I've Got a Fat Secret

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving I shed a few pounds to get some room to play around with. You know, play, fun games like eating several helpings of juicy turkey and sucking the gravy from your mashed potato volcano, and extra marshmallows on your yams, and a generous serving of cranberry sauce in the shape of the can from which it came...and pumpkin pie for dessert- then again before you go to bed - then for breakfast. What? It so does go with coffee.

Before you know it it's March and you're still on the field, in the zone, and the coach hasn't benched you in months. When you look in the mirror you exclaim "Holy Muffin Top, Batman!" and you can't exactly use "the holidays" as an excuse anymore. You pull yourself aside and have a meeting about overindulgence and how it's time to knock it off and design a plan to get it together WOMAN! You're not twenty anymore, Ms. Farklepants! You can't just skip a couple of dinners and lose five pounds and be fabulous in those pants. Not. At. All.

I'm a late afternoon snacker. I adore the salty snacks during those pre-dinner hours. And this just will not do. So I decided to start documenting everything I eat and to help keep track I joined Fat Secret. I enter all the foods I've eaten for the day; breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks and wine, gin, vodka, rum other. When you have to enter your intake it really makes you think twice about what you put in your mouth. Stop it. Stop it right now. Yes, you too.

I've been trying to keep my daily calorie total between 1200 and 1400, and I've been doing a pretty good job of sticking to that number except for the recent trip to Las Vegas this past weekend to celebrate my sister's twenty-first birthday which I'm not going to elaborate on but suffice it to say that the night included me doing this:



And that's all I'm going to say about that because: self explanatory. Needless to say, about 3000 calories were consumed in one evening and when I got on the scale Monday morning, after two weeks of due diligence I lost a whopping....ONE POUND. Clearly, what happens in Vegas...stays on your ass.

If I Don't Write it Down, it Ain't Happenin'

The older I get, the more forgetful I become. Especially once one has children and those children each have several schedules and agendas, and places they need to be, and things that need to be done, well, if I don't write it down on my trusty kitchen calendar; it most likely won't happen. Not everything, of course, because some things are an ongoing activity that happens at the same time every time. But those random projects or ventures can throw us for a loop. Because this mom forgets.

For instance, just last month, we completely and totally missed a GATE meeting for Boy-Child#2. A meeting where the students were going to present the movies of which they'd worked so hard to create. They were put into groups and among themselves they selected who would write the script, the art director, the director, and so forth. All of the information for the program was sent home at the beginning of the year and in that information was a list of meetings, details, and corresponding dates. I immediately wrote down all of which needed writing down on my calendar. A note from the principal was sent home just before winter break to remind us of this particular special meeting. Knowing that I had already written the date down and circled it on the calendar, I didn't bother double checking. And it didn't register as I read it that the note mentioned the date as THE DAY BEFORE the one I already had written down. In other words, they had changed the date. But they didn't say Hey, the date has been changed so please make a note to self. No. Nor did it register that the date had been changed to Wednesday instead of Thursday when I read the January school schedule of events. All I saw was "4th grade GATE 5:30pm" and was all confident that it was already noted on my calendar.

Enter that Wednesday evening. 6:15pm. Boy-Child#2 looks right at me while I'm checking the chicken that has already been in the oven for half an hour and was twenty minutes away from being done.

"Aren't we going to my thing tonight?" he asks.
"What thing?" I say, somewhat distracted.
"To see my movie".
"That's tomorrow night" I say with confidence.
"Hmmm", and he screws up his face, "My teacher said it was tonight that's why we were getting everything ready today".
"Nooooo....it's tomorrow night, see?" and I point at the circle on the calendar. "The fifth graders are doing theirs tonight."

Yes, that's right. I'm arguing with him. Because, dammit! I wrote it down!

And round and round we went until I remembered the additional note sent home and the January school calendar...and I started to get nervous. Because I knew I hadn't double checked the dates. I fished them out of my pile of important school papers that I keep nearby and THERE IT IS! MOTHER EFFER!!! I start barking out orders to Boy-Child#2 to throw on some shoes and a jacket and dinner orders to Boy-Child#1 to turn the oven off when the timer rings and to keep an eye on his sister because GO GO GO IT'S GO TIME MOVE!!! In the car, driving like a mad woman thank god the school is close by.

We RUN to the multi-purpose room and? Empty. Lights are on but chairs are empty. And in walks one lone fourth grade teacher. I'm sure I was a sight. Usually I'm very put together when I'm going to be out there in public but I had left the house in a frenzy of panic and I hadn't planned on being anywhere but home cooking dinner. And there I am, breathless, confused, and waving my papers with conflicting dates in front of me....and mostly, feeling like a giant pile of shit because I'd let my son down. He was so excited to have me see his movie. He talked of nothing else the whole month of November when they worked on it. And we missed it.

And there I am trying to explain that really I'm not a bad mother here look...conflicting dates! And I'm sure not all of the information that was in my head was making its way clearly out of my mouth. You know how it is when YOU know something because it's right there in YOUR brain and you kind of just assume that the person you're talking to has all the same information you have so they're only getting bits and pieces of the whole story? No? Well, that's me.

So, yeah. We missed it. And that lone fourth grade teacher felt REALLY BAD. And judging by the sign in sheets still neatly placed on the table; I was the only parent not to notice the discrepancy. That's me, people. It's just how I do.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because a couple of weeks ago I posted about some baking that I did, and a lovely reader named Lisa came out of lurkdom to specifically request the recipe for the Cheese Crowns. And, you guys? I didn't write it down. So here you go, Lisa. This one's for you:

(click picture to enlarge)

**as a side note regarding the baking time, we found that the 15 minutes was long enough and didn't bother with the whole reducing the temperature to 375* and baking for another 5 to 7 minutes. The pastry was already golden brown as seen below. Enjoy!

Complaining: It's what's for Dinner

All three of my children are picky eaters. This doesn't completely surprise me considering both my Mr. Farklepants and I were picky eaters when we were children. Mr. Farklepants still has food issues. So clearly it is some kind of gene that is passed on and I imagine upon close inspection beneath a microscope this gene closely resembles that of a mother's head exploding. I recall looking on in envy when my girlfriend's toddlers would readily and eagerly devour anything that was placed before them, sometimes asking for seconds. While I fished a stale Ritz cracker out of the bottom of the diaper bag because the grilled cheese sandwich I'd ordered for them in the restaurant was met with UNCONTROLLABLE CROCODILE TEARS. This is why Boy-Child#1 ate jarred baby food until he was three and a half years old in addition to the waffles and buttered toast that he wanted for every meal because it was the only way I could get a vegetable passed his pursed lips -which prompted a distant relative to pooh-pooh my technique and try to school me on the importance of introducing grown-up food to my child; which, duh. Of course I was doing but he had a thing about textures and frankly she didn't have to see me turn into General Patton FOR EVERY FREAKIN MEAL on a daily basis.

But as they've gotten older, they've grown more bold in their food adventure. They will pretty much eat anything I serve them and if they really don't like it, they'll at least try it. My boys do, that is. Boy-Child#1 will even suggest I add something new to the repertoire. Girl-Child? Not so much. That girl would live on buttered noodles, mac and cheese, cereal, bananas, apples, peanut butter sandwiches, and yogurt if I let her. I regularly serve her whatever it is I've made for dinner and she regularly pushes it around on her plate. We've reached a point where I'm all, dude, you're six years old and if you're hungry you'll eat. If you don't? You go to bed hungry because the kitchen is closed. She is learning that her mom? Isn't even joking about that.

Tootsie Farkle-Crocker

I got the bug to try out some recipes and bake the other day. I very much enjoy cooking except when it's on a daily basis because then it's just another thing I have to do. But if I've got time on the weekend or if it's for entertaining purposes (i.e. Thanksgiving), I dive right in and lose myself in it. My dilemma is that my oven? Is the worst. It was brand new when it came with the house but you know those developers; bottom of the line appliances are how they roll. My oven has always been a piece of la merde. Especially for baking. If a cookie recipe calls for them to bake for 9 to 11 minutes, the cookies are burned on the bottom and around the edges at 5 minutes, but raw in the middle. When it comes to baking in my oven, I have to adjust the temperature, minimize the cooking time, and generally babysit. It can handle cakes and brownies but anything delicate is just wasting my time.

So, I called my sisters to enlist their help and company to make a day of baking; I gathered up my supplies, any ingredients I already had on hand, made a quick stop at the market for those I didn't, and went to my mommy's house. Because her oven is far superior. Our first order of business was familiarizing ourselves with the recipe...



And prep work...


If you're old and wise you've mastered the art of having your younger siblings do the hard labor - like peeling potatoes, grating cheese that sort of thing but eventually they're on to you and are all chop your own veggies. My sister thought coring the apples was fun, so, yeah go for it. But she's hip to my jive and she was all, you peel. I did have her slice them because she likes to play with knives wanted to. She was last seen running with scissors. Now we could have used canned apple pie filling but that's for punks. We wanted to create. We wanted the risk factor that comes with working with fruit. It's either delicious awesome or an absolute tasteless failure. And we like to gamble. Into the pan the apples, brown sugar, cornstarch, and other ingredients like heaven and nirvana, went. It took a bit longer than was called for to thicken up... and we also skipped the step where they wanted us to soak the sliced apples in water and lemon juice to keep them from turning brown because, brown sugar equals brown apples ANYWAY I mean, what's the point.



Then we had to sit around for a few minutes to wait for the pastry dough to finish thawing out...but not too thawed. Now I know we should have made our own pastry dough but the recipe specifically called for the frozen variety, so, there. Once the apple turnovers were in the oven we got to work on the cheese crowns...



Which was supposed to yield 12 individual pastries but this jerk misread the part that called for one and a HALF packages of pastry dough and only bought ONE. So we only made 8 and considering there were 9 people total that were going to partake? Well, you can see the math conundrum. The bottom of these are lined with brown sugar, cinnamon, butter, and pecans. The rest is filled with a mixture of cream cheese, sugar, eggs, and vanilla. And once these things have had a chance to chill overnight? There are no words. And the glaze that finished off the turnovers was out of this world.





*photos by DorothyZ.

How Could I Forget The Transvestites?

So we're all sitting around the other night after dinner discussing movies and various whatnot [and boy can we talk a whatnot blue streak in this family]; and someone, my father I think, mentioned he'd just seen True Lies for the first time. My father, being somewhat of a connoisseur of action movies, I was excited to relay to him that True Lies happened to be the first movie Mr. Farklepants and I had seen together on our first date lo those many years ago. Yes, the Arnold Schwarzenegger flick. Yes, and Jamie Lee Curtis too. And when I say date I mean I took my roommate along for security because as much as I wanted it to be a date I didn't want Mr. Farklepants to think me anxious to date him. Play games, who? Rules much? Aaaaand we all had a good laugh about my young, angsty man-trapping methods.

Mr. Farklepants: What?
Me: Oh, I was telling them about our first date when I took Roommate with us to see True Lies.
Mr. Farklepants: That's not right.
Me: What?
Mr. Farklepants: You're wrong.
Me: I did take her!
Mr. Farklepants: No, It was The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
Me: ........(!) Oh yeah! (then to my father) Nevermind, it was the movie about the transvestites in Australia.
Dad: ........?



I guess Mr. Farklepants was anxious to date me.

Some of you requested the Alfredo sauce recipe from Monday's entry in the comments and via email. The great thing about this recipe is that it is easy-peasy. And I am all about low maintenance cooking because if there are too many steps to follow or prep work that has to be done in advance I'm all, which pizza place do I have a coupon for? [Quick factoid: When the pizza place and your parent's share the same first three digits in their phone numbers, how many times do you call your mom when you just want Dominos? Answer: Hi Mom, no I really meant to call you I swear I know it's 7pm, so what's up?]

The Alfredo sauce recipe is below, and know this: it makes an obscene amount of sauce - you'll be eating it for days. It's probably best to make this for a large group.

Ingredients:

* 1 pound fettuccine pasta (trust me, you'll need a lot more than that)
* 2 sticks of butter, divided (the thing about cooking - math)
* 1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breasts ( I use the skinless tenders and just dice them up into 1" chunks - cuz I'm all about the bite size)
* 2 (15 oz) containers whole ricotta cheese
* 1 pint heavy cream (I always use heavy whipping cream which is what I assume they mean. If there's another kind of heavy cream out there know that the heavy whipping cream is divine)
* about 1 teaspoon pepper - keep adding while stirring until you can see pepper flecks (the recipe does not call for pepper but I think it kicks ass. The recipe calls for salt but it doesn't need it, I promise)
* 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese (purchase a cheese grater - I'm looking at you AFF)
* 1 heaping teaspoon of chopped garlic

1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add fettuccine and cook for 8-10 minutes. Drain and set aside in large bowl.
2. While the pasta is boiling melt 2-ish tablespoons of butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Saute chicken and garlic until no longer pink.
3. In a large saucepan (emphasis on large) combine ricotta cheese, cream, pepper, Parmesan cheese, and remaining butter. Cook over medium heat until well combined (about 10 minutes). Stir constantly. Add sauteed chicken and all its garlicy drizzliness into the sauce. Stir until it reaches creamy goodness.
4. I add the sauce by the ladle-ful to the drained pasta and toss until it meets my satisfaction. Some people are all about heavy on the sauce while others are like, stop when I say when-WHEN! I fall somewhere in between.

Buona fortuna!

Because All That Butter Just Wan't Enough

I have to admit I'm not terribly humble I make a mean Alfredo sauce. I don't make Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo often because - fat. This recipe is not even joking around about its fat content. We're talking two whole sticks of butter. Two 15 ounce containers of WHOLE ricotta cheese. One pint of heavy cream and a whole cup plus a little more for good measure of grated Parmesan cheese. Freshly grated of course. And when it comes time to physically apply cheese to grater you're all, why didn't I just buy the Kraft pre-grated stuff? Then you remember - flavor. One thing missing from the recipe that I follow is garlic.

I'd like to introduce you to a permanent staple in my fridge:


I sautee one teaspoon of this with the chicken before adding it to the sauce. One teaspoon is all you need because you want to wake up the flavor; you don't want to scare the shit out of it. A little of this stuff goes a long way.

After you recruit your mother to grate the cheese, and your sister to make the salad, and your other sister to pour everyone's drink, and you enjoy your second cup of coffee - dinner is served. You don't worry that you've just forced yourself to finish the entire bowl of rich and heavy Alfredo you were served; or that you sopped up the remaining sauce with a soft buttery roll, or that you didn't actually have any room to finish the salad after that carbohydrate orgy, because you still have three weeks to lose those five pounds that will give you permission to gain it all back come Thanksgiving.

It Would Have Been in my Best Interest to Clean my Stove First

**DISCLAIMER: The following is not a paid endorsement of any product or products and it would also behoove you to ignore the grout that needs obvious bleaching and also the filthy stove top that gave this post its "B" rating. Plus, sources say you cannot contract Hepatitis in any letter of the alphabet form from reading a blog post** Ahem...

Friends? Are you a lazy sonofabitch like me? Are you tired of making breakfast in the morning and finding yourself saying things like, "Now I have to put this wooden spoon in the dishwasher" or "Measuring cups baffle me" or "I'd make a big pancake breakfast on a regular basis if it weren't for this mixing bowl that needs washing afterward"? Well, you're in luck! Because now there is this! [Ignore the bowl of eggs for the scrambled egg side dish...a bowl that will need washing because we aren't talking about that. We're ignoring it... moving on....] This is Bisquick Shake 'n Pour! Pancakes in a jug! It is a godsend for the anti-stirrer. You just add a cup and a half of water and shake for 30 seconds. This can also count as your cardio for the day because about 15 seconds in your arm will fatigue and you'll have to switch hands. The instructions also indicate that you should tap the sides for maximum mixing. Note: Do this. Also? Loosen the top afterwards to avoid an explosion. It's chemistry 101, people.


Now that you've finished shaking, simply pour the desired amount. Preferably into a heavy duty non-stick pan like this dilly from Pampered Chef. Now, I've already mentioned that I don't do home parties, but if you're in need of a Pampered Chef item you can either wait until someone throws one [a party that is] or you can visit their website and avoid it [again with the party] altogether. Or? You can do like me and drop hints to your sister in law (who threw one) that you would really like an addition to the set your mother in law already purchased for you and then let your sister in law give it to you for Christmas! Everybody is happy.

When your pancake looks like this (below) it is time to flip the bitch.

I'd say that's about perfect. Please note the cleanliness of the non-stick pan. No butters, sprays, or oils were used in the creation of these pancakes.

Bisquick Shake 'n Pour claims that it will yield 12-15 pancakes. Or in my case: Ten. And now they have butter on them. Because pancakes without butter is like cake without frosting. Wrong.

When your family has had their fill Bisquick Shake 'n Pour pancakes make excellent Scooby Snacks.

She agrees.

I apologize for the blurriness of the last two photos but if you witnessed me trying to aim and shoot with the camera while handing her a pancake without her also eating my hand, you'd understand.

All That and a Jar of Salsa

In the Farklepants household, at any given time, you will find the above combination of snacks. That is Herdez salsa, and in my opinion, the best store bought salsa on the market. Why, yes, I have tried them all, smart-ass. And my summation: Pace is for people who don't know what salsa is supposed to actually taste like. And it's certainly not supposed to taste like hot ketchup (catsup? whatever, tomato/tomahto).

That little 'bag of chips that could' [because that bag is empty, y'all and look how its able to stand on its own!] are plain corn Doritos and there used to be a time when they were not found in southern California super markets. They were in places like Texas and Hawaii. So whenever someone we knew were going to either of those places we'd beg ask them to please ship us a few half-dozen or so bags. Mr. Farklepants introduced me to the chips early in our courting phase. And when I say introduced I mean "schooled" me:

Mr.F: I could go for some plain Doritos.
Me: You mean the nacho cheese? I'll go get some.
Mr.F: No. Plain.
Me: Nacho cheese?
Mr.F: No. Plain. The ORIGINAL Doritos flavor.
Me: Isn't that nacho cheese?

And then he proposed. The end.

In other hair related events: You'll be relieved to learn that the following has been remedied. And that would be the dark line that was dominating the real estate along my left hand side part representing six weeks of growth.


It wasn't without a little pain, however. I love my new hairdresser. She's local, fast, and cheap; and still manages to be awesome and gives good hair wash. I do lurves me a good hair washing. Yesterday was my third time in her chair and I'm getting to know her a little better with each visit. What I'm learning is that she's very outspoken. Yesterday she decided to talk politics and started the conversation by blurting out: I hope Obama isn't the next president. I don't trust him. There's something about him I don't like.

Then she went on to tell me how much she likes McCain and I refrained from snatching the shears from her hands and stabbing her informing her that I'm a bleeding heart liberal and McCain makes me want to hurl flaming kittens* at him; and focused all of my attention on the OK! magazine I was reading that featured celebrities without their makeup and making me feel a little better about my naked face after witnessing Julia Roberts, Katherine Heigl, and Eva Longoria sans professional assistance. And some deep-breathing exercises and taking an impromptu anger management course.

I'm just grateful that it wasn't my gyencologist during a routine pap-smear. I fear I would have clenched up during that episode, forever trapping the speculum in my vagina. So...you know, at least it wasn't that.

*That would be kittens on fire. Not the flamboyant ones.

Did I Really Just Consume 640 Calories in Five Minutes?

I have to admit this. I can deny it no longer. I've become addicted to ice cream. Which is weird because I'm usually not so much for the cold, tasty treat. I mean, I've enjoyed it, but if asked previously I would have said that it ranks way below pie, cake, OHMYGAWD donuts, and brownies BROWNIES! But you know you've developed a problem when you're throwing your kids in the car at 3pm, and not at their request mind you, because you have to have two scoops of Baskin Robbins Peanut Butter Chocolate RIGHT NOW or else! Or else? Or else you will die. And you've already justified that because you ate a light lunch and vowed to skip dinner then it's perfectly fine to indulge to your heart's content.


Or maybe some pistachio because they didn't have peanut butter chocolate

And then your sister in law introduces you to Ben and Jerry's Crème brûlée whose ribbon of flavor contains the fine crunchy candy shell and you're all ohmahgah and kiss her full on the mouth. You never knew Crème brûlée like this before. Or love.

Then there are these sneaky bastards. Sixty pieces? Pfft. Do you know how easy it is to consume those in a day? A couple of handfuls here and there and before you know it your kids are all, "Didn't we buy some Dibs today?" and you're all, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you over this brain freeze".

A word of advice: Do not buy Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream (swoon) when you're at the store and hungry. Because the first thing you'll do when you get home is eat half of the container before hiding it placing it lovingly in the freezer. Granted their containers are small but the entire thing still counts as four servings. Or, breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner. What?

But this. This is the one that has my heart. And my thighs and probably my cholesterol level. And making my scale nervous. This is the holy mother effing queen of all ice cream right here. Chocolate ice cream with ribbons of peanut butter and crack. See how she's all proud of herself? She's like the siren call that caused ships to crash into rocks. Only this time the next splintering sound you'll hear will be my jeans exploding.

If They can Invent Boner Pills Why Not "Meal Pills"?

While our children may not have inherited Mr. Farklepants' blue eyes, they most decidedly own his taste buds. Preparing a meal that everyone will eat in this house is a finely orchestrated spectacle. Most casseroles, stews, and soups are forbidden for the simple rule that items from separate sections of the food pyramid cannot be touching one another; and more importantly, in most cases, nothing can be "wet". Exceptions to this rule are buttered noodles, spaghetti, and mac & cheese. Last night I made my "white chili", or "chicken bean soup" as it's called in our house. Because I often name our recipes based on the precise ingredients so that everyone knows where we stand when dinner hits the table since if there's any question it will be met with resistance. The problem with my "chicken bean soup" is that only two people in this house will eat it and those are the same two people that are old enough to walk into any bar in Las Vegas, order a jello shot, and lick it off the nearest six pack or navel. -Jello is not part of the food pyramid although I follow the old school grid because it is what I was taught, much like how I learned that there was once a dinosaur named "brontosaurus" and a planet known as "Pluto" old dog new tricks you understand- That means the kids had hot dogs. Again.

Saturday night we finally introduced them to sushi because we were feeling brave and frankly, we wanted it and were comfortable with them going hungry if they weren't willing to try. Boy-Child#1 actually liked it, although not as much as his tempura and teiryaki chicken. Boy-Child#2 at least tried it and begrudgingly even though his eyes said "I can't believe I just put that in my mouth" ate his tempura shrimp and teriyaki chicken because he'd already seen what was for dessert so he worried it down. Girl-Child was all, "yeah, uh, I don't think so are you high?". There were questions about the miso soup, such as "what are those white chunks" and "why don't I have a spoon" -in my opinion, both valid. Other observations: 1) Chopsticks cannot be mastered in one sitting. It also explains why the Japanese are thin compared to their American counterparts who eat a Denny's super sized meal using a shovel. 2) Grabbing a plate of tuna sushi from the revolving assembly line is risky and considered an extreme sport. Ask either of the two bathrooms that Mr. Farklepants visited yesterday. 3) Edamame is overrated. Good for you and fun, but eh. And 4) There is always one child who is more interested in the restaurant bathroom than what's for dinner.

Next time we'll start them off with some sake. Which is made from rice and part of the food pyramid so please hold off on calling CPS just yet.

Dinner Consumed With 99% Less Bone

Last night was the first time since Tuesday, April 24th 2007 that I prepared pork chops for dinner. I know you're all, "umm...okay. Whatever. Congratulations?" but oh, the drama that unfolded with Boy-Child#2 on that fateful other white meat day. Wanna hear it? Here it go:

That evening I prepared pork chops for my family and 20 minutes after dinner, my youngest son began gagging and heaving as if he were sick to his stomach. This went on periodically throughout the night and into the morning. We assumed he had some kind of stomach virus since the rest of us were fine. It wasn't until morning that he informed us that it felt like something was stuck in his throat. Immediately alarmed and considering that perhaps he had a fragment of a pork chop bone lodged in his throat, but knowing it wasn't an "emergency" situation since he could breath and swallow, I took him to the walk in doctor's office to investigate. They were wonderful and patient and did what they could... two hours later xrays didn't reveal any bone fragments, it could just be a scratch, however, it could be such a small bone fragment that it wouldn't show up in xrays and they suggested that I take him to the emergency room where they had a greater variety of instruments to use to detect the problem.

I brought him home and waited until dinner time, figuring it would be a less hectic hour for the emergency room. The waiting room wasn't terribly crowded and they brought us in to a curtained bed area within 45 minutes. After a brief consultation with the doctor, he ordered a barium xray. While we waited in the large, open "fast track" area, consisting of several occupied beds separated by curtains, I couldn't help but hear the conversations amongst the staff. One nurse had a burrito she was willing to share with her co-worker. How sweet. One nurse had consistent complaints ranging from something (didn't hear what) that she agreed "just ain't right" with another co-worker, to some closet being improperly stocked...apparently "it didn't have shit". This same nurse was the go-to gal for the xray technician who came to collect my son. I can tell by the bemused expressions on their faces (how does one "hear" a bemused expression you ask? By the tone of their voice silly!) that because my son can breath and swallow, I'm just a overreactive mother wasting their precious time. The sound of their eyes rolling and their smirking mouths was deafening. Nevermind that I was at the emergency room on a doctor's suggestion; let's not let facts get in the way.

The tech was lacking in any smiles, impatient, and I think he figured it might have killed him to try even just a little bit to put my scared son's fears at ease. He was short and quick to threaten my son that if he didn't drink the barium properly that he was just going to have to do it all over again. Finally satisfied that he had the films he needed we were sent back to our curtained bed. An hour or so later, my son in a deep sleep, it was time to clear out the "fast track" area because at a certain time in the evening the staff is reduced and they put all of the patients in one area. I listened from our little corner of the room, patients being informed of their move and beds being wheeled off to somewhere unknown by me. I waited. And waited. Waited some more. I waited nearly 30 minutes. Long gone were voices, rustlings, or the sound of soft soled shoes on the floor. No beeping machines...not even a cough to clear one's throat. Zip. Dead silence. Fearing we'd somehow been forgotten (I mean, that couldn't be!), but hesitant to leave my sleeping son, worried that he might wake up alone in one wing of the hospital, I finally took a few steps out to investigate. We were, in fact, alone. I took one more look at my son and decided to try to find someone as quickly as possible. This forced me to leave the room entirely, through another room, and finally into an area that had some staff.

I asked the nurse sitting at the desk if we were also being moved. Luckily, I didn't blink when I asked her this question because I would have surely missed the extremely brief look of shock that flashed across her face when I told her where my son was. She resorted to her pat answer and informed me that they were getting a bed ready for him and someone would be there shortly.

We never did move. The doctor finally came in to discuss the results of the barium xray with me. The diagnosis? No obstruction shows up in the xray and my son can swallow. Gee...thanks. I already knew he could swallow which is probably why I said as much during my initial consultation with the doctor. What I want to know is, what is causing my son to gag and heave when he DOES swallow? "It could be a scratch on his cartledge or it could be a bone fragment so small that it doesn't show up in the xray"... well, here we are back to square one. This I already know, I tell him. He recommends an ear, nose, and throat specialist and gives me the number of a doctor to call because they have a fiber optic camera they can snake down his throat. Henry Mayo doesn't have one of those in the entire facility? Couldn't they have done that while we were there? Well, I guess they've done all they're gonna do.

After a combined total of 7 hours in medical facilities, I still don't know what is going on in my son's throat and it doesn't seem to concern any of the medical professionals, so why should I be worried? Because I'm a mother and I can tell you right now that there is something wrong with my son. I'm not a nervous overreative mother. Aside from being born this was the first time my 7 year old son had ever even seen the inside of a hospital, let alone an emergency room. And they should take a lesson in bedside manner. It would serve them well not to treat scared worried parents and patients with belittling condescension. Give us the benefit of the doubt that we aren't there to waste your time...we're there because something just ain't right.

Last night's dinner consisted of BONELESS pork chops and was met with fear from Boy-Child#2. I considered telling him it was chicken but he's on to my lies. To this day he will not eat quickly. He will chew whatever it is he's eating until it becomes a fine, pasty liquid. And it is all kinds of nasty.

*The above story is a repeat from one of my old blogs*

Bite Sized Nectar of the Gods

Like any decent parent I try to limit the amount of sugar in my children's diet. Apparently, in order to do this, I've decided that the best way is to eat as much of their Halloween candy as is possible. Is it any mystery why now, a week later I can feel the birth of a zit that will consume my entire chin? No. It's not. Yesterday I finally reached my limit with the candy. It was one of those "I have the willpower of a God" moments, and you hear the Milky Way bar drop itself back into the bucket. I heard it sigh in defeat. The bastid. I've still got Thanksgiving and Christmas to endure...I see mass jogging in my future.

**Photo by Dorothy Z.

After Dinner Treats

If you're a freak like me about keeping sugar out of your diet, I'll share a couple of my favorite desserts with you...becuase Lord knows I've got a sweet tooth! I'm in love with Dryer's brand sugar free ice cream! Go ahead and indulge! My second favorite go-to dessert is the following:

1 cup frozen mixed (unsweetened) berries
2 Tbls. Cool Whip Lite

Toss the berries into the microwave for about 20 seconds to defrost them but so they still remain very cold. Top it with the Cool Whip and ....OMG!! Soooo good! And guilt free!