Gettin’ Down and Dirty

I was a dirty girl this weekend.  Okay, get your mind out of the gutter.  The husband and I went to the dirt races this weekend.  My newest favorite type of racing.  There’s just something about sitting there dodging the dirt clumps and rocks that I love.  Almost as much fun as watching top fuel dragsters go down the track. 

This is only the fourth dirt race I have gone to.  We are drag racers by birth, but I’m new to the dirt scene.  In fact, every time we go I learn just a little bit more about what is going on.  Which, gives the people in our group alot of chances to make fun of me.

We pawned the twins off on Grandpa and Yia-Yia and headed out for the race.  If you’ve never been to a dirt race, when I tell you the dirt just hangs in a cloud over the track, you won’t believe me.  But it does.  It looks like fog.  Pretty soon, that dirt starts to blow and begins to pelt your face.  It gets down into your clothes, into your shoes… into places it should never be.  If it’s hot out, it’s even worse… the dirt hits and sticks.  It gets into your drink.  It gets into your food.  It gets stuck in your teeth.  But, I love it. 

Would I stop drag racing to dirt race?  Not on your life.  Am I ashamed to admit the first race my kids ever went to was a dirt race?  Kinda.  But, it is what it is.

Saturday night, sitting in a corn field, dirt falling from the sky like rain.  I’ve got my shades on.  (Okay, okay they are safety glasses, but that didn’t sound quiet as cool.) This momma is a happy camper.

Remember to dodge ‘em.

Amish Friendship Bread

I’m sure you have heard the story of the Little Red Hen when you were little, or perhaps you have read it to your kids… you know, where the hen plants the wheat seed in the barnyard, but none of the other animals want to help take care of it.  But, when she makes the bread, everyone wants to eat it…

I tell you that story to tell you this one… someone gave me Amish Friendship Bread starter.  Or, Oscar, as my mom said it used to be called.  (Who is Oscar?  Why would they name bread starter after him?)  Along with the starter came a little recipe that told me each day what I was supposed to do with this Ziploc baggie of liquid.  One day you add milk, but never refrigerate it… kinda creepy.  Most days are squishing, mashing, and squeezing.  You know, because I have time to do this every single day.  Plus, if this was truly “Amish” bread… aren’t the Amish busy doing things?  Do they even have time to squeeze the baggie?  What about Oscar?  Does he have time?

So, for ten days (!) I’ve squeezed and squished this bag to make the Friendship bread batter.  Last night was the day I was supposed to bake, you know… after working all day.  I had to run to the store to buy the ingredients—and loaf pans.  I followed the directions and poured the ingredients in the bowl.  At this point, you add more sugar, flour and milk… then divide it into four equal parts.  In theory, you are supposed to pass out three of these portions to your friends.  I don’t have friends who have time to do this.  Hell, most of my friends don’t even live in the same state as me.

Screw it, I’m making ALL the bread. 

I bake the bread. 

I let it cool.

I turn it out onto the plate.

There are 4 large loaves of cinnamon bread looking back at me.
My kids (and husband) asked for a piece.  For a split second, I thought to myself “No way… I did all the work.  The daily squishing-squashing-mashing of batter.  They didn’t do anything but ask me when it was going to be bread.” 

Then, out of the goodness of my heart—and to keep the peace – I cut them all a slice.  It was pretty good for having sat out on the counter for ten days. 

And, by the way, that is Mrs. Little Red Hen to you.

The Little Red Hen

Picture from:

First Name Basis

I grew up in small-town USA.  I moved to a military town with my husband.  Then, we uprooted ourselves and moved to even a smaller town.  We are talking tractors on the roads, people actually are friendly, I know my neighbors’ names and their dogs’ names, people at the grocery store know the twins’ names, etc…. small town stuff.

For the few years we have lived here, we had been ordering pizza from a certain place that supposedly won all these awards.  Supposedly, the best place in the county.  Home of champion winning pizza.  Personally, didn’t think it was all that great.  Their subs kinda sucked, to be frank.  (Which, side note… this town is so weird.  Not one of the pizza places have ever heard of mushroom gravy on steak subs.  Really?  Where I came from (about 40 miles south of where I am now) the bomb was a pizza AND mushroom gravy steak sub.  Go figure. )). 

One day, we wanted pizza and ordered it from this hole in the wall in a little strip shopping area.  The.  Best.  Pizza.  Ever.  We’ve never had anything bad there.  We order there once a week (at least.)

So, earlier I mentioned how small the town we live in is.  We call the pizza place these days, they ask us our name… and they ask “the usual?”  Ummmm.  I think we order pizza and subs too much.  We go in to town to pick it up, walk in and they just hand us our order.  They know us by sight.  They give my kids candy when we go in… literally taking change out of the cash drawer to buy it out of the machine for them.  They know I don’t like lettuce on my Italian sub.  They give us extra hot wings.  They’ve given us free subs because they weren’t toasted perfectly.

Don’t get me wrong… I love living in a small town.  I love that I know my neighbors.  I love that on a clear, quiet morning I can hear the cows mooing from the farm down the road.  I love waving to the farmers on their tractors as they pass by.  But, I am on a first-name, recognizable basis with the smallest pizza place in town.  I don’t know if this is good or bad. 

Do you think if I asked, they’d get me some mushroom gravy?

The Worst Part of Motherhood

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mom more than life itself.  I waited a long time to be blessed with my two little bears.  But, the one thing I hate most about motherhood…


I can’t do anything in the bathroom without at least one kid and usually the dog in there with me.  Going to the bathroom, taking out my contacts, taking a shower, picking my nose… well, you get it.  Do they have a radar for the bathroom entrance?  They can be anywhere in the house and when they see me go in there I hear “Can I come too?” 

The really sad part is, the dog comes in and is able to shut the door—and she does it just to escape the kids!

Unfortunately, my house is so old it doesn’t have a lock on the bathroom door.  Granted, this is an easy fix… but seems like a lot of bother.  Especially since it would just be a matter of time before one or the other locked themselves into the bathroom… and I would have to find the key.  It would just be a hot mess.  (Remind me one day to tell you the baby powder story…)

So, here is how it usually goes.

“Mommy, can I come too?”

“I guess.”

“What’s that?”

“My contact case.”

“Do you put your eyeballs in there?” 

“No, I put my contacts in there.”

“What’s this?” 

“Contact solution.”

“You put that in there?  Is that medicine?”

“No, it’s like salt water.”

“Can I drink it?”

“What’s that?”

“My contact.”

“Does that go in your eye?”


“Can I have a cookie?”

Okay… so, you get the point.  It’s even worse if you are going to the bathroom.

I’ve complained to other mom-friends.  They laughed.  I’ve complained to my mom.  She laughed.  No one told me there was no privacy anymore!  Excuse me for liking to poop in private!

And, by the way, they don’t do this with daddy.  Just mommy. 

I don’t remember this being in the owner’s manual.