Why I Think I'm a Chef:

1. Because I watch Food Network

Ummm, that's it. Sorry, were you expecting more reasons? Something like a culinary degree? Cooking experience? Owning top of the line utensils and cookware? Well, you need to drastically lower your expectations because I don't have any of that. What I do have is an all-inclusive cable package, a cupboard of mismatched pots and pans, and a $5 utensil set from Walmart. Is anything else really necessary to make culinary magic?!

Yes.

What I lack is the patience to cook. If it was something I could do in one continuous set of steps, I'd be all over it, especially considering the delicious results. I can't stand having to hop up and down to go check on water to see if it's boiling yet, looking in the oven every 30 minutes over the course of 5 hours to make sure something isn't burning, or adding one ingredient every 15 minutes and then standing there stirring continuously. Not to mention the fact that I only have two square feet of counter space, so I have to make every individual dish one at a time. By the time my bland potatoes are done, my pasta is done boiling and my chicken is done grilling, I've been standing in that kitchen for hours! All for a meal that'll be devoured in 24.8 minutes. Maybe if I had one of those fancy flip-down TVs in the kitchen so I could watch my shows as I slave, I'd be less likely to burn things because I went into the other room to rewind my show to the point I last left off and get caught up watching for too long.

Most importantly: Where's the payoff?! Why do I have to ASK every time, "So?", "Well?" or "How is it?" I feel like my chef-ery should be acknowledged automatically, dammit! If I actually prepare something from scratch, I feel like it's a pretty big freaking deal! Especially considering I wasn't even allowed to go into the kitchen for water without permission until I was 18 (true story), the amount of culinary knowledge I've amassed in the past 6 years is astounding... ok, maybe that's too strong of a word, lol. Either way, I feel like I'm playing catch up, so when I do manage to prepare something edible that didn't come with the instructions "Peel back corner of film to vent", it ought to be appreciated!

In all honesty, this has become another situation like the robe, with me feeling like once I bought a set of matching pots and pans and a crock pot that I'd be whipping up deliciousness on a daily basis. That dream is yet to be realized. However, I did make something delicious yesterday, from scratch, with no help!! I made baked eggs, cheese and bacon in hash brown nests with toast and orange slices. My husband took his into the bedroom, so I went in after a few minutes to see how he thought they tasted. I put a lot of work into those little bastards, I wanted some damn praise! "So, how are they?" I ask, fishing for that compliment that I so desire. What do I get? A nod. No eye contact, no words, no smile. Just a nod. Really? I hope to hell he enjoys cornflakes, because that's just become the main staple in his diet! Well, at least for meals I cook... which is like 3/week. Damn, I can't even make a good threat.

I'm willing to make a deal. When he gets me this kitchen:

I'll cook every day.

At first.

Weekends for sure.

Mostly.

Ok, throw in all new cookware and we have a deal!

Santa Claus is Coming to Town (and draining my bank account)!

Trey saw Mommy kissing telling Santa Claus to go sleep on the air bed in the living room. Hey, I need sleep and NCAA '12 is not conducive to a restful environment. I need a good amount of sleep after running around behind a toddler all day, but also because long after he's asleep I'm online looking for the best price on a "Let's Rock Elmo" well after midnight.

Christmas shopping used to be simple. Curtis and I would stop off at Target on our way back home to visit the family and pick up one toy for each of our seven nieces and nephews and something for his parents. My siblings-in-law had to go without, unfortunately. But hey, who said love and hugs aren't good gifts?! (Probably the person who only got love and hugs while everyone was opening up iPods on Christmas morning... oh wait, I just described myself).

For Trey's first Christmas I was juiced to buy him some toys! I waited with bated breath until Black Friday, then I burst through the doors of Target at 4am, for once joining the rest of the mothers stampeding to the toy section, leaving bruised and battered childless women in our wake. What was I after you ask? A music table... no, that's it, just the music table. One toy. One $20 toy. If my son ever questions my love for him, this will be the second story I tell him, right after I remind him that he lived in my uterus for 9 months and left my stomach strewn with stretch marks (which I expect to be lasered off sometime in the future as a mother's day present). Buying presents for a 5 1/2 month old baby isn't easy. I figured it'd be best not to go overboard, so I only got him a handful of toys. His music table, some books, and a jumperoo. Ah, the jumperoo. I was so excited for that damn thing. I figured I could put him in it for about 20 minutes and maybe have a quick second to brush my teeth for the first time in about a week, maybe even take a wet washcloth to my "hot spots" before he freaked out. Don't pretend you haven't done it, moms. Showers take time you don't have, so if you're in a pinch, sometimes the best you can do is run a cloth under your arms, under your boobs, through the va-jay and the booty, then repeat to get the soap out. But I digress. Back to the jumperoo. He loathed it. If I even carried him into the vicinity of it, he lost his mind. Well, that was $75 down the drain (that I'll be taking out of his allowance when he's older... lol). Oh well, I thought to myself, next year he'll be big enough to open presents, so it'll be more fun, plus there'll be a wider variety of toys to choose from.

Let's derail from the Christmas train for a second and revisit his first birthday. Trey received a ton of toys from his family and friends, which was awesome because it was just about that time to get him some more age appropriate toys. Apparently those plastic key rings are only fun for so long, who knew? Skip ahead about a week and he's bored with all of them. And I mean ALL of them. He'd much rather play with spoons, pens, phones and remotes, which are obviously sooo much cooler than pianos, guitars, ride-on trains, and a plethora of books, Elmo toys and blocks. Skip ahead to September, and Mommy gets the idea that since Trey loves to bounce on the bed, she should get him a little trampoline with a handle so he can jump to his heart's content. Yeah, another mark in the "Mom buys lame toys" column. He'll get on it for about a minute, look at me for approval, then get off and run to me with his "I did good!" face. Yet another $60 wasted on something that he's got little to no interest in. Good job, Mom, good job.

So now it's October, and my favorite holiday is rapidly approaching once again: Black Friday. For the past 2 years, we've gotten a new TV and a few things for the house on this most special of days. It's like pulling teeth to get Curtis to come with me, but it's worth it to get him on cart duty while I snake my way through people to get to the goods. This year I'm hoping that the "Let's Rock Elmo" goes on sale, because I'll be damned if I spend another $60 on a toy that's going to be thrown by the wayside in favor of spoons and pens. Do you know how many Yankee Candles I could get with that!??! Like one, after tax and shipping, but still, at least I'd USE it, lol. So now, not only am I planning on getting the Elmo, but I feel like I need the entire set, which includes guitar (which Trey already has), a piano (which Trey already has), and a microphone... (which Trey already has). Wait!! Let me explain/justify/validate myself! Elmo recognizes the piano, guitar and mic that belong with his set, and I think Trey would play with his instruments more if he was getting some positive reinforcement from Elmo! ...... Ok, that's total bull, I just want all his toys to match. Call it a weird obsession. No, seriously, call it that because that's exactly what it is. I bought every single "Precious Planet" themed item by Fisher Price just because it was part of the collection, not because my child actually needed it.

None of this would be an issue if toys weren't so effing expensive! A single Elmo toy costs an entire day's work for me, and that's before taxes. Sure, it's partially my fault because I work a job that pays minimum wage, but that a story for another post. If toys weren't so damn expensive, our house would be even more littered with them than it already is (and to give you and idea of what I mean, every room in the house can be covered with toys and his toy boxes would STILL be full). I tell myself that I'm buying toys to stimulate Trey's mind, and while that's partially true, I just get so excited to see his reaction to new things I bring home for him. So while I'll certainly bitch and moan about how expensive Elmo is, and despite the fact that I'm completely aware that it will drive me insane for 3 weeks, then break, I'll still be in line at Target/Walmart the day after Thanksgiving with my bitch stomping boots on, ready to fight the crowds just for those few minutes of smiles and happiness it'll bring my little boy. Where does that leave everyone else on my Christmas list? With cards and homemade coupon books good for hugs and babysitting.

Damn, I'm such a softy. What the hell am I gonna do when he's 16 and it takes a car to make him smile?? Eh, he probably won't be able to snuggle me into getting him anything he wants by then... hopefully.

The First Step is Admitting I Have a Problem

...and I do. I've developed an expensive addiction that I cant seem to overcome. Every other day I'm online looking for where I can get them for the best price, and even when I can't find a sale, it just doesn't matter. I'll pay full price if I have to. My house is now littered with them, with more on the way here now. 6 to be exact. My husband doesn't know about my fetish. He sees some of them around the house, but he doesn't quite realize just how many I have, or how much they cost. Thankfully the only posts he every sees on this blog are the ones I show him. Next time I'll just skip over this one, lol. So, what is this addiction, I'm sure you're wondering. Is it shoes? Clothes? Movies? Makeup? Jewelry? No, nothing nearly as exciting as that. My addiction is:

Candles. Yankee brand candles.

I'm sorry if it's not the flashy habit that I may have led you to expect. Yes, I love Yankee candles. They smell amazing! I've bought most of the cheaper brands of candles, like Mainstays from Walmart, whatever the store brand from Target is called, Woodwick from Bed, Bath & Beyond. None of them have enough scent to fill a room, and that's the whole reason I purchase them. It may be gross, but one of the man rooms I need candles is the bathroom.

Unfortunately the two men in my life have the stinkiest asses I've ever had the misfortune of smelling. Their odors linger long after the diaper is safely ensconced in the Diaper Genie, what seems like hours after the toilet has been flushed. I've walked into Trey's room more than an hour after changing his Huggie, and my poor nostrils were assailed by green tendrils of gaseous fumes that reached out toward me like a bony hand... No, I'm serious. I've only been back in there once since then. And that was when I had my friend Sarah and her daughter, Leia, over. Sorry, girls, but there's strength in numbers, and I knew that if you were with me I had a better chance of survival. Unfortunately I can't keep candles in Trey's room because, well, it might burn my baby up, which is inadvisable to say the least. The bathroom is a different story. He can't reach anything in there so I'm free to light all the candles I want. And I do. I have one big jar candle, two votive candles, and two pillars. You'd think that'd be enough. It isn't. I've waited hours before going in to take a bath, lit all the candles and STILL only been able to stay in there for like 10 minutes. I think that it goes without saying that a 10 minute bath is hardly worth it, considering it takes at least that amount of time to get the bubble to water ratio correct.

Ok, maybe I'm over exaggerating. A little. I can admit that I use this as an excuse to continue my habit of compulsive candle consumption. I can also admit that it's partially my fault that my boys have such offensive, smelly butts, I am in charge of what they eat most of the time. It's my fault for giving them all those vegetables and meats. It's my fault for wanting them to be healthy and gets all the proteins, vitamins and minerals that they need. I'll take that blame. As soon as I post this, I think I'll head over to the Yankee website.

After all, it's all my fault and why should they have to suffer from the stench?


*I apologize to anyone who reads this and feels offended, but when you live with stinky man-butt, you're bound to write about it a time or two.

I Whip My Hair Back and Forth... and It Hurts My Neck

"The hair is the richest ornament of women." - Martin Luther

Ain't that the truth?! It's almost crazy when you think about it! No matter what designer outfit you put on, how many carats are in your ears and around your throat, or who airbrushed your makeup this morning, if your hair is not groomed, neither are you. Some women are lucky and have the luxury of hair that they can just run their fingers through and walk out of the house looking gorgeous! 

Not me. Never me. Ever. Like not even one time.

It all started when I was born. Like my son, I was born with a head full of straight blackish-brown hair. Then, it started to curl and kept on curling until I was a regular Shirley Temple. Life was good. Then, disaster: I learned to move. Wind, rain, carbon dioxide particles, random foliage, Azythromycin (yeah, I know it's an antibiotic, but I figure with everything else, this was probably there too), all of it got into my hair and thus began the downward spiral (curl pun intended) of the life of my hair. 

When I was 8 I moved out of my mother's house. It was time, I needed to spread my wings, see the rest of the Inland Empire. Unfortunately, the family I moved in with didn't know how to do my hair, so I was elevated to the position of full-time stylist at the tender age of 8, a feat most couldn't dream of. I say full-time stylist because at the time I had hair half way down my back, and for child that age, it may as well have been 40ft long. There was one style that I mastered quickly: the ponytail. Yes, the classic ponytail, so versatile, yet so simple! Fast forward 5 years and you'd find me in junior high, still rocking that ponytail. Every now and then I might try a half up, half down thing, but the next day, the PT (that's cool talk for ponytail) was back in action. It was my go-to 'do! Sure, I'd developed the bad habit of cutting the hair tie out of my hair when it was too tangled to remove and I got too frustrated to keep working on it, but hey, no biggie. And while it's true that I probably didn't actually get all the tangles out of my bushy, rat's nest of a PT for all of the 8th grade, you can bet your sweet ass that the front of my hair was slicked down with gobs of gel and looked damn good (in my 8th grade opinion, of course). 

By now I'd been living in the desert for a few years. You may not know this, but heat is the bane of the curl's existence. I'd gone from cute, Shirley ringlets to frizz. I can't elaborate on the frizz, because that's all there was. Frizz. I again came upon a turning point in my life: my introduction to the hot comb. And what a glorious change it was! I had straight hair! ME! It was amazing. Sure, as soon as I washed it, the frizz was back with a vengeance, angry for having been masked by the blistering heat of the comb, but now that I knew straight hair was within my grasp, I was a changed woman... or pre-teen, whatever. It was hell to get done since once it was straightened my hair literally touched my ass, thus it took forever, but it was worth it for those few short hours of silky smooth strands. I shit you not, some guy in Carl's, Jr. came up to me and told me he'd almost mistaken me for Mariah Carey. Of course, that just about made my millennium! 

Freshman year

One of my brighter days

Let's skip the odd stage that was my high school hair and go straight (haha, 'nother hair joke) to my college years. I'd dabbled in dying my hair in high school (black... *shudder*... those were dark times), but I found my true color right before college: Red. Yes, after years of being Melissa F., Fransaw, Mixed Melissa, and the ever popular Franswizzle, I'd evolved into Redhead Melissa.  How awesome is that?! But the fame took it's toll... or maybe it was the chemicals in the dyes. I'd first strip (translation = bleach) my hair of the previous color, then immediately apply a fresh coat of reddy goodness. The closer I got to graduation, the brighter it got. I went from an auburn haired freshman to a bright, fire-engine, crayola red, dead-from-constant-substance-abuse haired junior before I finally took pity on my poor bedraggled locks and dyed them brown.

That brings us to more recent years. I've had my up-dos and downs since I've lived here in San Diego, what with being a few miles from the ocean and the havoc the humidity wreaks on my hair. Now that I have a child, having a beautifully styled mane is one of my lesser concerns, but it's a concern nonetheless. As Martin Luther said, it's my richest ornament, I can't just chop it off all willy-nilly into some "mom-do"! Not that I wouldn't like too, but with the curls, any short 'do immediately becomes an afro. Oh, how I'd love to go to a salon and have my tresses dressed by a professional, to come out looking like a goddess with flowing strands that glint in the afternoon sun, but like it or not, the PT has rapidly risen to the top spot in my arsenal once again (and sometimes that's still pretty time consuming). So now I have mid-back length, brown, curly (but sometimes straight), poorly cut (because I did it myself) hair to serve as my ornament. 

I have my good days: 

And my NOT so good days:

I had thought about wrapping this post up with some feel-good comments about how my hair is just part of who I am, that I embrace it and I love it, blah, blah, sappy, blah! But seeing as how that "NOT so good day" was this morning, I'm thinking it's time I get my shit together and do something with this mop! I do love my hair, but I'll love it even more when I pick my new style for my new era as a mom. I've got it! Short, blond, asymmetrical bob! YES!

.... Alright I'm kidding... about the blond.

Kisses

Do you ever watch television and critique the way the actors kiss? I'll bet you have, even if you don't realize it. I'll be watching a love scene in a movie, thinking to myself "He's gonna do it... just lean in... stop talking and just--- what the hell was that?!" Maybe it's just me, but most television kisses leave a lot to be desired. I often think "That's not believable, if he really loved her, he'd kiss her like...(insert appropriate kiss type here)." There's never any middle ground in television kisses, it's either a quick, chaste peck on the lips or cheek with a pursed "I just sucked a lemon" face, or a "Let me taste those tonsils, baby!" type of affair.

Personally, I used to have very strict ideas about what a good kiss should entail. I hated for his mouth to be open too wide, and God forbid he leave any slobber on me, ick! And I know that in the movies it's all cute for the man to bury his hands deep in the woman's hair and guide her through the kiss, but seriously, no bueno. I spent at least a good hour doing my hair today, and if you touch it I'll never get it back to how I had it. I'll thank you to keep your hands at 10 and 2 (that's shoulders for anyone whose mind was wandering to a dirty place... though I'm not quite sure what time boobs would be). Why not on the hips? Because, hips invariably lead to ass grabbing, and I don't think it's appropriate for you to knead my ass in front of the group of 3rd graders who just happen to be walking by.

Despite my kissing ideology, I've recently met someone who kisses me in every way I always thought was awful. He opens his mouth as wide as he possibly can, engulfing my lips, sometimes my nose, eyes, even ear once. I don't think he's ever given me a kiss without leaving a trail of cold spittle in his wake, and he's grabbed my boobs during a kiss on many occasions. Yet and still, I allow it to persist. Hell, who am I kidding, I BEG for it! I ask for kisses at least 20 times a day and while he'll often ignore me, sometimes he'll grace me with that glorious, drool-filled kiss and I love every second of it.

It's strange how things change when you're a mommy.

The Robe

I was telling some mom friends of mine the other day about my odd desire to buy a robe. Not just any robe, but the robe. What exactly is "the robe"? I'm glad you asked. The robe must be made of either satin or silk (though I'm poor, so I will gladly accept some cheaper knockoff material, so long as it gives the appearance of a more expensive texture) and it must be a solid color. However, if it's tasteful and not tacky and overdone, I would be willing to accept a nice floral print or abstract design. One point that is absolutely non-negotiable: it must be calf-length or longer. Melissa, you ask, why all the specifications? Why does it matter? Well, I'll tell you.

In this robe, I envision myself rising early from bed, around 6am, putting on the robe, and going downstairs to brew a pot of coffee in my well appointed kitchen. I sit and read the the newspaper while I wait, and not a virtual version, but the real deal. My husband descends from upstairs straightening his tie, ready for another day as a brilliant financial mind with some big name firm that you see on TV but really have no idea what they actually do. I pour us both a cup of coffee and we map out our day. He'll be home around 6pm, while I'll be having lunch with "the girls" after dropping Trey off at his expensive private preschool. We're having roast for dinner. What kind of roast? Who the hell cares, it's roasted meat and it'll be delicious, served with mashed potatoes, a vegetable, and wine for Curtis and me (milk for Trey), and it'll be eaten in our dining room at a dining room table that's too big for our small family, but is perfect for entertaining, which I do often. After that it'll be a nice long bubble bath for me. I slip into a lovely silk nightgown (not a nightie, this isn't that kinda party... not that night anyway), then put the robe over it and when I come out, Curtis is sitting in bed reading a book. I sit gently on the edge of the bed, apply my hand and face cream, then lay down on my memory foam, pillow-top, feather filled, automatically adjustable bed and slip into happy dreams, readying myself to do it all again tomorrow.

Ahhh, what a glorious life, right? How lucky am I? Not that damn lucky.

I searched and searched until I found the right robe, ordered it, and it arrived 3 days ago. I'm still waiting for it's magic to take effect, but so far I'm still living in my 2 bedroom apartment, drinking canned vanilla lattes from the refrigerator, spending my day snacking on the couch and playing with my son. Curtis gets up early, at around 5am, but he doesn't put on a suit to go crunch numbers, he puts on fatigues to go weld stuff on the naval base all day. Dinner is a pre-made lasagna from Marie Callender's that simply requires me to cut a slit in the film across the top and put it in the oven for about an hour (or 12 minutes in the microwave if we're feeling impatient). Maybe I'll open a can of vegetables to go along with it... or not. Curtis takes over baby duty so I can go take a quick shower, then toss my hair up into a messy mass of curls that will inevitably come loose and try to snake it's tendrils around my face, suffocating me in my sleep. I throw on whatever big t-shirt I can find and a pair of comfy underwear (and those are Hanes bikini-cuts, for those who were unsure) then exit the room to find my husband not reading a book, but sitting on the couch playing his umpteenth season of NCAA Football '12 on his Xbox while my poor child sits there bored, waiting for someone to play with him. Curtis will be out there all night since he'll end up falling asleep on the couch, game still on and controller in hand. After I finally get my baby to sleep, I'll climb onto my cheap, rapidly deteriorating mattress and sneak in some more Facebooking while I catch up on whichever show my DVR recorded for me tonight. When I finally look at the clock and realize it's 1am and I'll need to be up in just a few short hours, I can't help but look over at the robe draped across my ottoman and feel cheated. What the hell, Robe?! This is NOT what you promised me when I saw you on TV, on all those rich women in the Hamptons, in their billion dollar homes. What did I do wrong?

Maybe if I order the slippers...