my friend MiMi, who was born in Africa)

Garrett: So do you speak the African clicking language?

MiMi: *Blank Stare*

Garrett: No seriously, you know what I am talking about right? The one where they click to talk *imitates clicking noises*

MiMi: Jasmine! WHAT is he talking about I went to a private school…. WHAT is he talking about?

Jasmine: I guess he assumes everyone from Africa lives in a hut, just ignore him.

Garrett: OH MY GOD YA’LL are RUDE. It is not like that was even a weird question to ask someone from Africa!

I don’t run across many blogs that make me want to be friends with the writer. In fact, I usually find it weird.  But THIS is someone I could be friends with…. I don’t know. I just think her blog is honest, authentic, and moving. Sometimes she tackles the hard stuff in her life- right on her blog- and I think that is brave. Other times she makes me pee my pants (usually figuratively). But TODAY, today me and my 24 week pregnant self wandered over to read Giyen’s blog. I knew I had to pee but I decided to read it before I forgot (placenta brain). I found myself on the edge of my seat…anticipating the ending of her post. THEN. I read  BuuuuRiiinnnnngggg! I burst into loud cackles and then I peed…

Yep. Pregnant lady peed on herself laughing. It was just THAT funny.

So: 1) GO pee, don’t hold it like I did

and 2) readGiyen’s blog. She is good people!

Yesterday Rusty, Norah and I drove back from having Thanksgiving with my family in New Mexico. It was a lovely holiday and we returned filled to the gills with green chiles. I am never happier than when green chile essence is oozing out of my pores.

Nearly 75% of the 11 hour drive is on I-40 and since we have been driving the route about 2 times a year for 3 years, the scenery is increasingly familiar to us. The trip would not be quite the same without the Rose Leach sign in Oklahoma; the lonely trees and endless plains of eastern Oklahoma and western Texas; the leprachauns of Shamrock, Texas; the Biggest Cross in the Western Hemisphere!; the Big Texan restaurant with its promise of a free 72 ounce steak; the horrific weather of Amarillo, the stench of cows in Hereford, and the Allsup’s in Elida. These are the landmarks of our trek to and from New Mexico. Without them, I don’t know that I would be able to find my way home.

This trip however, I noticed another characteristic of that route. There is an incredible number of billboards for adult superstores. I counted at least 7. Christie’s Toybox, Adult MegaMart, and Fantasy Land all advertise their goods several times on I-40 and even though Christie’s Toybox and Fantasy Land sound harmless enough, almost like a good place to stop and let the kids stretch their legs, we all know that they are just cleverly named sex shops. And you should probably find another place to let your kids stretch their legs.

So my brain had been busy all day translating “Christie’s Toybox: 7 Miles!” into “Naked Shop!” and because of that I really cannot take responsibility for the fact that when I drove past the Recreation Department in our small Arkansas town and read “Adult Basketball Sign Ups!” I immediately thought, ‘Ew. Naked basketball.”

I blame Christie.

Another, more innocuous landmark of the trip is of course, McDonald’s. I don’t think it is possible to drive to New Mexico without stopping at McDonald’s to pee and get a cheeseburger. Its some kind of compulsion. The McDonalds’ along I-40 have seen some pretty bizarre sights, I’m sure, and we like to be sure to add our own little lunacies. For example, when Norah and I went to Roswell last summer we stopped at the arches to change a diaper and get some food. I thought it was just a routine diaper change, but when I pulled off her shorts, two adult sized handfuls of Cheerios came flying out the legs of her shorts and spewed around the bathroom stall. I, of course, left them where they were so that someone else could have the pleasure of trying to figure out how to clean up a hundred Cheerios in the big stall in the McDonald’s in El Reno, Oklahoma.

This time we stopped in Yukon, Oklahoma for the diaper and wardrobe change. This particular McDonald’s committed the cardinal sin of bathrooms and expected me to change my baby’s diaper without the aid of a changing table. Now, at my own house I change diapers on the floor because I think its easier but my floors are relatively clean and familiar. I draw the line at laying my daughter down in a puddle of unknown liquid at some bathroom on the interstate. That’s just nasty. Since Norah can obviously stand on her own now I didn’t panic. I simply unbuttoned her jammies and then pulled the tabs on her diaper so I could change it standing up. As soon as I pulled it off, she peed. And not just a little tinkle, but a full-on pee that left her standing in a nice warm puddle.

Norah is so awesome like that.

So anyway, we are back in Arkansas now. We are in the thick of transitioning Norah to a toddler bed, I am feeling the baby move like crazy, and tomorrow Rusty is going to sign up for naked basketball. I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving but maybe without pee puddles.

The other day I got a call from a friend. She said, “Hey Jasmine, I have a confession for your Bad Mommy Monday. You ready? Here you go….”

I braced myself and she continued, ” You are a bad mommy when you tell your kids NOT to open the package that is coming in the mail today because it is a Christmas present….when it is really just your new sex toy!”

I almost dropped the phone and died with laughter. I can’t top that. Ever.

Can you?

Happy Monday Readers!

Here is a game we can play. You won’t win a prize, a giveaway, or shenanigans like that. You’ll only have the beautiful gift of feeling, for a brief moment, what it is like in my life.

Here are your clues:

1. I couldn’t find Isaiah

2. I found him in the towel closet

3. He piled up blankets

4. He pulled down his pants

5. He took off his diaper

6. When I asked him what he was doing he closed the door on my face and declared, “…..”

Tell me. What do YOU think he declared?

Give up? He screamed, “Close door mom! POTTY!!!”

Uh yes son, what was I thinking… I potty in the towel closet all the time! Someone want to come clean up my towel closet?

I am an awesome dichotomy of depth and insightful-ness and pure bitchy rantings and random-ness. The other day deep and insightful felt like taking a trip to the surface, today… well… buckle up! This one is  weird.

My love of carpet cleaning comes in line right before Jesus. If Jesus came down in his glowing fleece diaper and was all, “Hey Jazzy J (cause Jesus is my homeboy) wanna come chill with me, thought I’d show you around heaven all Enoch-style. Wanna hang?” I’d be all, “Well Jesus, sounds awesome but in your all knowing-ness you KNOW it is carpet cleaning day… So NO.” Because I love carpet cleaning THAT much that I would totally turn down Jesus in his glowing fleece diaper. *This is baby Jesus I am referring to, of course. Calm down all you weirdos picturing adult Jesus in a glowing fleece diaper.*

Isaiah’s God-Mother, Tricia, is as bad (if not more) as me about cleaning the carpets. She reserves days off. Like seriously she will be all,”can’t come into work today- gotta clean the carpets.” I REALLY hope she defines that she is ACTUALLY shampooing her carpets, lest her employees believe she has some sort of personal grooming issue that takes a whole day off. I digress.  Garrett and I moved into this awesome house and purchased this awesome house but this awesome house had not so awesome white carpets that don’t look so white.

*Inhale*

So I clean these carpets bi-weekly. I am happy I don’t have a secret camera following my life, and you are too, because you’d think I was ill. The pomp and circumstance that includes the opening ritual of “Carpet Cleaning Day” is something to behold. My poor son? Well, He is just a casualty to the process. I put up a baby gate in our long hall and throw pillows and toys inside. I throw gingerly place Isaiah in the “baby run” and begin my shampooing ritual.  The smell of the shampoo solution and the look of the first strip of gleaming carpet is kind of orgasmic.

Today? Today, folks, is CARPET CLEANING DAY.

YES I DID CLEAN THEM LAST WEEK. Don’t preach at me. It is not an addiction! I can stop whenever I WANT! My super pregnancy nose has lanced out some dog pee (we have a new puppy) behind the couch, so clean I must. What? What is that you ask? Why not SPOT treat the pee stain? Well, because I believe in equality for all carpets. How would the rest of the carpet feel if I didn’t shampoo all of it? Are you freaked out yet? YOU SHOULD BE… because that is how passionate I am about my shampooer. Almost as passionate as I am about cleaning out the fridge- Ask Sadie and Tricia and Connie about that. I kind of go rogue  and determine to clean out other people’s fridge. Never mind if I organize their fridges to fit me….

 Also: Jesus, if you are reading this (which OBVIOUSLY you are- because this blog is THAT hardcore, and you LOVE me that much) I could seriously use a new carpet cleaner. I could *settle* for one of those industrial riding ones. IT doesn’t matter that my front room is less that 700 sq. feet… I will make it work. I can sacrifice- following your example, of course, Jesus.

So right after I post this I am going to turn on Marvin Gaye’s “Lets Get It on”, put up the baby gate, fire up the Bissell, and have a special moment: Just me and my carpet.

Good day Ladies!

We have not had Bad Mommy Monday in a while. I’m guessing because Jasmine and I have both been really excellent mommies for the past weeks and we didn’t want to make anyone feel bad. ; )

But with Halloween having just passed–Halloween, the holiday devoted entirely to eating so much candy you can hardly stand up to answer the door for laggin Trick-or-Treaters–I know that I have some things to confess.

1. It wasn’t me who woke the baby from a nap in order to get her ready early enough to get all the good candy from the neighbors.

2. It wasn’t me who quietly watched as the neighbors put candy in her bowl, pre-emptively assigning which candy I would give to Norah and which I would keep for myself.

3. It wasn’t me who gave out all the Super Bubble and kept the Airheads.

4. It wasn’t me who fed Norah Halloween cookies for breakfast before church and then acted like I had no idea why she was acting like a lunatic during the service.

Anyone else have Halloween confessions?

–Sadie

I am back! And alive! Thanks for all the well wishes and emails.

Leave it to me to make my first blog post after a long sabbatical to be about  guns, masturbation, and nose bogeys. Alas, I am me…

Since Sadie admitted that Norah has pica (I kid) I decided that I should talk about Isaiah’s amazing new (and some old) habits. Vanessa, a good friend of mine, always talks about boys and the things that they instinctively pick up. When Isaiah, who is two years old, started picking up sticks (to destroy monkeys and enemies) and using them as pretend guns, I would gasp, “WHO taught him to be violent! WHO taught him about guns. We don’t let him watch war movies…why is he army crawling!!! ” I am anti-gun. I HATE them… as a result of a traumatic childhood experience. When Isaiah started this I attempted to redirect it. “Isaiah lets hug, not shoot.” My best attempts were thwarted. He just kept pretending to shoot things. Vanessa explained, (loosely translated)” Something about them switches on and they have to hunt and protect and all that jazz.” So now, my precious two year old son runs around the house pointing curling irons screaming, “BLAM BLAM DIE MONKEY!!!” Sometimes I play dead. Other times I snarl, “DO NOT point guns at people- even pretend curling iron guns…GAWWW!” It is like a boyhood involuntary spasm! Something DID just “click” and he decided I was a gatherer and he was a hunter.

Isaiah also went through a stage where he dominated all of his stuffed animals. When I say “dominated” I mean, “Isaiah humped his stuffed animals and the rugs like there was no tomorrow.” No one taught him. Through exploration he just decided, “OH! Mommy has company, I should show them what my body does when I hump this stuffed lamb!” “Ohhhh! Is that high pile carpet? *OFF GOES THE DIAPER*. Let me show you what to do with this…”  Thankfully we have a great set of friends who just laughed off Isaiah’s “habit.”

One other boyhood involuntary spasm that has amazed me has been the action his nose has been getting. How do kids learn to eat their boogers (is that how you spell it?)? I remember the first time Isaiah did the deed. I looked in the rear-view mirror and his knuckle had disappeared into his brain. He gingerly pulled his finger out only to plunge it into his mouth. He clapped and giggled as I tried not to veer off the road from the intense gagging I was doing. “Who taught you that Isaiah?” How did he learn to eat his nose crusty? SICK!! SICK! SIIIIIIICK! Again… something just clicked and he decided he knew how to do this. Since he knew how, he obviously should. Thankfully Dr. Oz  *YES! I learn how to parent from my favorite TV personalities *  says that picking your nose is fine. The only problem is that it can damage the mucus membranes. I think he will survive. Sadly, me and my weak gag reflex might not.

I love these things about kids.  I love that just like a heart beats involuntarily, there are things that little boys and girls do without prompting. It makes me excited to imagine if we have a girl, (the doctor says ultrasound shows 70% girl) what she will do. 

♥ Jasmine