If a mom falls in the house and no one is around, does she really fall?

This is SERIOUS.  My kiddos are on fall break and they were spending the night out with friends the other night.  I was home all alone.  Normally, I would scream “PARTY TIME” and have a slumber party all to myself with wine and Dr. Phil on my DVR.  However, this particular dark eve, I tripped over a stupid rug and took 18 million tumbling steps towards the floor.  It’s only because the stairs were within my reach that I was able to stop myself and not face-plant-french-kiss the floor.  I swear my left big toe and left thumb were broken in my descent.  Don’t worry, I’m an amazing typist and can suffer the loss of one thumb pretty well.  Don’t know how I’d fare with the loss of both thumbs, but that’s besides the point. The fact is that I was home alone.  All alone.  What if I did face-plant?  Now begs the question: If a mom falls in the house and no one is around, does she really fall?

Everyone knows I’m a klutz.  It’s the 8th wonder of the world that I’m alive today despite my daily, unintentional self-abuse.  Not a day goes by that I don’t find a fresh bruise on my body.  My clumsiness is as natural as breathing.  The other night, however, I panicked.  My tripping was lightning fast – warp speed. No lie!  The moment I was able to regain stability, a tear swelled in my eye.  My heart was beating so loudly, the stupid dogs were barking at me.

What if I fell?  There was no one here to rescue me.  Fine, the dogs were here.  Guess what they would do.  They’d sniff at me and then lick my face and my feet. Max would pee on me because we all know he’s a P.O.S. (piece of sh*t).  Lily, a dog we’re sitting, would force her huge noggin under my arm demanding to be petted.  I trust that Bert, my favorite of all my children (er, I mean, my dogs) would die right beside me of a broken heart.

Isn't he the cutest?!?! He's my <3.

Isn’t he the cutest?!?! He’s my <3.

My poor orphaned (human) children would come home to find me sprawled out on the floor next to the stairs.  I’m sure I’d fall in such a way that my head would butt against the door and the girls would barely be able to get inside without forcefully pushing my dead, cold body aside.  Their first thought would be, “Oh mom.  How sad.  You danced all night to Dave Matthews and passed out from exhaustion, didn’t you?”  I’m in love with Dave Matthews but more on that later.  They’d be correct but they would also be dead wrong – pun intended.  In actuality, that night, I was dancing all night to Muse and not my beloved Dave. I haven’t been able to stop singing their songs since I reminded myself of “Madness” and posted about it the other day.  They are musical geniuses and deserve to be rocked out to all night long.  I didn’t dance ’til I dropped.  I simply fell and maybe I was dancing at the exact moment I fell but who cares?  Ok, fine!  I was sexy dancing. It’s the law that one must sexy dance when rocking out to Muse, especially to “Madness.”  I can’t be blamed.  No, I won’t be blamed.

Now I’m dead and the girls have come home to discover me.  Since I’m dead, I can’t talk, but my facial expression would say it all, “I’M DEAD GIRLS. I DIDN’T PARTY ‘TIL I DROPPED.  I JUST DROPPED.  FLAT ON THE FLOOR.  I TRIPPED and now have earned a Darwin Award for being such an imbecile.”  (Ooooo, I like awards).

Save a few bruises and possible broken bones, I survived.  No Darwin Award today.  Although, I openly admit that a Darwin Award may be in my future.  Probably because I was sexy dancing.

The Case of the Missing Crockpot Lid.

You know it happens to you.  It happens to everyone.  Er, everyone, except me.  I am never cursed to find that proverbial, lone sock in the dryer.  Nope, not once.  That poor, single sock that shall not find its mate and is now doomed to be a cleaning cloth or worse – find itself comingled with the trash.  Pathetic, lonely sock.  Yet, every single sock of mine is perfectly matched to its twin.  I guess my socks are very blessed in this way.  Tragically, my expensive cookery is not afforded such blessings.

I love to cook and have invested in very nice cookware.  Do you think my children covet my crockery as I do?  No!  Do you think they appreciate the sacrifice I made by investing in such quality cookery in which to heat up their Chef-Boyardee?  Hardly!

These ingrates are tasked with doing the daily dishes.  One would think that this is a reasonable and pretty easy chore and is WWWAAAAYYYY better than cleaning bathrooms or trimming the dogs’ nails.  But no.  They act like doing the dishes is abusive and I must be violating some child labor law.  “Watch your back, Mom.  Child Services might come.”  In what I assume is passive-aggressiveness from having to load/unload the dishwasher, they’ve chipped my Le Creuset which is enamel-coated cast iron cookware!  Enamel-coated CAST IRON!  How the flip do they do that?!?!  They put stock pots with the Tupperware, sauce pans with baking dishes, and the matching lids in the glass cupboard. MADNESS, I tell you!  MADNESS!

Uh-oh.  UH-OH!  I can’t control it.  It’s happening, ah yyyeeaaahhhh, baby.  Here it comes.  “I, I can’t get these memories out of my mind.  And some kind of madness has started to evolve.  Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma… Madness.”  I’m doin’ it and ain’t nobody gonna stop me.  I’m doin’ the sexy dance.  WAHOO!  It’s compulsory.  I don’t care if Mini-me and The Weez are mortified.  Who cares that they have friends over?!  Not me!  Come on everybody, join me!!

WHEW!  What an amazing moment.  Isn’t that the sexiest song, like EVER?!  Whenever anything reminds me of this song, I MUST stop (collaborate and listen) and sing and dance and enjoy it.  I will literally die if I don’t.

What was I saying?  Oh yeah!  Ungrateful kids, expensive cookware and missing socks.  Actually I’m past the socks now.  The point is that due to my lovely darlings’ aversion to dish washing, I never know where I will find pots and pans and the like to prepare our meals.

The other day, a friend posted a really cool recipe on her blog and I wanted to make it last night.

SIDE NOTE: Technically, I haven’t met Jenelle, my “friend”.  My BFF is friends with her.  When The Boy joined the Air Force, he was stationed to South Korea.  It turns out that Jenelle was in the Army and also stationed in South Korea at the same time.  I call it Fate.  So the BFF suggested Jenelle and I become friends on Facebook which we promptly did.  Although we never met, I Facebook stalk her and read her blog and try to look half as cool as she does.  SIDE, SIDE NOTE:  The Boy never contacted her because, “Mom, I’m a man and can handle myself”.  Whatever.

Back to the recipe… The recipe uses a slow-cooker and I have one!  Of course, where do I find the slow-cooker (or crockpot as Southerners are known to say)?  My precious angels thoughtfully buried it behind the 20lb bamboo cutting board, turkey pan, and 14 million muffin tins.  Gosh, I love my kids.  Really.  After putting everything back and then wiping the sweat from my upper lip, I realize that I don’t have the lid to the crockpot.  OH COME ON!  I’m pretty sure that it is not in the cabinet in which I found the crockpot.  I look in the pots & pans cabinet.  Nope.  Then I look in the baking dish cabinet and again, not there.  Ok, Tupperware cabinet?  Not there either.  I’m at the last cabinet so it has to be there.  I slowly open the measuring cup and mixing bowl cabinet.  DARN IT ALL TO HECK!  It’s not there either.  I resort to the bowl & plate cabinet, the glassware cabinet, the koozie & alcoholic beverage cabinet (a/k/a the things-that-make-mommy-happy cabinet), the pantry, the laundry room, the bathrooms, under beds, the trunk of my car.  The lid is NOWHERE to be found.  N.O.W.H.E.R.E.  How can this be?  How does a crockpot lid go missing?  I genuinely would love an answer.  Of course I blame my kids.  I know they are at fault.  I threw a rather large hissy-fit in my search for the lid hoping they would fess up to hiding it or at least help me look.  No such luck.

So, now I have this recipe that I really want to make, but no lid for my crockpot.  Everyone knows that the lid is a very crucial element to the crockpot.  I was not to be stopped.  I made the recipe despite having no lid.  I double foiled the top of the crockpot and then put my wok lid over it for added heat & steam retention.  The foil-wok-lid concoction worked magnificently.  I’m a genius.  I just can’t help it.  Brilliance oozes out of my brain.

Last night’s crockpot lid drama was not the first time something has gone missing from the kitchen.  My favorite colander went on sabbatical or something because I couldn’t find it for nearly 2 months.  It just reappeared one day.  It has yet to tell me where it went.  My favorite Pampered Chef can opener also disappeared but eventually came back too.  Hmmm, did the colander give the sabbatical idea to the can opener?  Now that I think about it, my garlic press, which I use for fresh ginger and not garlic, also left and came back.  Did the crockpot lid overhear the colander, can opener and garlic/ginger press talking about their excursions and is now off seeing what that fuss is about?

OR, could it be that I have kitchen gremlins?

Great, that’ll be a huge mess to clean.