christmas shouldn’t be so complicated

I’m currently living in the world of transitioning from three naps to two. If you have zero children, this period of time can basically be described like this:

HI, CRANKY PANTS.

We wear our rally caps daily, now. Last night’s five-hour (!!!!!!!) rally included a family dance party. It worked…for maybe three songs…then we had to give in and start bath time. There’s only so much you can do.

I guess that’s where I’ve been? Along with Christmas shopping.  Just FYI – making an Amazon wish list is basically a gateway drug to full on whipping out the credit card and buying things. I’ve been getting shipping notifications for things I don’t even remember ordering. I’m not even sure what that says about me.

I’m struggling as to what I’m going to get Tim. He is the hardest person to buy for because he doesn’t want little things. He wants big things. Granted, there are only two “big” things he wants, but, still. Oh, wait. He wants “big” things and then stuff like a SHOP VAC.

Really?

Here. allow me to put that under the tree. I’ll un-box it and put it together and everything. How charming.

Buying a shop vac is zero percent fulfilling when it comes to Christmas shopping. I’m just saying.

We made an Amazon wish list that we both put stuff on so we would know what the other person wanted. Once we were mostly finished, I went to check the list and…um…

Me: Our budget is what, again? And you put a SIXTY INCH TELEVISION on it?! And a camera?

Tim: You said…

Me: ….and you said you didn’t want a new TV because of the reviews. YOU said.

Tim: Also? I go to check because you said you put stuff for you on the list and what do I see? Dog stuff. Kellan stuff. And ONE THING for you. ONE!

Me: You said you already knew what you were getting me AND you said not to say things I wanted because then if you were already planning on getting them, it would seem like you only got them because I said I wanted them when you were already planning on it…your words, not mine.

Tim: True…

Me: So, really, what’s the budget?

Tim: ONE DOLLAR. For you. Because I’m already over.

Me: OMG.

And then? We learn that Christmas lights are full of lead. Which? Bad, bad, bad for babies. We found a website who sells lights that are supposed to be RoHS (Restrictive of Hazardous Materials) compliant, which means the lead levels are nowhere near as bad as the lights you pick up anywhere around here.

The lights we ordered came last night and they are WAY TOO YELLOW.  So much so that we are going to have to return them.

Then Tim is like, “You realize that we have to pay to return them (WHAT?!) AND then pay for shipping on new lights (WHAT?!) if we want to order more.

WHAT?!

Dear Go Green LED Bulbs – that’s insane. It may be your policy but, still. IN.SANE. It will cost us almost $20 in shipping…or more. I don’t even know.

Also? Your picture of the “antique” lights is extremely misleading. This yellow you have on your website? MULTIPLY BY A HUNDRED SHADES OF YELLOW.

We haven’t re-ordered any lights from them, yet. I’m still debating because OMG. We have to pay to return them because they are WRONG. We also found a warning label inside the box, so now we aren’t even sure if they ARE RoHS compliant, even though their website says they are. We’ve already sent an email. Awaiting a response…

All this. For lights.

Last night, I was all, “Maybe we just won’t put lights on the tree because I’m not putting our old [lead filled] lights on.”

Tim: Then we aren’t getting a tree because I’m not putting up a tree without lights. That’s ridiculous.

Me: Might as well cancel Christmas, then.

Tim: Seriously? You’re going there? That’s a little over the top.

Me: And Christmas with no tree is better?!

[begin mutual silent treatment while we watch Homeland]

Christmas shouldn’t be so complicated, people. Yet, here we are. No decorations. No tree. No damn lights.

happy easter!

Love,
Kellan ‘Reece-ter Bunny’ Bold

if you play with fire…

I learned pretty early on that Tim isn’t one to mess with.

As in: practical joke, embarrassing moment, TINY LITTLE SPRINKLE OF WATER ON THE FACE.

I did that, once.  Splashed some water on his face when my hands were wet from washing dishes.

Just a couple a drops.  That’s it.

Know what he did?

He grabbed the sprayer from the sink and DOUSED ME.

Pillow fights are out.  The first – and last - time I playfully smacked him with a pillow, he whomped me so hard I ended up doubled over.

Since then…there are no “jokes.”

Not from my end, anyway.

Of course, TOGETHER JOKES are ok.  As long as someone else is sharing in the spotlight.  Like Halloween at his parent’s house a few years ago.

He was Elvis.

I was Priscilla.

And I think we made a damn good couple.

 

I’ve got big plans for his 40th…and every time I mention it, all he says is, “just remember, you’ve still got to turn 30.”

the easter pizza

This year there will be no baskets.  No chocolate bunnies or eggs or beans…nothing  The past three years Tim and I have managed to purchase around thirty pounds of candy and chocolate and pack each others baskets so full that lifting one requires a spotter.  Who needs colored grass when all the space is taken up by the goods?

I told Tim I didn’t want anything this year.  Not one single marshmallow Peep.  He looked at me like, Really??  NO CANDY?? 

Really.

We are going to attempt the infamous Easter Pizza again though.  It is basically bread dough with a mix of ricotta cheese, cinnamon, sugar and eggs in the middle.  You make the dough, roll it out, make a boat shape, put the ricotta mix in the middle of the boat and then put a piece on top and close it all up.  It looks like this in its final form.  I have no idea why it is called Easter pizza… you don’t even cut it into triangular slices…Tim said it was called an Easter pizza, so I went with it.

Looks simple enough but that thing is a behemoth to prepare.  The first year we made it Tim wanted to do it exactly like his mom and grandmother because apparently the chemistry and mixing had to be done just right for the pizza to turn out.  This meant him creating a large dam of flour on the kitchen counter and then pouring all the wet ingredients in the middle of the dam and slowly mixing the dam with the liquid.

Well, our dam broke.

Tim had a knee jerk reaction and threw his entire upper body and arms onto the counter and around the Easter pizza river now flooding in all directions.  He was yelling at me, saying “DO SOMETHING!”  and I was laughing so hard it made doing anything a challenge.  I managed to find a large mixing bowl and started scooping everything into it.  Once it was mostly under control, Tim lifted his body off the counter.  We found Easter pizza ingredients under the microwave oven, behind the cutting board, on the floor… it was everywhere. We slid all of the stuff on the counter into the bowl.  Tim was sure we had ruined it.  He was adamant.  It was not going to turn out.  It was going to be awful.

We made it anyway, not knowing if we had too much or not enough of any one thing because we had to add additional ingredients because we didn’t know how much we scraped stuff off the counter and we refused to use whatever was on the floor.

Tim finally got the stuff into a dough-like consistency, rolled it out and did the whole boat thing, put the ricotta in, closed it up and to the oven it went.  He kept checking to make sure it didn’t turn a strange color.  His aunt made it once and it turned a puke-colored shade of orange and based on how we butchered the recipe, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tim thought it would morph into a giant egg, turn blue and spit acid at you anytime you opened the oven to take a peek.

Whatever we did – it worked.  The pizza turned out golden brown and delicious, just like it did when Tim’s mom made it when he was little…good thing, too, because it was on the menu for weeks.  Due to all of the extra ingredient adding, the pizza ended up being three times the size it was supposed to be and we’re only two people…

booshy??

Chloe emerging from her special place

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have finally been subverted the the world of blogging.  Apparently that is the “way to go” along with Myspace and Facebook and Twitter… and the only thing that “twitters” in this household is one of our cats, Chloe.  She makes a twitter kind of noise sometimes when she’s in a world special only to her.  We have yet to figure out how to get there, try as we might.  So, the whole booshy thing – I know you’re all waiting with baited breath. 

Is it a name? 

A bad hairday? 

Maybe a new food? 

“Booshy” came to life while my husband and I were looking for Christmas cards (“Holiday” for those that do not celebrate – but they had a Santa on the front…), albeit too late to find any good ones.  I guess Thanksgiving is the new Christmas and shopping for anything red or green or sparkly within the first two weeks of the month of Santa is WAY TOO LATE (apparently I’m behind – mental note).  He held one of the few remaining boxes of cards up for me to see and asked what I thought.  I said they looked booshy.  It just popped out.  He looked at me like “maybe I just didn’t hear what she really said” as I have this habit of mumbling and he now attempts to re-process my words before he asks me to repeat myself.  This time, I had to repeat.  He just laughed.  I didn’t like them.  They were too in your face Merry Christmas don’t-you-feel-bad-you-didn’t-send-me-a-card-maybe-this-will-help-you-remember-next-year.  We are trying to send joy and sticky sweetness – not guilt.  There’s enough of that after you step on the scale on January 1st, your new resolution staring up at you, completely benign, but oh so menacing.  So as to where the word came from, other than out of my mouth, I have yet to determine.

Oh – this is Chloe .  She was in one of her moods.