We spent Christmas Eve with Beauuu and Giiiirl, (Brendan and Shannon) Checking out their amazing new house… and drinking.

I think it’s illegal to drink at Brendan and Shannon’s and NOT bust out the guitar. Being law abiding citizens, we spent a cozy evening singing while Beauuu played. I managed to capture a full song on my little camera. Enjoy Brendan’s rendition of Long Black Veil:

Long Black Veil from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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We spent the week of Christmas at my sister-in-law’s new house. She recently bought it with her boyfriend because they both wanted to hear constant harassing questions of “When are you guys getting married?” from every single one of their relatives, and a few random passers-by on the street.

It’s a neat little house with lots of nooks and crannies. There is a cozy little attic room that an averaged height adult can alllmost stand up in. It was a perfect hide-away for the kids, and let’s face it, what Christmas holiday is complete without ferreting children away in an attic?

My mother-in-law, Mugga, was among the many house guests that descended upon the new home owners. She brought with her a set of family china, her usual sentimentality, and a passionate insistence on making her mother’s passatelli soup.

Imagine our horror upon discovering that Mugga thought Huns was going to supply the ingredients, and Huns thought Mugga was going to bring the necessities! Here it was, Christmas day, and there were no bread crumbs in the house. Surely every grocery store was closed? Mugga sighed in defeat. Huns sighed in frustration. But what? What’s that I hear? A voice of reason?

Huns’s boyfriend Andrew, in his ever present wisdom, said the following:

Let’s everybody calm down. We don’t need to get upset. I’ll go check and see if any stores are open.

And that’s just what he did. He found an open store, and brought home all the necessary ingredients for making Vera’s beloved passatelli soup. This effectively saved Christmas dinner.

What followed was three generations of hands gathering around a table and mixing a dough made from bread crumbs. I’m sure Vera was looking down upon her family and thinking, “You’re doing it wrong!” No, just kidding. I’m sure she was looking down upon her family, happy to be a part of filling their bellies.

I hope you all had a love-filled holiday season. I will leave you now with the most nauseatingly adorable video you will ever watch. That’s right, it’s my babies leaving cookies for Santa.

‘Twas the night before Christmas from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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The local news station is screaming about a record snow fall descending upon the DC area tonight. Naturally, this information makes everyone hungry?

Every time there is mention of ANY type of weather that is even mildly out of the ordinary, people freak out and rush to the grocery store. Tonight is no exception. Unfortunately, this mass freak out coincides with my weekly shopping trip. If that’s not annoying enough, Jesse needed the car today, so I was unable to go during the quiet part of the day. Noting my death ray glare as he informed me he was taking the car, Jesse said he would do the shopping on his way home.

All of this equals the perfect storm of grocery shopping horror.

Jesse is not the most patient man. It would not be stretching it to say he is down right impatient. The last place he wanted to be on the Friday night that begins his vacation was a crowded grocery store. He was *not* a happy shopper. How do I know he was not a happy shopper? He made sure to tell me in great detail just how unhappy he was as he fought his way through the aisles. He even sent pictures! This one is my favorite:

Taken from the back wall of the store. Every line was this long.

“The asinine, retarded things I do for you. I swear to God…” – My loving husband from the very long check out line at the grocery store. (Apparently *I* am the only person in my household that eats food…from the grocery store. Or maybe it’s my fault he took the car today, thus leaving me unable to go shopping before the paranoid crazies stormed the store? I dunno. Either way, sexy talk like that gets me all hot and bothered!)

How does this story end? He jumped ship! After an hour and a half of steaming play by play, he gives up and leaves his cart – but not before a charming employee threatens to shoot him in the head! (said with a chuckle, of course.) Ya gotta love that DC humor. What exciting urban flavor.

This means he will attempt to go to the store tomorrow. During the snow storm. By this time tomorrow I may very well be a hungry widow.

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Did you find that offensive? I certainly hope so. I must have found it in some KKK literature from the deep south, right? No. It is from a Mother Goose book printed in Chicago in 1914. When M.A. Donohue & Company printed this book the above rhyme was considered a fun little rhyming song to read to your children.

An entire race of people were viewed as less than, based purely on the shade of their skin. Ridiculous, right? I’ve gotten mixed reactions from everyone I’ve shown this rhyme to. A common reaction is an uncomfortable chuckle followed by a statement like, “Well, that’s what it was like back then. Thank goodness we’ve come so far…” But have we?

I sit here in exasperated disbelief that in this day and age people are still persecuted for having different beliefs or feelings. Have we learned nothing from past follies? It boggles my mind that there are people out there that truly believe they have the right to decide how and whom others can love. No, I’m not just referring to the current events taking place in Uganda – the “Anti-Gay Bill” that’s proposing to jail homosexuals – This discrimination is in practice right here in the good ol’ US of A.

While we may not be trying to pass a bill that would give life sentences to same-sex couples, or proposes that we jail anyone who fails to report “gay activity” to the police within 24 hours, (Which OMG Uganda is trying to do!) we are still very much guilty of treating an entire group of people as being less than.

Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, and as of January 1st 2010, New Hampshire, are the only states in our great country in which same sex couples can legally marry. Putting aside the ridiculous fact that people actually feel they have a RIGHT to decide something like that for another person, that is only FIVE states in FIFTY! I guess if you’re gay in America you only get to be 10% free to fall in love.

Is sexual orientation really anybody’s business but your partners and your own? Our bodies are merely vessels for our souls. Souls have no sex. They are neither male nor female. You know the saying “The heart wants what the heart wants”? Who’s to say that our souls don’t fall in love with each other, regardless of what kind of package they are currently housed in?

Alright, I’m starting to ramble. If you take nothing else from this post, please ask yourself how you would feel if you were told it was wrong to be with the one you love. If you are opposed to gay rights because of personal religious beliefs, may I remind you that our constitution calls for a separation of church and state, and it is not for us to pass judgement on others. Let the God you are so sure of handle the details when the time comes.

Love your fellow human beings. We are all the same on a molecular level. We are all connected. We are all one being, deserving of unconditional love.

If you would like more information on how you can get involved in campaigning for true equal rights, you can look here, here or here, to start.

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Tonight Jesse brought home some swag from the many advertising agencies vying for his business. The kids were very excited at the boxes and ribbons. A box of cookies was knocked over in all the commotion.

After dinner, as Jesse took the kids upstairs for a bath, I surveyed the mess of opened boxes and scattered treats. I bent to retrieve the package of cookies and read the label:

Platine

Gourmet cookies baked in Los Angeles, CA

Immediately my eyes filled  with hot tears. I stared hard at the chocolate macadamia nut cookies, and imagined the hands of the person that had packed them into their unassuming little bag. They were most likely the hands of an aspiring actor, that works at Platine Bakery part time to pay his bills between acting gigs.

This year will be my fifth consecutive Christmas away from my family. I don’t usually let the holidays get me down, but this year all of my cousins and their kids will be celebrating at our family ranch in the Sierra Nevada’s. It will be one of the first times they’ve all been together since my grandmother passed away almost eleven years ago.

My heart breaks a little every time I think about the relationships my children are being denied by our living on the east coast. I have over 20 cousins on my mom’s side alone. While I wasn’t close with all of them, I was very close with a few of them. My Aunt and her daughters even lived with us for a while when I was Karis’s age. (Hi Lisa & Lainie!)

The fact that we all have kids around the same age now, makes me yearn to be back home that much more. Karis and Brecken are the first, and so far only, grandchildren on Jesse’s side. They are lavished with attention and love, and doted upon by everyone. (Believe me, you wont hear THEM complaining!) They know they are Merrill Royalty.

We are fortunate that Jesse’s cousin, the beautiful Jennie, has two delightful kids to play with, but other than that, it’s slim pickin’s in the playmate department over here.

*Sigh* Who am I kidding? Even if Jesse’s sisters had 10 kids each, I would still want to be back home in California! I love to travel, and even fantasize about living abroad for a while, but I’m a California girl at heart.

Good God, listen to me, rambling on like a homesick pup. This post has been brought to you by a hormonal moment. I will now go and watch Lifetime and eat those aforementioned cookies.

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This is a sweet little keepsake ornament that can be made with paper or dough. For a dough based ornament follow the recipe here. (Use a large circular cookie cutter big enough for a small child’s hand print.)

For a paper based ornament you can use decorative scrap booking paper or poster board. Cut out a shape of your choice. Make sure it’s large enough to fit a child’s hand print.

Decorate the base. (paint, paper, glitter – whatever)

Have a child – preferably one you LIKE – put a hand print on one side of the ornament. I like to use non-toxic paint for this, because I only like to poison my children while making Independence Day crafts.

Then glue a picture of that same kid to the other side of the ornament. (Actually, you can use a different kid’s picture – what do I care?)

To finish things off I like to Mod-Podge® the hell out of it to seal everything in. If you’re doing the paper based ornament you also have the option of laminating it for posterity.

Use a hole punch to make a hole in the top. String a ribbon through the hole. I like to throw a decorative bead on there, because I ordered a million of these damn dove beads from a catalog, and now have nothing better to do with them than string them on hand made ornaments. Hey, don’t judge. We all have our vices.

There you have it! An adorable little ornament for the grandparents to gush over, and sure to inspire post-menopausal crying jags years from now when little Junior is off to college and you’re an empty nester. You’re welcome.

Here is a salt-dough ornament example.

They tend to be a bit lumpy and difficult to seal.

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I was standing in the gaming section of Target today, trying not to have a seizure at all of the blinking lights, when I realized that though I recognized the names of the different gaming systems, I couldn’t identify which was which if my life depended on it.

When did this happen?

I was too young to fully appreciate the marvel of Atari, but my sister and I were thrilled the Christmas we got a Nintendo! Not a Play Station or Game Boy or Cube or whatever the hell it’s called today, but a Nintendo. It resembled a gray shoebox and came with Mario Bros and Duck Hunt.

It was very simple. The controllers had 4 arrows and 4 buttons. It was easy to trouble shoot any technical difficulties too – if the game wasn’t working, all you had to do was take the cartridge out, blow on it, and shove it back in. Voi La! It worked damn near every time. (How was it that EVERY kid knew to do that?)

I’m the first to admit I lacked any true skill at playing Nintendo. I would get very tense while being chased by bad guys, and I always moved my hands when my character was jumping, as if to help him make the leap. Obviously I was ahead of my time – I bet I would kick ass at Wii.

Anyway, I’ve decided to start using a walker. I’ll soop it up with snazzy tennis balls on the front legs, and maybe festoon it with ribbons or a bicycle bell. That way everyone will recognize me for the crotchety old geezer that I have become.

Sorry, little brother, but finding the right game for whichever mystery gaming system you currently love, has proved too difficult a challenge for your elderly sister. You’re getting a gift card so you can choose your own.

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I am in Ithaca, New York, visiting my in-laws. My husband’s, step-mother’s, niece (I’ll pause a moment for you to make the mental lineage chart) lives with My father-in-law and step-mother-in-law. She is fifteen.

Overheard tonight:

15 year old boy: “Here, I got you these sun glasses.”

15 year old girl: “Wow, thanks. They’re really cute. I like the color!”

15 year old boy: “Yeah. I got them ’cause they matched your bra.”

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Alright assholes, get ready for a chicken bursting with so much salty, lemony goodness, your taste buds will fall off and die. This is a Jamie Oliver recipe that I have bastardized for those of us that don’t keep fresh herbs on hand at all times, and frankly don’t give a damn. Here’s the shit you’ll need:

• 41/2 pound free range chicken. (If you prefer to buy regular chickens that were tortured in a shoebox sized cage their entire 6 months of life, then you are a sick fuck. Pure evil, dude. Support the people that let chickens be fucking chickens.)
• sea salt and ground black pepper
• 41/2 pounds of potatoes. I used red potatoes. If you insist on using a thick skinned potato, then peel that shit first, ok?
• 1 large lemon
• 1 whole bulb of garlic, broken into cloves.
• a handful of fresh thyme Thyme… from a motherfucking JAR. Get over it, food snobs!
• olive oil
• a handful of fresh rosemary sprigs, leaves picked What. Ever. (I skipped this one all together)

If you can remember to do this first part in the morning, they claim it makes a difference. What evez – I never notice the difference. Rub the chicken all over with sea salt and pepper. Oh, and for you culinary retards out there, don’t forget to take the fucking giblets out of the damn bird first.

Cover the dead, salted chicken and shove it in the fridge.

Now skip ahead to 2 hours before you’re gonna want to eat this shit.

Preheat your stupid oven to 375º. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cut the potatoes into golf ball sized pieces and dump em into the water with a whole lemon and the garlic cloves. Cook that shit for twelve minutes. Not eleven. Not thirteen. Twelve.

Drain it. Pull out the lemon, and stab it a few times, like it owes you money.

Pull the bird out of the fridge, wipe any juicy nastiness off its ass, and smear olive oil all over it.

Next cram the lemon and garlic up into its cavity – real personal, like. Sprinkle your thyme, from a jar, into the cavity as well.

At this point, those of you that are into bondage may want to tie this bitches legs together to keep the lemon from falling out. Go on ahead. We wont judge.

Put the bird on a roasting pan and throw it in the fucking oven for 45 minutes.

After 45 minutes, take it out, put the chicken on a plate, and roll the potatoes in the greasy mess left behind in the roasting pan.

Make a little room in the middle of the pan, and toss that bird back up in there.

45 more minutes of cooking that shit up, and BAM! There you have it. Dinner is your bitch.

(Obviously you should add something green to the mix. I forgot to put the rice on while making this – hey, shit happens – but I did make brussel sprouts. Yeah, I burned them. So what? This chicken dish was so fucking awesome that nobody even gave a shit that their brussel sprouts were covered in char.)

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My three year old lives in a police state.

I am not proud of this. It seems to have evolved over a short period of time. It all started with her refusal to buckle her car seat. I explained to her that she had to buckle up to be safe in a car crash. She didn’t care. I then told her she had to buckle up because it was the law. If you break the law, you go to jail.

It worked!

She happily buckles up every time. Since the revelation of “car jail” I have not had a single argument from her over buckling her car seat.

As any parent of a three year old will tell you, when you find something that works, you use the hell out of it. My life has become immeasurably less complicated since the introduction of “car jail”. Shortly after Karis learned of the incarceration concept, I introduced her to the Tooth Police. If you refuse to let a parent thoroughly brush your teeth, they must summon the Tooth Police, who will come and take you to tooth jail.

There are also Bed Police, Be-nice-to-your-brother Police, Get-dressed-for-school Police… I have even heard mention of Vegetable Police. All of these officers of the law can be called upon to ensure that both children and grown-ups alike are following the rules without fighting.

I am all for a toddler asserting her independence, and making her own choices. I admit that my use of the police crutch is due in large part to my lazy parenting technique. But damn it – it’s like a drug! It’s so hard not to use the police threat when I can see a tantrum coming on. It’s not as horrible as it sounds. She does not live in constant fear of imaginary police. But I can’t deny the fact that she thinks twice before participating in questionable behavior. I can almost see her little thought bubbles floating above her head.

Is this a BIG no-no? Would doing this warrant a visit from the (fill in the blank) Police? Will I go to (fill in the blank) jail?

I have no idea what she thinks jail is like. I have never described it to her. I never had to. She could tell from the tone of my voice that it was not a place she would like to visit.

One of her new favorite games is called “pirate jail”. She pretends to be a pirate and Jesse puts her in to pirate jail. For those of you who have never seen one, pirate jail consists of all of the throw pillows from our couch stacked atop each other around Karis’s giggling prostrate form. A very scary place indeed.

This stage of development is short lived. Soon Karis will begin to understand that the world is not just right and wrong. Black and white. She will begin to notice all the subtle shades of grey. She will question the ultimate authority of the Everything Police. I welcome that day. It will no doubt spawn many a great philosophical conversation between us. Until then, am I so terrible a mother that I like the Everything Police to be the party poopers instead of me? It’s nice to be on the same team with a once unruly three year old. Yes Karis, I would LOVE to dance till midnight, but those darn Bed Police will be here at 8 0′clock!

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