Drops of Awesome

Last year after experiencing the domestic bliss that is peach canning and spending several months hacking black crispy somethings off my stovetop, I told Dan I would never do it again. I believe I said something about Hell becoming very chilly or about how I’d rather pass away.

(On a side note about death wishes, Laylee and I had the following conversation in the car today:

Me — Poor Buddy is so sick today. I feel so sad for him.
Laylee — So, after we die we’ll never get sick again, right?
Me — Yep. That’s right.
Laylee — I can’t wait to die! That is gonna be SO! COOL!

I think it’s good not to fear death. I’m just not sure it’s healthy for a 5-year-old to look forward to it with such excitement.)

So after eating home-canned peaches all winter and scraping nearly all the charred fruit guts off my stovetop, I decided I’d better order a few more cases this summer and get down to bidness. Tonight I realized that it was time to can before every single peach rotted in its box and at 8:05pm PST I turned on the Olympics, put on my giant apron disguised as a bib and began to sort, scrub, chop and boil.

During the 5 hour process I periodically stopped and caught snippets of the Olympic action, mostly audio only. Here are my thoughts on what I witnessed:

1. If trampoline is an Olympic sport, why don’t they have juggling or competitive break dancing? I could handle me a sweet crew of Ukrainian b-boys every 4 years or so.

I was particularly delighted by the comments of one reporter during the event who said something like, “She’s got one minute before she must start flipping acrobatics.” And all I could think was, “For REAL! Could she just start the flipping acrobatics already?!”

2. Watching the totally wacky and unpredictable gymnastics scoring over the past few days, I couldn’t help but think that there has to be a more fair way of choosing a winner. I have 2 suggestions. A — Have an additional scoring category for aroma. The sweetest smelling girls should really have some sort of advantage. This is of course subjective as what might smell quite lovely to an American could be repulsive to a Romanian however I think it would fit in perfectly with the current scoring system. B — Shoot a couple hundred slugs out of a canon against a wall and use their splatter patterns to determine which country is most deserving. Then package up all the medals and send them home with the appropriate coach or coach’s wife.

Seriously. Am I the only one who sees a made-for-TV movie in the near future starring Tracey Gold as a Canadian gymnastics judge who uncovers a seedy bribery plot in the 2008 Beijing Olympics?

3. I wonder if Jenn Stuczynski would have decided to pursue pole vaulting 4 years ago if someone had told her then that a silver medal at the Olympics was a piece of hud for losers. Watching her coach tell her how poorly she’d done after she came in second to a woman who set the Olympic and world record during the event had me really steamed.

4. I’m inclined to believe anything Bela Karolyi says. I’m not sure if it’s the accent, the mustache or the number of Olympic medalists he’s glared at from the sidelines over the years.

5. Beach volley ball. The teeny tiny bikinis. The riding up. The why.

And now I think I deserve a medal for canning 26 quarts of peaches all by myself in record time with very little mess, minimal browning, zero breakage, perfect seals, and only half a cup of syrup left over when all was said and done. And it only cost me slightly more than if I’d bought the peaches factory-canned at the store.

***If you’d like to be entered to win a This is Me Journal, leave a comment that lists your favorite beverage. I’ll pick 2 winners randomly Wednesday at 10pm PST.***

Although Laylee’s a frequent indirect contributor to Daring Young Mom, she’s too young to actually blog. However I love hearing what she has to say about life. Her pictures tell so much about what’s going on inside that amazing little head of hers.

One of my favorite ways to dig in and find out what really matters to her is with the This is Me Journal. Designed by a fellow mom-blogger, this journal is going to be an absolute goldmine of preciousness and blackmail material for years to come.

It’s part journal with questions and fill-in-the-blanks, part drawing pad and part scrapbook. Luckily the scrapbooking component is very small and easy. Insert picture of your favorite stuffed octopus here. I can handle that.

Laylee listed me as one of her best friends and for favorite drinks she listed lemonade, strawberry lemonade, apple juice, cow’s milk (as opposed to the milk of a tsetse fly), and soda with Echinacea in it (a family favorite sick drink).

For the first several days after receiving it in the mail, Laylee slept with her “Book of Me” under her arm. When I suggested we put it somewhere safer, she took initiative and hid it. I finally found it today months later and we had a blast working on it. The journal would make a great gift for young friends and cousins whose homes seem to be filled with every new gadget and toy. I plan to buy copies the next few years for Laylee, help her fill them out and see how they compare.

Maybe in the future she’ll decide she doesn’t like cow’s milk anymore but I’m sure I’ll always be listed as a best friend.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to have an evil stepmother around here to not-so-gently guide me away from my chronic procrastination, someone who’d force me to get things done or else face life in the cellar with the rats. [read more at Parenting.com]

Overheard recently:

DYM:  Does anyone know where the scissors are?

Magoo:  [drawl]  Nooope. [fast]  I-know-I-know-I-know! [pause]  Whaaaat?

____________________________

DYM: [putting on Magoo’s elbow pads]  It’s elbow time!

Magoo: I LOOOOVE ebow time!  … Wha’s ebow time?

____________________________

DYM:  We’re having some bacon for dinner.

Magoo:  I LOOOOOVE bacon! … Wha’s bacon?

Bonus line from Laylee:

Laylee:  It’s a good thing I washed my hands because bacon is hard to fork.

 

As we drove along the highway to Port Angeles, I had a few minutes to think about my hideous appearance. My fair, pale, milky complexion stared back at me in the rear view mirror. It’s true I have the face of a goddess but not like one of the REALLY beautiful goddesses. I could not understand why all males everywhere were drawn to my so-called “stunning beauty.” What a joke! With silky dark jet-black hair like mine paired with my delicate features and striking pale translucent ivory skin, some days it was hard just to get out of bed in the morning and take the paper bag off my head.

Not long into the journey I realized I had imprinted on Eve’s baby, a strange thing for a human to do but the connection was so strong, the cuteness too much for a mortal to handle without freaking out and laying claim and stuff.

Luckily the baby liked me despite my pitifully weak, willowy, waif-like frame and the hideous way the sun shone off the highlights in my lustrous mane of long black tresses. I wondered how long it would be until she grew up and realized how worthless and butt-ugly I was.

We got settled into our cozy hotel room and staked out our spots in the lobby for the late night read-a-thon. In anticipation of our arrival and in an attempt to save the planet, the hotel manager followed a couple of vegetarian vampires around for a few days gathering the wrappers from their fallen animal blood receptacles and sewing them into stylish and practical furniture covers.

We drove by the Swan house and apparently Charlie’s expecting grandchildren because there was a play structure and basketball hoop out front. It was nice to see that his brain could muster up enough power to expect anything more than a bowl of pork rinds and the schedule from the TV Guide.

Dr. Cullen’s parking spot at the hospital reminded me that the vampires will need to be on the move soon lest anyone notice that they haven’t aged since arriving in Forks. I wonder if rainy podunk towns around the world are lobbying Ms. Meyer to relocate the vampires there, relying on an endless stream of tweens and housewives to kick-start their non-existent economies.


For the most part the people of Forks seemed to humor us with a slightly weary look that said, I’ll play along if you keep paying for my kids’ orthodonture. However it was almost too hard for the young cashier at one local store to keep a straight face with a customer who was going on and on about how cute the high school was and how glad she was that they had Forks High School post cards for sale. I smiled at the girl when it was my turn to pay and said, “I’m sure it was such a privilege to actually GO there. OHMYGOSH, that must have been awesome!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, it was the best thing ever.”

For my trip souvenir, I picked up a pair of Sketchers. They don’t say Forks on them or have fang marks but I will wear them and subtly think of the glory days when I traveled several hours with 10 women and a baby to buy a book that was available in 20 stores within a 10 mile radius of my home.

We had a blast. There was really something magical about being there to read it, about being in the actual bookstore that Bella walked past in Port Angeles, about eating what she ate while Edward looked passionately into her eyes at the Italian restaurant, you know, if she were like… a real person or something. (Thanks to Fawn for knowing any of this stuff so we could experience a taste of the forbidden teenage vampiric love affair that is the Twilight series.)

I read until 5:30 am after getting the book at midnight, slept for a couple of hours and was awoken by Eve’s baby (my imprintee) who reminded me with her piteous wails that I had reading to do. I finished later that weekend and I really enjoyed it, except for that one character name… and the last chapter…

The End… or is it…

I’m so looking forward to my weekend away with the girls in a few days. I can’t believe it’s almost here.

I’m not sure I even need to read the book though. The actual book can never measure up to this little spoiler.