Archive for the ‘family’ Category

Maybe she was naked, too?

November 5, 2008

I’m beginning to think my blog should just be entitled “Ways I embarrass myself and/or my children.”

Yesterday morning, stepping out of the shower, I heard the phone ring. It was 7:30 am and my husband had just left for work. Thinking he must have forgotten to tell me something, I headed toward the kitchen.

Reagan had answered the phone and called out, “Hey, mom, it’s for you!”

I responded, yelling “Okay, I’m naked, but…” and, turning a corner, ran smack into Reagan, who was holding the phone. She immediately started cracking up, because, unfortunately it wasn’t my husband, but one of the Apostolic Christian PTO members, calling to ask me to volunteer for something.


I won a fish! Yes, a fish!

October 3, 2008

(The kind you eat, not a pet.)
Thank you Food Blogga! And Kona Blue!

The kona kampachi was caught in Hawaii on Sunday, shipped on Monday and arrived on Wednesday. Thus we had super fresh fish last night.

But first we had to get a bit of butchering out of the way!

Meet Mr. Fish:
(Creative, no? I also have a Jack Russell Terrier named “Jack” and a child named “It.” )

Admittedly, when I opened the package I thought “Shit.” The fish was lovely and fresh, but skin? Gills? Eyeballs? Guts? A little overwhelming!

Reagan and Chris arrived home as I was ogling Mr. Fish (he was ogling me, too!) and Reagan said “Oh, cool, I’ll go look up directions and we can fillet it.”

What? My thirteen year old girl child WANTS to help clean and fillet the fish?

She printed off the directions and we gathered in our tiny kitchen. I started on dinner, migas, while they worked on the fish:

They cut off the head:

And, while I cut up bell pepper, onion, jalapeno, corn tortillas and cilantro for dinner, Reagan pulled out the guts and then started following the line of the bones with her knife, to seperate the fish into two large fillets:

(My child will never pose or smile for pictures, unless, apparently, you give her a knife!)

The fish being filleted:

Taylor, tasting a piece of raw fish:

We all tasted it raw and it was delicious. If I had good knife skills I would have made some sushi.

Chris and Reagan did a great job filleting the fish; we ended up with two really large fillets that I carefully wrapped up to cook the next (last) night.

I decided to lightly season it, hoping to not overwhelm the delicate flavor of the fish. One fillet I sprinkled with a bit of dill, garlic and lemon zest, the other with paprika, a tiny bit of cayenne, and cumin. I heated a small amout of olive oil in a large nonstick pan until it was hot and cooked the fillets seperately for about 3 minutes per side. I wanted the fish to be slightly under-done, as kona kampachi is sushi grade and tastes really great raw. (I HATE overcooked fish!). We had Ms. Fish (eggs were discovered during the filleting!) with broccoli (sauteed with garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes) and breadsticks.

Our dinner:

Again, I thank Kona Blue and Food Blogga for giving us the opportunity to try this delicious fish. It was wonderful (the fish, and seeing my daughter tackle something I found daunting with such aplomb!)

One last picture,
Cute Pie Reagan:

Finally a post about wetting my pants!

September 30, 2008

My sister K. has a Myspace blog and yesterday, her birthday (Happy Belated Birthday!), she wrote a post about driving across a bridge and imaging her car going over the edge.

Would she try to save herself? Would she drown? Would she suddenly, under pressure, learn to swim?

And she also pondered the basic “WTF is wrong with me that I am pondering this?”

My response?

“Dude! I think about that EVERY TIME I cross a bridge.”

And tonight, tonight I am going to a party, a blogger bash, to be precise. Not to be too personal, but earlier when I went to the restroom I struggled with the button of my pants, which prompted more worries. *What if I drink too much at the party? My motor skills would go down. AND I’d have to pee a lot.

I imagined my friend Katie calling my husband and to say, “Um, can you come get Jennifer, she’s too drunk to drive home AND please bring a pair of clean underpants.”

Is this normal? Do other people have such irrational fears?

Father’s Day

June 17, 2008

On Father’s Day my dad was supposed to arrive at Chez Wood around 1:00 or 1:30 after dropping my nephew F. off at the train station in nearby Galesburg, IL.

Before his expected arrival I started the grill, made a couple of salads, prepared potatoes, garlic bread and chicken to be grilled, cut up onions and peppers to cook with brats, made dessert.

Almost immediately after putting the meat on the grill it started to pour. Lovely.

Meat, garlic bread and potatoes done. Jennifer dripping. Previously clean kitchen floor coated in tracked in grass. Everything ready, but no Dad.

I called him; F.’s train was delayed. ETA: 3:20. I wrapped everything up, stowed it in the refrigerator, not wanting to give the gift of “Upchuck and the Big D” for Father’s day.

Later I hauled everything back out, re-heated, and prepared the table. Dad was expected any minute. The phone rang.

My mom. Dad was helping Forest stow his luggage aboard the train and it “took off.” Hmmm… don’t they announce it before they depart? My dad was on his way to a town (Princeton) that is about an hour north. Shit.

Despite their looming divorce my mom offered to pick my dad up and take him back to his truck. Thank goodness. My friend Chad was in town-he lives in San Francisco-and, in our typical mid-30’s (hell, we are boring!) fashion we had plans to eat out with MarySue and maybe get coffee. (Bars are too loud. We don’t want to drink and drive, etc… all good reasons to avoid bar hopping, but further evidence that we are OLD.)

I feel bad for my dad, though, spending Father’s Day waiting for a train, riding on a train, waiting for a ride home from the mistaken train ride and missing out on Father’s Day dinner (and Father’s Day beer).

Plus, my sister M., the mother of F., did not attend last weekend. Despite the fact that she lives with him, M. did not feel compelled to attend our Father’s Day gathering as it involved getting up before 2 pm.

Next weekend F. comes back, so we are postponing Father’s Day until then and hoping his train will be timely. And someone else will be helping F. with his luggage!

very mysterious

June 2, 2008

There is a David Sedaris story that goes something like this:

“One summer my family was embroiled in a mystery. Someone was wiping his or her butt on our mahogany colored bathtowels and replacing the towels on the shelf, properly folded. At one point or other each of us was the victim and one of us was obviously the perpatrator.

My parents and older sisters were pretty easy to rule out. It was hard to imagine any of them being so immature, and, well, gross.

My grandmother also lived with us, as did my younger brother, who seemed to lack the dexterity to re-fold the towels.

My whole family played detective, trying to catch the culprit. We staked out the bathroom, watched for signs of a tender tush, and questioned one another. My mother noted that the person must be ‘one sick individual’ and my sister, the latest victim, responded ‘and he eats corn.'”

In the Wood household we are having our own mysterious summer, which, until today, did not involve poop.

Last Friday night at 1:20 am Taylor came into our bedroom and said “Dad, I need your help. N. (well known bully that lives near us) is outside and keeps knocking on the windows.” Chris got up, went outside and no one was around. He came back to bed. And we listened. Definite noise, more of a soft thud, but it sounded like it was INSIDE the house, not outside.

Chris got up and searched again. Outside and inside. No one.

More waiting, more listening, still an unexplainable noise.

Chris and I both get up. I shut every door in the house (all the closets, etc, because the noise was similar to a door gently thumping into a door frame.)

The noise stopped.

Then yesterday the kids were asleep and Chris let the dog out. He had been sleeping in Reagan’s room.

When Reagan got up and let him back in there was a paper clip on his ear. Not dangling, earring style, but on his ear to the paper clip’s hilt.

The dog was not thrilled about this.

How in the hell did a paper clip get on his ear? Chris was working around the house, both inside and out, so anyone coming into our yard would have to be awfully bold.

Taylor was asleep. Reagan had been sleeping, too, plus I can’t imagine either doing such a thing.

Not being a dog lover, I’m the most obvious suspect. But, really, it wasn’t me!

(And, yes, we were able to remove the paper clip and it hadn’t caused injury.)

Now today, my husband just emailed me this:

“I’m sitting in this conference and feel that my wallet is sort of poking my ass in an uncomfortable way. As I shift my weight in the chair I realize that it is not my wallet and wonder what it is. I reach my hand into my back pocket and pull the object out to discover that it is a hard, dried dog turd. How did a hard, dried dog turd get into my back pocket?”


I’m trying to figure this out. A series of random, coincidental weirdness? A poltergeist? Or is there a prankster in our midst?

Happy Mother’s Day!

May 12, 2008

I had a nice Mother’s Day.

The highlight? One of my sisters text messaged my mom:

“Happy Mother’s Day! Sorry, can’t make it. Warrant out for arrest. Can’t drive. Love, M.”

“Big sisters are the crab grass in the lawn of life.” ~Charles M. Schulz

March 26, 2008

At Easter I (finally) met my sister K.’s boyfriend. I introduced him to my dad and said “This is K.’s buh buh… friend” Stumbling over the “boy” part, unsure if they are “official.”

Do thirty year olds call their significant other “boyfriend/girlfriend?” It sounds very high school to me.

My other sister, M., may or may not have had breast implants. No one knows. No one is willing to ask. I tried to get a profile shot so that I could show my friends and we could “evaluate” the situation.

Is it possible to go from an “A” to a “C” via non-surgical methods?

I don’t think so.

On the other hand, can someone with three kids, no hubby and a part-time job (not stripping) afford breast implants?

I don’t think so.

See, it’s a mystery! And I’m apparently not a Velma-quality investigator.

I was expounding upon this to my husband and he said, in voice dripping with “duh” overtones; “Oh, yeah, she had those LAST time she was here.” My response? “Umm… you were looking?”

So the “do they look bigger?” part is solved but the method of said inflation is not. Too bad Billy wasn’t on the Easter invite list.