Today marks Day #1 of what is sure to be a most challenging year for me and Adam. That is because we have decided, starting today, to buy only products grown or made in America for one full year. Of course there are some questions about how we're going to accomplish this, and what exactly this means.
For example, we need a "bye" on fuel, because I'm not sure how we would do it.
And we need to figure out how to know where some products are made, because the packaging says things like "packaged in Texas" - which does not tell the whole story.
I plan to write about our experiences - what things we just couldn't get, what was hard to find, what cost more, what cost less. It's probably going to be difficult but I think it will be eye-opening.
So, wish us luck and I will keep you posted.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Macaroni and Cheese
I hate (and I mean HATE) the nasty velveeta macaroni and cheese stuff you can buy from the store. I hate the shells and cheese, I hate the Easy Mac, I hate it all. Adam, on the other hand, loves it.
So last week I made real macaroni and cheese, made with elbow macaronis, two kinds of cheese, milk, butter, flour, and diced onions. It was damn delicious and I ate like 4 servings of it. Adam moved his around on the plate looking for the neon yellow cheese he is so very fond of. And complaining that it didn't have enough cheese.
In a bold attempt at compromise, today I made the Kraft "Homestyle" Macaroni and Cheese, which still includes the neon cheese substance as an ingredient, but also calls for butter and milk. As mac and cheese goes, it wasn't bad. It's not my Mom-Mom's mac and cheese (which I inexplicably do not have the recipe for) but it was way way better than the other stuff and, although I hate to admit it, marginally better than my homemade attempt.
So if you're not a Neon Goop Mac and Cheese kinda gal, the Homestyle Mac will do for a quick fix. But I'm not giving up on the real thing. I think I just needed to use different cheese and more of them.
So last week I made real macaroni and cheese, made with elbow macaronis, two kinds of cheese, milk, butter, flour, and diced onions. It was damn delicious and I ate like 4 servings of it. Adam moved his around on the plate looking for the neon yellow cheese he is so very fond of. And complaining that it didn't have enough cheese.
In a bold attempt at compromise, today I made the Kraft "Homestyle" Macaroni and Cheese, which still includes the neon cheese substance as an ingredient, but also calls for butter and milk. As mac and cheese goes, it wasn't bad. It's not my Mom-Mom's mac and cheese (which I inexplicably do not have the recipe for) but it was way way better than the other stuff and, although I hate to admit it, marginally better than my homemade attempt.
So if you're not a Neon Goop Mac and Cheese kinda gal, the Homestyle Mac will do for a quick fix. But I'm not giving up on the real thing. I think I just needed to use different cheese and more of them.
Parents
So, my mother is a kind and wonderful woman who worries a lot, which is where I got it from. The worrying, not the kind and wonderful. Only because I don't particularly consider myself kind or wonderful.. not that I think I am but believe it came from somewhere else as if I self-manifested it because I'm that awesome. No, I think she just passed on the worrying. And the flat chest.
Anyways, hereditary worrying is okay by me. I like being a worry wart. If you don't embrace it, you'll just hate yourself and everyone will wonder why you're always trying so hard to act cool. Few things are worse than someone trying too hard to act cool. Just come out of the closet with your worriness and people will accept you for it.... and probably make fun of you a little too. But in a loving way, not a mean way.
All that said, my mom's a worry wart and she worries about all sorts of stuff she shouldn't even have to think about. And if I was a good daughter I wouldn't add to her troubles but I'm not, so I post all sorts of random stories about what a lush I am and how bad I am at cooking and yardwork, thus increasing her worry-ometer and pushing her, probably, to the brink of mental collapse.
So tonight I was on the phone with her and she said "Well, I wasn't going to get in the middle of it, but I think I will - " and I have to admit I held my breath, trying to think of which blog post she was going to zero in on this time. Would it be my bad texting habits? My tendency to tell people I'm away from my home over Facebook? My coat doesn't look 'wintery' enough? It could be any number of things.
It wasn't anything, just a random story really that was no big deal. But the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I realized that my mother and I are slipping into this crazed rabbit hole, where I worry about what she is worrying about, and she worries about what I worry about her worrying about and so on and so forth - until one day we're just going to have to both go on Vicodin or something to make it all stop.
And so continues the saga of life after becoming your mother in adulthood.
Anyways, hereditary worrying is okay by me. I like being a worry wart. If you don't embrace it, you'll just hate yourself and everyone will wonder why you're always trying so hard to act cool. Few things are worse than someone trying too hard to act cool. Just come out of the closet with your worriness and people will accept you for it.... and probably make fun of you a little too. But in a loving way, not a mean way.
All that said, my mom's a worry wart and she worries about all sorts of stuff she shouldn't even have to think about. And if I was a good daughter I wouldn't add to her troubles but I'm not, so I post all sorts of random stories about what a lush I am and how bad I am at cooking and yardwork, thus increasing her worry-ometer and pushing her, probably, to the brink of mental collapse.
So tonight I was on the phone with her and she said "Well, I wasn't going to get in the middle of it, but I think I will - " and I have to admit I held my breath, trying to think of which blog post she was going to zero in on this time. Would it be my bad texting habits? My tendency to tell people I'm away from my home over Facebook? My coat doesn't look 'wintery' enough? It could be any number of things.
It wasn't anything, just a random story really that was no big deal. But the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I realized that my mother and I are slipping into this crazed rabbit hole, where I worry about what she is worrying about, and she worries about what I worry about her worrying about and so on and so forth - until one day we're just going to have to both go on Vicodin or something to make it all stop.
And so continues the saga of life after becoming your mother in adulthood.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
How I Narrowly Avoided a Text-astrophe
So occassionally I drink a little too much and send out lots of embarrassing and overly affectionate text messages to random people, mostly those who are recent recipients of other text messages. This is because it's easy to just go in my recent text messages and start replying to recent texts with things like "Luv ya!" and all sorts of other things that don't make sense or are relatively inappropriate. Luckily for me, normally these people are actually with me, more than likely in the same room, and usually sending similar text messages to the same group of people. We are, of course, the utmost in humor and quick wit.
Just such an evening passed recently, except we were experimenting with "group text" (this sounds dirty but it's not... we were trying to figure out why some of our phones 'reply all' to group text messages automatically and some of them do not). This resulted in all sorts of ridiculous messages that would make absolutely no sense if read out of context by an outsider.
During this enthusiastic episode of text messaging, I drank around four margaritas and a glass or bottle of wine, and was sending all sorts of messages to people on my "recently texted" list of people. And I wasn't paying much attention. And this happens all the time and then the next day I look at my sent messages and hang my head in shame, glad that my friends know and accept me for the overly sentimental drunkard that I can be.
And it was on a morning just like this when I saw a number I didn't recognize in my recently sent text list. Far too close to the list of messages that I had sent the night before in my tipsy state. Close enough that it could have been a victim of my group texting. Anonymous enough that I knew it wasn't someone who knows that when I drink, even just a glass, everyone is suddenly my best friend and no topic of conversation is off limits. Even the really weird and offensive topics of conversation, like why someone would choose such to grow and maintain such an ugly beard. Which, yes, I have actually started that conversation and it did not go as smoothly as I thought it would.
Holding my breath, I opened the message log. And sucked in a very long and very deep breath of fear. Because the number was my boss's boss's boss. The string of messages began innocently enough; it was an exchange between my husband and the Boss about work. I scrolled down. Some questions about a building that had come up earlier in the day. An answer from my husband. A thank you from the boss. And that's where it ended. Thank God. But it was pure luck that I didn't click on that number and send some random text thinking it was someone else.
The lesson I took from this was to never let my husband use my phone ever again. The modified lesson I took was to make sure I delete any unknown numbers from my phone immediately so that I don't end up sending them overzealous texts in the middle of the night, under the misguided belief that everyone is as happy to have me as an acquaintance as I am to have them. And also that they want to know it as much as I want to tell them about it. At midnight. Spelled wrong. With exclamation points.
Just such an evening passed recently, except we were experimenting with "group text" (this sounds dirty but it's not... we were trying to figure out why some of our phones 'reply all' to group text messages automatically and some of them do not). This resulted in all sorts of ridiculous messages that would make absolutely no sense if read out of context by an outsider.
During this enthusiastic episode of text messaging, I drank around four margaritas and a glass or bottle of wine, and was sending all sorts of messages to people on my "recently texted" list of people. And I wasn't paying much attention. And this happens all the time and then the next day I look at my sent messages and hang my head in shame, glad that my friends know and accept me for the overly sentimental drunkard that I can be.
And it was on a morning just like this when I saw a number I didn't recognize in my recently sent text list. Far too close to the list of messages that I had sent the night before in my tipsy state. Close enough that it could have been a victim of my group texting. Anonymous enough that I knew it wasn't someone who knows that when I drink, even just a glass, everyone is suddenly my best friend and no topic of conversation is off limits. Even the really weird and offensive topics of conversation, like why someone would choose such to grow and maintain such an ugly beard. Which, yes, I have actually started that conversation and it did not go as smoothly as I thought it would.
Holding my breath, I opened the message log. And sucked in a very long and very deep breath of fear. Because the number was my boss's boss's boss. The string of messages began innocently enough; it was an exchange between my husband and the Boss about work. I scrolled down. Some questions about a building that had come up earlier in the day. An answer from my husband. A thank you from the boss. And that's where it ended. Thank God. But it was pure luck that I didn't click on that number and send some random text thinking it was someone else.
The lesson I took from this was to never let my husband use my phone ever again. The modified lesson I took was to make sure I delete any unknown numbers from my phone immediately so that I don't end up sending them overzealous texts in the middle of the night, under the misguided belief that everyone is as happy to have me as an acquaintance as I am to have them. And also that they want to know it as much as I want to tell them about it. At midnight. Spelled wrong. With exclamation points.
New Jeans
I'm sort of embarrassed to admit it, but I think the Lauren Conrad brand demin from Kohls is currently the best affordable jean out there. I normally try to steer clear of the celebrity-"designed" (and I use the term design loosely here) brands because I suspect they are really designed by some extremely underpaid groupie who is just trying to get in good with pseudo-celebrities. Also I think that singers and actors should stick to their craft and stop trying to corner every market out there in their ever-increasing quest to take over even more of the world's share of wealth and leave some of it to the rest of us. Just because they are famous doesn't mean they know jack about regular-people fashion - just look at Helena Bonham Carter. And I mean that nicely because I LOVE Helena Bonham Carter - I think she has more STYLE than anyone in Hollywood, I think she just gets confused when she opens her closet.
All that said, I now have three pairs of Lauren Conrad jeans and I feel only marginally guilty about it since it's not like she's a real actress or anything. Also I do have a sneaking suspicion that she might actually play a part in her brand because she does seem to care about fashion designing and all that, judging from her stint on The Hills, which I watched religiously - also embarrassed. Anyway, about the jean. Something about the material - it's soft without feeling flimsy of cheap, and the styles are fitted right for real live girls instead of paper dolls and 10 year olds. Levis jeans can be scratchy; however, they never seem to degrade in quality and they fit nicely, but they are very unforgiving when it comes to periodic, um, expansion. Old Navy jeans are ok but don't fit quite right, especially after a couple of washes. Gap Jeans are probably my second favorite - I still have a pair from my freshman year in college and wear them often (which probably means they should be my number one). I stopped buying Express Jeans when they forgot they were selling to the middle class and jacked their prices up. So it comes down to being all about fit, feel, and frugality and, in my opinion, the LC brand hits the target on all three points.
Extra bonus - the pair I bought yesterday was $60 but were on sale for $30 and I didn't find that out until I went to pay for them; thank you Lauren Conrad and Kohl's for appealing to my cheapie side. For these reasons, Kohl's will always be my very favorite store.
And no, unfortunately, I am not getting kickbacks from Kohls for this and any future glowing Kohls posts. But I wouldn't say no if they were offered.....
All that said, I now have three pairs of Lauren Conrad jeans and I feel only marginally guilty about it since it's not like she's a real actress or anything. Also I do have a sneaking suspicion that she might actually play a part in her brand because she does seem to care about fashion designing and all that, judging from her stint on The Hills, which I watched religiously - also embarrassed. Anyway, about the jean. Something about the material - it's soft without feeling flimsy of cheap, and the styles are fitted right for real live girls instead of paper dolls and 10 year olds. Levis jeans can be scratchy; however, they never seem to degrade in quality and they fit nicely, but they are very unforgiving when it comes to periodic, um, expansion. Old Navy jeans are ok but don't fit quite right, especially after a couple of washes. Gap Jeans are probably my second favorite - I still have a pair from my freshman year in college and wear them often (which probably means they should be my number one). I stopped buying Express Jeans when they forgot they were selling to the middle class and jacked their prices up. So it comes down to being all about fit, feel, and frugality and, in my opinion, the LC brand hits the target on all three points.
Extra bonus - the pair I bought yesterday was $60 but were on sale for $30 and I didn't find that out until I went to pay for them; thank you Lauren Conrad and Kohl's for appealing to my cheapie side. For these reasons, Kohl's will always be my very favorite store.
And no, unfortunately, I am not getting kickbacks from Kohls for this and any future glowing Kohls posts. But I wouldn't say no if they were offered.....
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
It's Just My Allergies
Hopefully the supressed animal spirit inside of me is attempting to pack on winter weight because I literally cannot stop eating. I scarf down an english muffin at 7:30 and by 8:00 I'm eating an orange. The hours until lunch seem to go on forever and I cant' stop thinking about the rest of the english muffins tucked away in their drawer. If I manage to make it to lunch, I hoover down some soup and chips and then spend the rest of the afternoon hunting for random pieces of chocolate and candy to fill the void until dinner. Inevitably dinner is not satisfying because I am cooking it, so then I spend the rest of the evening trying to talk myself out of going back to the kitchen for snacks.
God this is awful.
Anyway, I just wanted to vent because I'm excusing it as normal but really I think maybe it's a tapeworm or baby. I don't really think it's a baby. Or a tapeworm. I think it's something worse. It's lack of willpower. But instead I will blame it on allergies, because this time of year in Texas you can blame literally anything on allergies and someone will nod in agreement and pity you.
Do these allergies make me look fat?
God this is awful.
Anyway, I just wanted to vent because I'm excusing it as normal but really I think maybe it's a tapeworm or baby. I don't really think it's a baby. Or a tapeworm. I think it's something worse. It's lack of willpower. But instead I will blame it on allergies, because this time of year in Texas you can blame literally anything on allergies and someone will nod in agreement and pity you.
Do these allergies make me look fat?
Self: Meet Diva Self
So, as any of you know, I am pretty much the farthest thing from high maintenance, mostly because I am cheap and lazy. And cheap and lazy equals haircuts at Great Clips and junky purses from the 90s. And wrinkled sweaters.
But even so, there are plenty of medium maintenance people out there who live their perfectly normal and perfectly okay lives with a medium amount of diva. And by that I mean the regular highlights (which I fall victim to occasionally), and the 40 pairs of shoes and so on. I consider this a medium and acceptable amount of diva because from time to time I venture into that territory, but then spend weeks with buyer's remorse feeling guilty about my ever-shrinking bank account.
So now that you understand my slightly twisted and nonsensical philosophy on diva-ism, perhaps you will understand the undeniable urge to - just every once in awhile - go off the deep end and act like a celebrity. Just for, like, 30 minutes. I had my first brush (and by first, I mean one that is not triggered by abandonment issues following a nasty breakup) with this sort of behavior on Saturday. Adam and I stopped by the Sunglass Hut for a pair of Oakley sunglasses he wants. I am not allowed to buy sunglasses more expensive than $10 since mine always end up at the bottom of the lake because I have one reckless bone in my body and it comes alive on water skis. So I wasn't really even looking in the store - actually I was trying on all the ridiculous throwback 80s styles and marveling at how horrible I looked. Until. Oh, my friends... Until. The red military-inspired Versaces. *Sigh* The ones I breezed past when we entered the store... their clever placement and glittering details caught my eye. On a lark I tried them on and, as is common when you try something on for laughs (like my wedding dress, actually), the effect was breathtaking. Suddenly I'm Charlize Theron on Rodeo Drive and I MUST have these sunglasses which cost over $200.
After tearing, and I do mean literally tearing, myself away from the store empty handed, we stopped into Macys and then Walgreen's, where I bought an $8 can of almonds to assuage my inner-celebrity who was screaming at me to SPEND SPEND SPEND!
But readers, those sunglasses are still calling to me from their careful perch atop the tallest pedestal in the Sunglass Hut. My Diva Self will not be silenced by almonds.
But even so, there are plenty of medium maintenance people out there who live their perfectly normal and perfectly okay lives with a medium amount of diva. And by that I mean the regular highlights (which I fall victim to occasionally), and the 40 pairs of shoes and so on. I consider this a medium and acceptable amount of diva because from time to time I venture into that territory, but then spend weeks with buyer's remorse feeling guilty about my ever-shrinking bank account.
So now that you understand my slightly twisted and nonsensical philosophy on diva-ism, perhaps you will understand the undeniable urge to - just every once in awhile - go off the deep end and act like a celebrity. Just for, like, 30 minutes. I had my first brush (and by first, I mean one that is not triggered by abandonment issues following a nasty breakup) with this sort of behavior on Saturday. Adam and I stopped by the Sunglass Hut for a pair of Oakley sunglasses he wants. I am not allowed to buy sunglasses more expensive than $10 since mine always end up at the bottom of the lake because I have one reckless bone in my body and it comes alive on water skis. So I wasn't really even looking in the store - actually I was trying on all the ridiculous throwback 80s styles and marveling at how horrible I looked. Until. Oh, my friends... Until. The red military-inspired Versaces. *Sigh* The ones I breezed past when we entered the store... their clever placement and glittering details caught my eye. On a lark I tried them on and, as is common when you try something on for laughs (like my wedding dress, actually), the effect was breathtaking. Suddenly I'm Charlize Theron on Rodeo Drive and I MUST have these sunglasses which cost over $200.
After tearing, and I do mean literally tearing, myself away from the store empty handed, we stopped into Macys and then Walgreen's, where I bought an $8 can of almonds to assuage my inner-celebrity who was screaming at me to SPEND SPEND SPEND!
But readers, those sunglasses are still calling to me from their careful perch atop the tallest pedestal in the Sunglass Hut. My Diva Self will not be silenced by almonds.
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