Take me to Taco Hell

I haven't' blogged much lately, due to the fact that I don't have any interesting things to say lately. HOWEVER . . .

Last night, on my way home from work, I got the mean mad munchies for some Taco Bell.

I try to avoid Taco Hell at all costs, but every now and again I have to have one. I feel some sort of calling for a greasy pile of meat slapped in a deep fried taco shell.

I have found memories of Taco Bell, going all the way back to High School. After working at Burger King every night, I would stop at Taco Bell on the way home and have two bean burritos. because it was the only place open. After staring at the back end of the grill all night, loading frozen chunks of beef and chicken into the grill master 5000, and then scrapping out the grease coated insides, I had no desire to eat a burger. The warm beans, wrapped in a warm burrito, eaten while hunkering down in the old maroon Ford Escort (it didn't have heat) kept me going on the long drive back to my home in West Point.

In college, we lived right behind the Taco Bell, in a shabby 4 bedroom apartment a bunch of us shared. Usually, after a night of frivolity, we would shamble over to que up in the incredibly long line of drunken students all after a late night fix of hot Mexican goodness. One of my favourite memories of that place was standing behind a really huge guy with a toilet plunger stuck on the top of his bald head. As he was tottering through the line, I really thought he was going to face plant it into the floor.

Fresh out of college, with my degree in hand, I started working in a large office building for evil masters. Just around the corner was a Taco Bell. My co-workers and I would scurry like little mice around the corner for our lunch break, and gossip about our witch of a boss, THE MS. SMARTT!! I used to get so pissed off at the Taco Bell, because it would take them 10 minutes to make your taco. There would be a group of pissed off people waiting at the end of the counter, sipping on Pepsi products, anger building as they were denied Taco refreshment. This is when I developed my trademark phrase, "How long does it take to make a fricking TACO!"

Apparently about 10 minutes.

So last night, when I got the Taco Bell munchies, it wasn't' just about fulfilling my need for hot meat in a roll, it must have been about reconnecting with my past. I mean, why else would I want to eat mystery meat at 11 pm?


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Here and Now Christmas

We had a very nice Christmas with family here in Kansas. There was a lovely layer of snow on the ground, making it quite festive. The kids got really spoiled this year, and I don’t even feel like I bought them all that much. Grandparents are great for spoiling.

As usual, we Millers are great at eating. For Christmas dinner, we served baked ham, homemade from scratch au gratin potatoes, garlic green beans, stuffed onions, and our traditional Christmas Jell-O. Scott really liked the Jell-O. Sasha really liked everything. I think she had 2nds on the ham. Scott ate peanut butter sandwiches.

I hope everyone had a nice holiday.

Here is a recipe I cooked at Christmas. My in-laws really seemed to enjoy it. We love it here at our house all year long. I usually add the chicken to it and make it the main dish.

Moroccan Tangine

1-cup chicken broth

1-tablespoon olive oil

1 can 14 oz diced tomatoes, undrained

2 onions chopped

2 carrots diced

1 zucchini sliced

2 stalks celery sliced

1 cup dried apricots, chopped

4 cloves garlic, minced

2 teaspoons ground cumin

1-teaspoon ground cinnamon

1-teaspoon ground ginger

½ teaspoon ground coriander

½ teaspoon ground red pepper

2 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro

1-tablespoon cornstarch

1-tablespoon water

½ cup silvered almonds, toasted

First, brown carrots in pan with tablespoon of olive oil. Then add onions, celery, zuccuni and garlic. Add cumin, cinnamon, ginger, coriander, red pepper, and cilantro. Cook until veggies are soft. Add diced tomatoes and chicken broth. Bring to simmer. Combine cornstarch and water in small bowl until smooth. Stir cornstarch mixture into pan. Simmer for 15 minutes or until sauce is thickened. Add toasted almonds. Serve over white or brown rice.

***Recipe note: To make this a true Moroccan Chicken Tangine, brown 2-4 chicken breasts in pan before you brown the carrots. Remove from pan before you start browning the carrots, then cut into cubes or slices. Add back into pan when you add the cornstarch mixture and allow to simmer with the veggies.

Horrible (Un)Happy Meal

My son got this horrible toy in his happy meal. What is that monstrosity you ask? Why it's Wally the Waterbug, from the new (soon to be) hit movie Bee Movie. Now, I know that you think it looks like a cockroach, because that's what I thought he looked like.
It is pretty disgusting to open up your kids lunch and find a HUGE cockroach laying on his back, or seeing his think black legs protruding from under the hamburger. I actually gasped, before I realized that this was his toy.
Maybe they should put rubber snakes, or big nasty fake poisonous spiders in their meals. Or we could have food allergy toys. The toys would be big giant plastic peanuts, fake slices of bread, Styrofoam hunks of cheese, and happy wind up shellfish that talk.
So as I stared at what is most possibly the worst kids meal toy ever shipped from the shores of China, I started laughing. Uncontrollably. Then I turned around, handed it back to my son, and said, "Here you go honey, have fun playing with this cockroach."
The funny thing, he looked at it and started laughing to. Maybe there was happiness in that bag of bugs!

Attack of the Hornets

Okay, I can't handle it anymore. We have hornets nesting in our walls somewhere, and they keep popping their little bodies out of the wall and dive bombing me while I'm trying to check my email.
I run screaming up the stairs, swatting and hyperventilating. One of my greatest fears is creepy crawly bugs.
I don't' want to be bit, and I don't want to touch one.
My husband is keeping his shoe handy so he can kill them. We now have a pile of the dead hornets bodies in the corner. I'm not touching them. I'm not even going to look at them.
We actually tried spraying hornet killer down the wall. That seemed to keep them at bay for a few days, but apparently the fatal kiss of death has worn off, because they have started to emerge again.
One came flying at my head last night. It then landed a few inches away from my computer keyboard. I went zooming up the stairs as fast as I could. My husband was just getting ready for bed, and he said he would kill it in the morning. So the hornet was locked in the room all night, and all day, because I wouldn't dare go into the basement where it lurked.
So tonight, I came downstairs cautiously, peaking around corners and into the dark spaces of the basement. I asked my husband if he had killed the little beastly, and he said he couldn't find it.
So I went to take a step towards my chair, and that's when I found it. I found it in the most horrific way possible. I stepped on it, in my socks. I felt and heard it's nasty little body scrunch under my foot.
So I'm going to have nightmares tonight, and if I don't answer your email for a few days, you know that I've spotted another one.

CELL BLOCK TWO

I was thinking today that sometimes it seems like being a parent of a two year old is like being in prison. Now, when I say this, don’t think that I hate my kids or something, because I don’t. It just struck me as a funny comparison.

For example, I am not allowed to sleep in. If my son is up, I have to be also. I’m not even allowed to lie down. He comes over, pats my arm, and says, “Mommy! Wake up!” In a very demanding manner. If I’m trying to dose off in the chair, he comes over, steals my blanket from me, pats me on the face, and says, “Mommy, are you okay?”

My husband is not allowed to wake up in the morning with the kids. If I even try to sleep in while he manages the kids, my son has a screaming fit on the door, kicking, screaming, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Needless to say, this is not conducive to sleeping.

Also, as a busy mom, I don’t tend to eat properly all the time. Sometimes it’s 1 or 2 in the afternoon before my stomach reminds me I haven’t had a proper meal. Usually, I eat whatever my son has refused or left on his plate. By the time I get it, its usually cold and dried up. Yum. Delicious. I'm sure prisoners eat more regularly than I do.

Also, like a prisoner, I’m rarely allowed a shower. I have to sneak off while he is watching “Little Einstein’s” and hurriedly shower before he notices I’ve disappeared. If I’m lucky, I can get soaped up before he notices. Then, he bangs on the bathroom door. “Mommy, Mommy! Almost done?” And then we spend the next five minutes having a conversation through the door. I have to give him constant updates on my showering status.

I’m not allowed to do chores without constant supervision. If I even think of turning the faucet on to do dishes, my son is there with his chair. He wants to help stir, help do the laundry, and help sweep the floor. Actually, he is quite the good helper; it’s just that I can’t seem to walk across the room without him attaching himself to my leg. The other day, he grabbed my hand, walked me into the kitchen, and demanded that I do the large pile of dishes that had accumulated that day. I told him that Mommy didn't feel like doing the dishes, and that he was more than welcome to do them himself.

Besides the constant interrogation let me describe the constant torture I endure as a mother of a two year old. In the morning, I sit down with my much needed cup of caffeine. Before you know it, it's be bumped or accidentally swatted out of my hands by the two year old. Thus keeping Mom away from her bad caffeine habit. Usually, I'm head butted at least twice a day. I've been bitten so many times I instantly move out of the way when I see the teeth emerge. If I lay or sit on the floor, this is an open invitation to stomp and climb all over my "old" bones.

Until recently, I was not allowed to leave the house without him. We have been working on this one. There are certainly times when I need to get away. Now, he just cries for about 10 minutes, and then realizes that he is just going to have to watch his movies with Daddy instead of Mommy.

I guess a two year old can be kind of demanding. However, being the prisoner of a two year old (and a 10 month old) is by FAR the best job I've ever had. I enjoy every day, even if I do compare it to being a "prisoner". I’m told that it doesn’t get any easier, but eventually one day I’ll get to catch up on my sleep. Until then, I don’t think I will qualify for early parole!

Bubbles and Art

I would like to take a moment to thank Crayola for making washable markers. While not perfect, they are a vast improvement over the markers of MY youth. As you can see, my daughter Sasha found one of her brothers markers. She crawled under his train table with it (that is her special hiding place). I saw her sitting under there, but I thought she was playing with her toys. When she crawled out with a cheeky green grin, I about had a heart attack. Luckily, after just a few swipes with a warm wash cloth, it was all gone. And yes, I did check, they are non-toxic.
Lately, my son has been obsessed with bubbles. Luckily, I discovered that I can pour water and copious amounts of apple scented dish soap into the bubble jar to refill. Then the bubbles are fresh AND anti-bacterial.
Like the yellow fish in the movie "Finding Nemo" my son shouts, "Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!". Then he tries to pop them all!
Some new pictures of the kids have been posted HERE

Boxes Boxes Everywhere

If you had asked me last September where I thought I would be in a year, I would have never guessed Kansas. But sometimes life takes you where you never thought you would go.

That's where we are headed. Kansas. Land of Dorothy, Toto, and the Wizard of Oz. Flat rolling landscape of endless fields of golden wheat, and best of all, killer tornadoes.
But when I traveled the innumerable miles to Kansas, it didn't seem that bad. In fact, it just seemed like any other midwestern town. It fact, the small town suburb we are moving to is much like the one we are leaving.
For the forth time in as many years, I opened up the moving boxes. From Indy to Cinci and back again. Now farther west, towards the setting suns of my youth.
I'm absolutely positively sick of moving. I'm exhausted. In the entire 30 some years of my life, I've moved at least twenty three times. I'm not exaggerating. I just counted.
So you can understand how one would become weary of the whole thing.
At least I know how to move. From a young age, I learned how to pack dishes so they won't break, how to secure priceless family heirlooms between linen closet sheets and blankets, and how NOT to pack books. (HINT: smaller boxes are better!)
I was thinking the other day that I should become some kind of moving consultant, but then I decided I couldn't stand to look at another box.
I've become somewhat of a box snob in all my years of moving. Like most people, I started out begging for boxes from grocery stores or pulling boxes out of dumpster. I then moved up to procuring boxes from the company print room. (Still excellent boxes, if they can be had). Once, while in college, my roommates and I moved 1 block to a new apartment, so we just chucked everything into the back of my woody station wagon and cruised over with the mattresses on the roof. I had it especially easy, moving from one first floor apartment to another.
Oh, the good old days, when you didn't care if your desk got a few more dents. Now, my furniture costs considerably more than I paid for that woody station wagon!
Also, I've noticed that almost every time I move, I need a bigger moving truck. No amount of purging and yard sales seems to solve this problem. Of course, my packing is now for four people, instead of just one or two.
My first move, I started out with the wimpy 12 foot U-Haul. At some point, we moved up to the 28-foot Penske truck. I currently have reserved a 53-foot semi. The beauty of the semi is that we don't have to dive it.
My mom told me that I should get rid of everything. The problem is, I like my stuff. I like my comfortable old couch and well broken into bed. If I got rid of it, I would just have to get more stuff. That wouldn't be very cost effective, would it?

If you don't believe that I've moved at least 23 times in my life, here is a brief breakdown. I'm sure I'm missing a few moves in there when I was younger.

Indiana:
1. Lake house/apartment
2. Green house

New Mexico:
3. Albuquerque apartment
4. Bernalillo Apartment
5. Bernalillo Trailer
6. Bernalillo House
7. Madrid House

Back Home again in Indiana:
8. Fort Wayne apartment 1
9. Fort Wayne apartment 2
10. Fort Wayne apartment 3
11. Lafayette apartment
12. West Point House
13. West Lafayette Dorm
14. West Lafayette Apartment 1
15. West Lafayette Apartment 2
16. West Lafayette Apartment 3
17. West Lafayette Apartment 4
18. Indianapolis Apartment 1
19. Indianapolis Apartment 2
20. Indianapolis House

Ohio:
21. Cincinnati House

Back Home again in Indiana Revisited:
22. Brownsburg House

Off to visit Dorothy and Toto:
23. Granger Kansas House

The Replacement

New Mr. Bear (aka The Replacement) arrived today. With great haste, I opened the box. I was shocked at what I found. New Mr. Bear, in a pristine condition. His gleaming white countenance smiled up at me, his manufacturing tags standing crisp and at attention. I snapped this picture for prosperity. Old Mr. Bear, meet The Replacement.
Actually, Old Mr. Bear is resting comfortably at the old folks home. He is planning on taking up golfing in his old age, and maybe scaring hikers and panhandling for picnic baskets.
New Mr. Bear has begun work. He slipped in under the cover of darkness, and has not yet been identified as a covert agent.
I think New Mr. Bear will have an easier life. My son has pretty much stopped chewing on his toys. Maybe New Mr. Bear's legs will stay intact for a while.

The Saga of Mr. Bear Vol 2

The sad sad story of Mr. Bear continues. As many of you know, Mr. Bear is my son's lovely. He has had a traumatic existence. As soon as he was able, my son started chewing on Mr. Bear’s head and ears. He made a really great teeter. Unfortunately, he developed a nasty odor and an unpleasant brown appearance. I attributed it to the fact that Mr. Bear was becoming partially digested from all the slobber that covered his body. One could pick up Mr. Bear hours later, and he was still a sodden sloppy mess. Once those pearly whites came in, my son moved to the feet and arms.
I tried to solve this problem by soaking Mr. Bear in a variety of caustic baths. I tried using Oxy Clean, vinegar, Tide, and Shout. All these would work with varying degrees of success, but poor Mr. Bear would soon regain his lackluster appearance.
Mr. Bear (and my son) turned two recently. Mr. Bear has not aged well. His ears are threadbare and his legs are tattered. He is missing about 50% of his stuffing. It fell out of his legs.
I did try extreme measures to save Mr. Bear. I performed a rare and dangerous operation. With great care, I extracted the nasty hard stuffing and replaced it with nice soft stuffing. I then sewed up all his holes with precision. I think I took more care than a doctor in the ER.
However, Mr. Bear's fabric was so worn out and threadbare from constant chewing, that he soon ruptured again. His new stuffing became hard and flat again. As the days have gone on, I have watched with a heavy heart the rapid death of a much-loved bear.
Then I panicked. My son won't sleep without Mr. Bear. If he loses him in the middle of the night, I have to rush to the rescue and return Mr. Bear to his empty arms. If Mr. Bear simply disappeared into nothing, my son would be crushed.
I found out that a friend had purchased Mr. Bear from the hospital gift shop where my son was born. One day, I happened to be at the hospital for some minor tests, and decided to swing by the gift shop and see if I could pick up a spare. I looked high and low, and finally asked the volunteer. She informed me that they had stopped carrying that bear. She did tell me that it was made by Russ.
Upon further research, I found out that Mr. Bear was discontinued. I searched the Internet high and low, but all I could find was the same bear, but in pink. I nearly bought pink Mr. Bear, but decided against it at the last minute. I could just see my son throwing a fit because Mr. Bear was not the correct color.
So I thought about drastic measures. I figured I might be able to amputate Mr. Bear’s legs and then sew on new legs. I thought about going to the fabric shop and looking for some velour that matched. But each time, I didn't do it. I knew that if Mr. Bear wasn't exactly the same, my son might reject him.
Finally, many months later I searched the Internet again. Again, I found pink Mr. Bear, this time on Ebay. I was a little disappointed, and thought again of purchasing pink Mr. Bear. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the seller had a web site store. When I clicked over, I FOUND MR. BEAR in BLUE!! I made great haste to my Visa card, and immediately ordered the beloved bear.
Now, the challenge that faces me is this. I have to somehow sneak Old Mr. Bear into retirement. I'm thinking I’ll wash new Mr. Bear a few times and then when my son is sleeping gently place New Mr. Bear in his grubby little hands. Old Mr. Bear will be retired.
Will I shed a tear for Old Mr. Bear? Not at all. I'm retiring him to the quiet and peaceful memory box, where he can rest. Old Mr. Bear didn't need an amputation after all which I'm sure he is happy about. Anyway, he can always come out of retirement at a later date, if New Mr. Bear doesn't fulfill his job duties. I just hope New Mr. Bear doesn't mind being wet!

**NEW MR. BEAR ENJOYS A MOMENT OF REPRIEVE BEFORE BEGINNING HIS DANGEROUS WORK**

June Bug

The vicious and killer beetle called the June bug has attacked my roses. These distrusting creatures have a blue green caprice, and love to feast on the flowers. They are aggressive little buggers, flying with reckless abandon towards my head in a kamikaze attempt to keep me away from their prize.
I don't think June bugs bite, but there is something disconcerting about a wild swarm of June bugs descending on an unsuspecting person. I saw one on my sleeve, and did the hurky jerky pat pat dance to get it off.
I started out spraying them with a gentle mist of this product that is supposed to kill them. It just pissed them off. That's when they started swarming at my head. So I turned the nozzle to stream, and started blasting the little buggers. That seemed to take some of the pep away.
Apparently, I have June bugs because I have a terrible lawn. I'm sure it is grub infested. The person who lived here before us thought that weeds made an attractive flowerbed, so go figure. I need to get some more poison to spread around.
Unfortunately, with kids you have to be careful of the stuff. You don't want to apply some nasty poison and then send the kids out to play. It also can't be too hot, cold, dry, or wet. So trying to find the optimum time to do this is a trick.
Here is a picture of my little June bug. Isn’t she a cutie?