Tag Archives: moms

My Lovely Fried Turkey Family

A few photos from the 2010 Baumgartner & Purinton Thanksgiving…

One of two turkeys we fried up in our backyard for the feast for 18 family and friends.

All in all, this year’s Thanksgiving was pleasant, with plenty of food, wine, friends, family, and card games all around. One story I wanted to share before diving into these photos was a comment my Grandma made while making a pit stop at the Kid’s Table. My grandma is one of the hardest working women I know, and will swear when appropriate, but can sometimes be oblivious, as grandmothers might be, to the things that she says. So, we are all sitting there, a turkey glaze in our eyes playing the penis game (you start saying penis and each time saying ‘PENIS’ louder than the next, a pointless game that I shouldn’t play as a twenty-two year old, but whatever) My grandma pops a squat next to me and says, “Oh boy guys, I am back on the turkey.” We all turn to her, “what do you mean grandma?” My sister asks giggling. “Honey, I am having seconds of turkey, I just can’t get enough of it!” We all laugh along, my grandma yawns, and goes beyond loving turkey, “girls, I gotta tell you, I just love dark meat.” Okay, it’s so inappropriate to find this humorous, but I couldn’t stop laughing, as my grandmother was still oblivious to her unintentional sexual reference. “That dark meet, I’ll tell ya,” she continues, “once you have some of that, the white meat just doesn’t compare.” (Insert tears I am laughing so hard.) She is still out of the loop but sits there, sighs a bit longer, strokes the table a few times and leaves to retire to the bedroom with this comment, “I just love this soft wood.” Will somebody PLEASE tell me what she might have been on aside the meat train?!

Dad raising Ye Olde Turkey.

SPOTTED: The Gang waits for the turkey.


Proving that I was an idiot and ran outside barefoot to take pictures of the raising of the turkey!

This just about sums up the brother – sister bond.

My dad and my sister’s boyfriend, Sam, showed some forced but adorable love.

My Grandma and my sister posing for a photo while baking rolls and pies.

Sally, Sam, and Jacob, kickin’ it at the Kid’s table.

Sally and Sam! Both got sick of my camera, deal with it.

Influenced by their crazy aunt, my mother, my Uncle John got whip-creamed post dinner.

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The Art of Letting Go

This weekend was a whirlwind of excitement, failure, and a firm kick in the ass of “grow the fuck up, kid”. Currently, I work four jobs, but it’s not as bad as it sounds, everything has its own time slot during the week and keeps me busy. As we all do from time to time, I went onto Craigslist to take a gander at the pet listings in the Seattle area, and low and behold there she was. This little 8 week old border collie Rottweiler fell into my lap before 9am that morning. I made arrangements to drive out to Port Orchard to pick the little bugger up, the owner opted to meet at a McDonald’s parking lot. I didn’t question, and drove out to meet the new member of my family of one.

Of course in the midst of all this my parents are scolding me, warning me, even threatening me, all just to not get this pup. I think back when my mom was my age, where she was preparing to get married, and in a short couple years produce me. Sooo, a puppy was the worst I could do?

I pick Louisa up, she is so sleepy, and hardly flinches when I take her from the Suburban packed with five kids in the back (five!) that is wafting of cigarette smoke. “She has a few flees,” the wife tells me, but I am too smitten to care about a few flees, “Alright!” And I hand her the whopping 35 dollars. I sit back in my truck and hold my new tiny creature, so proud to have her as my own. We begin to drive away from the parking lot when I spot the first flea, then the next, then the next. She was being devoured by them. My boyfriend and I treated her as best we could for the fleas, but I wanted so badly to have my parents approval. Yes, I don’t live under their roof, but they still help pay for my bills, health insurance, and at the end of the day- they’re my parents. But instead, each time I tried to come home, and show my mother the little puppy face, she had a “play date” with one of her friends. They would comment on my short hair and my mom would follow-up with a fake smile and eyes wide and eyebrows high, “It’s cute, isn’t it?” (if you can’t picture this, just do it on your own, you’ll get the idea)

I find the pile of bills they had been helping me pay off, neatly in a stack on the entry way table. Because I had a new pup, I was now responsible for everything. The tidal wave of money issues and having too much on my plate hit me and I knew that I couldn’t take proper care of my beautiful little flea bag while also paying off credit cards that I shouldn’t have had in the first place. So I had my Sunday sob episode, and found a better home, free from smoking, fleas, and a young twenty almost two-year old who is on work overload. Now I’m off to pay my bills, find a place in Seattle that is pet friendly for when the time is right, and when that time comes, raise my eyebrows and smile at my mother, “I did it, proud?”

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Hold your breath and dive in

I want to share a piece of a piece I wrote about when I lived in Aussie land way back when- when I say way back when, I mean I was about five and in a bath with my sister- while my mum video taped this moment:

“It’s my mother’s late twenty something voice commentating for the night as she films us in our half filled murky tub water. Her voice reminds me of mine today. “Jane?” my mother says, “Do you want to tell us why I came in here with the video camera?” Her accent isn’t as strong as ours, but each word ends slightly higher pitched. I stare at her with my legs hanging over the edge, using a large plastic cup to dump large amounts of bath water over my hair, but choose the silent treatment.

“Well,” my mom decides to add in, “I came in here because I heard my oldest daughter yell, ‘Oh my god–Help!’ Isn’t that right Jane?” I still sit in the tub shifting my miniature ass from left to right. “Poop!” I yell, exhausted from my mom’s version of the story, “Sally pooped in the tub!” Sally lays on her baby belly and slides up and down the tub, her legs kicking up behind her, able to understand everything but unable to comment on her bathroom accident.

I hop out of the tub to check the window leading to the back stairs porch for any possums, showing the camera my entire backside. The excitement of the “oh my god. help- poop” moment subsides and my mom begins to wrap things up. “Okay, well I think I’ll leave you two to finish,” she chuckles and begins to back up from the bathroom. Sally stares desperately into the lens for my mom as she backs out, “Baaaa, Baaaa! Pbbaaa!” She yells while pointing a chunky index finger to the water, and there it is.

The small perfect circle of poop, forgotten during cleanup; floating freely in the water. Sally kicks furiously at it, and my mom makes those “Oh, oh no, oh, ok” motherly sounds. The camera focus goes in and out, “I’ll get it”, my mom says, but she isn’t fast enough. “Don’t worry Sal! I’ll get it,” I slip back into the tub, stiff-arm Sally’s head and step over her body, nearly slipping during my mid Heisman. I sit there, eyeing the nugget with defiance, and take my plastic cup for the capturing. I splash half the water out and scream, “Sally move!” as I dive for the perfect catch. I hold the entire cup of bath water full to the brim with my sister’s tiny poop floating at the top; I was so proud.”

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