Birthday Boy

This post is a little delayed, since Filipe's birthday was actually on Saturday. But hey, too bad. We had an open game night at our house (thanks, Pastor Baker) Saturday night. The food was provided by my MIL, the entertainment was provided by my husband (Birthday Boy), and the child care was provided by moi. Actually, I dig kids. I'm much more comfortable hanging out with those whose ages are in the single digits. I won't delve into the ramifications of that now. This blog is about the Birthday Boy.

In case anyone is interested, he turned the big 2-7.

Did I mention the party lasted until 1am? I think that's how long it lasted, anyways. I went to bed at midnight. What a party-pooper! My poor husband got stuck with a lousy hostess for a wife. But I have other skills that make up for it.

I'm really good at alphabetizing our files. That's my skill, so get your mind out of the gutter.

Anyways, here are a couple of shots from the party, so if you weren't there, you can cry that you missed out on all the crazy Adventist fun:

Like I said, food provided by my MIL Leila (she'll cater your event, too. Seriously. Her food--Brazilian--is awesome. She specialized in presentation--making it look good too. Oh, but she'll charge you, but I get it for free--ha!). She also did our wedding actually. Freakin' amazing, she is.

Why does everyone like to hang out in the kitchen? I probably should have mopped the floor.

I went all-out with the decorations.

Although Filipe's birthday speech was emotional and inspiring, my dad's ready for the ice cream (he really likes ice cream. Really.) Game time. I honestly think they woke up the entire neighborhood playing Pit, or Spoons, or whatever in the heck they were playing outside. I was expecting the cops to stop by any minute. Seriously.

This was my social scene--soymilk & cheerios with friend Jeffrey & my Sofia.

What party at the Fernandes house would be complete without an anatomy lesson of the heart? We really know how to party.

So there you have it. Maybe this will motivate you to be ready for it next year. Remember, April 26, 2009--Party Time at the Fernandes House. Rock on.

Egg Salad

So I don't cook much. It probably doesn't come as much of a surprise to most people, but I thought I needed to make sure you understand that. Mostly because today's vignette is about making hard-boiled eggs, and yes, I consider that cooking. I have low standards.

After returning from a very fun adventure at the park with the Greenbergs, I decided to make egg salad while the boys were snoozing and Sofia was busy watching Kipper. So I boil my eggs. I'm also doing laundry, so I'm not really conscious of the passage of time. After what I feel to be a goodly length of time, I turn off the stove and put my eggs under running water. Change loads of laundry, fix the TV for Sofia. I peel my nine eggs, and I'm ready to cook! I cut the first egg. The yolks are not finished cooking.

Another thing you should know about me is I do NOT eat runny eggs. Filipe likes his runny on bread, but for me, if it's moving, I ain't eatin' it. Perhaps that is a hint of my vegetarianism as well. Runny eggs creep me out.

So here I am, looking at my undercooked yolks (to be fair, they're more soft than runny) and I don't know what to do. I've already peeled all nine of the eggs, so it's not like I can stick them back on the stove for a while to finish cooking. But then I think of that modern marvel, the microwave. What if I stick them in there for a while? Maybe they'll at least firm up a bit more. So I stick the bowl in the microwave for about 30 seconds. As I open the door and reach in to take the bowl out, it strikes me that I was making the egg salad in a aluminum bowl. Isn't there some rule about metal in the microwave? Great, so now I've probably created some radioactive runny eggs, full of Salmonella.

After slapping my forehead, I transfer the eggs to a glass bowl and inspect them. They pretty much look the same as before, so I decide to give it another go. In the microwave they go, this time for a minute. After another inspection, I tell myself they look firmer. I figure another nuke and they're going to be like rubber, so you know what I do? I make the egg salad, soft yolks and all. And I am so irritated, I probably won't eat it. I go to all the trouble to cook (low standards, remember?) and I'm not even going to be able to enjoy the yolks of my labor. Of course, it's not going to bother Filipe in the least, and they kids are too young to have these peculiar repulses, but I really do like egg salad. But not with runny yolks. I guess now I'll have to go cook some Jell-o to make me feel better. I love low standards.

Fawn meets the 21st Century

So I've always thought of myself as technologically advanced. I mean, my parents had a "green screen" computer way before any of my friends had. I remember typing a report in 5th grade about the egyptians on that lovely beast. And printing it on the dot matrix printer. And, of course, just after reading about the newest technological wonder, the "information super highway" in my Weekly Reader, I thought, "Maybe when I'm a grown up. How rad would that be?" And here we are, not 15 years later, and I can hardly remember a time before internet. My family, of course, had AOL as soon as it first came out. My parents can vouch for the triple-digit bills I ran up as I chatted with my "friend," who happened to live up the street.

CD players, DVD players--my dad came home with them all soon after they surfaced. He's the kind who bought my mom an iPod for her birthday, and she says, "and i-what?" But he knew she just had to have it. My point in all this is that I must not have recieved from my dad that technology gene after all, because this is my first foray into the world of blogging. I've read blogs, I even subscribe to a couple (waiterrant.net, thepioneerwoman.com ) but I've never mustered the time or courage to make my own contribution.

Until Now.

I still haven't figured out what exactly my blog will be about. Probably just mundane life stuff, all the boring things that happen when you have three children 3-years-old and under. Very boring life. I'm not recommending you read this if you're looking for excitement on a Saturday night. But if you've exhausted every other resource available to you in the entertainment sector, perhaps this will help you sleep. So, sit back, relax (because I never do), and perhaps even enjoy.