In transition

I’ve become involved with MOPS. We are in the process of starting a new chapter here in Moncks Corner. (If you want information, e-mail me.)

The other day I spent too long waiting at the deli counter in Bi-Lo. For those that don’t know, the deli has an unobstructed view of the feminine product aisle.

With my apologies to MOPS, here is what I noticed:

I know I opened the medicine cabinet.

What I don’t know is if I actually took the motrin or not.

I will know the answer in an hour or two.

It is nothing traumatic. It seems I have managed to torque my back, probably in aerobics. I’m considering paying a visit or twelve to the chiropractor. I am scared I will fall in love.

I guess I’m on a food kick. I’m also trying out tags for the first time.

Rosemary Bread
2 hours 30 minutes (including rise)
1 Tablespoon yeast
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 Cup warm water
2 Cups bread flour + 1/4 – 1/2cup extra for kneading
1 Teaspoon table salt
2 Tablespoons rosemary
1 Tablespoon unsalted butter

Egg wash – 1 egg white + ~ 1 TBSP water

Place yeast, sugar and water in large bowl or food processor and allow mixture to become bubbly. Mix in 1 TBSP butter, salt, and 2 cups of flour. Add one tablespoon of the rosemary, chopped. Knead for about 10 minutes by hand or in a food processor for about 5 minutes until smooth and elastic. Add more flour if necessary. Place dough in an oiled bowl, cover with a towel. Allow the dough to rise in a warm place until doubled, about an hour.

Punch down dough and divide in half. Let dough rest about 5 minutes. Grease a baking pan or cookie sheet. Shape the dough into 2 small rounded oval loaves.

Sprinkle remaining 1 Tablespoon of rosemary over the loaves and press lightly into the surface. Let loaves rise again until doubled, about 45 minutes.

Preheat oven to 375° F. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, brushing with egg wash after 10 minutes. The bread is done when it produces a hollow sound when tapped on the bottom.

Food Porn
Recipe
Bread

My two year old loves Dr. Seuss.

I had some baby spinach.

He asked for thirds.

I asked for hot sauce.

Each time I turn around another week has slipped by. Later this month, we will be driving my stepdaughter to Myrtle Beach for her flight to Minnesota. We won’t see her again until Christmas. It is strange how it can be so bittersweet. She’s a good girl and can be nice company, but as a stepmother I often feel drained. I feel as though every choice, thought, and word will be rehashed and reexamined either by my mother-in-law or her biological mother. Both women are nice, it’s my own neurotic quirk. My father passed on a gene for perfectionism and this is an area of life where blunders are frequent.

My husband works long hours. Just yesterday he realized how many recent weeks he’s spent more than fifty-five hours at work.

Right now the days sometimes stretch long and lazy, but the evenings are a blur of dinner, clean up, baths, stories, and bedtime routines. I’m trying to remember to hang on and savor these days, as they won’t come around again.

Did you know that September 9th is the second annual “World Naked Gardening Day*****?”

I didn’t and probably could have lived a full and happy life without someone bestowing that knowledge upon me.

I somehow doubt many judges will be understanding.

****ADULT CONTENT WARNING — contains nudity (surprised?)

Yesterday was one of those days where it was hard to get moving. I felt out of sorts, like something was missing. It wasn’t the heat. I completely forgot about my stepdaughter’s riding lesson. She never said a word. She didn’t get ready.

Late in the evening, while visiting my mother, I realized what day it was and that I had forgotten the lesson completely.

I think my stepdaughter had spaced it as well and didn’t want to admit it.

I still feel badly.

She wasn’t an axe wielding maniac and there was no carnage. . .externally.

Internally, it felt like a train wreck. I did not care for the experience. I was incredibly uncomfortable and the further the interview went the more difficult it became. I think I expected the interview to be along the lines of a structured conversation and less like an oral exam. I tried to answer the questions, but while a lot of words came out, I’m sure I sounded like a moron. I guess at this point the best I can hope for is to have said nothing remotely interesting. Dan, you gave some fantastic advice, as did Windviel. I truly wish I’d had the chance to read it before the interview. Had I known it wasn’t important to answer all the questions I probably would have said that many were irrelevant to my experience and probably would have felt less unsure of myself. I’ll chalk it up to a learning experience.

Like you, Vera, I wasn’t entirely thrilled. The journalist seemed nice enough, I just had a hard time with it. Many of the questions felt as though they were an entire topic unto themselves, I felt a lot of pressure to have concise answers. The whole experience just reenforced the feeling of being a lousy speaker.

I blog because here I can speak clearly. I can take my time and know the words I’ve chosen are right. I can mull questions over and most importantly I can, not that I always do, but I can proofread. It is in this format that I feel the most comfortable.

Today I’m meeting with a reporter from The Post & Courier. She’s doing an article on “blogging.” The subject of the interview seems a little vague, but a friend assures me it’s because she doesn’t have enough information to pinpoint the direction her article will take.

Who wants to take bets on how quickly I can put my foot in my mouth? Five minutes? Ten? Regardless of how it goes, I felt the situation warranted a sitter and I get to escape for a couple of hours. That’s worth public humiliation, right? We’re meeting in neutral territory, just in case she’s pretending to be a reporter and is actually an axe wielding psychopath who lures victims with their own narcissim.

I figured I’d include a warning for the guys. This post contains references to feminine products, nothing worse than that.

I have a habit of shopping at the discount store, where the packaging is often bilingual; sometimes the results are amusing. Yesterday, I was in a rush and had all three kids with me. For those who have not experienced this particular joy in life, it certainly cuts down on one’s ability to closely examine labels.

As it turns out, Kotex either has a marketing genuis or a moron working for their company. I purchased what I thought was the economy box of pads. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. No, instead of extra pads the box contained a travel pack of Kleenex. I’m not sure if it’s because most women use pads at some point and may not have experienced the joy that is Kleenex or if perhaps they sought to comfort me at potentially my weepiest moments.

I haven’t decided whether I find the whole idea amusing or insulting.