In Days Before

I was talking to an African woman while in line at the Indian supermarket the other day (true story). I’m not sure what started it, but we began wondering how stymied people would be these days if their smart phones were suddenly unavailable or unusable.

I am writing this post on the day before my 41st birthday. Not so old. Not so young. Born in 1973 I have been witness to life with TV (only 5 channels that you had to actually get up and turn the nob to change) and life with Netflix. I remember a time before cellphones and I was at least 30 before I had my very own. I even remember life before push button phones. od rotaryDial a number, wait (chug chug chug as it came back around) dial another number… There was no speed dial – no Yelping a restaurant or Googling a hairdresser and then just touching the number on the screen to have it dial for you. You took your finger, put it in the hole and pulled that dial around and around and around.  Seven times for local.

I was born after humans landed on the moon, during the Vietnam War and before Germany was once again, just – Germany. Not so old and not so young. I’ve seen a lot come and I’ve seen some things go. I stood there in line with an armful of Indian snacks listening to this older woman recount the wonder of the first time she saw an airplane in the late 1960s and the first time, as a young woman, she was allowed to speak on a telephone. She shouted because she thought they would hear her better.

I nodded my head like I knew what that was like. I didn’t.

Airplanes were flying over my house long before I was born and I cannot recall a time without a telephone, rotary or not, because to me, they always just were.

od pizzaod bagelI’ve often heard my father say, “Have I ever told you about the first time I ate pizza? They called it ‘Tomato Pie’ and…” It was at a rolling concession stand at a county fair in the early fifties. My Aunt Carol still remembers her first experience eating a real bagel. I’m reminded, for some, there was a time before pizza and bagels.

I have a vivid memory of the exact place I ever tasted (or even heard of) Ranch dip. Yes, Ranch. There actually was a time before Ranch seasoning – and I remember it.

I’m not old, but I feel just old enough to nod my head and murmur in agreement when someone a little older reminisces about the days before. I remember those days, maybe not the exact old days, but I do remember what it was like in days before.


What astounds you that you remember about days before?


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Why I Choose to Eat My Own

If there is an occasion where I am asked to bring a food item or dessert, you can bank on the fact that out of the enormous amount of food items present I will choose to eat my own.

I’m not sure where this ranks on the Weirdness Scale, but since I am so very consistent in this habit (ask my friends and family), something inside me tells me that it is definitely strange and that it probably ranks a 3 or 4 on the W.S.

A score of 10 on the Weirdness Scale would be something along the lines of bringing a Pink Molded Tuna Mousse to a potluck. (#gag #Ijustthrewupalittle #Ineedtostoptalkingabouttunamousse #gagagain)

tuna mousse

I only bring this up because my brother was telling me about a potluck retirement dinner they had at their church on Saturday and a woman brought a pink molded tuna mousse to share. O-kay, I accept that this nasty, obviously alien-inspired creation might only rank as a 7 on the Weirdness Scale, but my brother also told me that the woman CALLED him the week before to make certain that no one else had signed up to bring a TUNA MOUSSE. (That confirmation call kicked this tuna mousse right on up to a 10 on the W.S.)

What planet is this person from? Who eats this stuff? (#justthrewupalittle #again) Am I the weird one?

I may score a 3 (possible 4) for always choosing to eat my own potluck dish – but can you blame me when the world is full of  Pink Molded Tuna Mousse bringers? (#hurlinginthebowl)

IS this weird? Would you eat Tuna Mousse?

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New Delhi/ New Deli & My Inner Snob

On Saturday I asked my girls to think about where they wanted to go for lunch after church on Sunday. I suggested a few places and decided to let them choose. On the drive to church and my oldest daughter was advocating for one of the Indian restaurants in town.

We love Indian food, but the Indian restaurants around here are fancy schmancy and it is way too stressful to eat there with my 5 and 7 year olds. When I explained this to my daughter she insisted that I had suggested the restaurant as a choice for lunch the day before. She even got the eleven year old on her side.

They were so insistent that I started to believe that I must have suggested it in a moment of insanity even though I KNEW I never would have. I let it go, as I always do. Arguing with children is futile.

I kept thinking about it and as we walked into church it hit me – I had suggested the “new deli” in town and to my daughter’s brain that translated to “New Delhi” = Indian food. Everything became clear.

ND 3

All four of my children are native Hindi speakers and English is their second language. For  the oldest, especially, this can cause confusion. Heck – kids are confused and confusing most of the time even when they share your mother tongue.

With their diverse cultural and linguistic backgrounds my girls also tend to be sponges. This can be great! This can be not so great.

1284For the last few days, my seven year old (who has always been my language powerhouse) has soaked up the expression, “no more” from somewhere. I’m entirely used to my children speaking with accents, mispronouncing things and misusing words, but for some reason, every time G says, “no more” instead of “anymore” I feel a fire start to burn at the back of my neck and I have to hold myself back from biting her head off. I am consumed with a need to track down where she picked up this horrid expression and then squash the culprit. This is very unlike me.

My inner snob.

My inner snob.

At moments like these I realize that my inner snob is popping out. She’s pretty laid back most of the time and seems content just keeping me in check. True to her nature as a snob, she tends to ignore the children with their malaprops and mispronunciations. Most of the time she shrugs her shoulders and goes back to doing whatever it is that she does.

I suppose “no more” must be her hot button.

Things could be worse: Bad Words

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Can I Have a Taste?

Food mooching. 


How do you respond when you sit down to eat and another person asks for a bite?

Is this appropriate behavior? Do you enjoy sharing your dinner platter with others?

When I sit down to eat, I want to eat what is on my plate. This is mine – that is yours, don’t ask. Eat your own stuff.

I recognize that there are couples who are deliberate about collaborating on food choices at restaurants so as to each share half a plate. If that’s your thing, I think that’s cool, but it is so not me. Please don’t ask me to share.

I know entire families whose forks are constantly on each other’s plates, cutting up chunks of meat and eating freely.

No. Just no.

When it comes to parenting, sharing food is a whole other issue. I often give my kids whatever they ask from my plate just to keep them from bugging. The loss of food is worth the silence it buys. I’m not talking about that.

I’m talking about adult on adult food mooching – do you do it? Do you approve? Or do you inwardly cringe and then purposefully “sneeze” all over your food when a known food moocher walks in the room?

I May Be Addicted

I may be addicted.


I had a mini-“help”er.

I’ve spent eight+ hours over the past two days, basically this whole weekend, painting a bedroom. At 6:30 tonight I changed my paint-laden pants into a semi-clean skirt and took my daughter out to buy a bathing suit for tomorrow because the one she bought after church today, during the “entire family buys bathing suits after church extravaganza”, didn’t look right (to her). Of course, as soon as I reached the shopping center I realized it was Sunday and the shops would be closed by 6PM. It was 7:08PM. I promised the girl we would stop at the store on the way to the pool tomorrow and get her a suit, I sent her into the local ice cream parlor for a vanilla milkshake for dinner, swore her to secrecy since the sisters weren’t getting ice cream and came home.

Dishes need to be done, my house is trashed and all I really want to do is lay down and sleep. Or watch Signed, Sealed and Delivered, whichever comes first.

I think not.

I think not.

Before any of that could happen I was hugging my tearful seven year old whose heart was breaking because she didn’t get ice cream (somebody spilled the beans) and I smelled smoke on her hair. When I asked why she smelled like smoke she told me it was because there was smoke upstairs. Uh oh.

“Why does it smell like smoke upstairs?” I yelled up the steps.

My thirteen year old said it was the potatoes on the stove.


The boiling potatoes for the potato salad for tomorrow that I put on the stove. And forgot about.

This confirms that I really shouldn’t be allowed near kitchens or basically attempt to work at all for the rest of the night.

Yet here I am. 7:39PM on a Sunday night and I feel compelled to blog.

I wonder what disasters I’ll find when I read this post tomorrow…

Happy Memorial Day!

Happy Memorial Day!


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Everything in This Post is a Lie

The Following Foods DO NOT HAVE ANY CALORIES!:

1. Any French Fries left at the bottom of the McDonald’s bag.

2. Cookie dough directly off the beater.

3. Ice Cream licked off of your kid’s melting cone.

4. Every single Potato Chip that is folded in half is calorie free. They are a gift from the Lord Himself to His children. Chips that are folded over twice actually help you lose weight.









Everything in this post is a lie.

The proof? Multiple posts that proclaim that I am plump:

I suppose you get the picture.

Everything in this post is a lie, yet for some reason, I still believe it.

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I’m Forty and This is What I Eat

I’m forty years old and this is what I eat.

If you have been following along (or are new – hello) you may recall that I have taken a mini-vacation from childrearing, work, home duties, basically all that everyday life stuff, to get away alone for two and a half days. No people. No TV. No Wifi. No shopping. No touring. No eating out. Just me, the Lord, a couple good books and a lot of walking. And a lot of quiet. Have I mentioned the quiet?

It has been scrumptious. But I digress…

I didn’t want to worry about cooking, obviously, so I packed a bag of essentials and have been living off them since Sunday afternoon – i.e. 48 hours. Not pictured, but also present (always) – Diet Snapple – naturally. Some pita chips and BLT fixin’s would have been nice but I didn’t have time.

I’m forty and this is what I eat.

What are your go-to food items?













I’d really like to lose some weight.

I also really love to eat.

This is a dilemma I’ve struggled with my whole life.

Occasionally I remind myself that there is an answer to this conundrum, a figurative and literal having my cake and eating it too. You may recognize it by its common name,


I’d like to think carrying an overflowing basket of dirty clothes from the third floor down to the basement laundry and back up again would be a valid substitute for traditional exercise, but sadly, the waistband of my jeans cutting into my stomach fat tells me otherwise.

In my book, grocery shopping should also be considered exercise. Load the bags in the cart, into the car, out of the car, up to the first landing, up to the second floor and then bend over lots of times to empty the bags and put the food away. That has got to equal a run around the track or 74 jumping jacks at least.

My thighs beg to differ.

The truth is, I’d really like to lose some weight.

But I also really love to eat.

Butter Violation

butter wrong 2

This is not an unusual occurrence in my home.

Once a week or so I open the fridge, glance over at the dairy section and discover that someone has taken a bite out of the butter.

I know it wasn’t me. I don’t even like butter, and the thought of a mouthful of cold, hard butter, well, honestly, it makes me gag.

I know who the culprit is. I’ve caught her in the act a few times. She smiles that impish smile, flashes those big brown eyes and then prances away.

I remain, stunned and shocked.

butter violation 2

Bubble Tea, I Love You.

bubble tea 1

Not long ago I was introduced to Bubble Tea, (Aka- Boba Milk Tea, Pearl Milk Tea, etc…) If you have no idea what I’m talking about, don’t feel sad, I only discovered it six months ago.  It’s a combination of tea, milk, sugar, and giant black tapioca balls. Wowzers! They come in a variety of fruit and other flavors. According to the Internet, Bubble Teas originated in Taiwan. In general they are found in Asian restaurants and tea shops.

There you go, now everyone knows what I’m talking about.

Back to my story, I’ve been craving Bubble Tea for months but when I Yelp it the majority of the shops that serve it are in Philadelphia’s Chinatown. As the crow flies, that is closest to my location. But I am not a crow.


Even George Washington crossed the Delaware you say?

He didn’t have to search (and pay) for parking. I want Bubble Tea in South Jersey.

So, after sifting through the list of restaurants on Yelp, I found a Vietnamese place about 15 minutes from me that serves it.

Guess what I did today…

Bubble tea 2

I love the fat straw.

I love the slightly weird taste.

I love, most of all, biting into and chewing up – the bobas.

bubble tea 3

A boba in my hand. Weirdsmobile. I know.

What is the point of this post? It has no point, other than my love and constant search for Bubble Tea.

boba me

Me drinking my first ever Bubble Tea. That was a good night.

The End.