February is my least favorite month. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because February is always so damn cold and dreary. Maybe it’s because February tries so hard to be different with its floating leap day. I don’t know when my disgust of February started, but I do know that I am starting to see a pattern developing. Ponder this: Yesterday I could have told you that the last time Karis threw a puke party was February 15, 2009. Did you notice how I specified “yesterday”?

I am about to tell you way too much information. The following story contains almost every bodily excretion possible. Read further at your own risk – no one will blame you if you turn around now and leave.

Around 5 o’clock this morning Karis came into my room and said, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”

I immediately went in to denial mode and said, “Want to come snuggle?” She wiggled in to bed beside me, and a record breaking 30 seconds later, she began vomiting all over me, my bed, and my dignity.

I rushed her into the bathroom and tried to aim her over the toilet. My uterus decided this seemed like a perfect time to start hemorrhaging, and when my uterus decides something, there is no changing its mind. Here’s the part where I officially start to give you way too much information. In a valiant attempt at saving my brand new, comfy pajama bottoms, I steadied Karis with one hand and whipped my pants down with the other. I couldn’t reach a towel or toilet paper, so I hung my ass over the side of the tub and called Jesse over for vomit aiming duty so I could clean myself up. (Isn’t that a beautiful mental image? I realize that by disclosing this particular story to you, you may never look at me the same way again.)

Just as Jesse comes over, Karis looks up at me and gasps. “Ah! Mama, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay,” I assured her, “Let’s both get cleaned up!”

I righted myself at the speed of light, and as Jesse stripped Karis down for a shower, I stripped the vomit soaked sheets off our bed. As Jesse washed chunks out of Karis’s hair, I washed chunks out of our carpet. We were a team! A vomit cleaning duo. As I was putting fresh sheets on the bed while Jesse dried Karis off, I was counting every one of my blessings that I wasn’t a single mother. Mad respect for all you single parents out there!!!

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Oh. Did you think the story was over? Not at all. If today were a movie, the part you just read would be the opening credits.

I failed to set up this scene. I never mentioned the fact that the day before, a contractor had removed most of the drywall and insulation from the outer facing wall of our bedroom. The beams were still soaking wet from our ice dam adventure, so we have to leave the walls open for a few days, with a noisy fan blowing on them.

I also failed to mention that we had flooring contractors scheduled to come later that day to replace our living room carpet and put hard wood in our basement.

I made a little bed for Karis on our floor. She happily snuggled in to it and went to sleep. I tried to go back to sleep too, but my mind was racing, going over all the stuff I had to move to get ready for the flooring people. Karis puked three more times throughout the morning, and at the happy hour of 8:00AM the phone rang. It was the flooring guys, telling me they’d be there in 30 minutes. THREE HOURS EARLY.

Long about this time Jesse started turning green and ashy. “I don’t feel so great…” He moaned. Sigh. The happy half of the vomit cleaning duo was about to become a single mother to two sick kids AND a sick man-baby. I rumaged in my mental closet and pulled out my Super Woman cape. It wasn’t even dusty! I gave it a good shake, put it on, and went to face the day.

I am way too tired to go in to much detail about the twelve hours between 9:00AM and 9:00PM, just know this: There was much running up and down stairs, vomiting, pants pooping, baby crying, contractor arguing, snot wiping, moaning, cramping, cleaning cleaning cleaning, AND to add insult to injury, I tweaked my left quadricep and could barely walk for several hours.

Just as I put the kids to sleep, Jesse asked me to run to the store for some Ginger Ale to help settle his stomach. He had spent the day horking into the toilet bowl loudly enough to alarm passing motorists. He was feeble and exhausted, having nearly blacked out from one of his vomiting bouts. He never does the whole vomiting thing half way. Once he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Add to that his annoying refusal of all medical advice and you have …well, you have Jesse – I’m too tired to come up with anything clever.

I dragged myself to the grocery store. I stumbled in through the automatic doors and schlepped towards the bananas. That’s when it happened. That’s when I split in two. One minute I was Super Woman, searching out just the right bunch of bananas, and the next thing I knew, I was staring at my weaker self standing beside me.

She was crying. crying right there between the bananas and the green seedless grapes. She looked at me, weary and defeated. She took a step toward me, as if she wanted a hug, or some form of support. I lurched backwards, pulling my cape out from under her battered shoe. I gave her a stern look, as if to say, we don’t have time for this! and I left her. I left her standing there in the produce section, tears of exhaustion streaming down her cheeks, smelling of dried vomit and despair.

She’ll find her way home, I’m sure. She’ll probably join me in the shower, as the hot water pounds against the back of my aching neck. I’ll give her a hug. An unspoken sorry for abandoning you. I’ll let her cry, even. But just in the shower – that’s it!

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When I lived in New York I fell madly in love with a brand of freeze dried red onions. I know, it sounds gross, but oh how I loved those freeze dried onions!

I have looked for them everywhere since, all to no avail. Online searches only turn up the apple version of the snack, and only for wholesalers.

Last week I was inspired to make them myself. How hard could it be? I researched freeze drying online and found page after page of easy instructions on how to freeze dry fruits and veggies at home. I was a little skeptical, but if it worked, I would be the happiest freeze dried onion eater on the planet.

To freeze dry fruits and veggies at home you’ll need the following:

• A cooler
• dry ice
• thinly sliced fruit and veggies
• freezer bags
• a small cookie sheet or bread pan (optional)

First slice your fruits and veggies and put them in a freezer bag. Try to leave as little air in the bag as possible.

Then layer the bags in the cooler – dry ice/ fruit bag/ dry ice / fruit bag/ dry ice. Be sure to top every thing off with dry ice. CAUTION: Never touch dry ice with your bare hands! It’s something like -70ºF which can do serious damage to tissue. This should go without saying, but also NEVER swallow dry ice.

Leave the cooler closed for 30 minutes. Then check the fruit/veggies every 5 minutes thereafter until they are completely frozen solid. Store them in your freezer.

Another way to freeze dry stuff is to put a layer of dry ice in the bottom of a cooler and place thinly sliced fruits or veggies on top of the ice in a tray or bread pan. This way actually seemed to work a little better. Simply transfer the fruits and veggies to a freezer bag when they’re frozen solid. Supposedly they will keep in your freezer indefinitely.

Sadly, my onions did not end up turning out like the onions I have been pining for. When unfrozen they were basically just rubbery, raw onions. Not sexy.

If anyone knows how to make them crispy let me know!

The bananas, on the other hand, have been a great hit.

We didn’t let all that dry ice go to waste. We made a witch potion!!

Dry ice from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

CAUTION: Again, never touch dry ice with your bare hands, and carefully monitor children near dry ice – be sure they don’t touch it or swallow it.

Tune in next week, when I’ll let my kids play with fire and venomous snakes!

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I had never been to Colonial Williamsburg before, but I had just finished the latest book in the most amazing series ever written, and it took place partly in Williamsburg during the American revolution. Naturally I was delighted to visit last weekend at the kind invitation from Vanessa and Andrew.

The kids loved it. We wandered through neatly kept backyards, and peeked in windows. (All encouraged! We weren’t being creepy.)

One of my favorite findings was the 18th century greenhouses. If I had a garden, and let’s face it – the ability to keep any form of plant life alive, then I would most definitely employ these cute glass bell jars.

We toured the church. There were three sweet old ladies inside acting as docents. Each one of them told us about the different areas of the church, and how George Washington and Thomas Jefferson would have sat in different places at different times in their careers. I guess that’s important information, because, like I said, they told us three times. “We toured the church” is a little misleading. That makes it sound like the church was some vast expanse of holy building, complete with catacombs and the like. It’s actually just one rather small room. Small, but a whole lot of important butts sat in those pews!

This tomb rests just outside the entrance to the church. I don’t know why anyone would want a tomb so close to the very busy entrance of a church. They’re keepin’ it real. Are you having a good day? Did my sermon cheer you up? So glad to hear it! Watch that you don’t trip over the tragic young mother and baby that died in childbirth on your way out!

Also near the church? The stocks. I’m seriously considering commissioning a child sized installment for my basement.

I’m not usually a clutter lover, but I couldn’t help but want to take home all the different little pottery sets. They weren’t even really my taste, but it was all I could do not to buy a china cabinet for the sole purpose of housing little ceramic dishes that we’d never use. I settled for taking a bunch of boring pictures of them.

Then of course we all donned the customary colonial hats. I don’t think you’re allowed to leave without getting at least one member of your party to wear a bonnet. Extra points for a mob cap.

England is known for having notoriously bad food, but I gotta say that Mother England’s expatriate colonists sure knew how to cook! We wandered in to the bakery and my olfactory senses died and went to heaven. Imagine every good baking smell you’ve ever smelled all whirling around in one small room.

We ended our evening with dinner at a tavern. Vanessa and Jesse couldn’t leave without drinking beer from a ceramic mug.

We were struck by the sweetness of the home churned butter that came with our dinner rolls. We kept asking each other to “pass the sweet sweet butter”. It turns out they add honey to it. Yum. As if we needed more reasons to love butter.

I ordered the stew. I can’t remember its official name, Gloucester stew? I dunno. What it should be called is “orgasm for your tongue stew” because it was the tastiest stew I have ever eaten in my life.

As we ate our delicious dinner in the dark, candle lit tavern, our discussion turned to old ghost stories, and marveling about how rebels must have sat in that very room, participating in debates about the coming revolution. Then I went to the bathroom and noticed a series of pictures in the hall depicting the excavation of the tavern’s foundation, and the building of the replica tavern (the one I was standing in) in the late 1950′s. Buzz kill. My old apartment in Hollywood was older than this tavern. Yes, that made it lose a little of the magic for me, but it was still a very realistically built replica.

All in all we had a wonderful time. Thanks again to Vanessa and Andrew for inviting us! And thank you Andrew for being Brecken’s personal protector and pack mule for a majority of our stay. He loves you like I love chocolate – and we all know how much mama loves her chocolate!

For more pictures of our adventures in Williamsburg click here.

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Today is Angela’s birthday. She is an amazing woman, mother, wife, daughter, grandmother, sister, aunt, teacher, chef, housekeeper, gardener, table dancer, sculpter, musician, organizer, dreamer, poet, and friend. Also, I bet she’s great in bed. AND – she’s a lady through and through, so she will be mortified when she reads that “great in bed” comment.

I love you Angela. You make it all look easy.

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Last weekend we packed the kids up and headed to Virginia. We left behind a very soggy master bedroom with water dripping from the wall into pans – we are VERY responsible homeowners. (Hell, at least I didn’t leave a candle burning…this time.)

Why were we going to Virginia? Because Vanessa’s beloved had bought into a trial time share program and he had points to use up before they ran out. This meant he reserved a big-ass double suite near colonial Williamsburg, and who better to fill that suite than his favorite obnoxious guests.

I’m a sucker for time share programs. Jesse and I went to one last year for a pair of plane tickets (that we never used – sigh) They had me at “Hello, give me your credit card!” You see, they weren’t just about vacations – they were also good for home appliances and autos!

This particular time share franchise uses the motto “Own your vacation.” They like to make a big deal about their suckers members owning their vacations and taking their lives by the balls. Of all the different time share type companies I have had the pleasure of almost falling for, this one was by far the most cult-like.

They baited Andrew with $60 in vouchers for a local restaurant, which is as good as holding a gun to his head, ’cause hello? SIXTY BUCKS! How can you NOT agree to let them badger you for 45 minutes if you get sixty bucks in the deal?

We went with him for the free breakfast – yes, we are those people. Free food? We’re there.

After Andrew and Vanessa had gone missing for over an hour (45 minutes my ASS) we began to look for them. Funny thing was, they weren’t where we left them. These time sharing bastards kept moving them to different rooms. It was reminiscent of how interrogators wear suspects down.

As we wandered the hallways in confusion I was reminded of that time I auditioned for a Scientology video. I had had to sign a statement promising that I wasn’t taking any psychiatric medications just to be allowed on the compound. For those of you that don’t know, the Scientology building in Hollywood used to be a hospital. It is HUGE. And blue.

Though I was on time, they made me wait for almost an hour in a very fancy schmancy parlor, with no choice but to watch the brain washing videos playing on a loop. I couldn’t help but feel like I was being watched. I’m sure I was. They FINALLY came and got me. They led me down several hallways, all of which were painted identically. After passing through the fourth set of doors I was totally lost. They do that on purpose, you know. It disorients you.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. We eventually gave up and left poor Andrew and Vanessa to their own devices. We figured if they drank the Kool-aid and signed up for full membership into the vacation owner’s cult, the worst that could happen would be them being forced to endure more vacations with US as we invited ourselves along on their adventures. We’re givers.

When Vanessa and Andrew did finally manage to gnaw off their legs and escape back to our suite, they were full of delightful descriptions of the sales pitches. My favorite: “If you don’t sign up for our program, you will get a divorce and die alone with no one to mourn you but your cats.” Their reasoning was that if you don’t make time for your relationship, it will fail. While I agree with that sentiment, I hardly think “vacationing” at various cult centers and being constantly harased to buy points, is a recipe for a long and happy union. But what the hell do I know – I don’t even have cats!

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Our local emergency room should just keep a room on reserve for my family at all times. If I had one of those OSHA boards on my wall, the one that says “We have gone __ days without an accident” I don’t think we’d ever get in to double digits.

Last night as the bath time routine was drawing to a close, I heard a sickening thud from upstairs. It was one of those ominous thuds that you know mean trouble – even before you hear crying.

I ran upstairs to see Jesse picking up a screaming Brecken. Brecken had blood pouring from his lip and pooling in his mouth.

I noted the toothbrush clutched in his little hand and thanked God that he hadn’t fallen with it in his mouth. I did a cursory check of his teeth, but there was too much blood to determine how many skin wounds there were. The most obvious wound was on his upper lip. It appeared that a molar had gone through his skin, leaving a jagged little hole.

What followed was yet another trip to the ER.

Thankfully we were mistaken for a child that was vomiting blood, so they took us right in. (Don’t worry – the mix up was realized immediately and the child that was actually vomiting blood got seen right away too.)

While the rest of America was watching LOST, the nurse applied a cocaine based topical anesthetic to Brecken’s wound, and I had to keep it there for 30 minutes. We filled those minutes with wheels on the bus.

Chicks dig scars from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

Finally he was strapped in to a papoose board (which he seemed to enjoy) and the stitching began (which he most certainly did *not* enjoy). I don’t know which one of us was more traumatized by that whole scene. Hopefully me.

All said and done, it only took two hours from door to door. Not too shabby.

Brecken is fine now. Still very kissable! He will probably end up with a fine white scar, no bigger than half a centimeter, on the side of his lip. That’s ok, chicks dig scars.

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Jesse’s favorite gifts are the ones that don’t cost any money. For Valentine’s Day I decided to make him a little compilation of our first five years together.

To do this required me to use old footage he shot on his Nokia phone, way back when having video on your phone was cutting edge and amazing. The quality is terrible, but the scenes bring back those special memories perfectly.

Valentine from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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Well, we have been snowed in for several days now. We did manage to venture out twice between storms – once to the grocery store and once to the local mall to let the kids burn some energy. My kids are lucky I am so dedicated to my vegan cleanse, otherwise I would have eaten them by now. I am used to spending every day and night with them, but it doesn’t seem as suffocating when you have the option of leaving the house.

The most recent development at our house is the discovery of an ice dam. What’s an ice dam, you ask? Technically it’s water trapped on your roof by a wall of ice – here’s a visual:

What does this mean for us? It means we now have a water feature in our bedroom. It cascaded down our wall, pooled under the carpet for a bit so we can enjoy a little wading pool action, then continued down to the main level and eventually ended its journey in our basement – because our basement carpet wasn’t gross enough, it is now soggy. Very soggy.

The water seems to have slowed for the time being. When it was running full force down our wall it brought out the best in our coping abilities:

J: Oh my God! DO something!!

ME: What would you like me to do exactly? Everything I’ve read about ice dams online says there isn’t anything you can do while it’s happening.

J: Stick a screwdriver in the wall to drain the water!

ME: Last I checked, water doesn’t defy gravity to flow sideways out a hole in the wall.

Jesse insisted I call our neighbor who is a contractor. I called him, and after enduring a twenty minute lesson on how our townhouse was constructed and why we were experiencing an ice dam, he said the only thing to do is to stop the water as close to the source as possible to try and minimize the damage. Duh.

The short version of what happened next is this:

I made two golf ball sized holes in our soggy drywall in an attempt to find where the water was coming in. Jesse FREAKED out about the GIANT holes (eye roll) and wondered how on earth I was ever going to fix them!

I finally snapped at him – DAMMIT! You can’t have it both ways. Don’t bitch at me to DO SOMETHING and then bitch at me for DOING SOMETHING.

I stuffed a washcloth into the holes in an attempt to soak up the water within.

The fates took mercy on my plight and the water seemed to stop flowing!

So now here we are.

I’m just going to go ahead and call this a “look”. I find it very slum chic. I predict this will be all the rage with Hollywood designers this year. That’s the beauty of being a trend setter ya’ll – you claim mistakes and disasters are art, and then you’re considered edgy.

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Well, it’s 2 o’clock on day two of what the news is shamelessly calling “snopocalypse”.  We have gotten well over two feet of snow, and the overly excited news casters are saying the snow wont stop falling until around 10 o’clock tonight.

Many of you in milder climates are requesting pictures. I live to serve, so here you go:

Irony: Not being able to open the door to reach the snow shovel to dig out the door.

The front walkway. This is about 2 feet as of this morning.

Where the side walk ends.

For all you snowphiles out there, you can see more pictures of our frosty little neighborhood here.

I am keeping my fingers and toes crossed that we are one of the lucky neighborhoods that don’t lose power. Frankly that would suck.

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The local fear mongers news casters are warning that a BLIZZARD is on the way. Note the all caps. It is not a blizzard, it is a BLIZZARD.

My god, the way they are carrying on, this had better be one hell of a snow storm.

True to form, when I went to the grocery store last night they were all out of bananas. WTF? Why do people buy so many bananas before a snow storm? I was pissed. In my house, we actually eat bananas. It has been a very long time since a banana reached a blackened soggy demise in our presence. I just know that half the people that frantically hoarded bananas yesterday are not even going to eat them.

Fear not, internet. This morning I braved the hysteria at Whole Foods and was rewarded with bananas and sweet potatoes.

Anyway, if the news is to be believed, we will most likely lose power at some point during this BLIZZARD. I am greatly saddened by this. If our power is out for very long we will be forced to impose upon our coolest-neighbors-in-the-whole-wide-world. I think I have mentioned them before. They are a retired brother and sister. The sister is always traveling to some amazing location, and the brother used to be an engineer. We consider them our pseudo-grandparents.

The brother, Mr. Patrick is what we call him, came over today to warn me to get anything done that required electricity. I then told him that should we lose power, we would be pounding on his door for warmth because his fireplace is on the main level and not in a frosty basement like ours. Oh, and by the way we don’t have any firewood – but we DO have bananas!

Mr. Patrick, in all his awesomeness, calmly answered that of course we were welcome, and he was baking extra cookies for just such an occasion. See what I mean? Coolest-neighbors-in-the-whole-wide-world! Hell, I’m almost looking forward to losing power now. I think this BLIZZARD is considered an act of God, and that would officially exempt me from sticking to my torturous cleanse diet. You know – the one where I can’t eat anything but tree bark and bananas?

So there you have it. We are on BLIZZARD watch. It’s snowing like mad, but so far there doesn’t seem to be any wind. I think you require wind to be an official BLIZZARD, don’t you?

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