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| Depressed Mama's Guide to... |
Cleaning a REALLY messy kitchen (never had a REALLY messy kitchen? Then you have either never been depressed or are not a mama. It is not required that you read further)
1. Clean one counter at a time, leaving the "dishes" counter until the end. I usually start with the table, I "Meister Proper" that thing into submission and then move on.
2. Use distraction (if you suffer from motherhood-induced ADD, this method is perfect for you). I call someone or turn on a movie/radio to distract my brain from realizing that I am cleaning the yuckiest. kitchen. ever.
3. Set a timer for 30 minutes. Quit when it goes off.Labels: Depressed Mama's Guide, I don't need no stinkin' flylady |
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| Mormonad |
Mr. Furious (5 yo) walks in the front door from Judo class with a brand-spanking-new Gee. His first.
"Is that your new Gee? Wonderful! Are you the Judo Master now?" Big smiles. Bam Bam (3 yo) is echoing my sentiments (literally) and giving big brother a hug that almost knocks him over.
"How was Judo? Was it so fun?" Cheerfulness is seeping out of my pores. Everyone is looking at the white-for-one-day gee like it was the second coming.
A few seconds of rejoicing by all.
"DID YOU JUST PULL CHEWED GUM OUT OF YOUR GEE AND RE-EAT IT?"
Moral: Before pretending young-Mormon-mom-like peppiness, do a body check. Saves time.Labels: The Boy Factory |
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| Mental Institution White |
If I ran a mental institution, I think I would paint the walls white. It's calming, bland, it doesn't speak to you like maybe fluorescent green or poppy orange. There are no voices in white that tell you to hurt your neighbor, take another dinner roll, or climb out of the 3rd story window. But, I like talking walls.
I like crazy colors.
AND, I don't run a mental institution (no snickering allowed). So, white walls don't belong in my living space. And. Yet. Everything in my house is white. Walls, ceilings, lamps, chandeliers, fans, everything. And if I paint something, I have to paint it back before leaving (like. I. want. to. do. that.) So mamas, I need to make white look good (and I obviously need to learn how to paint accents instead of every-last-inch-of-wall). Suggestions?
(If only I could change the hardware? The furniture? The SOMETHING! However, I do not control my own fate here, even the upholstered furniture in the house isn't ours. Yuck. So, superficial suggestions would be most appreciated. Now, if I could only order that parsons desk I have been coveting from West Elm. Do you think they ship to Austria?)Labels: The Move |
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| Depressed Mama's Guide to... |
Housekeeping (I did not say homemaking, did I?):
1. Clean for one hour per day. Set a timer. When it goes off, stop. I'm serious. Don't keep cleaning, you can finish tomorrow.
2. Follow the above stated rule no matter how messy the house is, how many rotted milk sippy cups are sitting in the sink, how much laundry there is, how many poopy diapers are waiting to be taken out to the trash, etc...
3. Never break the first rule. If you do, depression be upon your head.Labels: Depressed Mama's Guide |
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| If |
a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?
Talking philosophy at SegullahLabels: I Write |
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| The Gods Must Be Crazy |
I went grocery shopping last night. It was late, the store was getting ready to close and I was earnestly counting Euros to see if I had enough to buy every-little-cottonpickin-thing that a family of four needs in a foreign country--you know, things like Meister Proper and Sauerkraut.
Anyway, I'm trying to decide what bottle of honey to buy. I want to be modest and not get the size-of-your-head bottle that I'd like to open and drink right then and there like any depressed mama poo bear would. With moderation gleaming from my conscience, I decide on the small bottle, you know, the one that is almost bigger than your thumb, hoping that will mitigate my bread mit honig habit. When great golly be--there's the Nutella. It's practically jumping off of the shelf. It is screaming louder than a post-birth hemoroid for me to purchase it. NOW. Until this very moment, I have refused to buy any kind of chocolate to just "keep" in the house knowing that keeping is not what it will be doing. More like digesting, in my already over-full tummy. But today, I am tempted. I slowly pick up the generic version of Nutella. I daren't (I love crap-shooting for words like this one, it's not right, but it sticks) look at the label for fear that the ingredient list will put me over the edge. But I can't help it. I look. And below where I'm sure it says something about how irresistible this generic version of hazelnut chocolate spread is, it says something that absolutely sends me into a spiral of self-disgusted glee.
Gluten-frei.
Sold.
Dear Austria,
Why must you make me eat honey (now Nutella) and bakery bread for every meal? Why must you create chocolate banana musli that just jumps into my cart at the Markt? Why did you give me a Wuerstel stand around the corner from my house? And why, oh why, did you FORCE me to eat all of your wonderful food, full fat dairy products, sausages of every shape and variety, AND chocolate that doesn't taste a bit like plastic?
My cholesterol is not going to like this. Shame on you.
Vexed in Vienna,
MaraliseLabels: The Move |
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Name: Reluctant Nomad
Home: Austria
About Me: I photograph banal subjects to remind myself of the beauty in everyday life. I have two little boys who love me even when I'm crazy and a hubby who loves me in spite of it.
See my profile...
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Brushes by Gvalkyrie
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posted by Reluctant Nomad at 
