Feeling green

It was a busy weekend at Casa Megan. (Chris's) Family dinner on Friday, (Megan's) family dinner on Saturday, Superbowl on Sunday.

The hours were also filled with the predictable and prerequisite workouts, trips to the golf store and grocery, laundry, and daydreaming of all the things the future holds.

Chris and I are in that awkward relationship moment when we aren't married, we don't have kids, and we are already moved into the house with the yard and dog. For quite a while now.

We often look across the room at each other on Saturday afternoons and think, "there has to be more than this." More than just a boyfriend and a girlfriend and a big house full of too many boring grownup possessions.

We know the missing piece has ten tiny toes and ten tiny fingers.

But since that's a really serious lifetime commitment, for now we doddle and tinker and bicker and do aimless things like shop online and reorganize garages and pantries.

After a full week of anticipation, this box finally arrived on Saturday and it sent me running into the house for a scissors to tear into it with.

Inside were precious contents. Paraben free contents. If that sort of thing tickles your intrigue, then be sure to checkout Abe's Market. While many of the items are available at Whole Foods or the Co-Op, internet shopping practically guarantees a discount code of some kind. So I snagged shave cream, deodorant, and the most awesome Vicks-esque stuff called campor. I mist the inside of the humidifier before bed and I feel clear in the morning and my sheets aren't muddled in scary petroleum grossness.

 

The green theme continued on Sunday when a rare occurrence of Spring Fever struck me. I generally adore winter and swallow enough D3 and fish oil to keep the Winter Blahs away. But for whatever reason, the greenhouse and its between seasons destitution whispered into my ear to come inside.

 

I was disappointed to strike out in the herbs department. The hope had been an enormous basil plant and a rosemary topiary, but that's fine because lord knows I can't get a usable herb to grow in the herb garden much less a kitchen window in the dead of winter. 

Instead, I found these darling clay pots rimmed in silver and distressed enough to sport some real Euro flavor. Like sheep on the countryside and lavender fields as a backdrop for crusty bread and red wine.

They were charming and a fiscal ripoff originally, but an acceptable amount on clearance. My one regret is only buying three for myself and not picking up the rest to fill for fiends as gifts come spring and summer. Nothing says I Love You, Pal, like a fabulous pot full of mojito making spearmint.

You can never go wrong with succulents and even if you neglect them, they'll still give you a good amount of life and green before joining the English Ivies and ferns in Houseplant Heaven.

I love Sunday nights for their quiet nature: I love Sunday nights because it's like getting to hit Restart on the computer and the week can begin clean, fresh, organized and uncluttered. With Sunday night comes a sense of satisfaction for what was accomplished and an anticipation for what's yet to come.

We may not have babies, but we have succulents and gleaming countertops. Here's to hoping the weekend found your time blooming with goodness.

Disdain

This week, I find myself having inappropriate, 10 o'clock news kinds of fantasies about my old Blackberry more than ever.

I despise these half witted touch screens. Both the Android and Apple varieties. I hate nothing more than finger smudges and little kid boogers wiped all over the display. Correction, I hate dirty screens and auto type equally. Auto type makes me look stupid. Blackberry never did. Only socially awkward and marginally loser-like. But I could work that thing with both eyes closed and nothing but two thumbs and my dry sense of hilarious sarcasm.

It takes so long to use this thing. I have to spellcheck constantly because the Android dictionary does jackass things like creating really ugly language moments by doing things like replacing my use of the word spellcheck with the word shuttlecock.

Now I might be a real slutbag, but I don't know what the fudge a shuttlecock is. What I do know is that sending such a word to, oh, say, my boss, could potentially be embarrassing. Detrimental, even.
What I'm getting at, lovers, is there's a lot I'd like to say right now, but I'm probably going to be found in a dark alley, skinning hampsters by the glow of my Bic lighter if I have to blog from this sad excuse for technology much longer, but I wanted to get a jump start because I'm a giver.

While being a paid Mom is not the same as being a real mom, what I've found is that having domesticity as a profession makes a girl incredibly organized and methodical about insignificant nuisiances like mealtime and budgets.

When I first started, I would do retarded things like braise brisket in homemade broths and dress them with Argentinian chimichuri.

That was stupid.

Grownups eat that when they have a Patron Margarita in hand at a fancy restaurant and are trying to get both laid and sauced in the same night. Because when you have kids, sex is about nothing more than efficiency, people.

Don't do that to yourself. No one cares and nobody is going to give you the golden star of best moms for it. You'll only feel frustrated and disappointed by the entire experience.
Rule #1: no one cares if you create the Taj Mahal of meals or a South African shanty town. Create nutritious meals based on simplicity. Have fun and be adventurous from time to time, but limit your expectations, investment and time commitment.

Rule #2: dont be a cheap ass. I know that those chincy Ziploc containers are like pennies on the dollar, but honest to God, please don't store your family's food in plastic. Plastic is scary. And if you've invested in the grass fed beef and the organic produce, you're shooting yourself in the Birkenstock by putting it in plastic. Invest in glass storage containers. Don't reheat in the microwave; if pregnant women shouldn't stand in front of one, why would you cook your dinner in it? Capitalize on glass, save yourself a few dishes, and simply reheat in the oven. That, friends, is called frig to fork.

You're welcome, Pyrex. I'll accept my sponsorship check now.

Rule #3: hold onto your seatbelts, my mind blowing third rule for domestic genius will have to wait. It seems that I have an infant that wants a bottle or something equally high maintenance.

Til we meet again...