Mara's Mixed Bag

Blog for Choice

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 21:32:00 +0000

Well, I haven't really committed to keeping only one blog. See, I have posted stuff on the old one, because it gets more traffic...and it acts as a foil so that Darth Vadar (aka M*mmy D*ar*st) doesn't go searching for another blog by me. That way, I can be free to be me here and she's too busy inspecting the old one to think that there even IS a new one.

In any event, having said that, I wrote my Blog for Choice article on the other blog instead of this one. So, if you want, go check it out. Just remember....*shhhhhh* I don't want to reveal myself--my mixed bag is my safe haven, my "Force", as it were. I don't mind Mara readers knowing I'm Peg...

I just don't necessarily want my Peg readers to know I'm Mara, get it?

Good!

:)

Where is John?

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 18:48:00 +0000

Where is John Edwards in the media coverage?

Shall we dance?

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 00:58:00 +0000

Once upon a time, I confessed to my husband, Jim, my deep affection for Stephen Colbert. I know that I've written about this elsewhere, but suffice it to say, White and Nerdy as he may be, there's a soft spot in my heart for him.

Ah, hell, what can I say...I'm smitten with his silly ass.

and for the record...screw JT, Stephen is the guy who brought sexy back.

The Highs and Lows of Campaign Season in NH

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 11:57:00 +0000

My daughter is six. A clever girl with a sense of humour, she's also a very sensitive girl, emotionally speaking. And so, like her mama, she sometimes feels things very deeply.

She needs a name...and because what I've chosen to name my kiddos for blogging purposes has been heretofore criticized --*Mara rolls her eyes, and lights a smoke*-- I'll give her a pseudonym that isn't descriptive, but in some ways similar to her given name. We'll call her Samantha, or Sam for short--she has a name that when shortened, could be a girl or a boy. Come to think of it, so does her little brother...I only just realized that. Anyway while I'm at it, my boy should be named. So, she's Samantha and he's Pete. Not for any reason other than it just came to me.

So, Sam is a sensitive one--and she's been paying a lot of attention to my interest in politics. She's clearly learned of my disdain for Romney. Last week, a neighbor put a Romney sign at the end of his driveway. Upon seeing it, Sam said angrily, "Hey!! That sign wasn't there before. What's he doing with a sign for Mitt Romney?!" This is following her pointed request several months ago that I provide her with "just three good reasons" why I don't think Romney should be president. Did I mention that she's six?

Last night, Jim Lehrer came on. She came into the room a few minutes into the broadcast, so she missed the intro where they were talking about the latest campaign advertisements. All she saw was a snippet of an ad, where John Edwards said, "...when I'm president, I'll..." and she thought it was all over. That John Edwards was actually going to be the next president.

She was elated! She came bounding into the kitchen and told her dad excitedly, "He did it! John Edwards is our next president!!" She was so excited, she was jumping around. Jim (what I've just decided, by the way, to call my husband on this new blog) had to reel the poor girl back in with the harsh blow of reality..."No, honey, not yet...the elections haven't even happened yet. He's not the next President." At first she was insistent--sure that we'd missed something, and Mom's guy had won!

Crestfallen doesn't begin to describe her once she truly accepted that Jim Lehrer was showing a commercial as an example, and that "...when I'm president..." was Edwards' way of coming across as confident to the voters that he'll win the election.

The election that Has. Not. Happened.

She burst into tears.

The emotion, the elation, the joy she displayed was so complete, that when she discovered it wasn't true, she just lost it, dissolving into a puddle of little sobs. "I was so happy! I thought he'd won..." she sniffed to me, as I hugged her, stroking her silky light brown hair. It was such a let-down for her, my heart was breaking for her.

Ah, the highs and lows of campaign season.

P.S. Pete is four, and has declared his own alliance with Hillary. When asked last night at dinner, Why Hillary? He said simply, "I think she's the best."

My cat is a dink

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 17:41:00 +0000

He really is. He's such a cat.

Now, lest you worry that I am about to embark upon a blog entry where I wax on and on in glowing terms about a housepet of the feline variety, allow me to assure you, that will not be the case here.

I'm not a Cat Fancier. I'm not a cat person at all, really. I just don't like cats. My cat was a utility purchase, to be perfectly frank. We lived in an old farmhouse, with a stone cellar. Couple the stone cellar with New England winters, and you're housing all manner of critter during the long dark winter months. It's not as bad as it sounds...you just don't go down cellar unless you absolutely, positively must go down there. And when you do? You bring your cordless phone, and call someone so that you are talking to another human being while you carefully pick your way down those rickety stairs, and after finding yourself standing on the dirt floor, partially crouched over so as to avoid donning a fresh hairnet of cobwebs you make lots of noise banging things around so as to make the little guests scatter.

Smart New England homeowners know the proper fix to critters in the mix is a work cat. And our cat was adopted to keep the critter population at bay...you know, circle of life, and all that good stuff. So, with that in mind, when we moved to our new home (brand new--we really swung the pendulum!), our cat had far less work to do. Fortunately, this seemed to coincide with his increasing need for sleep, and penchant for sleeping in the house all day long, and going outside for the whole night, like clockwork. During the Spring, Summer and Autumn, this feline makes the woods behind our house his litter box, but icy winter weather means that he often utilizes the indoor facilities. For nine or ten months, the litterbox in the cellar (huge improvement, by the way--cement floor, sturdy stairs, minimal spiders, good lighting--everything the old cellar was not!) goes completely untouched. But, when the snow outdoors is deep (beyond 4" or so), Persnickity Pete finally makes use of the box o' litter.

So, in the winter, part of my morning includes going to clean the box. If it's unused, I leave it be. If not, I scoop out what needs removing and smooth the litter the the scooper thing so I can later see if it's been used at all. Well, during the last week, we've have all manner of weather, and twice now, I've gone to clean the box--having seen that had been disturbed--and found that the little prick simply got into the box, moved it around as if he'd done his biz, but then left the box without the 'prize', as it were.

WTF? I mean, really. I feed him, I water him, I pay attention to him. Hell, last Christmas, I got him a fountain for his water...it circulates the water through a filter, and pours it back into the dish, so it's always areated and fresh. Shut UP! I am so NOT a cat person...I just got sick of him mewling around everytime he wanted water, because he wouldn't drink from the dish unless he saw me fill it up right then and there--in front of him--with fresh agua. I am good to him. And I clean his box when he needs it. AND, I created this great system to determine if I need to clean it or not, and now he's going and gumming up the works.

I ask you, precisely what kind of thanks is that for my years of loyalty and care?

And yet, I love that damn Persnickety Pete, despite myself. And despite my insistence that I don't like cats.
At all.

Really.

So, call me a bad mom

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 12:14:00 +0000

My 6 year old just got up...she catches the school bus at the end of our driveway, and heads off for a full day of kindergarten every school day. The bus will get here in about 35-40 minutes, and she sits on the sofa still in her PJs, cuddled up with a handmade quilt, drinking 'favorite juice' (cranberry-orange) and breakfasting upon a chewy granola bar.

The television is on, and as her eyes get less bleary, and she wakes up the rest of the way, I stop and reflect upon the fact that the uber mommies out there would probably become apoplectic if they saw our morning scene on any given school day. "Muffia" moms, as WTM (one of my favorite bloggers, btw) would call them, and in my quiet hamlet, these moms all seem to have the same bottle-blonde streaked hairstyle--long layers, not quite touching the collar, with lots of product giving the roots the appointed lift: not too much (the 80's are over, you know...) but enough, to be sure. I call them the 'Finished' moms--as in, everything is 'finished', perfect, and life as these women knew PK (pre-kids) is over--finished...life is now restricted to being someone's mom. Nothing more, but certainly never, ever anything less! Unless by less, you mean, emaciated, because 'round these parts, said Finished Moms are also woefully skinny. Scary-skinny, turn sideways and become invisible-skinny.

Now, I am hardly a Finished Mom. My physique certainly supports that statement--though I'm just a normal regular size. For that matter, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but if it involves writing, I'll be good. Yes, I'm a mom. No, my life is not over. And while my parenting methods may not be traditional according to the Finished community, my kids are happy. And honestly, that's all one wants to see in the long run, isn't it? Not just happy, though. They are healthy, and active, pleasant to be around, good to their friends, and incidentally, doing very well in school. What we don't have here in the Bee household is a lot of school morning yelling, frustration, arguing, rushing around and the like.

My father visited in the fall, by himself, and made it a point of letting me know how surprised and impressed he was at the laid back nature of our morning routine. The 6 year old gets off to school with minimal drama...and the 4 year old, on most mornings, is happy to get dressed, brush teeth, and get ready for his school days--three quiet, blissful, delightfully solo days a week.

As I sit here tap-tapping on my laptop, the 6 year old is off to get dressed, brush her teeth and then wait by the front door, watching for the giant yellow school bus to come rambling down our road. I should sign off for now, and drag the brush across the child's head, so she's presentable for the day. So, she watches a half-hour of PBS Kids in the morning, while having a breakfast of granola bar and juice, and sort of zoning out. So, I don't drive her to school as many of the Finished moms do. I'm actually waiting for her to get gone already, so I can scurry down cellar to run a load of laundry (that's Mara-Speak for grab a cuppa and a smoke--another thing that excludes me from the Finished community). But, to that I say, Tough Shit. We're all happy here in Bee-ville.

Blogging Dry Spell

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 23:01:00 +0000

Last year, I sort of took a hiatus from blogging during November and December, focusing instead on my ebay business. This year, well, no excuse like that to be had. Just a sort of hermit response to the winter season, it seems.

In any event, the blog is not dead...just taking the scenic route to developing a well traveled blog, or at least as well-traveled as my previous endeavor was. I've got to join some blogrolls and such...but that will happen after the holidays. We're planning a New Years Day party...so sometime after that, I'm sure! If you find yourself in the wilds of New Hampshire on New Years, stop on by...

Thought for the day...

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 16:38:00 +0000

Absolute love is an absolute risk.

The Reunion, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 00:56:00 +0000

So, I may have mentioned, my high school reunion was this past weekend. The husband and I packed up and headed an hour away to the site of the reunion.

We got a hotel room (hoo hoo!) and were more excited by the prospect of the time to ourselves than we were by going to my reunion.

I should give some background. As a kid, I moved. A lot. I went to high school in a Small New England City--lived there for three short years. At the time, they did not seem short. It was my LIFE, fer chrissakes, I was a teenager. And, just two days after graduating from High School--two DAYS--we moved. Again.

I was in the throes of young love, and barely seventeen when that June graduation day rolled around, with moving day looming right behind it. At the graduation, between two people with whom I'd never really connected, I sat, waiting for the ceremony to be over. I couldn't wait to get out of there...that city, that High School, that entire scene.

I was ready to start my life, you know. Seventeen, and I had the world by the balls, I tell you!! I'd lined up a full-time job, with benefits, before I graduated. I was going to live at home with my folks, save up some money, and move back to the area and in with my H.S. sweetie when I turned 18.

Well, thank goodness I lived with the guy, because nothing accelerrates the demise of a crappy relationship quite like shacking up. Within three months, I split...and was done with all things associated with said Small New England City High School (SNECHS). That was back in the summer of 1988.

Fast forward to November 2007, scene: Location of the 20th Reunion for SNECHS, this past Friday Night.

The Husband and I arrive...park the car and get out. I take a deep breath of the frosty November air, and we head in to the function facility. I'm all dolled up, but not happy with my appearance--I had put my hair up and wished I hadn't, and I wore one of the tops I brought and wished I had chosen the other one after all. But oh well, who cares? Onward...There's a sign in the foyer of the function hall, directing us to either a birthday party or a High School Reunion.

Trouble was, it wasn't my reunion. We inquire with the coat check person, who blinks and gives us a puzzled look. Enter Function Manager.

I tell her I'm looking for the SNECHS 20th reunion. And she smiles and says,

"Oh, yes, that's tomorrow night."

I burst out laughing. I couldn't believe it--but yet, somehow, I could. I fucked up, that's all! For some reason, though I know that all the info I had indicated Saturday, not Friday, I had it in my head that it was being held on Friday.

So we went out to eat, headed back to the hotel after dinner, got cozy and rented a movie. Whereupon I promptly fell asleep.

Mara + Movie + Bed = Catching Some Z's

Now, I just had to decide what to do about the actual reunion, and the care of my kids on Saturday night...

With my 20th Reunion Just Days Away...

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 22:36:00 +0000

Friday is my 20th High School Reunion...I'm pretty sure I'm going. I bought two tickets, and reserved a swank hotel room. OK, so not swank, but it's got a fridge, a king size bed, and is a corner room--worth every penny of the extra Twenty Bucks!

So anyway, though I've not been agonizing over this--seeing as I've not yet decided for sure that we're going, and all--I am considering it seriously. In anticipation of my possible attendance, however, this past weekend I decided to try out a couple of 'casual' hair-do's for the big night.

And, in an irony that could only have been borne of a history of lame teenage excuses, the following actually did occur:

I burned my neck with the curling iron.

No, really, Dad. I did.

I swear.

Pinkie Swear.

He is NOT a loser. He's not.

He's cute.

and, and...He likes me...

I swear it was the curling iron, Dad.

It was.

Baa

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 12:33:00 +0000

Yes, you may call me a sheep.

But if I don't get working on getting my new blog's ranking going, I'll never get back to my previous levels!

Technorati Profile

My Deception

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 19:18:00 +0000

I've recently been given a copy of Jessica Seinfeld's Deceptively Delicious cookbook. My sister-in-law from points south sent it up in a care package recently. [Once I thought she was a Storm Trooper, but as it turns out, the force is with her. See Darth Vader, referenced in my first post.]

For the uninitiated, this cookbook offers a loving, deceptive way to cram ~~some~~ more veggies into your kids. And, if you eat in any way the way ~~I am~~ my son is sometimes inclined to eat--that is, carbs, with a side of sugar, and oh, don't be shy with the chocolate, by the way--then you can use this cookbook. You just need a food processor. Or a blender (less than optimal, just a heads up.) Or a magic bullet.

Now, get your minds out of the gutters, fair readers. That is the Magic Bullet of as-seen-on-TV fame. Not that Magic Bullet...

If it's a veggie--you can puree it. Most fruits? Puree-able. I've been doing a couple a day, every other day, and I've already got a nice little stockpile of frozen purees to sneak into my cooking. To mixed results depending upon the recipe and the taste-tester (who may, or may not, realize that I'm warping them for life because of the vegetable deception.)

One hint I'd like to pass on: I put the puree in the Quart size bags, and let them flatten out on the counter. They store in the freezer much more easily, and thawing the puree, under running water or in the microwave, was expedited as well. It's really got to be easy for you to be able to incorporate it into your everyday cooking.

Maybe next time, I'll share with you a real-life story as to why easing your family into the influx of all these additional vegetables in their every-day foods is probably the most prudent path. In retrospect, seems like a no-brainer...

Kicking off

noreply@blogger.com (Mara Bee) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 15:45:00 +0000

Howdy...

Mara here, I'm a blogger just like you. In fact, I was a blogger just like you. Only, it was on another blog, in another galaxy far, far away.

Darth Vader descended upon said blog, and with my anonymity shot and my husband's older kids suffering under the "care" of Darth Vader--in her taking my blog entries, reinterpreting said entries, and then regurgitating the bile-filled rewritten version to her offspring. To their emotional detriment, I might add--so, I thought I would give the blogging gig a fresh start.

Some of you may have known me--as I am--somewhere else. On another planet, another blog. Some of you may think you knew me. Some of you will be right. Some of you will be wrong. Some of you won't care either way.

Be warned. I shan't pull punches. I shan't BS. I may joke, I may make you laugh. I tell things straight up. I'm a feminist, I'm a mother, I'm a writer, I'm self-employed, I'm an empath and a Mama Bear, I'm a newbie wannabe pundit--politics used to be minor to me, but after all this time with W in office, it's become Really. Freakin'. Important. I'm real, I'm opinionated (but always interested in opposing points of view, speak up, now, y'hear?)

I'm a mixed bag. And now, I'm opening up that bag...and sharing it all with you!