Halala Mama

The following story is true… I swear to God I couldn’t make these things up on my own.

When I began this blog, I remarked to my friend Beth, “I’m trying to decide if I am just overly irritated by Oprah’s show today or if I really have something to say.” I wondered what I could write about on a regular or semi-regular basis.

Ahh..silly child. God will provide.

It started with furry eyebrows. I hate having them waxed at the beautician’s. I think she takes some sadistic pleasure from ripping them off my face. Left unchecked, they look like angry caterpillars. A happy medium would be microwavable wax. (see a kitchen disaster in the making? Stay tuned.)

Whenever I have used this wax, it has never, ever, ever melted in less than 6 minutes. Ever. Eeeever.

I popped it in the microwave, set it for five minutes and happily returned to the computer. Just a few minutes of facebook crack and then on to short lived pain and smooth clean brows if everything goes well. The worst event I imagined was inadvertantly ripping one eyebrow completely off before tomorrow’s school May Crowning mass and brunch. To say that would be bad is an understatement. 8th graders are fairly self-absorbed creatures but surely to God they would notice THAT.

Only 2.5 minutes later… *snap*crackle*pop* and let me tell you, not a Rice Krispie in sight.

I ran to the kitchen, threw open the microwave door, and the familiar experience of smoke rolling out of a kitchen appliance into my face set me into action. Not only had the wax melted in record time, so had the hard plastic container. In a puddle. In the bottom of the microwave. Lucky me – I had removed the rotating glass plate because it was dirty.

Luckily, I am a pro at this.

1. Turn on microwave fan

2. Open kitchen window.

3. Snatch small fan and set it as exhaust.

4. Turn on dining room celing fan, throw open sliding door.

5. Run to bedroom, get other fan, turn on somewhere in the house.

6. Cuss.

Is this what “dual exhaust” means?

So now. Clean up. Paper towels? Oh, no we don’t have any of those.

Swiffer sweeper “dusters”, come to mama.

Putty knife to scrape with? Nope, Pampered Chef kitchen spatula? Yes!

I am the MacGyver of kitchen disaster clean up.

I did as much of it tonight as I could stand and had the imagination for. Knowing that my husband will come home from work in the morning and microwave something, I left this “love note” for him. Remembering that we are out of tape and I recently wrapped a birthday gift with scrapbooking adhesive, I slid the paper through the handle and fled the scene of the crime.

I don’t know how I will fix this tomorrow, but inspiration will surely strike.

I’m hungry – guess I’ll eat something meant to be served cold.

I’ll call the beautician tomorrow.

I find that long term boiling and a food processor can make almost anything edible, even deer butt.

Last week, M., a former student, dropped off two deer roasts for me, perhaps in appreciation for the hours I spent tutoring him as an eighth grader in an effort to get him to do his work. Now, as a freshman in high school he has nearly straight A’s, without my help.

I got the packages out of the school freezer today and wondered what kind of dinner they could become.

One package label read, “12-24-08″…. Oh, a Christmas Eve deer. That must have been a great Christmas for M. Not so much so for the deer. Below that, “Rump.” M. brought me deer butt. Appreciation or retribution?

As I was pondering the symbolism of such a gift, I turned it over and read further, “Ass End.” I debated telling Ismael that we were having the ass end of a deer for dinner. If I did, I would be dining alone.

Instead, I told him we were having deer chili. “It’s pork?” he asked. He asks this all the time as if I would find it funny to sneak pork into my Muslim husband’s dinner. No, deer and pig are not the same. He muttered something about swine flu and wandered away.

I set the pot to boil on the stove, added onions, tomatoes, and deer and settled in for a long boil to make the tough cut of meat edible.

During a break in my pot watching, I saw a 6 inch spider man hanging mid air out side of our patio door and caught on our clothesline. The 3 year old upstairs chattered away in Spanish as he yanked on the string to pull Spidey back to his web. More pot checking.

After 3 hours of boiling I had little hope – then I remembered a food processor can make almost anything tender. The big chunks of meat fell victim to the shredding blades. Back in the pot with more onions. And me back to my computer and the black hole that is Facebook.

Something was amiss – I looked at the screen door (now open) and realized that the three year old was no longer upstairs, but in my doorway and my inside cats…outside. Aye caramba. I introduced my Swahili named gatos, Moshe and Tembo, to him and he appreciatively stroked and chased each of them around the patio only to be scooped up by his embarrassed father.

It’s been a multicultural night around here… a little Spanish, a little Swahili, and a whole lot of redneck.

Today we took our 8th graders to the Children’s Museum in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day. We visited the Power of Children gallery to see the Anne Frank exhibit and saw a local high school perform the play Life in a Jar.

I have been to the gallery before. The exhibits show many pictures of a young, carefree Anne before the Nazis invaded the Netherlands and she and her family went into hiding. The museum has videos, interactive displays and sound and light shows to keep the kids interested.

A large red leather school bag drew my attention. I opened the flap and the attached display told me what Anne stuffed in it on the day they fled: her diary, her favorite pen, some curlers and barrettes. Silly things she thought, but she’d rather have these things than more clothes. They were her things.

I wondered what Adam would stuff in a bag at her age? What “silly” things will be important to him?

At that point, the gallery became personal to me. The Frank’s had done everything right. They fled war ravaged Germany for a safer existance in Holland. They protected their girls fiercely and went into hiding when they were further threatened. Yet, they couldn’t control anything. Otto Frank lost his girls and his wife.

What would I do in his situation? As much as I think I should, I really can’t control everything. I might do everything right and one day lose Adam. If I did, I’m not sure I could go on with the courage that Otto Frank displayed in his remaining life time.

Yes, I honored Anne as I do everytime I visit that gallery, but today I also honored her devoted, strong parents. I think that would please Anne.