Five Second Rule

Dear Scientific Community,

I heard something on the radio last week that sent me into a spiral of despair, rocking my parental philosophies to their very core.

The five second rule isn’t real.

Apparently, you have again set out to prove that just as much bacteria can collect on a piece of food that has sat on the ground for five seconds as would collect on a piece of food sitting there for, say, 30 seconds. Or five minutes.

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Wine Review: Herzog Forward Petite Sirah and Chenin Blanc

Who: Forward by Herzog

What: Petite Sirah and Chenin Blanc

When: 2013 and 2014

Where: Clarksburg, CA (available');">

Why: Because someone needs to learn to clean up after themselves on my commute to work.

There I was, just driving to work, minding my own business, singing (rather brilliantly, if I do say so myself) along to my tunes when…..BAM. A huge piece of construction equipment (I live in Ohio, aka The Land of Orange Barrels) came sailing toward my little car. Seems it had been lying on the road, halfway into our lane, when the vehicle in front of me clipped it in just the right way to send it flying towards me.

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Does anyone else hold their breath every time the phone rings during the school day—convinced it’s the school nurse calling!?!?


Just a Phase

Note: This post was inspired by Glennon Melton’s “Don’t Carpe Diem”over at Momastery. Do yourself a favor and read it, if you haven’t already: it’s a great one!

Oh yes, I remember: standing in a checkout line with tired young children, one or all of them whining, and an old lady looking at them adoringly then turning to me with a nostalgic smile to say, “I hope you’re enjoying every minute!” As guilt-inducing as those comments were, I miss them. I do because I’ll tell you what: nobody is saying anything like that anymore. I’m not sure when the “we-don’t-think-they’re-cute-anymore” age officially starts, but I do know that no one looks at my 13-year-old boys and my 17-year-old daughter with a doting smile that says, “carpe diem,” particularly not if one of them is doing anything outside the realm of normal, like wearing cheetah pants with patent-green-leather boots or sporting freshly dyed hair.

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All week I think “I’ll get it done this weekend.” Then the weekend comes and I think “I’ll get it done next week.” It’s a problem.


Under the Bed

I have to give one of my cats pills for the next two weeks. He had an abscess, and the antibiotics will cure it. Easy for the veterinarian to say. The first pill went down with ease. Cats, however, learn very fast, and from that point since, he has avoided me like the plague.

Cats are creatures of habit, however, and Salami’s (named by my husband; I have no idea) favorite hiding place is his only hiding place.  He runs under the bed when he sees me coming. This is handy for me, but also depressing, because the following is a list of the things that are also under there with him:

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For the Love of God: Stop Talking!

My dear sweet children, I don’t know how to state this delicately, so I’ll just get straight to the point: will you please—for the love of all things true, beautiful and quiet—stop talking to me every second of every minute of every day. You do not need to say aloud to me every thought that passes through your little minds—or big minds. Whatever. The size of your minds is not the issue here. The point is that I need time—perhaps a minute or two a day, maybe an entire hour, if I may be so bold as to ask—to actually think and function.

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