Almost heaven....

Those words really didn't mean much to me before my oldest daughter went to college last August at West Virginia University. They sing that song after every home football game and it brings chills. Now those words touch my heart in ways I never knew they would. This week I cry whenever I hear that song. I cry for my state because of the recent flooding. I cry because as of this morning, 23 people have died in my state.

West Virginia has become my state. I was born in Philly, raised in Jersey but now I live in West Virginia. It's my state, and the people of my state are hurting. I feel helpless to do anything to help them.

My oldest and I were in the store the other day shopping for some things for her new apartment up at WVU and the fire department was set up outside the store to collect donations that were earmarked for those affected by this horrible tragedy. In addition to her apartment needs, we bought some bleach, some scrub brushes, rubber gloves and a case of drinking water.  We dropped our donations off on our way out and tearfully thanked the fire fighters for their efforts to help the flood victims.

I don't feel like I'm doing enough.

This morning, I had to do some research on where exactly those 23 people lost their lives. I searched news stories all morning to determine that 15 people lost their lives in Greenbrier County, 6 died in Kanawha County, in Ohio County a 4 year old boy died,  and Jackson County an 8 year old boy died. And I cried. I cried while doing my job this morning, and that's never happened to me before. Usually I'm looking at disasters or environmental issues in other parts of the world. Places that don't affect me. Places where I don't live.

On social media, I'm sharing the hell out of supply donation drop off centers, disaster relief websites and places where one can donate money to aid in the relief efforts.

I still don't feel like I'm doing enough.

I've seen the hashtag #PrayForWV and it's a lovely idea. If you don't have the funds available to buy and donate supplies, if you don't have the extra money to donate to the Red Cross or any other relief agencies, please DO send prayers. Those people need our prayers.

But if you can skip that Venti half caff with an double shot of whatever from Starbucks, please consider skipping it today. Donate that $5 for this disaster.  Send your prayers, but if you can, please send donations.

WV VOAD (Volunteer Organizations Active in Disaster)
The Red Cross Disaster Relief 
1-800-RED-CROSS
If you text REDCROSS to 90999 you can donate $10

Anything at this point will help. And if you can't donate, send prayers. And then share all of this information with someone who maybe CAN donate a little money.  All of your efforts are appreciated.

I used to know where my stuff was....

I went looking for my makeup removing towelettes this morning. Couldn't find them. Why? Because I have teenagers. This got me thinking about how things have definitely changed since my babies turned into teens. For instance, I remember when I used to be able to go into my makeup bag, locate my eyeliner, put on that eyeliner and then put it back in my makeup bag. Now I can't find my makeup bag. Because, teens.

And when I look in that 10x magnifying mirror at all the dark hair crawling around over my eyes like a caterpillar moving across my forehead, I mourn the loss of my tweezers, which have disappeared into the abyss that is the girls bathroom in my house. Those girls, however, have PERFECTLY coiffed eyebrows. Thanks to my tweezers. Wherever they are.

Their nails are perfectly clipped, thanks to my nail clippers. Which I haven't seen in weeks. MY toenails are practically clawing at the ground when I walk because they've gotten so long. But in order to clip them, someone would have to locate my nail clippers. Naturally, NO ONE knows where they are because apparently I'M the only one in the house that uses them. Their nails are perfectly clipped, but I'M the only one who uses the nail clippers. Whatever.

Scissors? Tape? I buy them new every Christmas. Why? Teens.

I don't bother painting my nails anymore, because why bother? My nail polish remover and cotton balls have mysteriously vanished into thin air. Naturally, no one has seen them. My husband takes pleasure in helping me out by telling me that he never uses the stuff. Thanks honey, you're a huge help.

Stuff my husband doesn't use. Just so you know.

I've taken to hiding things that I just refuse to have stolen part with. My deodorant is now in my sock drawer. Shampoo and conditioner? I hide those in my closet under my shoe rack and take them in when I shower each day. Razor? Underwear drawer. Shaving cream? The garage, where else??

One good thing about being shorter and heavier than my girls: they don't steal my pants. Oh sure, back a few years ago when 17 was a freshman and I was 30 lbs lighter, I attended her band concert and asked my husband what pants she had on (I could see her white socks like she was Michael Jackson without the glove) and he told me they were mine. She was wearing my size 6 pants. Sure she was too tall for them (hence the white socks showing) but they fit her. See? Maybe there IS an upside to being short and heavy. That's my new story and I'm sticking with it. So pass me another donut.

Yep, I remember back when I could find things, like money in my wallet, food in my pantry, quiet in my house and the ever-important thing to find: my sanity. But alas, those days are gone. They've been replaced by teenagers.
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Mommie Dearest...

I’m not exactly sure why I don’t like white wine. I just don’t. I like white grapes. I like white bread. I like white cats. It’s just the white wine that I don’t like. I also wonder what the deal is with lima beans. I don’t like ‘em. I like baked beans, I like beans in the bean soup my mother would always make after Easter, I like black beans and kidney beans, but lima beans rank right up there with liver and brussel sprouts on my list of non-faves. Beets, now there’s another thing that I could never sink my teeth into. So to speak. I don’t know if it’s the texture, or their striking resemblance to cranberry sauce from a can, but I just hate the taste of beets. I love cranberry sauce from a can, so maybe it’s just a deep seeded sense of resentment that the beet doesn’t taste as wonderful as canned cranberry. Who knows?

Anyway, my topic today is children and their eating habits. 14 and 12 could NOT be any more opposite in their food tastes and sometimes it makes me meshuggeneh. (it’s a word). For instance, 12 will eat almost anything that I make. Does it hurt that 12 is a tremendous suck up? No, not at all. She is my pleaser. She is my Bill Clinton. She feels my pain. She’d eat a fried tennis ball if I told her it would make me so happy. She eats almost anything that she is fed.  12’s favorite food is broccoli. Now I don’t for a minute actually BELIEVE that, but it’s what she WANTS grown-ups to believe, so who am I to say otherwise? However, 14 is a totally different story. Let’s start with rice. Ew. Rice. Hates the consistency. It’s awful. It’s so, small and…..ricey. 14 wouldn’t be caught dead gagging down even a grain of rice. Why, then, can I not keep a box of Rice Krispies in the house?? Same thing!! Rice Chex? GONE faster than you can say Chex Mix Rocks. But when I make a dish that has rice, she’s always looking for an alternative. “Mom can you make mashed potatoes instead?” No. “Can you make mashed potatoes AND rice?” No. Can you get over your hatred of rice? “No”. Then it seems we are at an impasse.

Let’s move on to anything that grows out of the ground and starts with the letter V and ends in table. If it’s not corn, 14 won’t touch it. I can make a can of peas (Peas!! Who doesn’t love peas?? They’re adorable and cute and taste so sweet!!) and I’ll put 6 peas on 14’s plate. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences should be alerted the next time 14 has 6 peas on her plate, because Meryl Streep has NOTHING on 14 when it comes to best dramatic performance. She chokes, she gags, she spits. You’d think I actually fried up something that came out of our dog Cosmo’s butt and made her eat it. (To be honest, he used to eat his own poo, so if it’s good enough for Cosmo, I don’t know why it’s not good enough for 14 but that’s a blog for another day). 

How about tomatoes? They’re not really a vegetable, right? They’ve got seeds. They’re fruit. Now while I will admit that I don’t personally enjoy the tomato, I will eat it in a dish where the tomato is a key ingredient. I make a delicious Pampered Chef recipe that my friend Jen gave to me called Zesty Ravioli. The recipe calls for diced tomatoes but when I make this recipe, 14 always ends up with a pile of little diced tomatoes that she picks out. When I make this recipe and serve it with a bagged salad, she ends up with a plate of diced tomatoes and a salad bowl with all the little teeny shredded carrots she’s picked out and put to the side. I could probably feed a small African village with all the colorful, healthy veggies 14 piles to the side. Call Bob Geldolf, we can do Live Aid 3 and send tons of veggies to those less fortunate. It doesn’t bother 14 that there are starving children in Africa, she won’t eat a pea.

I’ve learned to just roll my eyes and accept it. But let’s make one thing perfectly clear. I am NOT one of those GOOD moms. You know the type. The moms who want to make sure that their children are well taken care of and will make something different for their picky child if said picky child won’t eat what they’ve made. No, quite the contrary, I keep wire hangers in my closets, and I don’t make additional meals if I don’t have to. My kids are lucky I have the time to make what I do make for them. With the sports schedules, band, scouts, extra-curricular activities, they’re lucky they eat anything at all! Now don’t go getting all defensive and calling the mom police on me. My kids don’t starve. If one of my children (14) doesn’t enjoy the delicious delicacies which I have prepared, they are free to open a can of soup, or make some scrambled eggs or eat a hot dog. I’m okay with that. I’m keeping it real. I’m like Jenny from the blog.

Ok, maybe that’s going a bit too far.