Signs That it's Time

This morning I had one of those signs that it's time to overhaul the contents of my freezer.

Maybe. Perhaps.

The boys are at daycare this summer, and they have to pack their lunches and a snack each day. Well, yesterday they each did all their own packing. The Gum Zombie got an ice pack from low in the freezer, so the Elder Offspring went up higher.

To the top shelf.

Where I am still storing the frozen expressed breastmilk from when G.Z. was an infant.

You know where this ends, right?

So this morning as I was helping him pack lunch for today, I pulled out this limp bag of very thawed, very ancient human milk.

I’d be embarrassed, but it turns out I have no shame. Good thing too because my placenta’s still in the bottom of the freezer.

Alrightie Then...

This morning in the car:

Elder: Spider farts!

Me: Huh?

Elder: Spider. Farts.
(implied: You dummy. Aren't you listening?)

Me: Spiders don't fart.
(thinking: Why do I get into these conversations?)

Elder: Yes they do.
(implied: Parents. Sigh. Whatcha gonna do with 'em?)

Me: Okay. Then how do you know when a spider has farted?
(thinking: It's a reasonable question. Who knows, maybe he saw something on the Discovery Channel about spiders that build webs by farting?)

Elder (after some consideration): Telegram.

Me (after some combined blinking and stifled choking): A telegram.

Elder: Yep. Telegram.

Me: Alrightie then...

The Elder Offspring and the Gum Zombie had been snickering behind me the entire time this conversation was going on and burst into hysterical giggles at this point.

As for me, I'm just glad I'm not the only totally random person in my family.

McDonald's: 1; Amanda: 0

McDonald's kicked my ass at lunch today.

I've had Mickey Dee's maybe three times since January 1st. My favorite meal there is the double quarter pounder with cheese, and honestly, if I can't have that? It ain't worth going. So I've been extremely sparing regarding my trips to the Golden Arches.

But today just called for a grease bomb.

God it was good. Worth every freaking calorie.

Hop on Pop

Or Cat in Cup.

Everyone, this is Bob. You're getting cat pictures, because, well, a) for writing? I got nothing; and b) Huge M.D. inspired me.


Bob, this is everyone.

I think The Dread Feline Roberts was a whopping 4-5 weeks old when this picture was taken. Looking at it, I believe this would be where Mack and Case came up with his initial moniker of "Worried Face." It fits.

He's now about 3.5 months old, and just as adorable along with a bit of teenagery-gawkiness. Much to his joy, he's also now taller than the Toad.

The Toad doesn't appear to have noticed.

Food, Food, Food, Food, Food...

Whew. Well, I averaged up my calories for the week (I record my food on the SparkPeople.com nutrition calculator, perfect for the anal-rententive diners among us) and although I had an "episode" at the local Chinese buffet earlier this week involving some bourbon chicken and lo mein along with a slight run-in with Checkers yesterday, my overall weekly intake is within range.

Coolness.

And I'm hungry right now, because I've been spending more time cooking this afternoon than eating.

For dinner we're having Slow Cooker Salsa Chicken, which is from a recipe I got at SparkPeople. It's 4 1/2 chicken breasts, a cup of salsa, a can of reduced fat mushroom soup (I just used the Healthy Recpies Campbells variant), a package of reduced sodium taco seasoning (I used full sodium -- there are limits) and 1/2 cup of reduced fat sour cream.

Now the recipe says to just toss the chicken into the crockpot, sprinkle the taco seasoning over it, and pour the salsa and soup over that, then cook on low for 6-8 hours. But raw chicken? In a crockpot? It may be just fine, but I feel better browning it, so I did. And mid-cycle I've had it on high rather than low, because I'd like to eat a bit earlier than 9PM.

The sour cream goes in after the rest of the ingredients are removed from the heat. It's a really highly rated recipe, and it's smelling awesome, so I'm pretty eager to try it.

Oh! And I'm also making some weird cake/ quick bread-like stuff. I've got this book "200 Under 200" by Lisa Lillien, the lady who set up the Hungry Girl website (another fun productivity-killer of mine). Her big thing for reducing the calorie count in foods is with tons of substitutions. I'm not making one of her recipes exactly, but the inspiration came from reading through the book. I took a box of yellow cake mix (the Pillsbury "moist" type, and I used the reduced sugar variant), a can of pumpkin (the Libby's "Pure Pumpkin") and the other 1/2 cup of reduced fat sour cream. Mixed all three ingredients together (I also added 1 tsp. cinnamon and 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract) until well blended, and divided them into two medium-sized loaf pans. Baked at 350 for 40-45 minutes, and got two pumpkin cake/quick bread loaves out of it.

It made 16 servings total at 140 calories each, and these are BIG pieces! Yeah, I'm psyched. I hope I get some before the boys and Choreboy consume it all.

I'll report back once I've eaten. This stuff better be good.

Edited to add update:
I can heartily recommend both the Slow Cooker Salsa Chicken and the pumpkin cake. More in comments. And I'm envisioning the cake served under a scoop of caramel ice cream... bliss.

Hair Wars

Choreboy and I have been bickering back and forth about who's having a harder time with their hair.

I say I'm having more trauma:

• I broke the mutual non-aggression treaty I had with my hair and am attempting to have an actual style, which in the Florida humidity is no small task.
• My roots are now more white than grey, putting my natural hair color firmly at "little old lady".
• Added to this condition is the fact that my incoming white hair is more coarse, dry, and wirey just by the very nature of the beast. Bear in mind, it wasn't exactly silky straight prior to its decline in pigmentation.

So it's more "little old lady meets brillo pad," which is why I have a stockpile of oils, silicone-based smoothers, and industrial strength blowdryers and flat irons. Every six weeks I spend four hours shackled to my stylist's chair huffing chemicals, because the "do it yourself" dyes either won't stick to my hair or turn it an unfortunate shade of mauve. All that and a minimum of 30 minutes drying/ styling time keep me from looking like I've had unnatural relations with a light socket while riding a geritol high.

Meanwhile, Choreboy claims he's having a worse time of it because he's let his hair grow out to a whopping 1.5 inches in length on the top (it's still under 1/2" on the sides and back) and he has to brush it.

My heart bleeds for that boy. Truly it does.

This Just In

I'd mentioned previously that a new feline member of the household was incoming. Well, Bob arrived a couple of weeks ago, bless his little kittenish heart. No, he's not a Manx or any sort of "breed" of cat, and despite his name he has a full-length tail. For those of you interested, he was born on March 12th, and is a grey tabby sort of boy. And it's "Bob" for "Robert," for the record; all Bobcat references are directed toward the actor and not any sort of anatomical trait of the beast.

The best description of Bob and how he spends his days came from Choreboy:

"I watched Bob literally bounce off of the couch, hit the wall behind the cat tree with a loud thunk and zip headlong into Emily's litter box exactly like a cat pinball machine. I haven't seen him since. You may want to consider eliminating the kitten food considering the fact that the heavy scent of nuclear droppings once again permeates the inside of the house.

Or you could just scoop every day."

He may have a point. That aside, I think Bob's going to fit in just fine.

Edited to add:
In other news, "brainwashing" and "brainstorming"? Not the same thing. At all.

Harumph.

Mutant hairs suck.

It's bad enough when they first make their appearance. You know what I'm talking about, ladies -- those ridiculous, invariably black ones that like to sprout out of your neck or chin, and even when they're ripped from your flesh they grow back in within three freaking days?

Yeah, those hairs.

Well I'm here to tell you it gets worse. Because those little bastards? Eventually go grey. Which, for a single hair, equals white... pretty much rendering them invisible.

And for the record, in my experience, this event tends to coincide with the emergence of one's need to wear bifocals.

Sigh.

I'd write more, but I have a blind date with my tweezers.