Drunken chicken

Note to self:  do not marinate Nate's chicken in white cooking wine all day and then also make a "subtle" white wine cream sauce to go along with it.  It will taste like chicken chased with a shot of hard liquor (Nate's words, not mine - don't get excited, I still haven't been craving meat).

That's right, yesterday, I had a brilliant plan.  Marinate some chicken in the same thing I'd be using for sauce that evening.  I was thinking how genius I was and how delighted Nate was going to be to have something different and exciting for dinner.  I just had no idea how exciting...

When I went to season the chicken, I poured out the liquid that had accumulated over the day and thought to myself, "Hmmmm, how weird.  The chicken apparently somewhat melted to the bottom of the bowl while it was thawing. It's never done that before!"  And as I was putting it into the pan to cook, it was practically falling apart.  Well, I had completely forgotten what I had done at this point, so I had no idea that the chicken was literally decomposing because it had been sitting in something close to vinegar all day long.

And I didn't remember until Nate took a bite of his dinner and his eyes bugged out of his head as he asked, "Um, Kate, how much wine did you put in this sauce?" 

Poor, poor Nate, who is such a trooper, proceeded to every last bite of that chicken, eyes watering and tastebuds on fire.  I couldn't even eat my own dinner because I was laughing so hard it was dangerous to put anything into my mouth.  And the only thing he would say is, "Well, I might go to sleep right after this."  Oh, and he also cautioned me not to ask him to drive anywhere.  Hah!

In short, I think my adventures with cooking wine are over.  Perhaps next time I'll marinate in something a little safer...

The mountain

May I make an odd confession?

I love grading essays.  I'm teaching 10th grade this year, and I am thrilled to show students how to write.  I love brainstorming, conferencing with them after they pre-write, and helping them enhance their stories. But most of all, I especially love to see the finished product.  Perhaps it's because I love doing any sort of editing, but I find myself really getting into making comments, suggesting improvements, and even picking out the things my students do well.  (if you're a teacher, please don't hate me just yet)

So why on earth can't I make myself grade the PILE of essays on my desk right now?  I really mean to get around to it, but when it comes to grabbing that stack and going to town, I always manage to find something else to do.  And today I even told a student, "Well, I promise I'll have them graded by Friday.  I just can't rush myself, because I tend to grade lower when I rush."  She, of course, nodded and solemnly replied, "Oh, Ms. Jackson, please take your time, then."

Seriously?  There may be a tiny sliver of truth to that, but I'm not sure where it is... because what I meant to say was, "Well, by the time I finish my day, I'm so tired that I have to eat a snack just to get me down to the car, and there's no chance I can grade your essay when I get home because I will assuredly fall asleep on top of it and smudge the entire piece with drool."  Are teachers allowed that kind of blatant honesty with their students?  I think not, especially since it might scar them for life to realize that their teachers do have a life outside of the classroom.

And by the way, since kids seem incapable of tact, and most often tell the truth whether it hurts or not, should I believe that I truly am bigger than I was when they saw me on Friday? (And by the way, I believe the quote was, "Ms. Jackson, you're HUGE!  What happened this weekend?"  Nothing quite compared to a student who hadn't seen me since last year and literally shouted, "Ms. Jackson, you're a big ol' girl now!" with a giggle.)

Tuesday Blues

The Lord has a sense of humor, and thank goodness.  I woke up this morning in a funk, upset about my Grandma being in the hospital and tired from crying myself to sleep last night.  And then, on the way to school, I saw something that was magic to my eyes.

The farmer's market / city extension office is holding a Federal Hog Control Convention.  Need I say more?

Plus, I was reminded that as I was shopping in HEB Sunday afternoon, I heard a familiar tune, but couldn't quite make out the words.  Then I realized that I was listening to "Like A Virgin."  In Spanish.  I'll have to admit, had I known the words, I would have been singing along.  In Spanish.

You just have to love East Texas.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a convention to sign up for...

Warning: breast pumping content to follow

I had a simple job.  Register for the middle-of-the-line double breast pump while Nate ran to get a copy of our registry, because I'm going to try really hard to breast-feed Milo when he gets here.  Let's just ignore the fact that I felt like I owed my mom a public apology for breast-feeding.  Let's also pretend that  I promised my brother-in-law that I would at least try to breast-feed for some reason other than that he promised if I did he would never say the word colostrum to me again. In short, breast-feeding grosses me out, and pumping seems even worse - like milking yourself.  But I'm trying so hard to be a good mommy (already, before he's even here).

And yet, standing in the middle of the aisle at Target, completely bewildered, all I could do is stare in quasi-horror at these instruments of torture and think, "Do I really want anyone to buy this for me?"  I realized that I was brandishing my scanner like a weapon, as if my self-conscious were already acting in self-defense, and dropped my arms to my sides, though everything about a breast pump makes me want to keep my arms crossed.

I quickly located what seemed like a safe bet, something by The First Years, and moved in to scan it, but there was a woman in her early twenties standing there in my way.  She was feeling the nozzles (is that what you call the cone/funnels that attach to you?), carefully inspecting the pumps and carrying bags, even noting the packaging and mumbling, "Hmmmmm," as she went.  She was the exact opposite of me - intense and focused, enjoying the idea of using one of these foul machines, and perhaps imagining the thrill.  I hated to interrupt, but just being in that aisle was making me short of breath.

"Excuse me, could I just pop in here and scan this really quickly?" I politely asked.

"Oh, of course.  I'm not even pregnant," she responded, smiling at me sheepishly, then quickly casting her eyes down.

And then she said the words that stopped me in my tracks, horrified.  "I don't even know why I like looking at breast pumps so much."

Excuse me?  You like looking at breast pumps?  So this is just a recreational activity on a Saturday night, and not a matter of necessity?  Could you just pick one out for me when you're done feeling them up, then, and let me get on with my shopping?  Perhaps we should chat delightedly about episiotomies and hernias when you're finished as well?

I'm sure my smile barely masked my terror as I leaned over to scan my choice, and she strolled off to who knows where?  Do they sell home enemas or anything at Target?  I was still standing there stunned when Nate returned, wondering what had me so perplexed.

"I can't even talk about it, baby.  But let's go look at something happy."

FYI

I really should have paid attention in health class.  Or perhaps to my sisters, or even some of my friends.  I should have known what I was getting myself into beforehand...

Because there are so many things about pregnancy and giving birth that I never knew, simply because I never thought I'd need the info.  And let me tell you, I needed the info.

For example, I needed to know about the first ultrasound before I had it.  And if I hadn't seen The Backup Plan the week before, I would have marched myself in to my appointment ready for gel on my tummy and warm fuzzy feelings and been shocked by the giant wand, all lubed up and ready to invade my nether-regions...

And I needed to know that when doctors check to see how far a woman is dilated, it has nothing to do with a tiny ruler or a bit of measuring tape as I'd imagined...

I definitely needed to know that I could, and probably will, poop during labor.  I'm still unprepared to fully deal with that information.  Mortification, anyone?

In short, birthing class is going to be a necessity.  I just wish I had known before I got pregnant...

A rather foul 5th

Ahhhhh, the joys of teaching, when you walk into your classroom toward the end of a long, hard, satisfying day of teaching, and are brought to a sudden halt by the worst odor you've smelled since you became pregnant.

"Oh my word, is that ME who stinks so bad?"  Two subtle sniffs assure you differently - you still smell of sweet pea and hand sanitizer.  "WHEW.  I've never smelled B.O. like that in my life...  Who on earth could that be?  Wait a second, is it the teacher across the hall?  I mean, we were just talking...  No chance.  She's as prissy as I am..."

You take a deep mouth breath, and with the acrid taste of the stench on your breath, you begin to hand out the DOL.  You walk over to the first row, and it hits you all over again.  You hold back a gag as you approach the student in the front row.  This student is usually pretty grubby, and, in fact, picks scabs and eats them, and just the other day you caught this student nose-picking.  But this one has never stunk up the entire room...

Until today.

You try to walk away and get a fresh breath, but the entire room is now enveloped.  In fact, stepping out into the hall does no good, either, because the odor is so strong that it's spilled out there as well.  You can almost swear you see a dirty mist throughout the room.  Alas, there's no choice.  You have to go back in and teach this class.

For some reason, you try to look on the bright side and assume that none of your other kids will say anything.  Common sense would tell them to use some tact, right?  Oh wait.  They're kids.  You look around and realize that the students are already starting to whisper and grumble, and finally an especially boisterous girl begins accusing another boy. 

"Oh.  My.  God.  What is that smell?  Who IS that?"

Another one chimes in.  "I think it's Nick.  Gross, Nick.  Let me smell you!"

Poor Nick looks embarrassed and protests.  "It's not me, but I smell it.  That's disgusting!"

And the entire class erupts.  Some begin spraying perfume, one girl is choking after being hit in the face with said perfume, others are coughing and smelling each other to determine the culprit.  Poor Scabs is sitting head-down on the desk and you wonder if this child realizes the actual cause of all this commotion.

Holding back another gag, you make a lame attempt at squelching the conversation.  "Guys, you're hurting someone's feelings right now, and you don't even know it.  COOL it.  Breathe through your mouth!"

But it's useless.  Kids will be kids, and that means they have to keep smelling a stench so they can keep complaining about it.  You know you'll never get a bit of work done as long as this goes on.  What on earth can you do?  You frantically dig through the cupboard for some Febreze, and then realize that if the ungodly stench is overpowering your two air fresheners (one strategically positioned near Scabs' desk), there's no chance any spray will help.

In desperation, you call out to your students, "Okay, everyone.  Pack up your bags!  We're going on a grammar field trip!"

In triumph, you lead them down the hall, through the stairwell, and straight outside to the lawn, where a gorgeous breeze blows away any trace of the original problem.  You finally teach object complements in complete peace, smelling nothing but the late summer air and the scent of pine needles.

Crisis averted.  Well, until tomorrow...

Walk Across Texas

Okay, admittedly, since I've become pregnant, I've let myself get a little bit out of shape.  And I'm not trying to make excuses, but I have seriously been so sick that lying on the couch became a matter of survival!  But now that I'm feeling better most of the time, a change was inevitable.

Enter the Walk Across Texas campaign, which is designed to get people thinking about their health and well-being.  The lovely ladies next door in Content Mastery asked me to join their team and walk 5 days a week for the next 8 weeks.  How perfect, right?  Because I feel utterly responsible for helping the team, I will walk my little (big) heinie off!  And aside from that, in my mind I was convinced that I would be doing them a favor since I'm in such great condition. 

I didn't think it would be a big deal that I'd taken a few months off from exercise, considering the day after I found out I was pregnant, Jen and I ran 8 or 9 miles.  I've been in awesome shape for a long time, and the only thing stopping me from running a marathon pregnant was the overwhelming amount of throwing up I've been doing.  But what's a little rest here and there?  I assumed I could just pop back to full-force exercise without a second thought.

Well, last night, I almost pooped out during our 2.5 mile walk.  I was so out of breath and my legs were so jello-y that I felt like I was marching straight uphill, dragging a sled full of people behind me.  Not really the best start to my glorious plans of walking 4 or 5 miles every day to help out the team, right?  I actually may need this program to get my own self back in the swing of things.

So it turns out Walk Across Texas is not only for people who don't ever exercise.  It's also for cocky, large and in charge pregnant women who think they can conquer the world.  Or at least Texas...