Cheese curls and dirty floors

David’s “official” 5th Birthday party is this coming Saturday. His birthday was last month, but with our vacation and the holiday we ended up having a June party. Such is life.

My house is a mess. Cluttered and un-dusted, and needing some real TLC. I decided last weekend that I would take a room each day and do a real cleaning top to bottom. Which if I weren’t working or doing 100 other things might be relatively easy to do. But I’m already disgusted with myself that I’ve fallen off the pace.

Usually husband does the floors. I hate to do the floors. Really. And he’s better at it, so I let him do it.

Problem is, S. is the all or nothing type of guy. His version of cleaning is one block of time… get in there and get it done… no matter what.

Case in point- Saturday, I asked him to replace the shower head in our bathroom shower (the old one was nasty, I bought a fancy new one from Target). He not only replaced the shower head, he continued to almost pass out from fumes scrubbing our fiberglass shower to within an inch of its life. Two hours later… “shower’s done honey!” and he had scrubbed and cleaned himself into a tizzy and subsequently comatose on the recliner. He had burned himself out.

I can’t clean that way. I need to spread out the cleaning in a methodical fashion. My crazy cleaning is reserved for special occasions, such as about an hour ago.

I went into the kitchen looking for some cheese curls. (Don’t mock me, it’s a simple pleasure)

I opened the bag and a couple fell on the hardwood floor. So, I bent down to toss them and I saw what looked like one of David’s Lego pieces. I reached for it, and realized it didn’t feel like plastic.

It wasn’t a Lego, it was a GIANT DEAD HOUSEFLY.

That sucker must have flew in the house and died trying to chow down on the nice red tomatoes on my countertop.

It was time for some evasive cleaning action.

I can’t have dead insects on my floor. No way, no how.

Problem is, now I started the kitchen, so I have to finish it.

Wish me luck.

Control, or lack of it

Last week was such a blur. So much going on at work. The funeral. Just a long and emotional week.

So on Saturday I was looking for something mindless to occupy my time and spent the better part of the morning sorting trains, cars, dinosaurs, legos, pirates, ninja turtles, and puzzles. It was The Great Playroom Cleanup.

I wish I had a “before” picture, to truly appreciate the end result. Let’s just say I couldn’t walk on the floor. Literally…
I stepped on a pirate with a sword that stuck to my foot. It didn’t draw blood (well that would have been a better story) but I can tell you I had the imprint of Captain Hook on my foot all day.

You see, S. and I differ on the use of the playroom. He says that it is a kid zone, meaning, it can be messy 24/7 with some minor cleanup now and then.

I am a bit more radical with my thoughts… in that, a playroom should be clean overall (how can you play when you have no room to walk?) and organized. Take a bin out, put it back. Anything David plays with for the day has to go back to its home at the end of the day. With the exception of the trains, that can stay out since I’ve spent an hour building the track. Because only Mommy has the spacial skills to build a track, and it’s far too taxing on my brain to have to do it over and over.

Anyway… I am thinking of labeling the bins (not that David can read them yet) to complete the room. Overkill? Perhaps.

The one thing I’ve learned though the last three years of infertility is I must maintain order where I can. It balances out the fact that I have no freaking control over my body and the little control I have restores my blissful balance.

So, the playroom is my control point.

Now if only I could apply that to the family room…


I had some time on my hands this morning after dropping David off and before sitting down to work. So, I decided to throw something in the crockpot for dinner.

I have this awesome high-tech crockpot I got over the holidays from Williams-Sonoma (see above pic), and I am always looking to use it. I know it seems odd to get excited over a crockpot, but it truly makes me feel all Martha Stewart’ish.

I decided to make some old-fashioned beef stew. With all the good stuff like carrots, parsnips, portabello mushrooms, etc. And for good measure, half a bottle of red wine. Ok, a quarter. That’s the only way wine will be passing my lips today, don’t worry.

I previewed the recipe last night and thought, heck, I’ll just throw everything in there and fire it up for 10 hours or so. I even had pre-cut cubed stew meat, so I was on my way.

Of course you have to first brown the meat, and then cut the veggies, and then make a special sauce. So, “throwing it together” was not really how it went down.

It was more like “turn the kitchen upside down for 45 minutes, make a huge mess, and have a meltdown over onions I just brought YESTERDAY that turned out to be rotten”.

It was not a pretty sight. I rushed browning the meat and spilled flour on the floor too.

After all was said and done, my 20 minute prep was more like an hour and twenty after I had to clean up the mess I made.

I’ll let you know how it turns out. I may share the recipe if I get a thumbs up from the peanut gallery.

For now, I am letting my beautiful crockpot make magic.