Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
Feast your eyes on my latest attempt at organization. This is is IKEA LEKSVIK shoe rack and I have to say it is great. It was $99.99, which I was a bit shocked by for a shoe rack at IKEA, but it is sturdy and we already got a few compliments on it. It has been awhile since any rack I have has been compliment worthy, so I’ll take it! I like it too because the shoes go in cubbies and they don’t fall all over the place.
*I did not receive a product sample or compensation for this post. The views expressed here are my own.
I live in fear of letting down one person. It’s not my Mom. It’s not Oprah. Even Jesus runs a close second. The person who strikes fear in me, who can break my heart with a down turned sideways glance, who can communicate her approval or disapproval with one well placed “hmmm”, is my German housekeeper Barbel.
Barbel knows cleaning, and she has no time for any foolery or excuses when it comes to housekeeping. Barbel can make a bed with corners more precise than the best trained soldier in boot camp. What she does for showers will bring tears of gratitude to your eyes. Dust consider it an honor to be cleaned by her and literally throw themselves into her dustcoth.
Her speciality though, her calling, her coup de grace…is floors. I have never seen anything like it. Perfection, and I don’t have to tell you my version of perfection and Barbel’s version are more than just a little different. Barbel’s version of perfectly cleaned floors is to clean them to the point that it looks like no one lives here, my version of perfectly cleaned floors is to clean them to the point that it looks like homeless men don’t live here…anymore.
The funny thing though, I swear ALL I DO IS CLEAN. I am constantly doing laundry, dishes, sweeping patios, and yes, even the floors….daily. I just can’t ever seem to get anyting clean. The day before Barbel comes I am a nervous wreck. I run around barking orders (to myself), “empty the trash cans, change the sheets, do the dishes, mop the floors…STAT!” Inevitably though Barbel surveys the land and silently extends or withdraws her approval. Mostly she mumbles to herself as she sweeps the floor.
Barbel: “No no Meggan, no no.”
Me: “No no? I am so sorry Barbel. Is the floor bad? I tried to clean it.”
Barbel: “No no Meggan.”
Me: “I’m really sorry.”
Barbel: (While deftly mopping). “Um Meggan. Meggan. Meggan. Do you have animal?”
Me: “Ummm, no, no animals. I have boys though.”
Barbel: “GASP! No no Meggan. I thought animal did this to your floor. Thank God, I am here.”
That’s usually when the German starts and I shamefully make my exit. The above photo is from when my 15 month old animal got into the Kleenex box.
I decided to cook pancakes for Lucas the other morning. I have never been a huge eater of pancakes, but I bought this organic pancake mix and making pancakes on a rainy day seemed like a very mothering thing to do. I heated up the organic butter, I carefully cut up some organic strawberries and added them to the mix, and then I whisked in a cage free organic egg. I felt like I was doing everything right…except I cooked up two pieces of flat turds. I tried my best, but instead of fluffy pancakes I got, well let’s just say my pancakes didn’t look like the picture on the box.
I sighed and stared at my pancakes in half-hearted disbelief. I realized that, like the pancakes, I too was feeling miserably flat (and I am not talking about my breasts after nursing and pumping). My pancakes were a symbol of exactly how I have been feeling lately. Flat, rough around the edges, and in desperate need of some sweetness..or syrup. In a nutshell the cause for my depression is that my feelings got hurt recently and it has sent me for a big fat emotional loop. I heard through the grapevine (which is always dangerous) that some people that I trusted and let into my life were saying some not very nice things about me or my family, including Lucas.
I know gossip should always be taken with a grain of salt, is dangerous, and a black hole, but my feelings were hurt and I didn’t expect it to crush me like it did. I started to buy into the gossip. What if “they” were right? What if all I do is spin my wheels, what if no one takes me seriously, what if my baby is Baby Stewie from Family Guy, what if I am inappropriate on my website….what if what if what if. Suddenly I couldn’t stop myself. All the nasty and negative, from a lifetime of feeling like I am on the outside looking in came flooding back. I played the tapes in my head, You know… “Meggan is different, Meggan needs to settle down, Meggans in over her head with Ettore and those boys, Meggan is only after the money, Meggan is not talented enough, Meggan has no business being here…she’s too young, old, tall, thin, fat, silly, serious, tired, spastic, tomboyish, girly, flirty, stand offish, scattered, pushy”…..it could go on forever, if I let it. I don’t want to let it.
I have always wanted to not care what anyone says, but I do care. Not caring is so much easier said than done. I care a lot, about a lot of people, even people that hurt me; and I have hurt people. I can be snarky, gossipy, and judgemental too. I try not to be, but as Ettore says, “sometimes Sweetheart, you are just mean,” at which point I throw my head back in loud evil laughter. Side note: Ettore might have a point. With the exception of occasionally acting like Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmatians, I try to treat others as I would like to be treated. So not being one who lives in a glass house all that is left to do is forgive the people that spoke ill of me. They don’t know me and saying hurtful things back and gossiping back does no one any good. Even when I want to double snap and kick some ass. To move on, I need to forgive others and myself, and realize I am not for everyone, but I am doing the best I can. Forgiveness for others, and myself, might not come immediately, and it doesn’t mean I will continue these friendships, but it will come and my pancakes and myself will be feeling fluffy again. As far as my breasts, well that might be another story.
So, to heal my wounded and sensitive psyche, I took myself to Therapist Richard and for $125.00 he assured me not to change a thing about myself (my Mom says she has been doing that for free for years). Also, despite the pancakes or me not being perfekt; Ettore, the boys, and I are just fine (and will continue to be). They love me, and I love them with all of my inappropriate, spinning wheeled, in over my head, money grubbing, and imperfect heart. As far as the pancakes, Lucas ate them up. At the end of the day that is all that really matters. We love each other, do the best we can, and my child didn’t throw his food on the floor.
Why can’t mayonnaise have as few calories as mustard?
Harrison got his driver’s permit.
I know I should be worried, anxious, and nervous (I am) about Harrison being on the open road, but what I am mostly feeling for him is thrilled. Thrilled like I just got into size six jeans, thrilled like the test came back negative, thrilled like when we rescued a dog from the pound (before Ettore and Reilly had severe allergic reactions and we had to give the dog away). I am truly excited for Harrison that he got his driver’s permit.
It is such a big step. That first taste of freedom. I remember when I got my driver’s permit. It burned a hole in my 80′s acid washed jeans (that already had plenty of holes). I wanted to drive everywhere. I’d wash the car just to be able to drive it out of the driveway. I’d beg to drive to the bank, grocery store, anywhere just to get a chance to get behind the wheel. I had to smile the other night when Harrison wanted to go back to the bakery at 9:00 p.m. to get a dessert, or should I say drive to get a dessert. I have to say Harrison does a good job driving. I’m really proud of him.
I would of preferred a steaming cup of coffee to greet me in the morning, but when you live with a European Chef, you get a cow’s tongue.
Lucas woke up early the other morning. I begrudingly plodded down the stairs bleary eyed and bathrobed ready to start my day. The last thing I thought I would see when I opened up our refrigerator was a COW’S TONGUE. It took a few seconds to register then…”OH MY GAWD!!! ETTOREEEEEEEE!!!
There was only one person responsible for this, my European Chef husband.
Me: “What the hell is that in our fridge?”
Ettore: “It’s a delicacy.”
Me: “Is that a cow tongue?”
Ettore: “It’s fantastic with green beans.”
Me: “UGH, Is THAT a cow tongue?”
Me: “What is that then.”
Ettore: “It’s a beef tongue.”
Me: “Isn’t beef…cow?”
Despite it still being before sunrise (and before I had my coffee), my husband went on to extol the virtues of beef, not cow, tongue. How you prepare it (I will spare the details), what it is good served with (green beans), and why it is delicious (I am taking his word for it). So there the tongue sits in our fridge. When you live with a chef, your refrigerator always looks like a bachelor’s fridge with a slight twist. Water, condiments, eggs, and cow tongue.
Last night was a bit awkward when I was giving our sitter the rundown of the house before we went to dinner. “Here are our emergency numbers, have Lucas in bed by 8:30, and help yourself to whatever you want in the fridge…and FYI heads up for the cow tongue, although if you want it you are welcome to that too.” She didn’t want it. Ettore was kind enough to hide the tongue behind some water bottles.
Ettore is so excited about the tongue though, I don’t want freak out and make him feel bad. It is just instinct. It is like when I was a kid and my cat Puffets would kill a mouse and bring it into the house to show me. Puffets just wanted to make me proud. She was doing what came naturally and proving her hunting prowess. As grossed out as I was, I was always extra careful not to scream and run. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Ettore is a chef, it is his instinct to love and share all kinds of food. So there will be no running from the house screaming. Besides, when I did run and scream Puffets would just chase me with the mouse. I can’t have Ettore chasing me with that cow tongue. It is all kinds of wrong, on so many levels.
Daddy and Lucas taking out the trash. Next we are going to teach Lucas how to vacuum out the cars.
Me: “Happy 5th Meeting Anniversary Pookie.”
Ettore: ”What do you think brought us together?”:
Ettore: “What do you think keeps us together?”
Me: “An overpriced condo that we are upside down in and can’t get out of during a recession.”
Ettore: “Besides that.”
Ettore: “That’s right. Love.”
Forget cats. The Obamas can keep their Portugese Water Dog. The latest addition to our family is a pet broom. Brooms don’t bark, brooms don’t have expensive vet bills, and instead of peeing on the floor – brooms actually…literally pick up after themselves. Like any good family pet the broom goes with us everywhere, and Lucas is very attached. He loves that broom and dust pan. I say shelve Fido, and get your kids a great broom. You’ll never have to play fetch again.
They say there is nothing like a boy and his dog, for Lucas it is a boy and his broom. Lucas LOVES this broom. We went to Easter services tonight and we couldn’t get Lucas in the car unless we brought the broom complete with dust pan. No imaginary friend for my boy. Instead of Easter bunnies, we are loving dust bunnies.
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