Blissful Torture

Über Horrific Idea #1

2011-02-13T13:26:00.000-06:00

Okay, I love household shortcuts…

Faster ways to do everyday chores, products that cut the work load in half, as well as techniques to effectively ~~threaten~~ ~~bribe~~ encourage preschoolers to pick up their toys or dress themselves in less than a fortnight.

I also love, love, LOVE lasagna…

It’s seriously one of the best pseudo original recipes in my repertoire. It can feed a crowd heartily all evening or my family for three days (which tastes better every time I pull it out of the fridge), and in general, makes me about as happy as any non-chocolate food can.

But this is just plain lasagna sacrilege...a WikiHow article on how to cook lasagna in your dishwasher. Yes, I said dishwasher. Even with detergent and dirty dishes along for the ride.

All the work in making lasagna is in the preparations and layering. For me, it takes about an hour, before cook time, which is also right under an hour for a full pan.

Soooo, don’t most high heat dishwasher cycles take longer than an hour?

Not to mention that cumulatively, it’s can be an expensive dish to put together with all the cheeses, sauce, noodles, meat, and veggies (my recipe averages $15).

And please tell me who has a dishwasher but NOT an oven?

So why, why, WHY would anyone ever risk defiling the culinary sanctity and laborious nature of lasagna by cooking it in the freaking dishwasher?!

My only answer is that this was thought up by a man; the same kind of man that cooks a deer steak and a can of beans on the manifold of a pickup truck, in the woods, wearing camouflage, while drinking beer.

Lots of beer.

Any other theories out there?

Feed Me! Friday: Gooey Butter Brownies

2011-02-11T08:16:00.005-06:00

These are a crowd pleaser, and a butt expander. Enjoy!

Gooey Butter Brownies

Basic boxed brownie mix (13x9 or "family size"), baked according to instructions, but in a slightly larger pan (I used my lasagna pan).
Pull brownies out just a couple minutes before normal time.

For Gooey Butter Cookie Layer:

Ingredients
• 1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
• 1/2 cup butter, softened
• 1 egg
• 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1 (18.25 ounce) package yellow cake mix
• 1/4 cup confectioners' sugar

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

2. In a medium bowl, cream together the cream cheese and butter. Stir in the egg and vanilla. Add cake mix, and stir until well blended. Roll into 1 inch balls and roll the balls in the confectioners' sugar. (Messy but worth it) Try as hard as you can not to eat ALL the cookie dough raw. Place balls almost touching on top of the partially cooled brownie layer. Press down slightly around the edges.

3. Bake another 13-15 minutes until golden

4. Sprinkle with a little more confectioner’s sugar, just to make it a little more purty and tempting.

5. When cooled, cut portions as needed along the rounded lines of the killer gooey butter cookies on the top.

6. Share them with guests so that you don't eat them all by yourself. Like I did.

Friday (ish) Fiction: Don't Poke the Demon

2011-01-29T01:07:00.001-06:00

I love my wife. Seriously, I do.

But if you repeat what I am about to say, I will deny it. To the grave.

My wife is possessed. The demon has a name, but if you utter it, you will only anger it. Believe me. Every time I catch myself about to call the demon out, I stop and think, Don’t poke the demon, Greg. Fire will spew from her lips, and she will gnash her teeth growling in that freaky, guttural snarl…

She wasn’t always possessed, at least to this degree. Once upon a time I would only see an annoyance flash in her eyes. Now that flash is the ten second warning. I’ve learned to duck and cover or perish where I stand.
As the years have gone by, just locking myself in the bathroom or banging around in the basement have proved to not be enough protection. If I could be seen, smelled or heard, she’d sense my presence. Many times I’ve heard her familiar growl seeping under doors I was cowering behind. “Grrreg! Are you going to take all day in there!?” I swear, when the demon appears, I get as knotted up as last year’s Christmas lights.

My epiphany came from an unexpected source. I happened to pick up and read the cover jacket on the book on my wife’s nightstand, The Red Tent by Anita Diamante. It seems that back in the Old Testament days, those women possessed by the demon were isolated to a tent of their own. Forehead smackin’ genius.

With a little help from Wikipedia, I discovered that some tribes in Africa have a specific hut for their possessed females.

Of course, this is not the days of Abraham, or the plains of Africa. If I tried to sequester her to a hovel in the yard, she would probably divorce me, if I were a lucky man. It’s more likely that she would brain me and bury me in pieces under said hovel.

What I needed was a man tent. A red hut. My very own cowering cave, completely separate from the main house.

Two problems though:

First of all, Iowa is stupid cold in the winter, and the demon knows no seasons. Coleman doesn’t make a canvas structure that can sustain me for a week in twelve inches of snow.

Second, I needed a reason—and a darn good one—to vanish for days on end. I needed a hobby, no-no, a calling, to justify my absence from the demon’s lair.

While I brainstormed the second problem, I took bold steps to rectify the first. The most important detail of the plan was to approach her while the demon was away…

One Monday morning after a long weekend of snowfall, I slid the blueprints for a two story detached garage across the breakfast table. She looked out at her car buried under eight inches of ice and snow, and then gave me a huge grin. The plan was working.

When the spring finally came we broke ground, and by midsummer, my red-brick-man-cave was almost complete. It was time to implement part two of “Operation Dodge the Demon”. I needed to pull out my secret weapon—an unsuspecting accomplice—our pastor.

It might have been the tensest Sunday morning in our history. The demon snarled me out of bed, told me I could barely dress myself and why was she surprised that I couldn’t help her dress the kids, and screamed that if I didn’t get out of the bathroom we were going to be late for church.

The only time my mouth didn’t possess a Tums was when I held the sacraments of communion in it.

When we filed out to shake the pastor’s hand, he asked how the garage was coming along. I projected my voice sideways towards the fashionable demon that flanked my right.

“I’m ready to get all my woodworking tools out of the basement and into the garage loft…”

“Really? Do you think you’ll have some time and space to devote to our More Than Carpentry ministry?”

Cha-ching. “Honey, whaddya think?” I held my breath.

She offered a taut smile, “That sounds like a real blessing. It’d be nice to get him out of the house. Some days I just can’t stand the sight of him.”

As her talons pulled me into the narthex, I glanced back to my pastor who gave me a knowing smirk and mouthed the words, “I’ll call you.”

He better.

Law and Order: PRESCHOOL Unit

2011-01-25T17:14:00.000-06:00

Back-story: For the girls fourth birthday we gave them a big girl room. Twin sized beds and new bedding…the room is a soft pink with brown polka dots. Tis uber cute. Part of this renovation was to purge all the toys upstairs to what is now the playroom. That was a gift to me. It is wonderful to have all ~~that crap~~ the kid’s stuff in a specified area, out of the way, and I place I can send the kiddos to visit their ~~crap~~ toys, also, out of my way. Forehead smackin’ genius.

So...Reagan comes strolling downstairs and casually moseys up next to me at my computer.

Me: “Whatcha guys doing up there? Playing with your Barbies?”

Reagan: “Yes, just playing. Not cutting.”

The interrogation begins. My head whips a quarter turn to meet her eyes, tilts in a disapproving Mom manner, eyes narrowed: “Cutting? What are you cutting?”

Reagan: “Nothing.”

Me: “Did you find a pair of scissors?”

Reagan: “Nope.”

Me: “Are you lying, Reagan?”

The Little Liar: (extremely long pause) “No.”

Reagan turns and heads to the stairs. I rise and follow the lead.

Reagan: “Are you coming up to play with us, Mommy?”

Me: “No, I’m coming up to see what you’ve been cutting.”

Her eyes widen, and she double times it up the stairs. Abby is playing with the giant pink Barbie Brothel.

Reagan: “See, Mom, we’re just playing.”

Me: “Abby, were you two cutting something?”

Reagan looks at Abby, bug eyed. I swear I can see her slightly shaking her head ‘no’.

With a pointing finger, Abby turned State’s Evidence. On the floor beneath the Little Tykes table was a pile of foam nugget confetti from a purple alphabet puzzle, and two pages of a Chick-Fil-A kid’s meal book cut into perfect two inches strips. And a dainty pair of sharp pointed pink scissors. I pick them up and inspect the loveseat, curtains and carpet for damage. Then checked their hair for new, unauthorized coifs. All clear.

Me: “So, who did the cutting?”

Abby (nonchalantly pointing to the defendant’s table from the proverbial
stand): “Reagan did.”

The look on Reagan’s face confirmed the accusation. Her gaze dropped to the floor. I bit my lip, trying not to smile.

The verdict was in. Guilty.

Reagan: “Sorry, Mommy.”

The sentence was delivered.

Me: “Pick up every little piece you cut and throw them away. And you have to tell Daddy what you did.”

The Little Convict: “NOooo….he’ll be upset with me.”

Me: “Yep…”

Then I handed my prisoner over to the warden. Don’t worry—he paroled her in time for dessert. :)

What's Cooking?

2011-01-17T18:20:00.000-06:00

It occurred to me earlier this week when I posted the following recipe on Facebook, that I should use my (terminally neglected) blog to post my favorite edible creations, great recipes I discover, as well as posting any recipes you all would like to share. After all, and despite how un-PC this sounds, everyday cooking usually falls into most Mom's to-do column.

I love cooking, but since I am an intuitive cook, I will have to strive harder to give you more precise ingredient amounts and cooking times than in the recipe below, though I will probably still use the term "ish" a lot. "Ish" means: according to your personal taste and what you have on hand:). I also will take pictures as I go along with my real camera, instead of my Forest Gump smart phone (it's not so smart, but it gets the job done).

Anyone that wants to share a recipe, give me a holler...you'll get full culinary credit.

So here is my introductory recipe...hope you like it!

Bacony Cheesy Goodness Stuffed Chicken Breasts

3-4 chicken breasts

½ cup low fat Italian Dressing

½ cup white wine (plus a little more;)

Five (ish) slices of bacon cut into fingernail (?) size bits

6-7 (ish) sliced mushrooms

Approximately 1/3 cup of sliced onion (give or take, based on preference)

3-4 tbsp Feta cheese crumbles

3-4 slices of Provolone cheese

3-4 tbsp of butter

2 (ish) cups of Panko bread crumbs

On the straighter side of the breast, carefully cut a slit about 2 ½ inches long, reaching in with the knife and making a good sized pocket. Be careful not to cut through any of the sides.

Toss the prepared chicken into a Ziploc or other container with the dressing and the wine; let them marinate in the fridge while preparing the stuffing.

(If you are as prone as I am to self inflicted clothing stains as I am, remember to put on your apron before you ruin yet another favorite shirt with bacon grease.)

In a large sauté pan (10-12 inches), fry the bacon bits for a couple minutes till they start to brown. Add the onion and sauté for a couple more till the onions start to become translucent. Add mushrooms. Stir a couple more minutes, until mushrooms start to shrink a little. Warning: the aroma at this point will starve you to death. Throw a splash of the white wine in to deglaze the pan. Go ahead and take a "test" drink straight from the bottle.

If you like the taste of the vino, add another healthy splash to the pan. Sauté a minute or two till the wine reduces. Take off the heat; spoon mixture into a bowl and set aside. Leave all the flavored fatty drippings in the pan. We’ll come back to that…

When the bacon mixture cools a tad, mix in the feta.

Preheat the oven to 350*

Remove chicken from the marinade. For each breast, take a halved provolone slice and insert in the cavity, spreading the two halves to cover the most territory. Spoon the bacon mixture in, making sure to tuck it to the corners. When all the chicken breasts are stuffed, coat them in the Panko crumbs. (If you'd like to add more fat/calories/time to the recipe, you can first coat the breasts in flour, and then run them through an egg wash before the Panko crumbs. I've found that an oil based marinade adheres the crumbs just dandy.)

Stop fooling yourself and just pour a glass of the wine.

Add the butter to the pre-flavored frying pan over med-high heat. Sauté the breasts on each side just till golden, and then transfer to a baking dish lightly sprayed with cooking spray.

Bake uncovered for 25-30 minutes.

Friday Fiction: Four Flew Over the Cuckoo Tree

2010-04-16T09:13:00.001-05:00

I know it's not Christmas-time, but my life recently resembles aspects of this twisted comedic story. :) Enjoy.

Four Flew Over the Cuckoo Tree

As the small band of misfits dribbled from their rooms for breakfast, they murmured amongst themselves about the boxes in the center of the common space.

When Meagan noticed the group assembling, she emerged from the glass enclosed nursing station. She flinched when Clarence sprung out of nowhere; he had used the plastic ficus tree for cover. Mental note: we need to address that blind spot…

“Why are you here? I thought it was your day off? What’s in the boxes, huh? Are they from the government? Is it a shock treatment table? It is, isn’t it?” Clarence narrowed his eyes and raised his right eyebrow suspiciously.

“I am here today because I brought you guys a present.” Meagan said as she approached the boxes and opened one in front of her captive audience.

“Is it booze?” Paula asked, “Please tell me it’s booze…I’ll take anything you got…seriously, anything.”

Meagan rolled her eyes at Paula as she plucked the top third of artificial Christmas tree from a box. “I bought a new one, so I talked the doctors into letting me donate my old one to the Ward.”

Sherry squealed, ”Oh, goodie-goodie-goodie! I love Christmas trees!” Without any prompting, the group began pulling the branches out of the boxes and assembling them.

“Let me check it for bugs,” Clarence snatched the tree stand from Sherry, “This is probably just a ploy to listen to our private conversations, ya know.”

“What’s that?” Josh’s head snapped to attention as he wiped the drool from his chin.

“Nurse Meagan brought us a Christmas tree!” Sherry clapped her hands as she delivered the news.

“Hey, that’s great. I’ll help, too…” but before he could get off the couch, his chin slumped back down to greet his chest, and the soft snores started immediately.

Clarence pointed at Josh, “See, that’s what the government does to ya when you register to vote, they plant a little chip in your…”

“Nah, that’s what can happen when you mix bourbon with your meds,” Paula oozed nonchalantly as she lit a cigarette, “so you all should be making sure he ain’t getting my mail.”

Sherry began to dig through the last box, “Hey, where are the ornaments? And the garland? There’s nothing in here but old craft supplies.”

“Well guys, here’s the thing,” Meagan began laying the supplies on the table for them,” after the incident last year they gave the Ward’s Christmas tree to Oncology. We had to make some serious concessions to get them to agree to let you have a tree at all. That means definitely no lights, and no glass ornaments either…though we can make some with the craft stuff. We have glue and construction paper, some popsicle sticks and stuff like that. You can even use photos of your family if you want to. The only thing is that the charge nurse has to approve them to make sure that they are all safe.”

“Yippee…Nurse Ratched gets to be the fun police. Imagine that…” Paula blew rings of smoke like she was already bored with the whole project, “I guess I’m out of the loop. What happened last year?”

“Well, without going into too much detail, a patient…” Meagan unconsciously swallowed hard, “…a patient ate all the light bulbs from the tree and had to have emergency surgery on Christmas Eve.”

Clarence snorted, “Come on…no one’s that crazy!” All eyes suddenly wandered over to Josh, who was on his feet and standing in front of the bathroom holding the door open wide.

“Well, we all have our issues, don’t we?” Meagan caught Sherry’s attention and emphatically brushed her bottom lip. Sherry’s eyes bulged as she quickly wiped the glob of school glue off her mouth. With most eyes on Boris, everyone missed this exchange…except for Clarence.

“It was you!” he barked at Sherry, “You are certifiably crazy!”

“Yep, and I got the papers to prove it…” Sherry defiantly scooped up a tube of glitter and stomped past Josh to go sulk in front of the television.

Meagan went over to Josh to see what he was staring at, though nothing looked out of place. “Do you need some help, Josh?”

“I’m just looking for bacon and eggs to cook for my wife. It’s my day to make breakfast.”

As Paula sashayed past, she paused, “If he’s looking for food in the bathroom, perhaps we should put the Christmas tree up on a table. Heaven forbid he dreams that he’s taking a walk in the woods...”

Good Friday Fiction: Among the Ancient

2010-04-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

The air carries a familiar scent, and I gaze up to the sky. The expanse above me is adorned in shades of hyacinth; the horizon beyond the city is framed by bulging white clouds, towering to the precipice of heaven itself.

The hour is surely near…

Though I tremble in anticipation of His arrival, I am just a fragment of the remnant who witnessed His departure. From this very garden—in the shade of the Mount of Olives—I watched Him go up to the clouds like a bird on the wind; the angels told us He would come again.

This I believe…

I was so young then; barely mature enough to provide fruit; my silvery leaves offering a paltry canopy of shade; a mere sapling in a garden grove of ancients; a shoot from one who had seen the days of David. Unworthy of His presence. Yet He chose me. He often knelt beneath my branches to pray. His back leaned against my already gnarled trunk as He taught His followers. I can still feel Him resting between my exposed roots.

He was truly God among us…

They laid their garments on the ground before Him, bowing down with palm branches in hand. Not a stallion did He ride, but a humble donkey. As He rode over the Mount, and past me in the garden, they worshipped Him as their king—their Messiah. Hosanna.

Scorned by the ones he came to save…

With glints of moonlight gracing the garden path, he laid prostrate on the rocky soil beneath me. He cried out to His Father; he spoke of a terrible cup—a cup of wrath—and prayed for it to pass over Him. Above that, He prayed for the Father’s will to be done. The soil is still tinged by the blood of His sweat. I yearned for lightning to strike me down so that I might crush those who came to take Him away.

The unblemished Lamb of God…

When the cup was poured out on Him—over and beyond on that dreaded hill of the skull—the foot of this holy hill felt the chill of darkness instead of the warmth of the sun; this garden shuddered in unison with all of creation. The ripe olives fell from my branches in mourning; the wind whined a dirge through my leaves. It was finished.

Sacrificed for the sins of the world…

But death held no power over Him; on the third day the tomb was empty; the shroud fell limp and vacant on the cold stone. He is risen.

He is risen, indeed…

And now I am an ancient myself. I can still hear His words being carried down the gentle mountain slope; He once foretold to His flock that this Holy City would crumble and fall. Yea, hardly a single temple stone was left in place, and the soldiers decimated this Garden of Gethsemane—we were trampled as the spoils of war. Though singed and scarred, I somehow survived. I survived to see many more wars and rumors of war, plagues and famines, earthquakes and great sorrows.

Come quickly, eternal Temple…

So as the last glimpses of twilight illuminate the clouds in shades of crimson, I search them earnestly for His familiar face; His hair blinding white like new wool; His feet like fiery brass. He will set His foot down above me on the Mount of Olives, splitting this holy hill in two. Every knee shall bow, every tongue shall confess. The rocks will cry out in praise, and the trees of the field will clap their hands. New Jerusalem will descend from the heavens in all its glory.

Oh, Ancient of Days, come restore Your Garden…

"You Make Me Feel So Young..."

2010-03-28T02:37:00.006-05:00

The girls Aunty Marsh sent them a vintage circa 1973 Fisher Price Little People “Play Family Village” for an Easter gifty.

Complete with a firehouse (and wind-up siren), post office, theater, police station (with a jail cell, lol), barber shop and an auto repair garage with a lift and gas pump.

And all the Little People accessories.

It’s identical to the one Marsh and I played with, and probably every other child born anytime in the 70’s. I have a time machine in my living room.

EBay rocks.

So does Aunty Marsh. :)

Thank you Easter Bunny! Bawk, Bawk!

Another One Bites the Dust

2010-03-19T22:55:00.006-05:00

It was a beautiful sandwich. A Dagwood for a lady. Thin turkey, Colby jack cheese, little bit of mayo and brown mustard, all stacked between two slices of multigrain bread from Joe Fazio bakery (via Sam’s).

I was almost done assembling my lunch when Abby streaked down the hall saying, “I have to POOP!”

I giggled and told her I’d be right there to help.

Not thinking much about it, I left the empty kitchen and headed to the bathroom, where Abby was already finished with her business. I patted her front dry with tissue, but while I was busy trying to separate a wet wipe from the container, Abby‘s neked little tushie bolted down the hall to the living room.

“ABIGAIL! You need your butt wiped young lady!” I had no choice but to chase her with a wipe in hand.

As I passed the kitchen, from the corner of my eye I saw black. I looked in horror to see Zoe, aka Dogzilla, devouring my dainty Dagwood in one gulp.

“ZOE! You %^@&!#) $!^@#!” Surprised by getting caught, she retreated back up the stairs, mouth full, with a What? Me? I’m innocent! look on her face. My husband, Jerry appeared at the top of the stairs, and I proceeded to tell him what HIS dog did to my lunch. I stomped back through the kitchen, butt wipe still in hand, to find the elusive Abby monster.

As I approach her she points to my once beautiful cream colored couch cushion. “Looook, Mommy. Brown poop!”

Three skid marks embellished the lovely brocade pattern. I looked at the ceiling and screamed like the woman on the edge that I was. Jerry came running to find me wiping Abby’s tushie, but as I pointed to the poo streaks and told him what she said, I started laughing.

Lysol wipes removed Abby’s butt painting, but I’d strongly advise against napping on my couch. Especially with your head facing south.

And if there is any justice in the world, that stupid dog got horrible indigestion from eating my sandwich in one giant Dogzilla mouthful. She’s up for adoption if there are any takers out there.

No? Didn’t think so…

Friday Fiction: The Bride of His Youth

2010-03-05T23:40:00.001-06:00

I stood naked beside our marital bed, gazing at myself in my grandma’s antique vanity mirror. A surreal fog swirled at my feet, and I was amazingly alert.

I knew it had to be a dream.

First of all, I absolutely never sleep nude. Not even in July. I hate it, and I always end up having weird dreams, kind of like this one.

Also, my aunt possesses Grandma’s coveted vanity, and any type of smoky aura in the house at three AM is usually a bad sign. None of this fazed me for a millisecond; therefore, a dream did this make.

The full-length oblong mirror cast a subtle illumination on me. I observed the lines and contours of my figure—the tight, womanly curves that created sultry shadows in their dips and hollows.

A familiar voice spoke from the corner, “God sure did know what He was doing when he made woman. We’re so pretty we can’t help gawkin’ at ourselves.” She laughed from her belly, exactly as I remembered.

I blushed, “Hi, Grandma. How’s Heaven treating you?”

“Not too shabby, bebe-gurl. I am ‘bout ready for that big ol’ trumpet to blow so I can try out my glorified body. Ya’ know who you get that gorgeous body from, dontcha? Moi.”

I thought of Grandma when I saw her last: gaudy clothes, chunky jewelry, gaudy shoes, chunky midsection.

“Oh, bebe-gurl, I know whatcha thinkin’—I didn’t get old and fat overnight, ya know. Look for yourself.”

The mirror appeared to be rippling water. As it gradually stilled, the image of Grandma in her early twenties—also frighteningly nude—stared back at me. The resemblance was overwhelming.

“Well, bebe-gurl, after you pick your jaw off the floor, I’ve got somethin’ to show ya. I know you and that lovely husband of yours have been talkin’ bout started your family…”

“Grandma, gross! Oh, please tell me you don’t visit us—“

“Get a hold a yourself, gurl.

“Now, think of this as an informed consent presentation. Ya ain’t gonna be able to say ya didn’t know what hit ya…ready?”

“I-I guess so.”

The mirror shimmered, and my reflection assumed a time elapsed rapid gestational period. My flat stomach swelled till my navel protruded; my chest inflated until it rested on my ginormous belly.

“Ugh.”

“Turn around a tad, bebe. Same issues in the rear. And notice the deep, red grooves everywhere.”

“Ohh…”

Grandma chuckled, “Just wait.”

The time elapse continued. The giant belly was evacuated, leaving a wilted, permanently puckered balloon of flesh dangling from my torso.

“Eww…”

“Yeah, and don’t forget about the stitches, bebe-gurl.”

“Ohh…I’ll have a cesarean?”

“No. Fewer stitches—worse location.”

“Huh?” It took several moments before it hit me fully, “Oh…Ohhhh!” My entire body shuddered.

“You betcha, bebe. That smarts somethin’ awful. But keep watching.”

My chest got even bigger and dark circles formed under my eyes. There was a flash of me nursing a tiny infant with soft curls on its head.

“Aww…”

Grandma’s mirror showed my full figure again; I could see my pouch-o-deflated-skin, my widened hips capped with the dreaded “muffin top”. The shadows beneath my eyes began to ease, but simultaneously my bosom withered and drooped miserably.

“Your twin fawns of a gazelle will truly be browsing among the lilies then, bebe-gurl.”

“Ohhh…”

“And those feet of yours will be almost two whole sizes bigger. Not a single shoe in that big ol’ closet will ever fit again.”

“That’s just plain mean, Grandma.”

“Yes, bebe, but you tell me, is it all worth the trade?”

In a sliver of time, I saw a lifetime of images flash across her mirror: three different baby faces, pink dresses, school buses, birthday cakes, graduation gowns, wedding dresses, and many more precious tiny faces. I barely noticed my aging image in the peripheral of the scenes. The streaming vision pummeled my senses, filling my chest like the crescendo and climax of a powerful hymn. I began to weep.

“Oh, yes. A thousand times, yes...” I looked to our bed, “But will he still think I’m beautiful?”

“Oh, yes, bebe-gurl. A thousand times, yes.”

I awoke with a jolt. Grandma and her prophetic mirror, gone.

A thousand times, yes…

I sighed. In all its frightening glory, my dream bestowed me with something remarkable—peace.

I reached for my husband, who was already watching me.

He smiled. “What are you thinking about, Beautiful?”

I smiled. “What do you think I’m thinking about?” I eased towards him.

“Ohhhh…”

Soapbox Saturday: Why Lent Annoys Me…

2010-02-20T22:07:00.001-06:00

I never fast during the Lenten season. By fasting, I mean “giving up” some creature comfort in my everyday life, as the modern custom goes. Honestly, I’m tainted when it comes to this subject.

I grew up hearing this most peculiar phrase…

”I’m giving up chocolate for Lent.”

”She’s giving up shoe shopping for Lent.”

"Little Jason is giving up Nintendo for Lent.”

As a kid in a nominal Christian home, watching this custom from the benches left me feeling…

Unrighteous. Unholy. Unworthy.

Of coarse, as a child those weren’t the exact phrases I thought of. More or less, just a general sense of “Un”.

Now, fully understanding the concept—and the many degrees—of Mortification of the Flesh, the custom irks me even more.

Not the fasting, or the sacrifice of one’s creature comforts to relate more to Christ and His sacrifice. It’s a wonderful tool to draw near to Him.

It’s the announcing it to anyone who’ll listen that makes me cringe.

I want to shout, “No! You’re not supposed to tell me! What’s the point if you tell people?”

Sure, you might find yourself needing to explain to someone WHY you aren’t watching American Idol or eating the fantastic chocolate cake their served for dessert. That type of revelation is usually not boastful. Usually. I’m sure there are exceptions.

I am not a theologian, but I know this: fasting, prayer, and charity are NOT meant to be done for the approval of man. God knows our hearts and intentions.

If you love the Lord, and fast during Lent, that is awesome. He is where our righteousness rests.

If you insist on telling everyone and their brother that you are “giving up Starbuck’s for Lent”, I hope your audience is impressed.

Don’t get your hair shirt in a bunch, but I’m not. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only one.

^{Matthew 6:16-18}

"When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are fasting. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

***

Friday Fiction: Three Inches Closer

2010-02-12T22:10:00.001-06:00

For this week’s Friday Fiction, I am posting my story that semi-finaled and received an Honorable Mention in the WOW! Fall Flash Fiction Contest.

Three Inches Closer

Micah awoke in the dining room. The house hummed loudly of a hundred murmured conversations all bleeding together. It made her ears buzz and her head feel cloudy.

Though she couldn’t recall where she had been in the moments before, she found herself staring at the deep pink freckles of a Stargazer lily bouquet displayed on the buffet server. The obnoxious fragrance exploded in Micah’s face, clinging to her like a plastic bag held over her head. Her heart quickened and she became fearful of the blooms; their orange pistils seemed to reach out as if to strike her. They wanted to steal her breath—punish her for something. She imagined smashing the vase to the floor and crushing the lilies under her feet.

Instead, Micah opened the top drawer that held Mama’s silver set. Her knuckles brushed against the velvet lining as she removed a serving spoon. She stood captivated by her inverted reflection in its shiny bowl, stretching her face like a melting monster. Finally, she slid the spoon into her pocket and disappeared out the back door.

The steady rain pelted her back as she pried up the corner of lattice board on the wraparound porch, her secret entrance to her private oasis. As Micah squeezed through the opening, the black tulle that lined her dress tore, its scrappy ribbon dragging behind her in the dirt. She didn’t notice.

Ironically, in the dim and dank crawlspace, Micah was finally able to breathe. She sat cross-legged next to her box of prized possessions: a parrot feather, a robin’s vacated egg shell, a fossil she found in the creek bed. Inconsequential things to anyone else, but the familiarity of them in her hands calmed her.

She flinched as the screen door above her screeched open, and its weathered spring drew it violently back into the doorframe. And then again. The creaking footfalls above her caused small puffs of dust to rain down on Micah. She heard them settle into the porch swing where Mama always sat, followed by the gritty sound of a match being struck.

“Thanks for the light,” a woman said.

“No problem,” an equally unfamiliar man replied.

Disappointed, Micah returned to inventorying her memory box.

“Did you know her well?” he asked.

“Vaguely. I’ve worked with her husband, Jack, for a few years now. She tried this last fall, too.”

Absently, Micah crushed the delicate, speckled shell in her hand.

“Really?”

“Mmm,” Micah heard the extended exhale of smoke, “and a couple years before that. It was really just a matter of time.”

Micah drew the spoon from her pocket and began to scoop the dirt floor.

“Jeez, poor guy.”

“Yeah, but I think my heart breaks most for their kids,” she paused, “especially the girl. Ya know…she found her.”

Her hands began to tremble, but Micah dug more furiously.

“For the love of…”

“Oh, yeah. Came home from school and found her in bed. Poor kid lost her mind and climbed under the covers next to her mom…Jack came home and found em’ both covered in blood.”

Micah thought she could smell the lilies again, suffocating her.

“I heard the blood soaked all the way through the mattress. At first he thought they were both dead, but the little girl was just catatonic from the shock.”

She began to hum and rock on her knees; Micah stabbed the spoon as deep as she could with her left hand, and paddled the dirt away with her right.

“Well, that’s why they’re having the funeral ten days later—Jack had to have her hospitalized and medicated. She’s still not really talkin’.” Exhale.

A sheen of sweat covered Micah’s face. Her heart pounded against her eardrums.

“Gosh, I can’t even imagine the shrink bills for this family.”

“Amen to that.” The woman flicked her cigarette butt over the rail. Micah watched it smolder in the wet mulch next to the hydrangeas. Part of her wanted to reach through the lattice and clutch it in her fist. The swing groaned in relief as they stood, “Worse yet, someday that kid’s gonna realize that her mama’s burning in hell for killin’ herself…”

Micah crumpled to her side, squirming to fit in the excavated hole that was not much bigger than her memory box. It was too shallow to swallow her up, unlike the earth that devoured the mahogany casket just a few hours before. But she was three inches closer to Mama.

Which was where she desperately needed to be.

***

Fireflight: God’s Music on Steroids

2010-02-09T16:34:00.001-06:00

About a month ago, I left the kiddos at home with their daddy, and went to Winter Jam with my sister. I had not been to Winter Jam since I was a brand new believer, and was then drawn to the show by Third Day (who, btw, still rocks). At that concert years back I discovered Nicole Nordeman and Bebo Norman. That show made an impact on me, seeing so many young people so enthusiastic about Christian rock. Then again, it certainly wasn’t the same Christian rock that was floating around in my youthful years (Amy Grant comes to mind…not too high on the “cool” scale).

With Third Day headlining again, touring with their latest EP, Revelation, I had to go. Being so far removed from the new music scene in any genre, I was anticipating getting to hear some of the fresh artists out there on the Christian rock scene.

Fresh doesn’t begin to describe Fireflight. Intense, high-decibel, and not an iota of fluff. I heard three songs and knew I was going to purchase the CD at their merchandise table.

I hit the restroom before intermission (not my first rodeo, baby), and went on a search for their table. When I got there, I found about twenty middle school aged girls lined up to buy their stuff. That definitely stalled me a moment. I typically do not make purchases—ANY purchases—in the same demographic range as a thirteen year old girl. Perhaps a three song sampling wasn’t enough. Then it occurred to me: Fireflight was the only group with a female lead at Winter Jam. So I took a leap of faith and bought their first two CD’s, as well as their five song Unbroken and Unplugged CD.

I was not disappointed. I loved the driving tempos, the great lyrics, the metal guitars. I equally loved the contrast given on their unplugged tracks; cellos and other classical stringed instruments took the place of the raging guitars, and the melody slowed a few paces, letting me really experience the depth of Dawn Michele’s vocal talents.

Today Fireflight’s new CD, For Those Who Wait, has its official release. For a limited time, you can purchase it for $6.99 via iTunes (you can find the link on Fireflight’s website). In the right margin >>> is my MixPod, which has two tracks off For Those Who Wait, and several more of my favorites.

I found an excellent article that gives the band’s history and profile—check it out HERE if your interested.

I am certain that Fireflight’s style would be too loud and intense for my parents. But for someone like myself that gets slightly nauseated by the bubblegum Christian pop music that is typically played on the commercial “Christian music” stations (could you hear me gag a little?), then the new Fireflight CD has the potential to be your latest driving CD.

Just remember to buckle up:)

The Pronunciation Learning Curve

2010-02-06T23:55:00.000-06:00

We call her chatterbox. She never stops talking. She talks in her sleep. Since this video was captured she has added oodles of words to her repertoire, but still cannot properly pronounce the “cha” prefix of this particular word. Go figure.

I really hope they never, ever, give Reagan anything chocolate at church. Seriously.

Friday Fiction: Immersed

2010-02-05T23:42:00.002-06:00

I used to rest on the southern bank of this river. Back then, when it was all I had ever known, I thought it was a good place to be. I could see the emerald forest on each bank; the water shimmering in the sun, the wildlife coming to its edges to drink.

On the surface I was coarse and shrouded in filth—my edges sharp. And I liked that.

It’s strange, but I don’t recall exactly how I ended up in the water. It was more like the river swelled and covered me. Suddenly, an eon of accumulated dirt was washed away…pushed as far to the east as the current could carry it. And even though everything had changed—and I had no idea what was going to happen to me—I liked it so much more than resting on the bank.

For the first time, I felt alive. When the swollen river waters rushed over me, it stirred me; caressed me; smoothed my sharpest points. After a while, I barely resembled my old self. The water made me something new…something different. I felt safe, and like I was where I was always meant to be.

Eventually the swollen banks receded some, and the water calmed and cooled. Even though the river was always surrounding me, it did not pursue me like it had in those first days, or so it seemed to me. I came to rest in the shallow shoreline, a mere measure from the bank that once held me. I thought then that it was the best of both worlds. I could see the trees though the calmer waters; I could almost touch the wildlife the skirted the edges. And some part of me liked that—being able to glimpse at my old life.

However, the longer I remained there—in that shallow water, in the absence of the current—I settled my weight into the mud…seemingly content.

But then another change came.

It happened so slowly that I didn’t notice it for a long time. A spot here and there, mostly on the side facing away from the water’s flow. But before I knew it, my somewhat smooth surface was covered. Covered with the most uncomfortable green algae. It permeated every pore, hid in every crevice. I felt so ugly, so ashamed.

The worst part was being so helpless, like this slimy curse was devouring me. Occasionally, a small sucker fish would come along and attempt to remove the hideous green film from me, but the more mature fish stayed in the depths of the river, where it was safe. They would clear a spot here…a spot there, but never enough of it to make me feel clean again. I yearned for the cure from my stagnant plague. I begged for it.

And slowly, the water began to warm again.

I heard my cure coming before I felt it. The roar of the waters echoing off the towering limestone walls filled me with fear. For a moment, I wished that I could just stay put; tethered to the shallow river bed in my murky green prison. And I hated that.

But the river’s will does not heed to the whim of one of its frightened limestones, for it cuts its own path, and bows to nothing. The raging flood waters pummeled me; the uprooted trees and debris loosened and scraped me from the river bed. With a multitude of other fragments of creation, I was swept downstream in the river’s wrath.

I was thrust against a boulder, dashed across a log. I felt a pointed corner break clean off when I was dragged along a gravel bar. A fleck of green left behind here, a fleck there—a tiny work in progress. It was such a joyful pain to endure. I hated the hurt, but embraced the cure.

It seemed like an eternity the river carried me, over miles…even years. I felt it sheer strength when it was at its most fierce. But now that the waters have calmed, and it has gently rested me in its depths—where the living water smoothes me a little more every day in its hands—I feel its sovereign grace.

And I love that.

Facebook is Killing My Blog

2010-02-03T01:12:00.001-06:00

I am probably not alone in this, but it’s true.

Why write out a five hundred word blog post about the wisdom behind using the word “pants” around your toddler instead of “britches” when I can just throw out a witty line or two in my FB status update? I mean, instantly it’s on more than one hundred friends computer screens, yielding multiple comments and endless whimsical banter…it’s just too easy.

Some people use their Facebook page as bait to get people to their blogs, but I have succumbed to just tossing out my little quippy minnows and nothing more. Bad, writer, bad. Lazy, tired writer, too, but that’s no excuse.

So, from here on out, I will put on my comfy writing ~~britches~~ pants, and try to pound out a blog post more often than quarterly, as well as post some of my stories for Friday Fiction.

Sleep is overrated anyway.

Open Letter to My Friends at FaithWriters

2010-01-18T10:53:00.005-06:00

Dear FaithWriter Friends,

It’s been a long week for me. I struggled with the choice of writing this letter, or just taking the easy way out and letting this cloud disperse unexplained. I am aware of the behind the scenes “shock and awe” that my story has created. Since I was only able to converse with the people that chose to leave a comment, I felt it was necessary to address the remaining three hundred plus readers that have been pointed to or stumbled upon my Challenge entry.

I first want to apologize for any offense that my story might have caused any of you. I should not have submitted it for the Challenge. A dear friend and writing mentor told me that I shouldn’t ever apologize for something I wrote, but I am truly remorseful for placing this story on this particular venue.

On Wednesday I had an email exchange with Deb, and I gave her my full permission to pull the story before it went live. She decided to leave it on the list, and we would “see what others have to say”. Beyond the fact that it’s in the rules that entries will not be removed after they are submitted, I believe I understand the heart of the reason why Deb left it up; a mistake almost made would leave me void of the teaching moment at hand. Fielding the comments, emails, and this letter are my deserved penance. I actually praise her for the decision to let the chips fall where they may; part of Deb’s mission is to help make us better writers, both in skill and the realities of the writing world. This week has re-taught me one of the cardinal rules of any art form: know your audience. I should’ve known better.

In fact, I did. Before I submitted it, I asked a few people to read it to make sure it wasn’t too edgy for the challenge. My sister in law thought it might be too much. My husband told me that I shouldn’t unless I have the “Archangel Gabriel swoop down and rescue the girl and smite the creep.” I shrugged off two of the people closest to me in my walk, on the grounds that they were not writers or FW members, and chose to ask yet a third person who met those criteria. That person gave me a yes, but attached some practical, sound advice. Finally getting what I wanted, I snatched the former without applying the latter. I had already been told “no” by that small voice, and then three doses of Godly counsel. I knew better, and that is what I mourn about all this; I blew off the Holy Spirit, and pursued what I wanted to hear.

The piece of writing itself, however, I do not regret, nor do I believe it was inherently sinful [to write] or reflective of some dark, evil spirit in me. It was a writing exercise; an attempt to stretch myself beyond my norm.

During the conference last summer, something in one of Cori Smelker’s seminars resounded with me. She said—and I am paraphrasing from memory—that sometimes we need to “dare to be dreadful”. Write from the point of view of someone completely unlike us, who believes different things, or who is even despicable. I have been at FaithWriters for almost two years now and have read hundreds and hundreds of your stories. A very large percentage of them—mine included—are from the POV of the protagonist. Since I started my novel I have become increasingly aware that it is easier to get into my protagonist’s mind versus that of the antagonist. Every piece of writing of almost any length needs conflict, and in most cases that is inflicted by a person. So, inspired by the prompt, I set out to write a first person, present tense character sketch of a sadist. And I vowed not to give it a happy ending. If I were writing a longer piece with this character in it, I believe I would try to achieve justice, but I chose to just portray one scene—a glimpse into a sick, twisted mind. And honestly, I was pleased with the result.

Anyone that has read a sampling of my writing knows that I often have an edge. I strive to write from an angle or POV that no one else would think of; typically, I try to produce something subtly didactic if possible, and strongly emotional. Whether that is a comedic look at vasectomies, or a child that has been orphaned by suicide, I strive to make my reader feel something. To me, that’s what good story telling is. However, I think that is what bit me with A Twisted Slice of Life. Not so much the violence—which I really did try to minimize and still convey the topic—but it was the emotion it created. Fright. The fear of an evil we don’t understand, and don’t really want to understand. I totally get why it disturbed so many people. Believe me, it was disturbing to write.

The Writing Challenge has been instrumental in my growth as a writer these past two years. I have submitted forty eight entries, judged in six quarters, and have been honored and blessed to receive eighteen EC’s. I love FaithWriters and the people that make it what it is. I would encourage everyone who reads this to not be afraid to “dare to be dreadful” in their writing, even if it means face planting in front of three hundred plus colleagues. If you’re as lucky as I am, a few of those colleagues will help you to your feet, and nudge you back up that high dive. You never know if you’re going to hit blue water or painted concrete unless you jump.

Just don’t forget—know your audience. :)

Grace and Peace,

Michele (Chely) Roach

Bittersweet (Memories)

2009-09-10T01:50:00.001-05:00

Bittersweet. Some baby milestones are pure joy; walking, first words, and one of my personal favorites--sleeping through the night…but this one has put a lump in my throat.

If you have never experienced the wonder of motherhood, then this post won’t be one you can relate to, but someday you might.

As subfolder of motherhood, nursing is one of the most spiritual, emotional experiences you can endure. I think of breast milk as manna via mommy—the perfect food that replenishes itself constantly—a gift from God in his infinite wisdom. The bond that has been established between me and the babies, and each other, is a testament to nursing. However, I say endure because it’s not all warm and fuzzies. Granted, I nursed two babies at once…literally. That’s a lot of nursing. I had Mastitis (staph infection in the breast) four times. I found out last fall that I have a benign polyp, which caused random profuse bleeding while I nursed…not pretty. At that point, we started to eliminate a feeding or two a day and replaced it with formula.

By the time the girls were a year old, I was only nursing at night before bed. I planned to continue this through the winter to give them the extra antibodies that my milk provides, but Reagan, being the spitfire that she it, decided otherwise. She had way too much to see and do to be held in my arms for ten whole minutes at a time. So, Abby and I continued with our little routine, which I absolutely relished. Unfortunately with our recent flu bug, she was so miserable that she didn’t want to, so it broke the routine…it killed our mojo. Now, it has been over a week, and I am left with a heart wrenching decision—I could pick it back up, or just let it go.

Bedtime is less complicated without the separation and solitude of taking one of two babies aside to nurse…but (insert whine) I liked it! I miss it! Waa! If I am not nursing then I can take any medicine that I need to…I can even have a glass of wine. I can have a babysitter put them to bed. But (insert whine again) I loved it! I miss it! Waa!

Honestly, when the time came, I didn’t think it would be this hard--I thought that I would be more relieved to get my body back, but upon reflection, that ship has sailed. I belong to the little monkeys. I am part jungle gym, trampoline, mattress, and Kleenex. Not to mention that the effects of carrying eleven pounds of baby around does irreparable damage to the skin, and nursing ruins muscle tissue…period. (I joke that you could use a picture of my stomach as the reminder stickers for birth control pills.)

So with the pros outweighing the cons, my resolve is to just let it be. The girls are fourteen months now, and I don’t want to be one of those moms who nurse beyond the appropriate timeframe…you know what I mean. If the child can verbally request to switch sides, or say “Yummy, dat’s good!” that threshold has been crossed (imo). But I was just not emotionally ready for this…since the cutoff wasn’t planned, I didn’t get a chance to psych myself up for it. To someone has not experienced this it might seem silly, but I am grieving this milestone. I will never get to have those beautiful moments again.

Waa.

Note: This was written quite awhile ago since the girls are almost three now (wowzers). But I still miss it so much…

Fiction Friday: The Serpent and the Underoos

2009-07-10T23:21:00.005-05:00

There it was again. Something was definitely moving in the bathtub. Claire leaned closer to the opaque shower doors. ‘It’ was making a strange scratching sound, like tiny nails on a chalkboard. Sitting on the blue toilet, in the completely blue bathroom, she was stupefied. Her hand took the initiative that her brain was vehemently protesting, as she slowly opened the shower door to reveal what was preparing to kill her. And it almost did. As only little girls can, Claire emitted a series of staccato screams that were so loud and high pitched that the lab rats on the Space Station heard them. Her only stroke of luck was that she was already seated on the toilet.

The deafening screeches from her niece instantly put at least a dozen gray follicles to root. Connie burst into the bathroom to discover Claire with her Smurf Underoos around her ankles, hyperventilating in between her siren wails. Connie quickly lifted Claire off the blue throne by her armpits. As the words were about to tumble from her worried lips, Connie saw the horror for herself. No wonder she’s flipping out. Opening the shower door completely caused Claire to bolt down the hall in an awkward hopping fashion, while pulling her Geranimal shorts and Underoos up past her knees. Connie’s concern for her niece morphed into her normal, defeated rage that flourished during the antics of her boys. There, in her freshly cleaned sanctuary, was a box turtle the size of her own head, snapping at a very concerned garter snake.

“James—Timothy—Dennis! Get your rear-ends up here NOW!”

Three blonde, stair stepped heads appeared in the door, each wearing an incredulous, ‘Who, me?’ expression.

Connie pointed to the tub, “Well?”

The youngest, Denny—who was infamous for giving up the goods to save his own delicate heinie flesh—predictably opened his mouth first. “We were having the ‘Battle of the Reptiles’!” This procured an elbow to the ribs from each older brother.

Connie’s eyes rolled back into her head as if she were about to seize. Lord, what have I done to deserve this? I’m a beautician...you couldn’t give me one girl? Through gritted teeth she seethed at them, “Get those creatures out of my tub and back to the woods. Go apologize to Claire…and then, you three will scrub this bathtub...now move it.”

Denny grabbed the turtle, and Jimmy wrangled the agitated snake. Tim searched the house for Claire, finding her in the kitchen, trying to downplay her spaz attack. “Sorry about the turtle, Claire…”

“The turtle would’ve been okay, but you know I hate snakes.” He couldn’t keep the Cheshire grin off his face, and it became contagious. She stifled a giggle, which invited a spittle-snarf from him. In unison, they exclaimed, “Uncle Earl’s!”

Claire was a pseudo tomboy; molded in the weeks she spent there every summer. Vacation Bible School was alright, but she loved playing in the woods with her cousins. They caught frogs and turtles, searched for arrowheads and fossils, got filthy dirty and bathed in the murky pool every night. But she refused to ever go back to Uncle Earl’s. His mounted deer heads didn’t faze her, but his ‘coffin-sized-plexiglass-snake-cage-coffee-table’ gave her nightmares for years. The coffee table was ‘home’ to a Boa constrictor as thick as a two liter pop bottle, and as long as her daddy’s car. Between the couch and the TV, the monstrous serpent coiled itself in its narcissistic display case. When it flexed its massive muscular body, the plexiglass bulged like an overinflated balloon. Claire wet her Care Bear Underoos and shrieked all the way out of the house. She ate her dinner on the porch, wearing a towel.

Tim and Claire were still laughing at the memory when Aunt Connie came in, giving him ‘the look’; without a word he scurried out of the room. She sat down on the brown floral couch next to Claire. “I’m sorry ‘bout those boys. You okay, Claire-bear?”

“Sure, I’m okay…Aunt Connie? Why do boys like snakes and girls don’t?”.

“I don’t know, Hon. That’s just how God made us, I guess.”

“I really like coming here to visit, but I don’t think I would like living with boys all the time. I sure hope I have girl babies."

Connie chuckled and kissed the cowlick on Claire’s head. Okay God, you give me a girl for two weeks each year... “Me too, Claire-bear. Me too. I’m secretly praying for granddaughters, just like you.”

Dirty Jobs: Parenthood Style

2009-07-05T22:24:00.003-05:00

"I really hope she doesn't slobber much; that totally grosses me out..."

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I casually eavesdropped on two young pregnant women at a softball game last fall. I should've told her the truth, but it was too much fun just listening to them.

One of the biggest surprises of parenthood is how high your "nasty tolerance" goes up after the arrival of your screaming banshee(s). Don't get me wrong, I can still flinch a little, even gag, when I reveal the contents of their Winnie the Pooh decorated Huggies; but overall, most things no longer phase me a bit. Some days I feel like the featured guest on an episode of "Dirty Jobs".

So, how do tell this sweet, naive girl that slobber will be the most benign, innocuous substance that will ooze out of her little Malory? As plentiful as drool will be, it will be the least of the problems that she encounters...she will even willingly consume it when her baby starts giving kisses; bird kisses I call them. Open mouthed and drenched with saliva, sweet little Malory will lay one on her, melting mommy's heart and removing her makeup. Nope...slobber isn't an issue...

Maybe a 1 on the gross-out scale of 1-10.

Snot is another story...a sick baby doesn't know how to sniffle or blow her nose; so we parents vainly attempt to wipe it away frequently (making it red and raw) before it runs into their sweet little mouth. They smear it across their face and into their hair, and inevitably, on my shirt. Although it's icky, as a mom I am more consumed with the heartbreak of listening to my baby struggle to breathe through her nose, than squeamish about the copious amounts of phlegm.

I give it a 3.

Now as we venture out of the category of secretions and wander into partially and fully digested substances, we are getting to the true "Dirty Jobs" effect. When the babies were almost a year old, the whole family got the stomach flu...badly. The twins got it first, and it lasted five days. Imagine five formula bottles a day (per baby), plus the attempts of juice and grape Pedialyte, with only 10% staying down. Yes, that means 90% came back up: on themselves, each other, ME, the floor, their beds, and the furniture...for FIVE LONG DAYS (and nights). That is approximately 360 ounces of vomit in 120 hours. This was accompanied by explosive diarrhea (of course) that caused a terrible diaper rash on both babies. On day three I was afflicted by this evil virus. Imagine my right hand holding a screaming baby on the changing table as I knelt beside it violently vomiting into the diaper pail.

Gross factor...8.5.

If you are a parent then you understand that your primary concern becomes that child; you will do anything to help them and ease their suffering. I am amazed at the duties I perform these days. If you would have told me five or ten years ago that I would be holding up anyone's legs while spreading their buttocks to encourage them to "go", I would've said...well, it's not appropriate to say. An emphatic "no" is an understatement. To anyone listening through the baby monitor, we must sound like coaches in a Labor and Delivery room; I guess that would be accurate…sort of.

“No baby! Bend your legs! I know it hurts honey…you can do it! Push sweetie…PUSH!”

Reagan didn’t “go” at all today, although it was obvious that the need and desire was there. This evening I had an epiphany…maybe a nice warm bath would relax her enough to do the trick. It actually did occur to me that it might work…immediately; but not enough to give her sister a separate bath. I am sure that you are fully foreseeing what I didn’t…a water birth.

As soon as she started to groan and turn flush, I began screaming for my husband who was not in the immediate vicinity of the house. I could hear his footfalls clamoring down the hall at the exact moment the dam broke free. In true water birthing fashion, Reagan was semi-reclined against my left arm, as my right arm held up her right leg.

My Knight in Shining Armor burst in the bathroom door, “WHAT!?!”

At that very moment Reagan’s all day project was drifting towards Abby, who had not yet noticed it.

“GET ABBY OUT!! GET HER!” As if the stuff has never touched her precious porcelain skin. My primary concern was that she would, like anything else she discovers, pick it up and put it in her mouth. I shudder at the thought.

Prince Charming rescued Princess Abby before she was tainted by the evil poopy monster, leaving Reagan and I alone to proceed with her labor and delivery. My poor baby was still crimson and “contracting”, but after several minutes she completed her destruction of the bath tub. Happy days are here again. With a quick rinse, diaper and jammies, order was restored to the household…almost. I threw away the bath toys and then proceeded to strain, drain, bleach and scrub the tub until I had a migraine from the fumes. I think that I will take a shower tonight, since I will never look at my Jacuzzi tub the same again.

Gross-out factor…10+.

I've got to go now. I think Mike Rowe is at the door...

Fiction Friday: I Am Chicken, Hear Me Roar

2009-07-03T23:19:00.004-05:00

One more. That’s what I said, “Just one more.” The good Lord had a healthy chuckle at those plans, I am positive. And thus it began.

Let me tell you about a little term that the average thirty-something-year-old man cannot wrap his brain around: hyperovulation. Basically, this means that a woman releases more than one egg a cycle. Still not getting it? More eggs=more babies. Three years ago, this reproductive phenomenon gave us Isabella and Olivia; my Bella and Lily. Sigh. They make me two hundred pounds of gelatinous putty in their pudgy little hands.

However—for some men—there is a freakish, testosterone driven compulsion to have a male child. I guess we get wrapped up in fantasies about little league, fishing trips, and carrying on our name.

During the girls’ second birthday party, I whispered into my wife’s ear, “Just one more…” (Insert Divine laughter here.)

With three little words, I infected her with the most contagious of all marital illnesses. Baby fever.

And baby fever is a beautiful thing. Cha-ching.

Now, my part was easy. Hers, on the other hand, included a dry erase calendar on the fridge coded with a frillion different colored markers. There were strange symbols, phrases and abbreviations that meant nothing to me. Five red dots…basal temp…CM…seven green X’s…luteal phase. I asked her once what CM stood for. She told me. You don’t want to know. Seriously. Many times I stared at her baby making chart while sneaking a swig of juice from the carton, just shaking my head. “I’m so lucky to be a man…all the weird and painful stuff falls on women.” (Insert more Divine laughter.)

Before I knew it, my work was done. One morning, my wife peed on at least ten plastic sticks before calling her obstetrician.

Five weeks later, we went for her first ultrasound. As my wife and Dr. Bentley Maserati chatted, I struggled to keep Bella and Lily out of cabinets and drawers. Scary, scary stuff in those drawers. Again, don’t ask.

While Dr. Maserati was squeezing a gallon of goo onto her belly, he assured us, “As I said before, having more than one twin pregnancy is statistically very rare…”

Word to the wise…don’t trust statistical data from a man that delivers babies for a living. It’s the obstetrical equivalent to “cooking the books”; the numbers always get fudged in his favor.

This was a harder pregnancy than the first…

When my wife was about three months along, she had horrible morning sickness, which is never isolated to mornings, by the way. While we were en route to church, she had me pull over. When she got back into the car, she pointed at me while screaming, “YOU mister, are going to make an appointment with the urologist tomorrow!”

“Why?”

“Because I just wet my pants while throwing up on the side of the highway. That’s why! No more!”

I stalled. I clucked. I am chicken, hear me roar. No way.

“Just one more,” gave us two. Girls. Again. Cecelia and Josephine. I dodged the scalpel conversation till after the girls finally came—all healthy and loud. I’m putty in their tiny hands…very tired putty. I have never slept less in my life. Somewhere in a CIA memo was a torture itinerary with my schedule on it.

One morning I watched in awe as my wife tandem nursed Cecelia and Josephine, while Sesame Street blared in the background and the toddlers stage dived off the couch.

She adjusted the football style hold she miraculously maintained. “Hey, did you ever make that appointment?”

“For what?”

“You know, snip-snip.”

Cringe. Cluck. Shudder.

“Er…uhh…no, honey. But what if we change our minds and want to try for a boy?”

At that moment, I heard a sizzle and a pop. It was her brain…

“Are you insane? We have four children, under the age of four, and you want a male heir to the throne? As far as I’m concerned,” she grabbed one of Josephine’s legs and lifted her off the pillow, “this child came out with ‘the end’ stamped on her bottom! Make the appointment, or I’ll do it myself!”

I was afraid she meant she would perform the surgery herself.

The next week I found her staring at the fridge muttering something like, “long luteal phase…”

Come morning I noticed a pregnancy test in the bathroom trashcan.

I wet my pants as I threw up in the Elmo potty chair.

By afternoon I had an appointment.

Bawgawk.

This is a regurgitated FaithWriter's Writing Challenge story, because I am a lazy blogger. :)

The Agape Love of BBF's

2009-06-28T22:54:00.006-05:00

I do not have a huge circle of friends; at least not that I would consider “close”.
I have some relatively new friends (from church, FW’s, etc.) that are wonderful…without a doubt.

But this post is about “old friends”.

One in particular. We were saxophone-playing-band-geeks together since the start of middle school. We now live a block apart. As I have coined the term, she’s one of my few BBF’s. Not BFF (best friend forever—for you texting lingo novices).

Before Boobs Friend

Anyone that you have known since before puberty—that is still your friend—is special…without a doubt.

We have virtually watched each other’s entire lives…

School. Boyfriends. Heartbreaks. Husbands. Children. Careers.

And all the joys and disappointments in between.

About a year ago, I received an Editors Choice Award on FaithWriters for The Stalker’s Curse. I was overwhelmed by the incredible comments I received; not just a line or two, but paragraphs. They were beyond affirming and encouraging.

However, it was the personal email from my BBF that I wanted to share with you:

Michele,

That was beautiful. I do not have the words to let you know how great of a mother, wife, friend, writer/author, sister you are. I truly value your friendship and presence in my live. I am blessed and a better person just because I know you. You are the only person I know who can listen and not judge.

Love,

~~~

That last line was probably the best compliment of my life. I am so honored to be that kind of friend to someone, and to have that kind of friend in her.

I pray that we all could have that kind of Agape Love in our relationships…and friends that knew us before we really ever knew ourselves.

*If any of my recent posts seem vaguely familiar, it is because I am trying to centralize my blogposts here at Blogger.

Jesus Spam

2009-06-17T22:35:00.003-05:00

I get oodles of spam. The sicko cyber monkeys are convinced that I have “manhood” issues, and I am in great need of a couple thousand replica Rolexes.

Groan.

But the most disturbing spam I get deceives the all the fancy spam filters…

Jesus Spam.

Oh yes…you know what I’m talking about.

Here’s a sweet/sad/sappy/pseudo inspirational story you’ve see a frillion times, adorned with lots of tacky Jesus/angel glittering clipart. With a catch…if you TRULY believe, you will forward this to ten people.

If you truly love me—the one who has bestowed you with this cyber-prayer—you will forward this to fifteen people PLUS me to prove your love.

If you don’t want Jesus to deny you, don’t deny him by deleting this and not forwarding it to your entire address book.

Oh, and my absolute favorite:

If you forward this to 5 people, you will receive a blessing within 5 days. If you send it to twenty, the blessings will come tenfold in 1 day. If you forward it to more than one hundred, Michael the Archangel will give you a pedicure….

Puhleez.

I don’t care if your email promises to jinx me for 13 years and have my hair pulled out strand by strand by Hitler’s ghost if I delete it…

If you send me that nonsense I shall delete it before the cyber monkeys know what hit them.

Yes, that means you, too. You know who you are.

Basking in "Thin Blue Smoke"

2009-03-10T01:44:00.005-05:00

I have been on a manic reading phase lately. Some have been good, some have been “eh”, but only one was powerful enough to inspire an unsolicited impromptu book review.

Thin Blue Smoke, by Doug Worgul, breathes new life into the Midwest. The story is mostly set in Kansas City, and revolves around music, food, and love. And by food, I mean barbecue. I could almost smell the meat and the woodsy smoke as I read it. As a native St. Louisan, there are numerous parallels between my fair city and KC; we too revel in the blues and barbecue. Few would argue that St. Louis has better baseball. I think even La Verne, Mr. Worgul’s main character, would agree on that point…

Before I ordered the book off of Pan Macmillan’s website, I first read the prologue and first chapter on Mr. Worgul’s site. I was intrigued. When I finally got the book in my hands, I was blown away. If I could have a wish, it would be to write something this authentic.

Yes, authentic. That is the best word that I can find to describe Thin Blue Smoke. Mr. Worgul has created a masterpiece of characterization, and the character list is not brief. But by the end of this novel you know each of them personally; their flaws, their wit, their heartbreaks, and their charming (and not so charming) idiosyncrasies. The personalities mesh into a perfect balance, despite obvious contrasts and socially presumed stereotypes. You will find yourself emotionally involved with them as if they were real. That alone would make this novel masterful…but there is so much more.

It’s an authentic portrayal of tragedy, fathers and sons, the love of a good woman, the love/hate relationship with good whiskey, redemption, and how God does (and doesn’t) speak to His children. I do not know the author personally, but I get the sense that he is a writer who is a Christian, but not a “Christian writer”—so to speak. God is delicately woven throughout the novel, but not in the pushy, predictable, saccharine way which is so prevalent in mainstream Christian fiction. I applaud Mr. Worgul for writing characters with honest dialogue, instead of sanitizing it to conform to a standard that often creates a disingenuous final product. Some of the language is raw, but not what I would consider profane…it is sparse, necessary and inoffensive.

I loved the quick jabs of humor laced in the pages, and was especially thankful for the ones that popped up unexpectedly, right in the middle of heavy, emotional passages. At one point, I had tears pouring down, but found myself laughing aloud before the tears left my face. That is how real life goes.

There was a particular paragraph in Thin Blue Smoke that made me pause in reflection, and I succumbed to reading it over and over again, chewing on its profound depth:

Bob Dunleavy is not ashamed of his son’s mental illness. Not anymore. But the spitefulness of it; the specific way it inhabits his son’s life; the way it shoves his son’s shoulders together and possesses his face and animates his voice beyond proportion; the way it shits on the floor of his son’s once tidy mind; these he carries with him always, like stones in his pockets. They bruise and chafe when he walks. They are heavy and awkward, and because they are there, little else fits in his pockets. They knock together and he hears them and he is never not reminded of them.

They are made heavier by the fact that nobody knows they are there.

Man alive…that’s good writing.

This novel was not just several hundred pages to pass the time. It was an emotional, spiritual, hilarious experience, and the soundtrack is still playing in my head.

Take it for a ride. You, too, will savor Thin Blue Smoke.

Updated! Get the Lead Out...or Else

2009-01-08T01:45:00.007-06:00

Okay, so I am uber-guilty of blog truancy. Daily, I think of 100 things to blog about, but barely have the energy to make it though the day. Anyway...

I stumbled onto something this evening that envoked a reaction out of me that has never before reared its ugly head; tonight I emailed all three of my Senators and Congressman.

If you have missed the headline, next month on February 10th, a new law will go into effect that will mandate every children's item (clothing, toys, books, etc.) to be tested for lead and other toxins (@ approximately $50 per item) before being sold...or RESOLD. That's right. This law also pertains to resale stores, consignment shops, Goodwill's, charities, garage sales, Ebay, you name it. The man has decided that lead is bad (duh), but that we are passing to and fro the goods that THEY should have made darn sure weren't contaminated to begin with. Can you say, Free Trade Agreement? Hello? This is also devasting to the millions of homemade clothes and toy making small businesses that could never be able to carry the burden of this law.

If this is not stopped or amended, on February 10th, every single item at my local Once Upon A Child resale stores will be considered hazardous waste, and by law, should be disposed of accordingly. In our green, global warming society, and an official recession, we are going to send millions of dollars worth of viable children's items to the landfill. Why? The blame lies somewhere between greedy, souless China, and our trigger-happy-hurry-up-and-pass-a-law-to-shut-them-up Congress.

Can you tell I am irked?

Below I have quoted the email I sent to my "esteemed" representatives (you have to know how to kiss a few frogs, right Dad?), and I have provided a link that allows you to plug in your zip code and get ALL your reps. names, phone numbers, and emails. Feel free to copy and paste any portion of my letter that you wish to modify and use.

Power to the people.

UPDATE: Yesterday a clarification was released, that loosely removed resale and consignment stores from the spectrum of the law. I still think this will be detrimental to small businesses. http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml09/09086.html

"Dear Senator _____ and Staff,

I want to implore to the esteemed Senator to stop--or fight to amend--the new lead law pertaining to children's clothing and toys, which is scheduled to go into effect February 10, 2009.

I am not the owner of a resale shop, but in order to clothe twin daughters, I buy almost everything second hand through resale stores and charity stores such as Goodwill. This law causes undue burden on the consumer, for items that should already be LEAD FREE when they were sold the first time.

I am also surprised that in this day and age of concern about going GREEN, and "reuse-recycle-renew", that our Congress would mandate that millions of dollars worth of children's apparel, toys, and books, shall be instantaneously deemed hazardous waste.

The implications of this law ripple far and wide, but will be most detrimental to lower income individuals who rarely buy "new". Just two weeks ago my children's Christmas presents consisted of 90% used toys, so I am not speaking from the perch of an ivory tower.

I support the quest for non-toxic products for our children, but at what cost to our individual liberties?

I am afraid that in a heat of the moment, a "we must act NOW" response has given us a law that is going to do more harm than help. In this faltering economy, you--as a Congress--have placed more hardships upon America's businesses and her citizens.

Again, I implore you to put this right, before it goes into effect next month.

Thank you for your time, and for your service to our country.

Sincerely,

Michele Roach"

Contact your representatives @: http://www.visi.com/juan/congress/

"Guns don't kill people, the government does..." Dale Gribble, King of the Hill

Ordained to Lose It

2008-10-25T17:15:00.009-05:00

In the early months of the twins being home, in the wee hours of the night, I completely lost it.

The grueling schedule of nursing AND formula supplementing two babies—every three hours—plus the diaper changes, burping, and more diaper changes gave me about four separate ONE HOUR increments of sleep. Per day. For months. On end.

(Remember those old Dunkin’ Donut commercials from the eighties? “Time to make the donuts…I made the donuts. Time to make the donuts...” That was me. But instead the catch phrase was, “Time to feed the babies…I fed the babies.”)

There is sound reason why militaries around the world use sleep deprivation techniques to torture captives. Because it is most definitely torture. And their captives typically aren’t even hormonal and lactating.

So at about 2 a.m. on the night in question, I fed, burped and diapered the babies (again), but they wanted nothing to do with sleep. After forever and a day of rocking them, they finally drifted off. However—as if an instinctual alarm would sound in her little brain—as soon as I took off my glasses and pulled the blanket up to my chin, Abby’s eyes burst open, followed by completely uncalled for screaming. This of course, woke her sister, Reagan. This was the umpteenth night of this most unflattering behavior from my precious bundles of joy. At this point in my mothering career, it had been about 10 weeks since I had experienced REM sleep. I L-O-S-T IT.

It started as a slow whimper, and then crescendoed into stucco rumbling wails. My poor husband—who had just become accustomed to sleeping through the nightly ruckus—scrambled into the room as if the smoke detectors were blaring. I think I shed a few years, or at least days, off his life that night. He was relieved that we were not physically hurt, and a tad perturbed with me for not getting him before I had a mini nervous breakdown; as if I planned it...geez.

On that night, as well as a few (okay…several) other instances in the following weeks, I believe that God caused me to LOSE IT, sending out an SOS when I was too proud to ask for help for myself. As the time I blamed it on everything from the hormones to the culture shock of my world turned upside down. Now, I can see God’s hands, rocking me as I rocked my babies. I had absolutely no idea why they were crying, but my Heavenly Father understood why I was; and He sent help.Thank you Jesus—for knowing what I need, at the precise moment I need it.

Thanks for repeatedly saving my sinking little ship.

Pink Polyester Lifelines...Oh, The Horror!

2008-10-12T01:06:00.000-05:00

If you were one of the fifty people rubber-necking at us on Lackland Road yesterday, then you can tune out; go read something else. If you are wondering why two parents walking with the two toddlers on an early fall day could almost cause car accidents, I guess I’ll have to tell you…

We had the girls on leashes.

Okay…lifelines. Whatever. Sugar coat it with politically correct names, but it won’t change the fact that a harness around the waist of a child, with a polyester strap leading to my hand, is a human leash.

I can already hear the collective gasp; how inhumane!

The only thing that made me gasp was the price of these simple gadgets. Fifteen dollars! Each! If I would’ve opened the box while standing in Babies R’ Us, I surely would have put them back and went next door to the pet aisle at Wal-mart, and purchased the components for homemade baby leashes at a fraction of the cost. I’m sure I could’ve even got them in pink. Once I was home though, it wasn’t worth twenty bucks and the expended energy to go back to BRU, then to Wally world, and then home to create my ‘lifelines’. No thanks. It’s like making your own baby food…saving a little cash isn’t always worth the aggravation.

So, why does a women with two arms need to leash her child? Because I only have two arms…but I have two babies…and they are fast (the babies—not my arms). And rarely are they traveling in the same direction.

They are plum sick of being strapped into a stroller; at 22 months they love to walk, fall down, and overall explore God’s creation. I cannot fight their instinct for independence; but for safety and sanity’s sake, it must be controlled…harnessed if you will.

There are also many places that a double stroller is just too cumbersome. For instance—church. Our church is a frillion years old, in the city, with on street parking. Imagine me getting Abby out of her car seat, and then going around the vehicle to retrieve Reagan…what do I do with the Abby? Evil SUV’s and the boogeyman are lurking out there, and even though they may chew on their leashes like canines, they have not mastered the command to ‘stay’. Tethering her to my waist seems like a better option than watching her try to hail a cab while I fumble with Reagan’s asinine car seat straps.

Reactions have been mixed concerning the ‘leashes’, but honestly, the rubbernecking and whispers don’t bother me. Walk a mile in my shoes. Chasing their size five Buster Brown’s.

Admit it…you’d leash em’ too!

Blissful Torture: Baby Boot Camp

2008-10-12T00:37:00.000-05:00

The prevailing wisdom(s) of family planning usually fall within a few predictable camps. There are those who adamantly declare that they will never have children—period. However, in the procreation category, many would advise you to have your children spaced out as far as nature will allow, so that you can nurture each child as an individual, lavishing them with personal attention. That leaves the predominant belief that you should have your kids as closely together as possible, to give them a playmate, as well as to get those sleep-deprived-diaper-changing-days out of the way as quickly as possible.

My husband and I ended up in this last category, but not by choice. It was thrust upon us.

When we realized that we would never have ‘enough’ money to justify having babies, and that years were flying by—stripping us of our youth and fertility—we submitted to the dastardly task of attempting to get pregnant. We quickly had success; even more quickly followed by failure. Two weeks after a devastating miscarriage, we bought our first home. (Don’t congratulate us yet…it was a total dump.) We spent six very long months renovating it ourselves. In March of 06’ we finally moved in. In April I peed on a stick—okay, three of them—and got double solid lines. I was knocked up. On May 24th, my doctor confirmed the pregnancy with an ultrasound. Times two. Two sacs. Two heartbeats. Two parents who needed smelling salts…because we were floored.

After about five minutes of raging heart palpitations, the reality of the situation sunk a bit deeper past the we-are-so screwed-financially stage, and morphed into the we-are-so-blessed-by-God stage. And we are. But I won’t lie; it has been hard. At night as we’d lie in bed, in the long moments of silence before sleep came, one of us would blurt out, “TWO BABIES!” The shell shock would creep up and blindside us at the strangest times. Honestly, the entire pregnancy was hard; mentally and physically.

And then they were born, proving that being pregnant with twins is a big fat cakewalk compared to nursing and caring for them around the clock. Those first few months were blissful torture—I have deemed those days as “baby boot camp”.

And we are still so incredibly, undeniably, overwhelmingly broke.

Despite the difficult terrain along the way, 22 months into parenthood, I am ridiculously happy. Content. Overproportionately blessed.

When I was pregnant, the number one question asked when it was discovered that I was bursting at the seams with twins, was: “How in the world are you going to do it?”
At first, this stressed me out beyond belief. Nothing freaks me out more than being asked questions that I don’t have the answers to. Not too far into the pregnancy, I found the perfect reply:

“God has not yet revealed that to me…but I am sure He will.”

And He has, at every trial. He has held us in His protective, loving hand; revealing Himself and the proper direction at every stumbling block. We know full well that if He were to remove that hand, our lives would implode. I am so thankful that we will never be plucked from it, especially with the days of blissful torture to come next.

Toddlerhood.

How in the world am I going to do it?