My Once Upon a Time in Mexico

I glanced at the giant clock ticking on the wall in the empty airport.  Two hours had passed and I was still trying to figure out what to do.  I was scared, alone and Spanish-less in a city that spoke nothing else.  The clock read 11:00 pm and I decided it was time to go somewhere…but where?

I was nineteen years old and sitting on my suitcase in an empty terminal in the city of Monterrey in Mexico.  I had remembered to pack everything; a year’s supply of clothing, teaching supplies and gifts for my new students, a Spanish-English pocket-size dictionary and even my favorite heels that I figured I may never need at my destination of a village with dirt roads.  There was one thing I forgot to pack though: the phone number of the person who was supposed to pick me up.  That would really come in handy right now.

I took a breath, said a prayer and stepped out into the muggy heat of an evening in Monterrey.  A plan was coming together in my mind that seemed simple and good: hail a cab, give the driver the name of the village and school where they would be expecting me the next morning and voila, everything should work out perfectly afterall!

Now, how do you say “taxi” in Spanish?!

I quickly realized I should have payed more attention in my high-school Spanish class to how to speak Spanish instead of the cute guy in the third row!   My taxi driver and I were having a major communication break-down (the fact that he was missing most of his front teeth didn’t help the language barrier) although I was able to gather he would be delighted for me to come to his “casa” for “mucho tiempo” and there was something else he kept saying that left me clueless.  After repeated, frantic searches through my pocket-dictionary, I just nodded “yes”…and sometimes “no”, and hoped the rest of my ride would be in the back-seat and not the taxi’s trunk!

I also quickly discovered two things about the booming city of Monterrey; 1. No one in the entire city of Monterrey had ever heard of the village of El Carmen and 2. in spite of what my American banker friend had promised, no hotel within a hundred miles of the airport accepted cashier checks.  

This was precisely why my toothless taxi-driver dumped me on the steps of a police-station two hours later, at 2:00 am.

Should you be thinking, police-station, that sounds safe…what a good idea!  Let me paint the scene: I’m standing on the steps of a building that looked like a bulldozer had started to demolish it in a neighborhood that would make an American ghetto look like Beverly Hills.  I’m holding onto a giant suitcase, a purse crammed with valuables, and am probably the whitest thing other than the stars overhead in the dark sky for a mile radius.  Once I walk inside the police-station, I also notice I’m the only one not wearing a bullet proof vest.  Darn.  That’s another thing I forgot to pack.

I’ll save myself the embarrassment of reenacting what came next.  It involved a room full of amused police officers that didn’t speak English, a girl (me) that wished like she’d never wished before that she spoke Spanish and a game of charades with the contestant (me) acting out an airplane, school-teacher, taxi-driver and a rude hotel clerk while the participants (policemen) shouted out guesses in Spanish and laughed.

Thankfully, no one got that on video.

It seemed at the end of that little game that (other than being exhausted from some good belly-laughs) the officers understood what had happened and decided I could stay while they figured out what to do with me.  Perhaps from sheer habit or lack of originality, they had me step into a jail cell and fingerprinted me while I filled out some forms (that I didn’t understand as they were all in Spanish).

It was at this point that I got a little worried.   I hadn’t really been scared until I heard the latch click when the jail door slammed behind me.

I remember thinking at that moment, Well, God, I thought you led me here. If I could offer up a suggestion for how I’d like my life to end, PLEASE don’t let me disappear forever in a little jail cell in a city in Mexico.  I promise I’ll never forget to pack someones phone number again…especially in a foreign land where I don’t speak the language.  Oh, and sorry I didn’t pay attention in Spanish class either!

But, speaking of phone numbers…I suddenly remembered something!  This could be my salvation…

To be continued tomorrow...!

Chicken Pesto Panini (Tasty Stuff)

It was love at first bite when my husband and I went out to a local eatery and tasted their chicken pesto panini!  I am not a gourmet chef, but I took on the challenge of making a sandwich that would hit the spot on the days we couldn't escape for a date night and needed to have date night IN.  ThIS is the result...it's pretty easy to make and super tasty (or so me and my hubby think)!  Enjoy! 

*Note: I don't usually use EXACT measurements so add a little more/less to YOUR taste!

Chicken Pesto Panini

Ingredients:

* Chicken tenderloins, thawed (you'll need about 2 per sandwich)

* Tony's seasoning, to taste (or season salt)

* Olive oil, about 2 or 3 Tbls.

* 3 to 5 Tbls. of shredded Parmesan

* 3 to 5 Tbls. pesto sauce (I use a store bought pre-made, use whatever you like best!)

* Muenster cheese (2 slices per sandwich)

* Red onion (I use about 1/2 an onion for 2 sandwiches)

Here's the HOW:

Heat up the oil in a pan and throw those babies in the fryer!  Sprinkle liberally with Tony's (my best bud from my Louisiana days!) and flip once they have "seared" (lightly browned on each side) then cover with lid to cook through.

Meanwhile, slice up that red onion into strips....yum!  Throw them in with the chicken (on the side) when the chicken is almost cooked through.

Spread the pesto sauce on top of the chicken at the end.  Just heat it, flipping to coat both sides but be careful not to leave it in pan more than a minute or pesto will start to burn!

Meanwhile, cut up bread of YOUR choice to prep for grilling the sandwich.

Top the chicken with the shredded Parmesan at the END and remove from heat.  (mouth watering in anticipation!!)

Line up all your ingredients to ready sandwich for assembly.  You may use a George Foreman or panini press to grill it...or just make a sandwich, no grilling even required!  (we do usually like it grilled!)

Ready to grill!! (Heat up just a few minutes, check often!!)

Chicken Pesto Panini to go...or to STAY home and enjoy with your sweetie!  (Serve with a side of ranch and  sweet potato fries if desired!)

The Crazy Arby Derby

I loaded my crew into our mini-van and grabbed my cell phone while I was backing out of the Arby’s parking lot.  I couldn’t wait to call my husband.

“Well, that was fun taking all the kids to Arby’s for lunch.”

“Wait a minute!”  My husband replied on the other end, “Did you just say ALL THE KIDS, ARBY’S and FUN in the SAME sentence?”

I always feel naively optimistic upon entering any establishment to eat when I’m flying solo with my fab four in tow.  Either I’m subscribing to the “Ignorance is Bliss” theory or my hunger takes over the logical part of my brain that is screaming, “Don’t do it!  Get out while there is still time!” 

 

With the smell of curly fries and roast beef luring me in, I succumbed to the magical spell of Arby’s.  Once we were inside, I unloaded my four-year-old, three-year-old, and one-year-old into a booth and scooped the baby into my arms.  I would have to have to leave my three darlings for a moment to go up front and order, but I wouldn’t leave them alone, I was leaving behind the Holy Spirit, I mean-The Holy Fear of Their Momma!  

“Sit here,”  I said, locking eyes with my wiggly Judah to make sure he heard so he would be without excuse on the day of judgment, “Please be good.  Don’t stand on the table, on the booth or your brother’s head.  Don’t eat food off the floor, don’t lick the windows and most importantly, DON’T MOVE.  I’ll be right back with yummy food for those who have resisted the temptation of acting on every crazy thought that pops in their heads!!”  My children looked like angels as I backed…slowly…away, keeping them in my line of sight as I stepped into the food line to order.

Thankfully, only one lady stood in front of me in line.  Un-thankfully (is that a word?!), she had probably been a live witness to Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood and was apparently going to be paying for her entire order in…pennies!  Dear Lord, I prayed, this is going to take a miracle to get back to my kids in under a century.  Please make them behave.  

One glance towards those three little angels quickly assured me it would take a miracle to get my unattended children to behave, as in the good Lord Himself showing up (bolts of lightning and a loud, booming voice would sure sweeten the deal).

It was like “Home Alone: Arby’s Booth Edition” at the table, it looked like a game of The Muskrat and The Weasel was in full-swing as Jude, Gideon and EvaLee laughed gleefully and chased each other under the table and through the booth seats, stopping now and then to investigate a fry that was squished into the carpet.

I tried to appear calm and collected as I bounced Gabby on my hip and casually glanced at Grandma Penny at the counter.

“Let’s start over,”  The clerk smiled at the sweet little lady, “Here’s five pennies, six, seven, eight, nine….yes, mam’, the total is $6.84 again.  Okay, where was I?  Oh, yes: nine, ten, eleven…”

I tried not to lose my place in line as I did my best to send a discreet evil eye at the boys (EvaLee is still young enough to qualify for Momma‘s “Get-Out-of-Jail-Free-Card“) but they were too busy having fun to notice the smoke coming out of my ears.  They were all popping over the booth like a group of Jack-in-the-Boxes on speed.  Finally, Gideon caught my eye and I took the golden opportunity to hiss things like, “Sit down!” and “Be quiet, stop that!” without actually making any noise as I didn’t want to draw any more attention to them or me.  I figured the neon sign over the kids, flashing “CRAZY, HUNGRY, SILLY CHILDREN HERE!!” was enough excitement without the a side-show of their mother shouting and hopping around across the restaurant.  I was praying Gideon could read lips…and deeply furrowed brows.

Speaking of praying, I was also praying Grandma Penny would suddenly unearth a ten dollar bill from her tiny knitted purse and we’d all get to order before the new year!  My heart sank as I heard the clerk still counting, “…seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven…”.  Sweet Jesus!  I was just reaching into my own purse to throw a twenty on the counter and save us all from celebrating our retirement in the Arby’s order-line when the clerk exclaimed, “…and that should do it, Mam’!  You’re all set!”

I breathed a sigh of relief when all of the sudden my ears filled with The Bang Heard ‘Round the World: my wiggly three-year-old, Judah, attempting to stand with full force under the table and banging his head as a result.  The sigh of relief I had just been breathing froze mid-breath as I waited for it…and waited…yes, there it was, THE CRY.

Judah’s waaaambulence went off in FULL glory, giving every fire-truck and police-car in town a run for their money.

He bolted like an Olympic Sprinter towards me (I always wonder how much pain they could be feeling if they can run with that amount of focus and speed!) and jumped into my arms where he received (in addition to the attention of EVERY Arby’s patron) a kiss from me that silenced all his woes.  Just like that, he smiled and returned to the Boisterous Party at Booth #5.

I finally placed our order and reunited with my long-lost sanity and children.  We were just finishing the last of our milkshakes when a stooped elderly gentleman approached our table, his eyes twinkling as he leaned in towards us,

“Your children are so well behaved.”  

A milkshake never taste so interesting as when it comes through one’s nose when they attempt to suppress delirious laughter.

“Thank you, sir,”  I replied, “Um…you mean these children?  Did you see them while I was in line?”

He smiled and nodded, “Yes, I sure did and they are good.  I was so blessed watching you all eat and how nice of kids you have here.  I was just remembering my own children.  My baby boy just turned forty-five.”

Wow, forty-five, I thought, when my oldest is four, that feels like centuries away!  But time is short…life is short.  I thanked the sweet old man and as I watched him shuffle out the door, it felt as if life suddenly slowed down a bit.  I turned around and looked at each of my children, trying to freeze in my memory that moment in time, a moment I would never have again: Gabby chewing on a French-fry, covered in drool, EvaLee loudly slurping the last of a milkshake with a happy expression on her round face, Judah trying to nonchalantly slide under the booth (for the hundredth time, what exactly is the attraction to that spot!?) while I shook my head “no”, and Gideon jabbering away with his report from the front-line about any sibling that was committing a misdemeanor I may have missed.

Yep, that’s life sometimes.  Messy, loud, hectic…and fun.  I wouldn’t trade it for a million quiet dinners with the most famous people of the world at the fanciest restaurant in town.  So when I called Bob a few minutes later and said, “Well, that was fun taking all the kids to Arby’s for lunch.”, I really DID mean it.

YOU are Ashton Kutcher

Here’s a little known fact: I’m in Ashton Kutcher’s Fan Club.

Okay, I’m not actually signed up to be in his Fan Club and I don’t want to receive autographed postcards or A.K. Newsletters, but I am a big fan of how this guy treats people overall (let me assure you, my dear husband endorses this message as he knows I’m not ga-ga over this celebrity because he has a sexy “blue steel” look or something like that, hear me out and you’ll understand why).  I’m not saying I would vote him into the Noble Peace Prize Hall of Fame with the likes of Mother Teresa or Gandhi, but if you’ll pull up a school-desk next to me, we could learn a lot at The Ashton Kutcher University.

Born in the land of corn (Iowa) to a factory worker and a mama who made sure she hauled her family to a Roman Catholic church that honored her Irish roots, Ashton Kutcher came into this world kicking and screaming like we all do, but he didn’t come alone.  Ashton had a fraternal twin named Micheal and while they had many similarities, there was one thing about that was very different.  Ashton had a strong heart and Micheal did not.  When they were young, Micheal received a heart transplant in the hopes of getting another chance at life.  Unfortunately, not long after the surgery, Micheal developed a heart muscle disease that begin to weaken his newly transplanted heart.  The daily stress of Micheal’s failing health hit his twin brother hard and while Ashton’s friends dealt with the high school drama of dating, sports and parties, he struggled with thoughts of suicide.

Then one terrible day, Micheal’s heart stopped for a moment and the doctors had grim faces when they gave his family the report, “He only has hours to live”.  The news felt like a knife in Ashton’s chest and a few moments after hearing it, he climbed onto the hospital balcony, ready to jump and die so that his brother could have his heart and live.  

Ashton clearly remembers that day, "I'm standing on the balcony, thinking about jumping off, and my dad comes out and says, 'What are you thinking about?'  I tell him. He comes over and says, 'You can't do that' - and right then the doctors come rushing out, (saying), 'We have to prepare the operating room.  A woman died in Florida in a car accident, and there's a heart on the way.’"

The surgery was a success and Micheal and Ashton are still the best of brothers.  Ashton hasn’t been a model of perfection, but the choices he makes in life are evidence that his heart is not only physically strong, but also strong in good characteristics like kindness and humility.

Just the other day, I was talking on the phone to my sister-in-love, who is a fellow A.K. fan.  “Did you know that Ashton is known for responding to the ‘nobodies’ on Twitter?  That’s one of the reasons he has a HUGE following!”  Well, what do you think I did when I hung up?  I signed into my Twitter account and started following Ashton Kutcher of course!  Because, though I may be a somebody to my friends and a BIG somebody to my kids, to Ashton, I’m really a nobody.  The thought that somebody that BIG would shoot the breeze with ME seems pretty stinking cool.

If you think about it, everyone is a nobody to someone and a somebody to someone.  One can tell A LOT about a person’s character by how they treat the “nobodies”, the people in someone’s life that may seem to not do anything for them.  The people that won’t give them that big break, the people they may never see again; the stranger in line at the restroom, the McDonald’s worker that ask if they want fries with their order, the mom who spills her groceries in the parking lot when they’re in a hurry to get home, the man with a tear streaking his dirty face and smoking a cigarette by a back dumpster, or the kid who ask a celebrity on Twitter, “How can I be a movie-star as cool as you?”  Those people.  

A wise man I know named Bob Cole once said something that I adore, “Great people don’t just show off their treasures, but reveal to other people their own.  The funny thing about that is when we do reveal another’s treasure, we are better for it.  We learn something new.  We grow.  We get blessed.”

A friend I have, Daisy, lives this out.  Everywhere you go with this shining lady, she takes time to care about people, about the “nobodies”, because they matter to her.  I recall a time our children were jumping around the McDonald’s play-land together and a lady missing most of her teeth wearing tattered jean cut-off shorts smiled shyly at us and asked how old our kids were.  Daisy scooted close enough to hug this woman and treated her like the President of the United States.  Daisy asked her thoughtful questions, smiled warmly and listened intently.  Daisy loves on people who can’t necessarily give her a “leg up” in life and to me, that reveals the depth of her amazing character.

The truth is that no one is a nobody to everybody because everyone is a somebody to someone. Maybe you’re Ashton Kutcher's "nobody", but remember that to someone else, YOU are Ashton Kutcher.   

"The greatest good you can do for another is not just share your riches, but reveal to them their own."

Disraeli

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hebrews 13:2

It is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Never look down on anybody unless you're helping them up.   

The Reverend Jesse Jackson

Meltdown Momma!!

I try to have a melt down at least once a month.

Okay, so I don’t actually try to…it really comes quite naturally.  And the whole “once a month” thing isn’t an actual goal, but I do seem to be making that quota as overall as I’m batting about 12 for 12 (12 melt-downs in 12 month’s time).

Here are the necessary ingredients that combine to create my monthly recipe for disaster; too many goals (my fault), too little sleep (my fault), too much striving in my own strength (my fault), too big of pride to ask for help (obviously, my fault again) and last (but certainly not least), too many unused Kleenexes in our home that are feeling lonely and need to fulfill their nose-wiping/mascara-swiping destiny.

I could perhaps blame it on the busyness of life with four tiny blessings underfoot each day…but I was still batting 12 for 12 when I had just one kid.  So maybe if I was child-free I could cope with life’s stresses in a more balanced way.  Hmm…sounds like a nice theory, but again, reality tells a different story as my husband has many fond recollections of hanging up his “The Doctor Is IN” sign on a monthly basis during our dating and newlywed years to be my listening ear as I bawled my eyes out.

And, honey, don’t even THINK that I was melt-down free before I had a man because let me tell you, then the tears came even more frequently as I lamented the void of good-hearted men in the universe.

In conclusion, the only common denominator in these monthly melt-downs is.... Moi’ (note to any men reading: don’t assume this always fell during the “Pass My Shotgun” week as there were the plenty of occasions when it didn’t).

The funny (or not so funny, depending on if you’re my husband or not) thing about Mama’s Meltdown Day is it could strike at any moment though it is usually preceded by days of suppressed feelings (most of which I haven’t had time to analyze and figure out) and if you throw in a few diaper-explosions or burnt dinners, the great day could arrive even sooner than anticipated.

When “Mama’s Meltdown Day” does arrive, it is sure to never dissapoint in the amount of drama that it produces.  “Days of Our Lives” and “As the Stomach Turns” have nothing on me.

The ideal setting for the meltdown to take place is usually someplace that gives off a pathetic vibe and isn’t too cheery because misery loves lame company.  I try to hold it together (ever the brave, sacrificing marter of motherhood that I am) until the children are napping or watching a movie in the hopes they won’t land in therapy when their older for being a live witness to a hysticarl alien taking over their normally happy mother and watching her inhale an entire box of Kleenexes in a single breath.

Once these elements are in place; children distracted, Kleenexes in hand, dark corner of the bathroom located, and (bonus) a quick glance in the mirror to remind myself I’m truly pitiful (greatly helps if I didn’t have a chance to change out of my pajamas and never put on make-up or did up my hair)...then the dam breaks.  Look out Hoover, you have real compition now.

Of course, it gets rather boring just crying, eating Kleenexes, dwelling on all of the negative things in my life (NO positive thinking or praying allowed!!) and just SITTING there, so after awhile, I do what any responsible and accomplished woman would do: call your man and share the love.

Since my man isn’t always aware that Mt. Meltdown has been having some suspicious activity under the surface the previous week, when he first picks up the phone and hears me sobbing on the other side, unable to articulate what’s happening, the hair on his back stands up in alarm.  Is she okay?  Was their an accident?  Did something happen to one of our kids?  Is the house on fire (or, more likely, dinner?)…did the car break down?  

“Baby!  Talk to me!  What’s wrong?”  His worried tone is fuel for my fire.

“I can’t do this…it’s so hard!”

“What’s hard?  Are you okay?  Where are the kids, dear?”  

“They’re watfching Sesame Street, don’t worry about them.  Ths is about ME.  I’m NOT fine!  I’m having a…(tears)…a….(sobbing)….a…(deep, ragged breath)…a MELTDOWN!!!”

“Oh.”  His voice sounds relieved, “That’s good.  I thougth something was wrong.”

Ah, men.  No wonder they have a shorter life expectancy than women.

Work deadlines will have to be pushed back an hour…or year…while I pour out my woes and unload the burdens of this world onto the hefty shoulders of my own John Wayne.  The only feedback needed from the man on the other end of the line are these words,  “Yes.  Oh.  Uh-huh.  Really?  Yes.  I UNDERSTAND.”  Of course, when the dumptruck of emotions has unloaded, I can think a little more clearly and realize I am an desperate need of some quiet time with God.  As strong as my man’s shoulders are, he can’t carry my burdens for me.  The only One that can is the One that promised me, “Cast your cares upon me, for I care for you.”

Well, there you have it.  That’s a moment-in-the-Mama’s-Meltdown-Day for you.  It’s nothing fancy, not something I’m proud of and typically I am at fault for arriving to that point.

But, the way I see it, if I DIDN’T have a monthly meltdown then,

1.  The Kleenex company would be out of business.

And,

2.  I wouldn’t realize how desperately I am a sinner in need of a Saviour (and having a good man and a bucket of icecream helps too).