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Life, 30 BC

July 17, 2012 //
0

It is hot.

Weather advisories tell us there is a heatwave afoot.

Our plants are wilting (plant-killer that I am, I  blame our friendly star, the sun) and tempers are rising.

If we had access to air conditioning, our troubles would lessen.

Not for the plants. With me as a caretaker, they’re screwed whether they have access to cool breezes or not.

But for us humans. If only. If only.

Luckily, our apartment, being on the garden level, stays relatively cool, compared to those who foolishly inhabit penthouse suites.

And yet, limbs and bodily crevices still sweat, leaving a sheen matched only by the tiles in the shower.

The journey from home to car seems to transport us into the mindset of the ancients.

We trudge in sandals, swatting imaginary flies, carrying our chattel up the pathway and across the street to the Honda Civic chariot, which, in a cruel twist of fate, has a busted air conditioning system which its owners have not yet fixed, in the hopes of affording a bigger, newer vehicle.

We settle our chattel into their respective harnesses in the back seat, cringing while fastening the hot, black safety systems in place.

“Owwwwww!” the 2 year old screams, bangs plastered to her forehead.

“I can’t get the seatbelt in,” the 6 year old growls.

The heat in the Honda chariot, in our home, on the streets…has seeped into our consciousness like a serpent.

Should we find the nearest escape, and spend all day at the air conditioned Children’s Museum? Aquarium? TJ Maxx?

Or should we embrace the fact that in this relentless heat, we might as well be living in some long-forgotten civilization, 20 or 30 BC, before cellphones, televisions and air conditioning blighted our existence with distraction and relief.

The former would be a practical solution.

The latter, infinitely more fun.

I could don a white toga, gold sandals (Jimmy Choos, please) and braid my hair on top of my head like a Grecian goddess.

I could revel in the heat as hubby feeds me grapes and we feast on wild boar.

I could pretend I am an ancient queen, suffering in the desert as my troops build a gigantic monument in honor of mummies who mummy in the heat. A bad-tempered Sphinx in Spanx.

And then I could invoke a dramatic climax to the summer, clasping an asp to my chest in protest.

Wait. What am I thinking? An asp?

What is this? My life? Shakespeare? Myth? Or reality?

Time to drink a tall, cool glass of lemonade, reapply deodorant, and get dinner on the table.

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Categories Blowing off steam, Motherhood, Poop

Kimchi

January 12, 2012 //
2

Before I tell you about our trip to Panama, which I will do soon, I thought I’d tell you about my recent experience with Kimchi.

You know about Kimchi, right? It’s a delectable side dish found in Korea, made from fermented cabbage, carrots, radishes and other veggies. It sounds weird, but if you like pickles, you’ll like kimchi. It’s crunchy, salty, sour and a perfect accompaniment to cheese, sandwiches and assorted meats.

I’ve had a thing for the stuff for some years now, ever since I read in my dogeared copy of Nourishing Traditions that naturally fermented vegetables are good for you. Apparently, fermented foods boost your immune system, improve digestion and generate nutrients. You can read all about it on one of my favorite food blogs, Cheeseslave.

I also happen to love Korean food (almost as much as I love my adored friend M of birthday karaoke fame, who hails from Korea). I’ll taste anything she recommends and that her mother lovingly made for her as a child.

So in Whole Foods the other day, I nearly had a spontaneous orgasm when I spied this:

Sunja's "mild, white kimchi"

Also this:

num num num

I grew up on Marmite. But I already had a jar of it at home. Hubby thinks it’s almost as disgusting as my love for dried seaweed.

Realizing I was kimchi-less, however, I quickly grabbed the jar and loaded it in my shopping basket, anxious to slather it between two slices of bread and a slice of turkey when I got home.

Slather it, I did. And soon discovered that the label was a tad misleading. “Mild” it promised, “white” aka pure and restful, kimchee. Let’s just say that the consequences of my foray into store-bought fermentation were more violent than mild, though I certainly reached a new understanding of how it improves digestion. I now no longer need a post-holiday cleanse.

During my feeding frenzy, I accidentally dropped a few pieces of the pungent smelling stuff on the kitchen floor. I lit a lavendar scented candle to no avail.

For the past few days, every time I walked in the door, I smelled Kimchi. “Can the smell of fermented cabbage really linger so long?” I asked myself. Is this some subtle confirmation that Kimchi and I are not a good match?

I eventually figured out the problem. Hanging something on the wall yesterday, I glanced down and saw a dead mouse lying very sweetly, nay peacefully, on top of our heating pipe in the corner of the living room. I yelped and immediately ran into the kitchen, my children eyeing me with puzzlement.

Was our trusty cat Viktor responsible for this mouse’s end?

Did the poor critter inadvertently eat a piece of stray kimchee and die?

Or is this all a plot hatched by our new Dear Leader of North Korea, to prevent The Poop of Others from stopping the spread of communism?

He's definitely eaten too much kimchi

I may never know. In any event, I’m glad the smell was a mouse, and not the kimchi.

Though I’m not sure I shall be venturing into my kimchi jar again, any time soon, seeing as now it reminds me of dead rodents.

Ah well, there’s always my jar of Marmite…

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Categories Poop, Thinking about life

Bottoms up

May 31, 2011 //
5

Photo courtesy of web

I’ve been absent. Again. And feeling horribly guilty about it.

But I have an excuse.

I caught a bad cold, that had me laid up in bed, gasping in a consumptive haze for hubby to come home early to relieve me of my diapering duties.

Then, I turned 40. You’ll be surprised to hear that, in the vaunted words of Ronald McDonald, I’m lovin’ it. Give me a burger and fries with my newfound “Don’t f with me, I’m 40″ status.

And finally, I’ve been organizing details for our move in August and preparing for a giant stoop sale this weekend.

So I’m announcing my blogging comeback with another culturally inspired, sophisticated post.

The subject today?

Bottoms.

Sitting comfortably? Right, let’s begin.

First, a rant. What is the deal with these young boys wearing their trousers below their arse? I know I sound like an old biddy and I shall swing my chewed up handbag at anyone who declares otherwise. But the other day I was walking behind two such bepantzled young men, and aside from the fact that I wonder how these young ‘uns can keep their trousers up and walk at the same time – I find it a revolting and fascinating site to behold.

Am I an just aging old fogey?

Or am I subconsciously on the lookout for customers to buy my newest invention?

You see, right before I got that cold and then turned 40 and then unfortunately threw up the entire contents of my birthday dinner the next morning, ushering in a new era of reformed responsibility, I went for a run. Two runs, actually, in the peaceful, tree-lined park several blocks down from our home.

I was feeling good about myself, as I gently jogged past the playground, casually bumping into my upstairs neighbor.

“Beautiful evening for it,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, as if I’d been doing this for years.

In truth, this was the first time I’d attempted to exercise in over a year, since before little B was born. And while I was surprised at being able to do an entire loop of the park (it’s small) without pulling a Wicked Witch of the West and dissolving into a puddle of steaming sweat, I soon realized that my body was in need of something a little special. Something not on the market, to my knowledge. Something that could potentially be my next career venture. And something that perhaps these young boys with their bottoms hanging out of their trousers could do with.

An arse bra.

You see, before my run, I had no idea that my little buns were in need of support.

[Apologies to hubby, who to my surprised delight, expressed mild concern about the content of this post.  He would like me to keep an aura of mystery about my womanly bits. Hubby: I'm sorry, but you have no say in the matter.]

My little unexercised booty took on a life of its own during that run, causing me mild consternation and slowing down my run time by about a minute. Of course, I thought to myself! The jogging bra was invented to help women for a reason. And now, the arse bra shall not only provide another essential service to exercising women, but perhaps start a whole new trend among the strange, bepantzled young men roaming our streets.

So bottoms up…er….cheers…to new inventions, turning 40 and a more pert future.

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Categories Motherhood, Poop, Thinking about life

Wobbly bits

May 5, 2011 //
2

I’ve been absent. And internally wearing a very itchy hair shirt, as I flagellate myself for not blogging these past couple of weeks. I’ve been in a sort of mental slump. Because we’re moving in August, and I’m overwhelmed by that. And because I’m working on a book project. And because I need more adult company. Those are my excuses.

And I’m sorry, because I really do love blogging but I’ve found it hard lately to dredge up any form of humor when I’m stuck inside in the rain all day with Ms. Diva and am greeted in the morning, as I’m getting dressed, with conversations like this:

Boychild: “Mommy, I can see your boobies.”

Me (internal monologue): Christ. He’s almost five. Should I be more modest? Cute that he calls them boobies though. Totally natural for him to see my boobies. After all, he suckled on them for the first fifth of his life so far.

Boychild: “They’re wobbly.”

Me (internal monologue): Ah, yes. Wobbly. Thank you, dear boy, for the reminder that my best asset has truly gone south. Literally and figuratively. Next, he’ll be commenting on my cellulite-ridden thighs.

But until then….

I’m back. Hopefully with some more regularity. Thanks for waiting around.

Because without you, I’m nuttin’.

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Categories Motherhood, Poop

Poop muffin

March 29, 2011 //
7

Gentle readers,

I know who most of you are. I have some wonderful friends reading my haphazard posts, and for that, I thank you.

I also have some lovely fellow bloggers and mummies who tune in regularly. I am ever grateful for your comments, and I thank you for checking in on me.

I also have some anonymous readers, judging from the “Site Stats” that WordPress kindly reveals each day. Now, some of you folks appear to have stumbled upon my posts quite randomly. If you have enjoyed what I’ve written, and commented, I thank you for reaching out.

WordPress also reveals the “search terms” that have led other anonymous readers to my site. I shall divide these people into 3 categories:

1. The Practical Explorer

People need information about everything from unwanted pests to how to treat colds.

Hence the search for “Scuffling mice.”  I’m assuming that reader was directed to this recent post.

And the search for “Bee pollen and colds.” I’m glad I could be of service here.

Even the folks who apparently searched for  ”Why doesn’t bee pollen make me shit” and then “Pooping while skiing” were asking fair and levelheaded questions. I can even relate to those who searched for”bee poop in pollen” and “high altitude makes me poop.” Though I’m not entirely sure my blog helped them solve their particular dilemmas.

Then, there’s….

2. Those in search of porn

Admittedly, I’ve lured only one porn seeker to my site, who apparently found me through the search term “Nice, hot, busty.”  I was puzzled that this highbrow reader was directed to my site, as I am neither nice or busty. Though I am fairly hot.

And then I realized that the poor person was most likely directed to this fairly innocuous poem. Which would hardly have satisfied their carnal urges.

But it’s this next batch of readers that really let me know that my blog is gathering traffic in all the right places. I call them…

3. The Poop Muffins

Yes, apparently there are those who do pop in the words “poop muffin” into their Google search bar. And then “is bee pollen bee poop?” which is an honest but fairly ridiculous mistake. And then, finally, my heart really goes out to the supermodel who searched for this: “Poop after lipo in spandex.” I mean, I know that lipo must be tough on the body, Gisele, but really honey, it would have been far more effective to just call your plastic surgeon.

Photo courtesy of web. Obviously.

Disclaimer: Thank you to all my regular, poop and non-poop searching readers! I heart you!

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Categories Motherhood, Poop
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