I Like Big Teeth!

I'm being called to blog. Again. I know, I know, you can't believe your luck. Well, believe it.  Some time has been freed up-My Little Studios is reorganizing-so here I is.  Hallelujah. I would say I'm being called to write but I had not stopped writing- just posting.

I swallowed my left eye tooth on Christmas morning. I looked classy and cute for Christmas dinner at my sisters. Nothing says, "indulge in the prosperity of the season" better than sitting next to a toothless mother-of-three-under-seven.  I like that and made sure to smile ear to ear thru out.  No one said anything, probably the best part.  No actually, that's not what happened.  In reality, I told of my swallowed crown right after the holiday hug and blocked the gap with my tongue whenever a grin escaped.  My hide-the-gap smile reminded me of one I've seen friends employ when dealing with a cold sore- a euphenism for oral herpes outbreak. By the grace of God, I've never had a herpes outbreak, but now I can say I understand the facial contortions that go along with the open oral sores.  The gifts of life never cease.

Naturally, we were talking about teeth at dinner. I noticed my brother in-laws brothers wifes' teeth. Got that?
     "You have great teeth." I said.
     "Really? I feel like they're so big."
     "I like big teeth." I said.
And then we locked eyes and a modern-day musical broke-out to the tune of Sir Mix-A-Lot's I like Big Butts.  Probably similar to the one that just happened in your head if you're in tune;)

Her husband, Chris and I busted out in unison-
     "I like big teeth and I can not lie!" We shouted.
     "My ortho-dent-ist don't want none- unless you got gums -hun." I ran. "You can floss and even whiten - but please don't grind those teef..."
And then it died.
But that really did happen unlike my imaginary ear to ear toothless smiles to make everyone uncomf... and that was fun.

Interesting what makes a person attractive.  A matter of millimeters I always say.  Yes, I always say that.   Where ever I go I introduce myself and then say, "A matter of millimeters." Do you think that bothers people? I never stop to ask.  But seriously, think about it.  You see people all the time, our imperfections are the vestiges of our charm:) BUT if only a nostril was shifted a millimeter to the left, or their eyes separated just a millimeter more...they'd be gettin' paper for those looks or for the millimeterly blessed -that L'Oreal contract would be completely out of reach if the distance between their upper lip and tip of their nose were just a millimeter off. If their lips were just less plump. Cheeks a bit caved. Chin protruded or not there at all. Forehead a five head.  You get the drift...

And I can't even get into inches...that's a whole other universe...too much said and to be said for the inches.

Then there is the matter of beauty only being skin deep.  Whoever said that?  Beauty is not skin deep. Beauty is as deep as the bottom of your soul and as wide as the air around you.  And I know what the phrase means. But I think it forgets energy. The energy we radiate is louder than image. Now giving it some thought- ahem-basically that is what it means but I have fallen in love with my phrasing up there so let's pretend I don't get it, so that I can keep it. Dumb and happy, that's me! I agree BUT I don't think you have to wait to get to truly know a person to get a good read on their energy-that is primal survival stuff. There are people whose millimeters and inches are all off but whose energy is so on-we are attracted to them like a clothes horse to a sample sale.   They are interested in being of service, in what they can contribute. Personally, I like both. I like you to look good and act right.  Yet, I can't say I'm a shining example of looking good and acting right.  Many times I look bad and act worse.  Rarely do I get into that aspirational zone. But...I try.  There are those in-between.  Then there are those who are exponentially consumed with their own attractiveness-we can only be repulsed. You know who I mean.  Those that are centered on self.  The person who thinks about themselves all of everyday.  The one who has primped, plucked, puckered, pumped and purchased every thing in their power to impress the mirror that they can't concentrate on anything but competing with their own grandeur- and yours. That actually blocks true beauty from coming out. We can't get a read on it, because it's all covered up with pretense or plastic surgery. It is sad. (Until the day I get plastic surgery and then it will be awesome!) But there's enough sad and boring in the world- let's celebrate the beauty of it.

I like big teeth!

...and big noses...
   ...to rub like eskimoses....

Happy New Year!! 2013!  <3

ps- in light of accuracy, i swallowed the molar behind my left eye tooth. some literary license there...;)

It's been ages!!

....It's been ages! and stages! without any pages!! I stopped writing TNP because I began teaching at My Little Actor's Studio. Had a ball! Well, today I was thinking "I miss this forum!" I really have been hankering to scribble out some thoughts and just checked this blog today and cannot believe my last post was March 8. Wow. SO "it's been ages", cause that's a long time, "it's been stages", cause My Little Studios did The Wizard of OZ on stage at The Community Church, (they killed it, high five me.) and "without any pages"...well without writing blog of course. Does it feel as if I'm talking to you like you're five? I think I do that now. Spending all my time with the "Littles", and my own littles who are getting so biggles. I wonder have I lost my touch? My "EDGE". By the looks of all these "Quotes", I would say so. Please guide me through a brief question and answer session to resolve this conflict. Q&A:: Am I afraid that this has to be some kind of gnarly literary comeback? No. Am I afraid that I might say embarrassing things (er, more embarrassing things?) and my new FB friends who don't know about TNP will be unrolling their children from My Little Studios? Yes. haha! NO! Well...kinda. jury's out. What would I tell my kids to do? Do what they love in the spirit of love, regardless of judgement. Do I love writing and sharing it? YES! Should I continue? Of course! Am I ever going to figure out how to create paragraphs instead of writing this out in one big chunk? With the grace of God. So happy we worked that out and to be back to the key board. Which, incidentally, is now a blue tooth/iPad situation that I am seriously digging. I hate how hip I'm tryng to sound. Who am I? More importantly, Who Are You? Ok enough of you, back to me. So, we have done a lot since March. Demolished and rebuilt the kitchen, (I will post pics eventually), kicked off My Little Studios, (was more fun than a barrel of famous peoples diaries), did Disney World, (fun!), read Shades of Grey, which by the way...what was the big deal? I am still writing Joone, and let me tell you, Johanshah aka "Jonny" Roshanzadeh, makes Christian Grey look like a choir boy. So, buckle up, brace yourself, do whatever it is you have to do not to lose your grip on reality because Joone is coming and it's gonna knock your boots off. Totally kidding. But I am going to publish by end of year. That's a pinky promise. So I hope you'll like it. There are actually two Jonny's, Johnny and Jonny. The rookie and the husband. wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooohoooooooo. RRRRRAOAR~! Okay, that's enough out of me, it's been such a fun catch up chat, thanks for guiding me through that quagmire earlier in the post, and I hope to hear from you for ideas on what to post next week! Have a blessed weekend! S

Joone a novel by Susan Saraf

This is an excerpt from a novel I wrote, Joone*.  

*Joone is a term of endearment in Farsi, a word comparative to "dear" in English. Usually tagged onto the end of someones name, for example, Susie Joone...

Joone

Susan Saraf 

343 N. Village Avenue

Rockville Centre, NY

11570

Susansaraf@gmail.com

917-861-3162

Women Who Stepped Up

Were Measured As Citizens

Of The Nation, Not As Women...

This Was A People’s War, 

And Everyone Was In It

         -George Oveta Culp Hobby

                                             

                                            * * *

He’s away for the weekend and she considers life without him. She puts their baby, the reason they could never regret their relationship, to bed.  It’s seven o’clock and so far business as usual.  Jonny only comes home before seven if she doesn’t beg and usually after a long day,  alone with the baby,  she can’t resist.  It’s an element of his psyche he claims to be unaware of; a part of him that rebels against doing anything that could even mildly suggest being controlled.  His not coming home before seven pisses her off almost daily.  She attributes the trench that has formed between her thirty-one-year-old brows, solely to his lack of punctuality.  What his friends and family fondly refer to as Persian Time. 

She lay their baby boy, Jakey Wakey Come On and Shakey, short for Jacob, in his crib.  Savoring the smell of his powdered cheeks she tucks his pacifier into his pink bow lipped mouth then arranges his teddy bears up by his fair chub rolled neck- so he can cuddle with his friends- the friends of an eleven month old. She brushes his forehead with the tips of her manicured fingers, whispering their nighttime ritual in a soothing voice that works for both of them: comforting him while making her feel creative, like what she’s heard it means to be a good mother. Unconsciously (but almost everything she does these days is unconscious) improvising off of a popular children’s book, “Good night trees, good night leaves, good night grasshoppers, good night penguins, good night Nana, good night Papa, good night Sahroya Joone, Bubby Joone…,” she hopes the words will work him to sleep. 

Slipping out of the nursery she closes the door behind her.  She listens to the house.  She listens to her body.  She’s listening to hear if she feels the least bit alone.  She doesn’t.  She will continue to test herself like this throughout the long weekend, but is it valid? Can you discover if you can live without someone when you know they are coming back?  Of course she always wondered what her life would be like without this one or that one, but now there were other people to consider, other lives besides the pair of them to be directly effected. One had to be certain it wasn’t a matter of whimsy, a reflection of mood, that there was no bending of the circumstances to fit either. 

The heats coming up through the radiators from the basement; they live in an old colonial farmhouse on Long Island bought from the children of the man who built it with his own hands nearly a century ago. It is a much smaller version of the one she grew up in twenty five miles away, before she lived in an apartment alone in New York City.

The sound of steam and the clacking of the pipes feel as warm and comforting as a bowl of mashed potatoes, it smells as good too. Walking down the stairs she holds the metal railing with her left hand; it feels cool. She’s afraid she might snag her palm on a ragged piece of metal on the banister, even though the thought is irrational. The railing is original to the house, smoothed by use for over 9o years. Still, she pulls her hand away. When she reaches the landing and turns into the dining room she checks the thermostat out of habit. She’s always policing Jonny, making sure he doesn’t sneak it up a degree and waste money on heat when he could put on a sweater.  It feels good to check the thermostat; she turns it up one degree because she can, because Jonny won’t see her being a hypocrite. 

The kitchen is in front of her, looming like an unpaid bill. What should she make for dinner, for herself? Opening the refrigerator door she is stricken by the waft of dill and kebab and how easily she forgot that her in-laws had brought it over just hours before. She is sickened by the smells, more from the idea of being dependent on her in-laws then the actual herbs and spices used to marinate the meats. Instead of seeing the free home cooked and delivered meal as a gift, the idea that as a grown adult, a mother and a wife, her mother in law is asserting her food into their refrigerator, makes her feel suffocated. She decides on a glass of Chardonnay, a baguette slathered in butter, sprinkled with Sea salt and a Vicodin. She brings her party for one into the den and sets it on a nesting table; she sits on the couch resting her feet on another nesting table, the next size down. She can smell the cold air outside coming in from a drafty window like a vicious rumor.  She pulls the curtains over the draft.  There must be three feet of snow already. She feels decadent and content and indulgent sitting in front of the TV.  She turns to the home improvement channel, on it the image of an exceptionally good-and-young looking elderly couple talking about how often he pleases who is meant to be his gorgeous albeit post-menopausal wife. Sarah can’t remember the last time she was pleased, at least by another person. 

She looks at the snow falling outside the French doors Jonny installed by himself last spring. She was so proud of him then, they were proud of each other. She herself bragged to anybody who’d listen, calling him by the pet name she created, “Did you see our French doors? Shaz did it all by himself! Saved us a ton and it looks like a real guy did it.”  They laughed together whenever she said that, “a real guy”, it sounded backhanded but she didn’t mean it that way. The right word would have been professional Other than that, she was weary of overselling her husband, showing off- a lot of women weren’t so fortunate.  They have to pay out for that kind of work and she didn’t like to court jealousy. 

She thinks to herself,  Jake is sound asleep and I am trapped inside with my wine, bread, butter, salt and TV, waiting for my Vikey Rikey to kick in. This is too good to be true. She checks in to see if she misses her husband yet. Nope. In fact she begins to think they should do this more often, plan two or three trips apart a year, weekends away to collect themselves, remember who they were before they merged (collided?) into one. She turns on the country music channel to stir something up. Someone named Conway Twitty is singing about Linda being on his mind while he’s sleeping next to his wife, whom she gathers is not named Linda. It’s a good song- he’s such a dog! She switches over to the Classic Rock channel, more her speed. Honky Tonk Woman plays, she can remember singing it in a bar in San Francisco ten years ago, maybe Grant and Green was the name of the bar, in a boozy haze of misplaced dreams she stepped up to the microphone and joined the band in song, she thought maybe she’d be discovered, this millenium’s version of a female Jim Morrison, but it turns out all she could do was drink like him.  This makes her miss those days, but not Jonny.  She tells herself to enjoy the present- the decadent, contented, indulgent, feet up on the nesting table, butter spread on a French baguette sprinkled with sea salt washed down with a glass of chardonnay, baby sleeping peacefully, man finally being away after three years, self-gratifying present.  

If only our minds did what we tell them to before our feelings have a vote.

Instead she has a second thought. Drinking her wine, the drug kicking in, she thinks, “This would be even better with a cigarette.” Before she runs the thought through to its inevitable dangerous conclusion, she finds herself with her coat on walking out the front door.  She is walking into town to buy a pack of cigarettes. She is walking away from her sleeping infant, who lay sleeping alone, helpless in his crib. She is walking high on alcohol, Vicodin and the idea of freedom. 

****

Open Shop

SONG : It Takes Two by Rob Base

I wish I could say todays blog is once again delivered on a Friday morning and not a Thursday Night, because I've been busy with the three kids, or working like a titan trying to get my little shop off the ground. But no. Thanks to my friend Anne, I've been sucked in and enthralled on Pinterest. People "pin" things they find "interest"ing onto a cyber board. The architecture, ideas and creativity and wisdom are boundless.  It's inspiring, awe-striking, (if you'll allow that to be a word), it's mind stretching how creative and cool people are.

It's like entering a dream. Boy, I love to dream.

I was addicted the second I signed on. And I can't go on at all if I want to do anything else that hour, like remember to pick my son up at the bus stop, or take the three year old out of the tub. So, I can't do it at all (during the week at least), I'll try to be a weekend warrior. But I encourage you too give it a look-see. You will regret it. Wink, wink.

Back to my little shop. I am thinking of offering kids classes two at a time. So that one group takes an acting class while another is in the kitchen learning about great food and fun treats, then the groups switch. The idea is that as a mom, I'm dropping off,  I barely get back in the car before I need to turn around again and pick up. I really would like to have more time to do something, anything, while my child is having all the fun, and support local entrepreneurs. As a business owner, I only want to hire the best-professional teachers/talent, with as much passion for their craft as I have. As that teacher I need to show up and be paid well for more than one class. And as a kid I want to get to know the kids I'm with in a playful environment, instead of having an awkward 45 minutes or being stuck in the house, alone, with a babysitter. But two classes can be pricey.

So, after careful negotiation with The Garden City Community Church (and by careful negotiation I mean I brought the manager a tangerine- heehee), I am able to offer two classes cheaper for an introductory time to see if it works. Three and four year olds from 1:15-2:50pm (time for snack after nursery plus elementary pick up and turn around) and five to eight year olds (4:00- 5:45). $165 for one class or $245 for both.

Some potential slogans...
My Little Studios....Designer childcare at warehouse prices (...ha! how bad is that?)
My Little Studios...Come by! It's a bona fide playdate! (from Anna, really like.)
My Little Studios...Give your (self) kids a break!

My website is not up because I've been teaching, cooking dinners, picking up, dropping off, changing diapers, feeding baby, doing laundry, showering, food shopping, visiting my mom, working out... (ok, really I've been Pinteresting), but I would love to know what you all think about a two-fer?

Let me know!! and oh yeah...Happy Pinning!!

Please leave a comment here. I'll love you. Plus, as if you needed another bonus, if you post anonymous no one has to know. Thanks!

Mother Knows Best

SONG: Forever Young, Alphaville not the Jay Z version, old school!.


But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat. 

I've been trying to write a post around that thought. I had it while sitting at a traffic light, Monday, tears streaming down my cheeks, trying not to look at my phone, I wanted to text and drive, she likes to text, cause it's hard for her to talk. This time my Mom, not my Dad, was sent to the hospital, this time she was the focus.  And I couldn't bare it.

Moms aren't to be thought about, looked too closely at, if you're lucky, and I am, they're just supposed to be there.  They are there to say unthinkable things to, to tell petty hurts, how you really feel about the cream your  husband gave you, or the pain that friend did. She's there to yell mean things at in times of frustration, mean things you wouldn't dare speak to another breathing body and loving things you might never feel for another human being. Except maybe if you have your own child, and then well, you know what she went through loving you and you love her even more. And it is never supposed to end. But the doctors said she has COPD and it is advanced and it is ending.

All I want to do is sit with her and make it all stop but if I can't, I at least want to get all of our time together. I keep thinking of things I might want to say, but we have the relationship where I can talk to her ten times a day and then not for days and then everyday. She's just always there. I can't imagine a situation, in what if I'm lucky, and I am, will be the next forty years of my life, where I won't need to talk to her.  And that's just new stuff, I wouldn't mind going back over old stuff too, that's a lifetime. And so that's how I had the thought, But you can't squeeze a lifetime into a bedside chat. 

I can imagine an Oscar, a Tony and a Grammy sitting on my mantel in Bel Air, the West Coast home, (the one we bought with the Publishers Clearing House winnings) next to the framed award for Entrepreneur of the Year, (the year before I win the Pulitzer Prize) and my acceptance speeches from the podium each time, but I can't imagine a moment without my mom, that's too big.

So this is what it is, this is what it is to lose your mother. Everyone goes through it, if they're lucky, and I am. I've heard so many people talk about it, and not when it was anyone close to me but on T.V. and stuff. I've felt bored, I felt bad, but honestly, I was kinda bored.  Now, my ears cock up like a retriever hearing a shot go off, "What happened? How long? Where? What do you do now? How are you upright?"

I went to see her at the hospital, Monday, I lay in bed with her, crying.
     "You're going to die, how am I going to live?" I asked. She looked at me as best she could, I thought, with the I.V. and Oxygen tubes restricting her motion.
    "Would you please?" She asked, her face, red, strained.
    "I know, it's so hard." I said. Glad, she was taking it as bad as I was. There are six of us after all, this proved I was the favorite.
     "Susan, please... you're... on... my Oxygen."

I looked around to discover I had lay on the tube that was delivering her oxygen, she couldn't breathe.
 
     "Oh, sorry." I said, sitting up, pulling the tube from underneath me, "Sorry, whoah, let me get that."

I re-positioned myself and the tube so she could breathe. I was eager to get back to our conversation though. I desperately wanted to know what she would say to me when she wasn't here anymore, because those are the thoughts I knew I could count on. I may not know what else may come up, but I knew she was going to die and before she did, I needed her to console me as if she were in heaven.
   
     "Okay, so as I was saying..." I said, a chuckle over cutting off her oxygen supply. "So you're going to be dead, and I'm not going to be able to live. I'm going to be so sad, and not have you to talk to. What am I going to do?"

I looked at my mother for an answer, her face now blank.

And then she smiled.
   
     "That's perfect." She said, nodding patiently, her voice a whisper. "That's so perfect, so actressy, "You're going to die, what am I going to do?"

I didn't understand. I was nearly drowning in tears.
 
    "Mom, I need you to tell me what I am supposed to do, how am I going to live without you, while you're dead?"
     "Susan. You're telling me I'm dying, and asking ME how to help you. How do you think it makes me feel for you to tell me I'm dying?"
     "I thought you knew." I said, steadfast. "Don't you?"
     "NO! I'm not dying! I'm getting better!" She said. She looked at me like I was nuts.
 
My tears dried up. I was beginning to understand.
     "Oh! I'm so sorry, I thought you were dying." I said, "and I thought it would be good if we could talk about it."
     "No, I'm not dying," She said, taking a sip of water. "I'm getting better."
     "What a relief!" I said, "I feel so much better. (A deep sigh and a breather). How funny about the actressy? That is so true. I would never have thought about that. So funny, Mom."
      "Yes, perfect." She said.
      "And the oxygen? That was like a Leslie Neilson- Airplane move! Bahahah!" I said. So happy to have her back.
       "Yep." She shook her head.
       "But maybe it's good to do like a dry-run anyway?" I asked.
       "A dry-run of what?"
       "Of when you're... you know...gone." I stammered.
        "Susan."
And I knew the way you know when the conversation is over with her, that the conversation was over.

She gets out of the hospital today and I talked to one of her doctor's who explained to me that she can live for a long time as long as she doesn't have many more flare ups, infections like bronchitis or pneumonia, that will repeatedly bring her back to the hospital. I was really glad to hear that. Cause that conversation may have been over, but lots of others aren't. Thank God. Now I can put my still beating broken bloody heart back into my torn chest. But I'd hate to be dramatic;).
     

   
   

    "


Please leave a comment here. I am trying to build a community on the blog page and can't figure out how to transfer facebook comments. Plus, as a bonus, if you post anonymous no one has to know you like me. Thanks!

Cashmere Remix!

Book- I Like You; Hospitality Under the Influence by Amy Sedaris
Song: Love You Like a Love Song by Selena Gomez

Did I say I'd never do another post with pictures and a project? Ah, seems the second I say "never" I am determined to "once again"!  So here goes it.

How to turn a moth eaten cashmere sweater, (but you could substitute anything you have no more use for in your closet, wool, felt, silk, Brillo? BRILLO? Why on earth would anyone have a Brillo sweater? That's just silly, and not cozy at all. Anyway.

I found five sweaters this year eaten by moths. Not shredded but just enough tiny festering holes to render them useless. Egads! 

I immediately thought of my dear friend Marie Claire in Sonoma, CA who makes incredibly beautiful blankets out of cashmere. Unfortunately, on my list of many dreaded tasks, is going to the post office. So these guys have been packed up and sitting on my dining room table for months. Sorry MC! Then I saw this (see photo of Christmas pillow). I was about to chuck it into the Christmas bin with all the other holiday crap. When I discovered an opportunity. Why not take this (see picture of husbands yellow cashmere sweater, larger than baby Henry), and create a cashmere pillow cover ala Ralph Lipshitz Lauren? Ah? I know! I'M A GENIUS!! IIIIIILUVAPARADE!

Okay, So find a pillow you wouldn't mind covering and whose size you like and slip your sweater over it to test it out. The bottom of the sweater is finished so you can use that as one end. I tied the arms around the back to get a better idea, when you finish it you can use a different fabric for the back, like a heavy cotton, flannel or burlap could be cool, just remember not Brillo, unless...anyway. I liked what I saw, and have plans to take it to my local tailor and get it sewn up. But if you're inclined slide a thread into the hole of a needle and do it your own darn self! This would be nicely finished with horn buttons, a simple invisible seam, or hell, get your man involved and put duck tape for an industrial feel;) You may even want to add a monogram, center a large letter of your last name perhaps? Ah? 

Here you have it. 

Final Score. Moths- 0 Me-1. Game. Over.  Marie Claire the rest are yours! And this time I mean it. Never. Again. Good Week!! xxoo!

Table Juicing

SONG: Our House - Madness
Link: Meredith Geller- Holistic Health and Lifestyle Consultant

You know those blogs where some crafty byatch is forever creating something even more perfect in her perfect world? She's knitting the perfect meal or eating the most well balanced sweater (reverse that), and you're left to feel inspired but inevitably like a total failure? Well, in this weeks post I'm hoping to accomplish just that. Wish me luck!

Wooden side table sanded 

My first project was to sand down and paint this ugly old wooden side-table and transform it into something modern and usable. Pay no attention to my burned out front lawn. I never promised you a rose garden. First, I sanded the table down with fine grade sand paper. I had it on hand, (not sure why), but you can find it at Home Depot or any hardware store.

side view of sanded table

 Next take a can of spray paint made for wood, in the color and finish you desire. For my modern sleek look, I chose high-gloss black.

It only took me an hour to finish the table, including bringing it outside, sanding down the finish so that the paint would stick, two coats of spray paint and moving it back inside. It's probably a better idea to paint it in your backyard or driveway if you have one, but I used the closest, widest doorway. Insuring, that it looks as if I took a blow-torch to the left hand corner of the front yard. And I didn't think it could get any worse looking. Never say never.

Cardboard under dirty feet.  But look at those  sexy legs!

For my second coat I noticed that the feet of the table were, sinking into the dirt, outside of my spray can's reach and covered in soil. So I ripped up a Pampers box, and stuck them underneath. Again, probably better to just use the driveway. On that same precautionary note, you may want to slip on a pair of gloves. The spray paint did a number on my hand. But that's just another expert tip. Do you feel like a failure yet? You will after this. I'm not worried.

SHAZAM! SITTING PRETTY! 

So there's my updated table, it won't be showing up in House Beautiful, but I do think it's an improvement. Plus, putting this blog together took three times as long as doing the table, which cost under $30. all in. So, I hope you'll feel inspired. (And useless:).

NEXT! Juicing!

I have a Jack LaLane Juicer, bought for $99. in the basement at Macy*s. It's a pain in the cankles to clean, so I haul it out only under very certain conditions- snot, congestion, that weird swallowing thing that happens when you know you're getting sick and to make my friends feel less-than.  Once those conditions are met it's game on, Jack. It always does the trick. I buy my greens at the local supermarket and I'm sure to bring my resusable canvas grocery bags, scowling at the people on line who have "forgotten" but really just don't care as much about our environment as I do. Obviously. I make eyes at them saying so, this makes the experience even more fun.

Julian feeding the juicer

The kids love to juice and it's a great way to get the little whiners up on the kitchen counter tops too distracted by the sound of the machine to realize they could lose their young lives by the sharp spinning blades. Perfect!

Look Mama, no hands! (Literally!)

This green stuff is DEEEE_licious. On a serious note,  nothing is more exciting than seeing the kids drink green! I tell them it's Hulk juice. But you can say it's slime. That would make it even more exciting!

Is that Juice ready yet?

My older boys will go so far as juicing and smelling, they won't drink more than a sip, if that. But I have started baby Henry on it and he LOVES it. So I hope his brothers won't ruin our groove, he'll be set up for life. This really gets my heart pumping.

Highchairs can be just as dangerous as kitchen counters! Yippy!

I used Kale, Apples and Carrots. Just half the bunch of Kale, two Macintosh apples, (to take the edge off the bitter Kale and a carrot for some more sweetness and color), yields enough juice for the three of us. I also like to use, celery, beets and ginger. and Mayo. Just Kidding.  My go to nutritional guru Meredith Geller, suggested I make a batch yielding a couple of days worth and store it in a Mason jar in the fridge. That way I can avoid the lengthy clean-up. She has lots of other awesome tips and a great website. Check her out. 

What's better looking than this? NOTHING! Feel useless yet? :)  

Probably not. Well, that's the last time I try to out-do those chicks who know what they're doing. Holy Rolly, this was the biggest pain in the neck, from the pictures to posting the pictures (you may have noticed I'm no Diane Arbus) to describing and pricing, YUCK! So much easier to write a little jam then all that, phew! I'm sweating.  Never again. I hope. Kudo's to the rest.  

Good Week all!

Smart Cart

Song: Good Feeling, Flo Rida

     I thought tonight that so much changes every day that the only thing I can count on is my kids peeing in the tub. Not sure if that revelation will stick, but I thought it was kinda cute. Wink wink. Let's arm wrestle.

NEXT! A partly fictional anecdote.

    Today, while online at Costco, a man who appeared to be in his sixties began chatting with me.
   
     "I am not fond of the winter." He said.

     "Yeah, it's pretty cold." I said.
   
     "Not the cold, the dark." He said.
   
      "Hmm. That too."
   
     We moved our carts forward, the line was long. But I didn't feel in a rush.
   
     "I suffer from clinical depression. It's worse in the winter."
   
     "Ah."
 
     "But yesterday I felt a burst of good feeling," He said, putting a body size bag of toilet paper on the conveyor belt. I smiled. He was charming. "I told my wife to call the doctor. She said, don't worry it'll pass."
   
     I laughed with him.
 
     "It gave me hope though, and before I knew it, I had another good feeling." He said. He had on a light brown cashmere sweater, plush and soft, inviting like an ad for carpet cleaner or grandparents, if they were for sale.
   
     He was now separating himself from his cart and positioning it on the side of the cashier while I put my own larger than life purchases on the same conveyor, our items divided by a foot long red plastic stick. He came over to help me with a large bottle of Tide. He didn't make a face like it was heavy but I could see a vein in his neck strain. I should have felt bad, but I didn't.
   
     "I think if I can string enough of these feelings together, I might have what one would call a good mood." He said.

       "You are so smart." I said, laughing.
   
    Then he took the bottle of Tide and swung it at my head, I ducked.  Just kidding. But wouldn't that have been funny?
   
     Really he just finished packing his cart with the check out guy and then walked away.

Good week!! xx
   



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