ice cream for lunch

I had actually already planned on having ice cream around lunchtime. But our plans suffered a twist. This morning I lugged my toddler, my sewing machine, and my serger down to Portland's Alberta Street where I dropped off my machines at my favorite local Bernina dealer for some quality TLC. (These babies work hard--they deserve some spa time, right?)

I reached into my bag for my wallet. And then I started pawing through my bag for my wallet. But it wasn't there. And I didn't know where I'd left it. So not only could I not shop in my favorite independent sewing shop, I also couldn't treat Asher and myself to Salt & Straw or the Grilled Cheese Grill where you get to eat your sandwich a school bus. So many things wrong with this situation.

With Asher buckled in and the AC blaring, I called the last place I remember paying for anything: Costco. And they had it. So back to my Portland suburb I went, ice-cream-less but soon-to-be wallet-carrying. Some good soul had turned in my wallet, complete with credit cards, cash, and identification. In celebration, Asher and I shared a full-sized swirl frozen yogurt for lunch. Asher thought it was spectacular, and I couldn't help but agree.

the worst way to spend Labor Day

And no, I didn't spend my holiday in labor. (Obviously.) Though I think I would have preferred labor to our activity: car shopping. Wait, you think, Didn't you guys just buy a car a couple of years ago? Yes, you'd be right. But what you don't know is that last week I wrecked that car. I wrecked it good. (I write with a bit of cheek in this matter to offset the tears that may surface at any moment because of said car accident.)

Let me first assure you that no one was hurt. Our car, however, and the other car involved, and a fence, did not fare well. My newest mantra is Better a car than a person, better a car than a person. So now we're on pins and needles waiting to hear back from the insurance company about whether or not they're going to total our car, which we'd actually prefer, because we think in some twisted way we'd come out ahead. And so today we spent our entire morning shopping for the car that we'd get to replace our broken cartoon car.

Though we did find a suitable replacement-slash-upgrade (dependent, of course, on the insurance ruling), I left that car lot convinced that there's a ring of purgatory dedicated to perpetual car buying, complete with slimy sales managers and one-time-only-in-your-whole-life deals.

waging a war

Readers, it's been a full-out war over here. It's nature versus the Wilsons. And nature has been winning.

My allergies have been hellish--think puffy, itchy eyes; runny, itchy nose; and itchy itchy throat hell. It's been awful. And then when I tried to pick up some Alavert-D at the pharmacy counter, Oregon denies me saying that in Oregon I need a prescription. I may or may not have teared up at the pharmacy counter and then proceeded to vilify this hippee-dippee state throughout the weekend.

And Asher fought an on-again-off-again fever for a week, finishing up with snot and coughing. And then on top of my allergies, I just picked up Asher's bug. So now that my allergies are finally under control (because you can bet your daily fountain drink that I got that damn prescription) I have sinuses full of never-ending snot. (TMI? Maybe? Nah.)

This whole past week has been full of children's TV programs, Cars, and too many tissues. (And does anyone else choke up when almost all of Radiator Springs shows up as Lightning McQueen's pit crew? And then when Lightning pushes the King to the finish line? Anyone? No? Well.)

And no one tells you that when your kid is sick for a week that you'll end up spending the next week reteaching all of those things you had previously conquered. Like falling asleep on your own. And not watching TV all day. And keeping the pacifier and blanket in your room. So pretty much your toddler's whole world falls apart once he's not sick enough to transcend Mom's house rules.

So.

What wars have you been fighting lately? Are you winning? Because I'm not sure I am.

*face palm*

grocery shopping rants

I used to hate grocery shopping. Like, really hate it. Surprisingly, once I had a baby, grocery shopping became easier for me because I planned for it (it takes so much work to get out of the house with a newborn that I couldn't stand to be haphazard about it!). Every now and then, though, I run into situations that remind me of how awful grocery shopping can really be.

Like, today, when I spent 15 minutes searching Costco for the Nutrigrain bars. Every single time I need to stock up on those silly cereal bars, they're in a different place in that huge store. And it drives me crazy! One time when I asked an employee for help finding them, she spent several minutes telling me about how unhealthy they were and how I should buy this different brand for my child. (I compared nutritional info, and she was wrong. And she never told me where to find those damn fruit bars.) Sometimes finding stuff in Costco is a goose chase, a food-samples-everywhere, why-don't-you-buy-a-Vitamix goose chase.

And then there are those moments you forget something key on your grocery list. Like apple juice. That happened today. Or those times you forget your wallet at home and don't realize it until the cashier has already rung everything up. This has happened to me more than once. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.

I find my solace in the stickers the firefighters give my boy and in the Diet Pepsi I grab in the checkout line. How do you feel about grocery shopping? I could go on about other chores, but let's just leave the laundry for now. Some days I just can't bear to talk about laundry. You understand.

woes of Christmas packing

Think I can pull off packing two pairs of boots?

{via}

That was a real text message I sent my mom and sister. Such are the hardships of Christmas packing. Winter clothing is bulky and puffy, as opposed to the light, flowy pieces of summer. And then there are all the presents. I sent many of our presents via Amazon, but I still have gifts to transport, and all of this is just making me glad that Southwest gives you two free bags per ticket, so that's four bags for this family.

And then there are the carry-ons to consider. We have the diaper bag that I plan to pack full of diapers, extra clothes, snacks, books, toys, and Benadryl. But should I bring another one with my own flight survival tools? So. Here we are, 10:00 at night, unshowered, and blogging instead of packing. Maybe it's time for some cocoa. Obviously. 

the week of the worst dinners

I meal plan. It's one of those Pinterest-mom, life skill things that I'm actually really good at. Sunday nights I pull out my cookbooks, open Evernote, and plan the week's food. It's one of my favorite parts of the week, because it's full of lists and planning. Last week, however, did not go according to plan.

After Monday's and Tuesday's dinners flopped, Wednesday I decided to go with a family favorite: chicken and dumplings. It did not turn out well. Think smoke furling out of the pot, setting off the smoke alarm, and stinking up the entire house. The entire house. Think really angry, ugly crying on my part. It was a complete disaster. It took several hours of a baking-soda soak and some serious elbow grease to clean the pot. It was the kind of devastation that had me calling my mom in heaving tears and resorting to pumpkin bread for dinner. And to top it off I spent $20 at the local grocer for a stove-top potpourri concoction I found on Pinterest. Good hell doesn't even begin to cover the evening.

Thursday I made meatloaf, because if I ever mess up meatloaf then I will vow to give up dinners forever. The meatloaf turned out. Thankfully.

when all you want to do is take a shower, #movingday

All you want to do is take a shower.

That's it.

You have two days' worth of sweat and grime all over you, and the only time you're not sweating is in the air-conditioned car.

Your ankles feel like they're about to break because all you've done all day is carry things and go up stairs and stand around wondering where to even start.

All you want to do is take a shower.

The baby is finally down for the count, and the shower is yours.

But then you have to dig through one of the many "miscellaneous" boxes to find your face wash, body soap, shampoo, and razor.

Then you have to put up the shower curtain, because you didn't do that earlier.

All you want to do is take a shower.

You finally turn on the water and set it to a tepid temperature, because it's just been so awfully hot today.

You step in that shower and watch the dirt wash off your feet.

You've reached Nirvana.

on fumes

I've been trying to write a poem for you about how we painted our new place last weekend, but I haven't been able to finish it yet. Moving makes you tired, emotional, sensitive, and opinionated, and that, dear readers, is a recipe for implosion.

The babe is no exception to that recipe. He's been more sensitive and has needed more devoted time and attention. What's getting me through this week is knowing that this time next week I'll be on the downward slope.

Two more days until the official moving day. Two more days.

saboteur, take 2

Damn you, too hot broiler and too sensitive smoke detector. Dammit.

a lesson in kindness

Josh, Asher, and I live in a second-floor apartment. We have downstairs neighbors and upstairs neighbors. Our apartment is like any other cheap apartment: it's old, it creaks, and it sometimes grows mold. Because we have a baby (and you know, because we pay to live here) we walk around a bit, even in the middle of the night. Our downstairs neighbors took issue with that and started pounding on their ceiling in a rude, albeit clear, communication to shut up.

When this first started I did not handle it well. In fact, I was quite put out about it. Josh first approached them and explained that we had a six-month-old baby and that the baby was going through a rough sleeping period. "So if you could not pound on your ceiling at midnight, we'd really appreciate it. Thanks."

After that encounter, I started hearing blaring, pounding music from downstairs. So I asked them about it. I learned that she was pregnant and couldn't sleep when she could hear me walking around. So she turned on the radio full blast. Let me put it to the record that I do not gallop, galumph, or otherwise pound around my apartment. If I did, sure, maybe be a little upset about it. But really, I just live here.

A few weeks went by, and in the late afternoon I heard them pound on their ceiling again, for what I can only imagine was Asher's light floor kicking (which might be mildly irritating, but certainly not ceiling-pounding worthy). I went down to apologize, because I hate having people mad at me. They had just had their baby, and so I guess I could kind of understand how some minor floor kicking wouldn't be appreciated.

A week or so later, Asher woke for up the day around 6:30 or 7:00. (He's an early riser.) By this point both Josh and I are very cautious about our walking and try very hard to tread lightly, especially when the hours are late or early. Josh was still sleeping; the apartment was dark and quiet. Just as I wrapped up Asher's morning nursing, I heard a few taps on our front door.

In a dark apartment, barely clothed in loose pajamas, with babe in arms, I answered. The husband from downstairs was at our door, asking me if I could possibly be quieter, because they had just gotten their baby to sleep. I hardly knew what to say. My face may have conveyed some incredulity, because I was doing my best (and had been doing my best for some time). I told him that I didn't know what else I could do to be quieter, and I recommended that he get a white noise machine for the baby's room. I told him that we have one and love it.

The rest of the day I was in a high state of anger and frustration. What do they want from me? I'm doing the best I can! I want a house! Haven't they lived in an apartment before? Good hell! Josh calmly and reasonably pointed out that I needed to figure something out, because staying mad wasn't going to cut it.

I wrestled with myself and my pride. I prayed and vented and tiptoed around, trying to find a solution. And my thoughts kept returning to kindness. You never regret being kind to someone, and maybe being kind to those sensitive neighbors would make it harder for us to hate each other. I went to Target that morning and bought them their own white noise machine. I figured they wouldn't go out and get one, especially with a brand new baby in tow. So I bought it for them. I tied a blue bow around it, wrote a short note in a card, and knocked on their door.

The dad answered, fussy newborn nuzzled in the crook of his arm. My heart softened as I remembered those overwhelming days of brand-new parenthood. I smiled, a smile that I found was genuine, and handed over my olive branch.

We've seen them a few times since then, and I have found that it really is harder to hate them now that I've been kind. As much as it pains me to admit, I needed them. I needed this opportunity to choose kindness instead of anger. I needed to remember that kindness never begets regret, but rather engenders a soft and empathetic heart.

This post is dedicated to my grandma who passed away three years ago today. In this situation, I found myself asking, What would Grandma do? She would know exactly how to respond to these neighbors. I've been missing her an extra measure these past few weeks, and this experience brought me closer to her and made me remember that even though I can't call her on the phone, she's still close by and aware of me and my life.

wifely conundrums

And he wonders why he can never find matching socks.

Heavens.

a Monday-ish Monday

Today's Monday felt like a Monday. You know that feeling? That Monday when not only do you have to deal with an insurance billing debacle but you also end up driving the small car to Costco and find that Target doesn't have that mini-propane grill you were hoping to buy.

On top of that you burned your finger on the baking sheet and one of the most likeable characters on your newest show died.

You know, that kind of Monday.

Looking on the bright side, though, I threw together an easy and tasty dinner and got to eat off of a plate that enables you to play with your food (nevermind that it was actually a gift for the baby).

So, I guess this Monday isn't ending so badly.

a contract

Way back in November, Jeremy Wilson came for Thanksgiving, and prior to his arrival we made an agreement that if he made his legit Italian lasagna, I would make him Wood Family Homemade Brownies. It was a deal of the best kind.

Just recently I bought a cookbook that I've really been loving. So far all the recipes I've tried have met with rave reviews from this Wilson chapter, and when I saw a recipe for lasagna, I thought that if I can't have Jeremy Wilson living close to whip me up some lasagna, then this cookbook could provide decent substitution.

After almost three hours of work in the kitchen--not just cooking/baking time, but actual on-your-feet-working cooking--dinner was finally ready. I was very hungry and borderline cranky by this point. The cheesy-garlic bread was super delicious, but the lasagna? It missed the mark, especially given the work that went into making it.

So, here's the thing: I'm saving my lasagna-ing for when Jeremy comes to town and for the forseeable future am playing the cold-cereal card at dinnertime, because I'm so sick of the kitchen after tonight's meal prep.

To Jeremy: Whenever you make lasagna, I will make whatever dessert you want, just so I never have to slave over substandard pasta. Okay? Okay.

starting to pack

The prospect of packing has loomed in the back of my mind for a while now; you know you need to do it, but it's so overwhelming that you hardly know where to start. And then you also don't want to start too early because you want to minimize the time spent in moving chaos.

We're moving in a week, and even though our new place is just down the street, the effort needed to move there is still substantial. A couple nights ago I put together a packing schedule for the next week that will hopefully keep me on track for getting everything finished.

Today I took the plunge and started taking everything off the walls and pulling out the storage bins. Josh's job will be to take it over the new place as we go (we got the keys yesterday). So now everything is in complete disarry and will remain that way for the next week. Then I'll have the mess in the new apartment. Heavens.

Isn't there a spell in Harry Potter that packs everything for you? I need to practice that one.

the thing about root canals

:: The worst part of a root canal is getting to the point where you need one.
:: I'd rather have a migraine than root canal pain.
:: Root canal pain registers as a 7 on a scale of 9, 9 being the most pain I've ever experienced on a scale of 10. (Follow that?)
:: The Novocain shots put my body into brief shock.
:: I start to feel claustrophobic with more than two implements in my mouth.
:: You can fight a gag reflex by keeping your eyes open, focusing on a specific spot on the ceiling, and breathing through your nose.
:: I'm willing to undergo whatever it takes to avoid another emergency root canal.
:: Even braces.
:: And yeah, braces might just happen.
:: I don't want to talk about it.

kicking off the weekend

What better way to usher in the weekend than with an emergency root canal??

Oh yeah, I can think of a billion better ways to spend a Friday.

A billion.

a birthday cake for Grandma

My late grandmother's birthday was yesterday, and in proper Petersen-clan form, I baked a cake in her honor. I tried a new recipe taken from my new book (which I'm in love with), and I was excited to try more cake baking.

It didn't turn out great.

Obviously.

So instead of eating cake to page homage to my grandma, I tossed one straight into the trash. I couldn't even convince myself to have a piece for breakfast.

Grandma knew when to throw a cake, and hell, I do too.

**Edit: I'm sure the problem has more to do with my baking skill than it does the recipe out of the baking bible. Baking Illustrated is super, super awesome.**

not an auspicious beginning

My blow-dryer wouldn't turn on this morning. And my hair was already wet and already had product in it. There is really no way that I could pull off the wet-hair look with my short hair, so I was close to a beauty panic. You see, for my whole life, whenever my blow-dryer quits, I've always been able to borrow my mom's, my sister's, or my roommates'. Well Josh doesn't have a blow-dryer, so I was left floundering.

I managed to find an open Albertson's where I bought the cheapest blow-dryer I could find and resolved to always have two blow-dryers on hand. Because you never know when your nice one will call it quits and leave you with wet shower hair half an hour before you have to leave for your under-paying five-day temp job.

knowing when to call it a day

I knew it was time to put the sewing machine away for the night when I sewed the zipper through the entire dress twice.

Regardless, I like how this project is turning out. Just call this a minor setback.

I'll tackle it tomorrow.

domestic battles

One of the things I most love about post–college graduation and marriage is the time I have to cultivate domesticity. I love wearing aprons and baking and sewing and decorating. We know this.

Lately, however, domesticity has been giving me a run for my money. I've had a few successes, but I have also lost several battles. Please review the following case studies.

01. The grease-stained shirt, possible points: 1
I bought a new taupe shirt from DownEast Basics, and I was really excited about it. I've been needing new basics, and this was perfect. My first time wearing it I was cooking pork chops and butter splattered from the pan onto my brand new shirt (lesson: always wear an apron). I washed it right away (like, I left the pork chops in the pan as I stripped through the kitchen to get my shirt in the wash), but the stains remained. After I tried Mom's suggestion to treat the stains with dish detergent, I ended up washing the shirt about five more times before the stains came out. But, they came out. In fact, I'm wearing the shirt today. Success.

02. The wraparound skirt, possible points: 2
Mom directed me to this really cute wraparound skirt pattern that was advertised as a one-hour project. I found the perfect fabric and, after a trip back to get more fabric after a cutting mishap, I went to town. I learned to hand-hem, because I don't like the blind-hem stitch on my machine. Using a dress Mom made me as a reference, I taught myself how to hem by hand, I was very pleased with the results. Success.

Then I set out Saturday night to finish it, and the waistband was completely backwards. The skirt ended up even less finished than when I started working on it. (One-hour project? False.) Failure.

03. The Boston Cream Pie, possible points, 4 (because ganache counts as 2, obviously)
The first thing I said to Josh as we got in the car to go home: "I hate the cake." I don't even think I'll save the leftovers.

Part A. The cake
I don't even want to talk about it. But I do, because I'm so mad. I looked up a sponge cake recipe from Cook's Illustrated, because how can they lead you astray, right? The cake turned out tough and holey. Cakes elude me, readers, and I really wish I could figure them out. Whenever I make them, they don't rise very high, and sometimes—like in this case—they actively seek to do me in. Failure.

Part B. The custard
This part worked out fine. I like making custard, and so far, it's never let me down. If you can't find me, chances are I'm watching Gilmore Girls and eating the leftover custard by the spoonful to drown the rest of my Boston Cream Pie failures. Success.

Part C. The ganache
Don't even get me started. I think this counts as negative two points actually. Every single time I've made ganache it turns out thick and smooth and delicious. This time it was runny and grainy. I couldn't even look at it. Failure.

Final tally: Domesticity— 4; Me—3

So maybe I'm not losing by as much as I thought I was. Domesticity is sometimes elusive, I've learned. And when I get frustrated I have to remind myself that my mom and grandma have had years and years more of domestic experience than I've had. And really, catching up to domesticity shouldn't be so hard when I'm only one point behind.

Wish me luck. And maybe volunteer to clean up the Boston Cream Pie that I'm ready to smash on the ground. Thanks.