Box It. Bag It. Keep It. Trash It.

It has been quite some time! I’m happy to report we finished Oz the Great and Powerful, and Harper got his pancake breakfast—and he couldn't have cared less. Now we have less than one month left of school, and honestly, I’m ready for it to be over. Sure, daycare costs, which I’m already a slave to, will increase, but I won’t have to look at a sight word list for another three months. That’s a release I am in great need of.

These past months have been busy—and quite frankly hectic—for us: we've been through a move, got a new-to-us car, both kids are in a sport at the same time, and experienced the death of a dear family pet and the death of a family member. Parent-teacher conferences prove to be a challenge, and it looks like we’re going to go through an ADD evaluation again with the Harp Man.

Since everything has been so chaotic, and I can only expect it to be more so as they get older, I have decided, after about a year of thought, to try to head to the minimalist direction. I have many reasons for this, and as time passes, I feel these reasons more deeply.

Before I moved, I was renting my mother’s house. Before she moved, my grandma had moved in at one point but had since passed, and a lot of her things were still there. My things were there; my kids’ things were there, my sister’s things were there, and still a good deal of my mom’s things were still there. I felt like, and my mom commented that, I was living in a storage locker. It’s been almost six months since I moved, and the house still sits, waiting for us to tackle this daunting task.

And then my step-grandpa passed away, and I can see the look of being overwhelmed on my mom and stepdad’s faces. He lived in a good-sized house, and there is a lifetime of possessions that they have to go through. My grandparents’ house, where the pack rat herself still lives, at a clear-headed and able-bodied ninety years old—get ’em, Grams!—is overflowing with…with…I don’t even know what. Newspapers mostly.

My mom and stepdad also live in a decently sized home and have a rather large barn to boot. Mom has been on a furniture-hoarding spree—“I need a bigger house!” I just heard her say a few days ago—and the barn is filled with old furniture, desks and such from Ross’s old practice, my sister’s stuff, and soon to be whatever my tiny apartment can’t hold of my own stuff.

My dad’s house is no different. Before my stepmom passed, she was on a big estate sale/auction/garage sale kick where she bought up lots of stuff for cheap and resold it on eBay. But of all the mountains of stuff left over, no one has the time or energy to try to get any money’s worth out of it all. Not to mention there’s still a lot of her things and her parents’ things lingering about.

So at first, I was just overwhelmed with the amount of stuff everyone has, myself included, and I felt the need to make these simpler. But then I started seeing how it was affecting my kids.

As a child, if you wanted to throw something of mine away, it was the end of the world. I needed it; I loved it; it had feelings, and I had to keep it! My kids have so much junk, when I ask them if they want to get rid of something, or even threaten to throw everything away as a reverse psychology maneuver to get them to clean, they are pretty much fine with it. And what we have gone through together and sorted out for garage sales or donations, they have never once looked back and regretted it. That speaks volumes.

But these things do have purpose, don't they? I have to have the latest thing because it makes my life simpler. But I can't get rid of the old thing, because what if the new thing is temporarily out of commission and I need to use the old thing until the new thing is broken? And don't I need more than twenty pairs of pants? They are different styles for specific occasions, and I have to have a particular look at all (none) of the functions I go to. 

 I can justify everything I own, but it's an uphill and empty battle that I am no longer willing to wage.

Consumerism: it really is a sickness, and I have to break free of its burdens on my mind and body. I don’t ever want my kids to think that they need something just because it’s the newest upgrade, so-and-so has it, and he/she won’t be cool unless he/she has one, and I especially don’t want them to feel an attachment to just things because it might remind them of someone or something or because it make make them feel guilty or like they would hurt the feelings of the person who gave it to them. Now, I don’t think having one or two small items of the former is that bad. It is hard to rid of things like that, but they have to have a purpose, a use.  

I knew consumerism was an issue before I started working in advertising, but in the short time I have been in it, I realize how much I've hated it. No one needs these things, but it’s my responsibility to make them think that they do. But I don’t regret this move. I needed a job quick-like, and I took it thinking that it would be a good experience. It has been. I've learned some things that are valuable to my career path, and it shed light in myself that badly needed revealing.

But mostly I want, and I want my kids, to experience the world outside of these holes we live in surrounded by a bunch of crap. And to learn the things in life that are really important. And whatever those things are, what they aren't is stuff.

I don’t expect this to happen overnight. Since I've been thinking about it for a year or more, I've also been going through little cleaning spurts every few months and clearing out things. I will continue to do that, but I think I will be a little more aggressive and realistic of what I will never use again and what I will never need. And I don’t ever expect it to be perfect.

These are just a few of things that have been weighing on me enough over the years to finally put a name to it and start moving toward improving it. This is how I feel and what I think is a good move for my family. 

And on that note, come out and see me Mother’s Day weekend. I’ll be having an excellent garage sale—with lots of stuff that you probably don't need!


In the meantime, here's a song I haven't been able to get outta my head all week. Be advised: there is language, if that ain't your thang.

Real-Talk Wednesday: First Grade Blues

Tomorrow marks the second first day of school for my son, Harper. First grade: where the time went, I'll never know.

It's the age-old adage: time flies.

I know everyone says it, and I know everyone feels that way most of the time. But there are occasional moments that it really hits home, and I realize just how little time I have to make the most of the small things.

As a single mom, things are...not always fun around my household. Weekday mornings are rushed, evenings are tense and rushed, and the time before bed is usually me sitting paralyzed on the couch trying to figure out the triage of chores and responsibilities.

This is when I have one of those rare moments that everything is clear: Laundry, washing the dishes, and picking up the clutter isn't important. Catching my Monday-night prime-time show, checking my e-mail, or looking things up on the Internet is not important. Checking my Facebook, kicking up my feet, and catching up on my reading is not important.

Each night before I fall asleep, I say I'm going to be better, do more with my kids and be a positive, happy parent. Then it's 7:30 a.m., and I've asked Charley to get dressed three times and Harper to brush his teeth twice. I'm already yelling. I feel terrible but tell myself I will get it together after work.  By the time it's 7:00 p.m. and we still haven't had dinner, I feel like a failure.  We don't have any time for that walk in the park or to play Candy Land. It's been all summer, and we're still not finished with Oz the Great and Powerful, a measly eighteen chapters that should have actually been finished in June or July.

How did I get here? 

It doesn't seem like it was even more than a year ago that I was holding Harp in my arms and just staring at him. He was such a calm, laid-back, and happy baby. I just can't remember much between then and now, and I dread that the next seven years will be the same. I'm terrified to think that when he's fourteen, I will not know how we got there. He's already turning into a little boy who's interested in cars and looking cool. The world is slowly curling its fingers around him, and the innocence and wonder is beginning to melt away.

How can I slow time down and teach him all the things he needs to be a good person?

I'm losing. But I will not lose.

Here's the point where I make myself those same nightly promises, but this time I mean it. I will be better tomorrow. I will be a happy and positive parent. Because what's really, truly important is my kids' happiness, their innocence, the way the perceive human interaction, and how their little hearts grow. What's important is that they learn how to be good parents from my example.  I'm going to be patient for Harper's insecurities and cautious nature, and I'm going to have more energy for Charley's fast-paced stories and enthusiasm. We are going to take that walk in the park and finish Oz the Great and Powerful.

Lately I have been remembering a lesson from my grandmother: if it doesn't hurt them, then let them do it.
Remembering that allowed this to happen:

I'm going to keep my promises I made to myself, but I'm not going to do it on my own. I'm going to rely on the wisdom from those who came before me, Mom and Grandmother, and the only one who can give me strength and hope when I feel like I have nothing left, God.

Tomorrow, for the first day of first grade, I told myself that I will get up early and make Harper his favorite breakfast before school, and by golly, I'm going to do it. Then I'll drive him to school and take tons of pictures and leave myself little notes so I won't forget where the time went.

After the Snap

decisions.

It's 6:30 p.m. on Monday evening. My first Fantasy football draft is an hour and a half away. I have a rough list of mostly quarter backs, running backs, and receivers. I get second pick. All I needed was one back-up for all my first picks. What could go wrong?

Back up. About a week ago, I was talking to my friend Tyler. I'm not sure how it came up, but he mentioned there was a spot left on the Fantasy football team he was on. I thought it would be fun to give it a shot, so I e-mailed the manager. Boom: got me a football league. Mmmhmm. Watch out, boys (and girls). Here comes KEEF. I fully committed my upcoming weekend to learning all I could and devising a strategy and team that would leave people stunned.

Then reality happened: yard work, housework, and Pinterest.

To be fair, on Saturday I did go to my grandmother's house (Read: one of the most knowledgeable sports people I know), and she gave me some tips. Of course, she's an everything-Texas fan, if we don't have it Oklahoma. A couple of times, she wanted me to clarify if it were college or pro.

"It's pro, Grandmother. We can't use college." So she started naming off all her favorite Dallas players: Romo, Murray, and a few others I don't remember. Then she clapped her hands together, in a dusting-my-hands-with-enthusiasm sort of way, and said she would be right back--she had to consult her newspaper that was covering some players to look out for. She came back and rattled off two names, which I cannot recall. Her eyes twinkled.
"One is with the Rangers and the other is with the Angels..."
My head snapped up.
"Grandmother! Are those baseball players!?"
"Oh, well, yes." She giggled and shook her head and told me to call my cousin Debbie.

Of course. Debbie. Why didn't I just do that to begin with? She gave me a really solid list, and I went home thinking I had it in the bag.

I just forgot about it on Sunday, and by the time Monday came around, I was freaking out a little.

Surely I'm missing some positions. All I have is QBs, RBs, and WRs! What about strong and weak tackles! What about a tight end, a cornerback, and linebackers! What about the kicker!?  

I couldn't do much about it. Work is work, and I actually had stuff to do. My cubicle neighbor was of no help. He is actually partially responsible for leading me to believe that I needed all those positions, and he has played before! I was beginning to feel doomed.

I wanted to go straight home and start working on my plan. But I couldn't. It was back-to-school night. If you haven't been to back-to-school night, it's like being in the middle of the Running of the Bulls except with children. It's misery. So with that cramping my plans, I knew dinner was going to have to be compromised: drive-thru.

With everything out of the way and the kids fed, I gave strict and threatening orders to leave me alone until I gave the signal. What that signal was, neither child was brave enough to ask. I was ready to sit down and take a crash course with the intent of finalizing my list, and I prayed the Internet would not go out.

It didn't start out well. I spent a good majority on the wrong league site. I almost let Kyle talk me into using the auto-pick (I knew you were out to get me). And when I couldn't find the auto-pick after I got to the right league page, I almost broke down. I needed some more guidance.

I called my aunt Myrna, and she put me in contact with my cousin Pat (Deb's bro). He gave me an awesome resource (which is actually what James sent me) and gave me some pointers. This is when I learned what "snake" actually meant.

Plan: shot.

Result: tears, cuss words, confusion, and nearly quitting.

I gather my composure and study the website. I feel more prepared, and I'm starting to calm down.

Six more minutes before it starts. My children are screaming for baths, cookies, movies, and really anything that would impede my success with this. At this point, I was 100 percent sure the Internet would go out mid-click of locking in the best players, and someone would certainly need an ambulance.

It's go time. AD: gone. It's cool. I'll take Calvin Johnson.

Whew, that was easy.  But wait. Everyone else is disappearing quickly. Ohp. There went my whole list, and I got one, ONE person on there. (I actually got four, but ya know.)

The Gchats begin. I get some encouragement, and I feel like I am doing a decent job. I start to lose track of my cheat sheet, and then about halfway through the draft, it happens.

Thirty-six seconds left, and no one I am entering in is available. I start panicking. What do I do? Who do I pick! I try to find my place on the list and keep entering in names to no avail.

Twenty seconds.

Should I just pick someone farther down that no one is picking yet? Beat the rush? Seal a deal?

Fifteen seconds.

I don't know! It seems a little foolish. I mean, if no one else is doing it that way, why should I? 

Five seconds.

Crap! 

Matt Bryant: kicker. First one. Booya!

This is what ensued:

 James:  Mandy, NOOOOOOO! 

I think it was all down hill from there. 

The last straw, when it was time to pick defense, I was screaming and Gchatting everyone: "What positions are defensive? Who do I pick!?" The clock ran out.

I ended up with the Steelers. Thank you, auto-pick.

But now it's over. My heart rate is starting to resume--two hours later.

It's okay. This weekend, I really will dedicate time to learning what the heck I'm doing. 

But now for a fun part: picking my team name. 

In with the New

If you're like me, change isn't on the top-ten list of things you love to do. Also on that list of things I don't love to do is starting a new job. Yeah, it's exciting, and I certainly look forward to work-free evenings and actually getting paid for the work that I do, but I loathe being an idiot for maybe a few months. People judge their new coworkers by their ability to retain a plethora of new information. If you can't remember the simplest thing, you're a moron.

I was a moron at my last job for at least six months. (The training was "top-notch.") But after those six months, I got to be pretty dang bomb at my job, and it just kept getting better. (I actually miss the work that I did.) Eventually, it was just time to find a new job, which is another miserable experience on its own.

Applying for job is the worst part. Resumes: dreadful. Cover letters: kill me now. Interviews... Well, all I can think of afterward is the stupid stuff I said during the process, and I want to hold my head underwater until I pass out or drown.

That's excessive, but you get the point that it's uncomfortable. No doubt you've felt this way, and if you haven't... You're a freak of nature, and I don't think it's safe for us to be friends.

This time, everything was easy-peasy: no job search, smooth-sailing interview, quick call-back. Done, done, and done.

Then came my first day; thus, my first week:

Monday:

• Stare absently into the literal shades of gray in the fibers of my cubical. Severely damage my feet because I haven't worn heels to work in over a year.
• Relearn a Mac, which I've never used consistently. Spend thirty minutes trying to figure out how to authorize my iTunes account because I can't remember the menus are in a place that still doesn't make sense to me. Pandora, my music bible, is blocked. A sadness indeed.
• Lock myself out of my computer and have IT call help desk.

Tuesday:

• After two nights of little to no sleep, I'm rocking the bun and what looks like PJs or workout clothes. The all-black choices leave the getup's purpose vague. But there is good news: tour day! It is during a two-hour ride on a golf cart that I realize I am living a real-life episode of Under the Dome. Okay, not really, but the place is like a little town cut off from the rest of the world.
• Decide I would rather work in the warehouse. There's a chick in there with guns that put GI Joe to shame.
• It finally clicks. I now understand where Monsters Inc. got their material for the door warehouse. 

Wednesday:

• More space vision and feet attack number dos. I did, however, walk two miles while at work. Winning! (Is this term still popular? I don't care, because it is applicable.)
• After work, I decide I need more boyfriend sweaters, so I went to Target. I will have one in every color soon. It's a new obsession.

Thursday:

• I'm pretty sleep deprived so: Bun Day! 
• I was late today. I left my breakfast on the counter at home. And I didn't iron my shirt.
• Another day, another two miles. 
• I got all signed up for the AP Styleguide and learned that gobbledygook is a word, the G in G-string is capitalized, and harelip is named after a rabbit. (I originally thought it was hairlip and didn't understand why. Der.)

Friday:

• Early to work!
• OhmygoshdidIreallymakeitawholeweekofstraightgoingtowork? I believe I did. Gold star on my own personal calendar! 
• Another two miles! Ballin'!
• Watch InDesign tutorials. Fight to stay awake. I didn't learn anything.
• After three trips a day for three days to the decorate-your-desk-with-these-items shelf, I finally find an M--for monster. Der.

All and all, I'd say it was a pretty good first week. It seemed like a really transition--a little too easy, actually--which is why I'm still waiting for a potential disaster.

Since this was a later-than-planned blog post, I'm pretty much done with week two. It's gone about the same with a little more work and a lot more miles. I've got some pretty awesome coworkers, and I'm loving my evenings. I also updated my desk decor. Behold!

Lots of space to fill up here!

   A Few of My Favorites

Ampersand is fancy.

Notes from old friends to remind me that unrestrained hilarity exists.

M for Monster

If you haven't met Maleficent, here's another chance.

My very favorite of all. You know why.

Operation: Baby Mockingbird Rescue

This is an old one from last year. It was on my other (discontinued) blog, so I thought I'd transfer. Ya know, keep my two blog posts in one place.

      It was a mild Oklahoma evening in mid-May, and the cat had got out again.
      "Dang it, Harper! I done told you not to let that dang cat out! She brings fleas into the house!"
      "Oh, I sorry, Mama."
      "All right then. Get yourself inside that house until I can finish up out here."

      Mama continued planting Bermuda grass seed and cursed the mockingbirds helter-skelter song under her breath, "Dang birds always gotta be screamin'." It was about the time that Mama was moving the sprinkler when she noticed something small jumping up and down in the corner of the yard. Turning, she saw a baby mockingbird and Pumpkin--that dang cat--lurking just a few feet from it. Instantly, Mama sprang into action, shooing Pumpkin away.
      What now? Mama thought. I can't just leave this bird out here. Pumpkin won't let me anywhere near her (can't imagine why) so that I can put her inside. Mama tried to see if Baby Bird would let her get close. Baby Bird just hopped around, looking for an out. All right then, I'll just leave you to it, little bird, and try to keep that cat away. 
      Mama continued on with her evening chores--mowing, watering, edging, sweeping. Every now and then, she would go into the backyard and check to see that Pumpkin was at bay and that Baby Bird was still intact. Each time, Mama would attempt to get a little closer to Baby Bird. Eventually Baby Bird would hold still long enough to allow Mama to run a solitary finger over her smooth feathers. Whistling to Baby Bird, Mama attempted to pick her up. "It's okay, Baby Bird, I'm not gonna hurt ya," Mama soothingly said to the bird. Still not comfortable, Baby Bird chirped in protest and easily wiggled out of Mama's grasp. "That's okay, girl. I let ya be fer now." Mama resumed a few more chores before approaching the bird--now on the porch--again. This time, Mama was able to pick up Baby Bird without a problem. Well, heck. What do I do now? I don't know where the nest is, and I don't even know if I should put her back in the nest if I did know where it was. I can't just leave her out here... I have to put her somewhere. Mama spied the crape myrtle bushes over by the fence. Those are tall enough that Pumpkin can't get her but not too tall so that if she fell out she wouldn't be hurt. I'll stick her in there until I think of something better.

      Walking over to the bush with Baby Bird, Mama was berated by several unhappy mockingbirds. "Hush yer beaks! I'm tryin' to help your spawn!" Mama whistled her soft tune again, and the birds seemed to quiet for a moment. Gingerly, Mama set Baby Bird in the crape myrtle and tried to decide what to do next. I reckon I can keep her there until I get that stupid cat in the house. Maybe I should call that bird rescue I saw on the Internet a couple of years ago. Nah.

      Mama picked up where she left off, sweeping and moving the sprinkler. It didn't take long for the birds to start creating a ruckus again, and Mama had a feeling she knew what the problem was. Sure enough, Pumpkin was slinking in the tall grass of Old Man Peabody's yard, just waiting for the opportunity to get that bird in her jaws.Get my shotgun! I'm gonna kill me a cat! Except Mama didn't have a shotgun, so the water hose would have to suffice. Turning on the water and picking up the gun on the end of the hose, Mama switched the setting from shower to jet. That's right, you little devil. You're about to get an backside full of water! Creeping across the backyard, Mama took her position, aimed, and fired a perfect blast of cold water onto Pumpkin. Frazzled, the cat took off under the neighbor's shed. If I'm lucky that old crank mighta put some rat poisonin' down, and one problem will be resolved.

     Satisfied with her cat-attack, Mama looked in on Baby Bird. Mama whistled at her and mother mockingbird up on the wire above the tree. As if Baby Bird knew what she meant, she opened her little beak as wide as she could and titled her head back.Shoot-fire, now I gotta feed this thing? Well...guess I can dig up some worms. And Mama did just that. When she brought the worms back to Baby Bird, momma bird started singing that haphazard tune. This time, though, it seemed sweeter to Mama's ears, like she knew that Mama was doing something good by protecting her baby. Whistling to cue Baby Bird again, Mama held up the plump and juicy dirt-dweller. Baby Bird gratefully gobbled about four worms, and Mama went back to get more.

      Dusk was starting to set in, and Harper had emerged from the house again. Luckily, Satan's cat was back in the yard, and Harper was able to get a hold of her to take her back in the house. With all safe and seemingly sound, Mama made the decision to take Baby Bird out of the tree. Whistling to Baby Bird once more, Baby Bird climbed onto Mama's hand, and Mama lowered her to the ground. Baby Bird lingered, as if to show her gratitude and reluctance to part from Mama. "Go on, now. You're safe fer now." Baby Bird hopped off and into the dusk.

      Walking back to the house, Mama listened to the only sound of the new night--the still-sweet song of the mockingbird--and she knew she had a made some friends.

THE END!

I'm Baked

Not in the sense that everyone is thinking, though. 

I used to be a pretty darn good baker. 

Following directions: no problem. 

Adding some flare and calling it my own: Boom. Done.

Getting raves from family, friends, and coworkers: well, I got a couple office "awards" that will clear that right up. 

But for some reason, this July has not been going well. I have ruined two batches of cookies in two weeks.  A friend of mine contributes humidity and the wrong oats, but I know what's really happening. I've lost my touch.

The baker got baked.

Baking is a no-brainer for me. It just came natural. I mean, how hard is it really? It's not like cooking. That takes a bit more knowledge of how things come together. Baking: flour, sugar, butter, shortening, and some other spices: how hard is it!? It's just not.

So what I was hoping would be some chewy, fluffy Snickerdoodles today turned in to this: 

a (now half-eaten, thanks to the kids) plate of Snickerduddles. They have decent horrible flavor. All I can taste is vegetable shortening. Maybe this is why:

So, like, a year overdue, right? For some things, that doesn't matter. When I took the lid off the shortening, the smell hit me full force: pure vegetable oil. I ignored it, because I have come to hate that smell, so I thought it was just my aversion to it instead of a silent warning: your cookies are going to fail.

Last week, my cookie attempt was the chocolate, peanut butter, oatmeal no-bake. Who doesn't love these? Usually, I use old-fashioned oats, which doesn't normally set well. No worries. I put them in the fridge for a bit, and they're good to go. Why don't I just get quick oats, you ask? Good question. Because I'm lazy. I get old-fashioned oats for regular oatmeal needs, and a trip to the store for random cookies needs is just too much to handle. I do have two small monsters who I have to take everywhere with me after all. Although, after another failed batch, I think I will start keeping an extra container of the quick oats on reserve. But I don't think that was the problem this time. 

I think the problem was this:

Notice the big X and the note I left to myself? Yeah, I forgot I tried this recipe before, and the exact same thing happened: the whole thing burned up before I had a chance to drop them onto the wax paper. Five minutes!? That's a crazed amount of time, and the chocolate mix burned up quite quickly. Also notice the author didn't specify what kind of oats to use. I blame the system. The other recipe I found in cookbook by food critics says one minute. I'm going for that next time.

What the real problem is, I think, is that I have lost/misplaced my original recipes for both of these. Well, that and not using the correct or expired ingredients.

Next week, after a trip to the grocery store, I'm going to try a third time. Hopefully, it is a charm, because all I want is a decent homemade cookie.

In the meantime, my cooking has actually been quite good. Yea, me!