Ode To A Friday Morning

Jack woke up this morning with a very large grin on his face. He changed out of his night-time pull-up and into his favorite Spiderman underoos. He decided the aluminum foil in his window (our way of tricking him into darkness at bedtime, since sunset now comes to our neck of the woods at the ungodly hour of 9:30pm) was no longer wanted and, very sweetly and carefully, removed it from the window pane. Then? He brought it to me in neatly wadded balls for the trash can. I informed him we should recycle all that foil. Eyes bright! "I will put it in the recycler, Mommy!" "Not without putting on some pants first, you won't, little man." "Awww, MAN!" And of he tromped, up the stairs to find a suitable pair of shorts. Then my genetics kicked in and, ADD assured, he thought to stop and let the dog out of his crate in my bedroom.

I can hear him now, talking to the dog about hurrying outside to go potty. Like a miniature version of me, championing Gizzy along to go and do his business. Positive reinforcement is apparently not lacking around here when it comes to matters of bowel function.

SO! I promised I would talk more about our vacation last week. It was short, sweet, and over much too soon. We drove to Canton on Monday and immediately landed on a tour of Harry London's Chocolate factory. This tour is short, sweet (pun intended) and just about right for small children to get the thrill of seeing all that candy without actually being able to get into any trouble. The tour itself starts with a free piece of chocolate and a short video about Mr. Harry London, himself. Following that, we were led into the room where they store the jillion-gallon tanks of hot, melted chocolate. Also? There was caramel, peanut butter, and confectioner's candy (aka "white chocolate") Next, it's up the stairs to a closed-in walkway above the factory floor. Jack pressed his little face up against the glass of the windows so firmly that I believe we might have left permanent impressions behind. For which I refuse to apologize - they really should expect such things in that place. I had to restrain myself to keep from licking the glass, so thick was the air with floating chocolate particulates.

After the factory tour and a quick check-in at our motel, it was off to my sister's. We took the tour of her new house, then packed up our respective broods into our respective mini-vans and headed out to a local restaurant for the biggest and most beautiful Reuben sandwich I have ever eaten. It consisted of pounds of corned beef and miles of swiss cheese. I ate the entire beast, and I regret nothing. It was sheer bliss.... as was catching up with my sis, and seeing her 3 youngest progeny. They have grown into real people. How this happened, how they have grown into actual humans from the toddlers I remember, is mystifying to me - as I refuse to believe I have aged as much as that. But they were lovely, and it was the perfect end to the day.

Day 2 was our trip to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. For T, this was a visit to Mecca. The building ("The Big Juicer" as our friend Kirkiez refers to it) is really not so unique looking from the outside - save for the giant, elongated football shape that protrudes from the rooftop. I found it somewhat oddly phallic, but admittedly that could be because my mind is a cesspool. I'll let you judge for yourself when I finally post the photos (tomorrow, I swear!).
It was interesting to learn all about the history of football, the teams that didn't make it (The Boston Shamrocks! The Canton Bulldogs!) past those early beginnings. Of course, we scoped out the Superbowl Rings (I kept thinking "Wonder Twins! ACTIVATE!") and the bronze heads of all those who have been inducted to Football Nirvana. It was all so impressive, it nearly convinced me to stop dreading the start of football season this year. Nearly. I'll maybe attempt to understand the regular season competition if T will at least forego the pre-season games. (Hear that baby?). The "I have to check out the players so I can put together my fantasy league team" excuse is not holding water with me this time. Pick up a Sports Illustrated and move it along.

Day 2 was capped off with a cookout back at my sister's, where we were joined by her husband - back early from a cancelled business trip. Except for my back (which earned me no end of taunting as I hobbled around like a 90-year-old woman) it was pure delight. Comfy and cozy and family and good food and all that is golden and soft-focus about summer.

Especially when I nailed an empty can with the pellet gun. From the back deck. At 50 feet. On my first and only try. Ka-Pow! Do not mess with me, because I will totally bruise your delicate bits with my pump-action pellet-gun prowess. (I need to get that on a t-shirt).

Day 3 was a jaunt up to the Akron Zoo. Yes, I saw snow leopards. I was actually left quite unimpressed, as they dozed under the hiding shade of a heavily-leafy tree. The river otters, on the other hand, provided quite a thrilling show. I giggled like a hyena, watching one of them dive and roll and swim through an underwater hollow log and such. Jack caught my enthusiasm, and we spent a good 10 minutes in front of the glass.. just watching the silly, carefree antics. I'm ambivalent about zoos in general... It's thrilling to see the animals up close that could otherwise be viewed only in pictures or on the telly. And I do understand that some valuable research comes of keeping these animals in captivity. But then I imagine how sad and depressing it is to be stuck in the same 4 walls for a long time. Then again, since there's not much I can do about it and - hey - we had a lovely day... well, I'll just leave it at that and enjoy the souvenirs from the gift shop. (A fridge magnet and an explorer's hat for Toby.)

And then it was off again home. The trip that took 5 hours going up was extended to 7.5 hours going home, thanks to the rain storms blowing across our path. This is where I once again stop and thank providence for the invention of the onboard DVD system. Curious George comes highly recommended, as you won't go insane listening to it over and over. (Thank you, Jack Johnson, for making such a re-listenable soundtrack. You deserve a special place in heaven).

So now we are home, a week has past, T started his new job, and life continues on.

T departs for the wilds of Prague on Sunday, so we're celebrating his birthday with his parents tomorrow. Which means I get to make a cake! (CAKE! Have I mentioned I love to make cakes?) And we'll probably try to do some sort of combined celebration for him and Jack when he gets back from ordering pibos with those wild Czechs.

Ahhhh, Summer. Whoever said these days were lazy did not lead my life. But at least these days are sunny and warm. I'll find my peace where I can.

Cork Fell Out, and BOY Do I Stink.

Boy do I ever. Stink, I mean.

This is a good thing, though. Better than good, it's great.

I have recently tumbled into a continuing string of health issues, including more "My Body Is In Open Revolt" adventures while on our vacation (which I will write about soon. later. after tomorrow. I swear. But it rocked. And I want to die in a vat of chocolate at Harry London's.)

I decided it was finally time to dig up my Nike+ sneakers and iPod and put them to decent use. The time has come to respect my body a little more, and to whip it into enough shape that things like my spine will cooperate with me. (Plus, the exercise is supposed to help with the Sciatica... Which, for reasons I'm not at liberty to explain, I cannot get treated professionally until at least next week.) I'm rambling, aren't I? Yeah. Bear with me, people.

SO! Saturday night I strapped on my sneakers and my magic music box (iPod Nano, how do I love thee...) and went for a long run. I would guess it came close to 4 miles. I can't tell you for sure because.. I am broken, and somehow forgot to select the "begin workout" function on my iPod. So the run stats were not recorded.

I say "run" very loosely, since I have not been a runner of any dependability since approximately 1997. Back then I could run 5 or 6 miles with the aid of my trusty Walkman tape player and the mix tape that my friend Jenny made me, which totally rocked because it had a combination of STP and Duran, Duran and - c'mon - you wish you could have been as cool as all that.

10 years, 2 kids, and 30 pounds later it's more of a power walk. Which is actually better, because my knees are probably next to go. I'm not yet thirty, but somehow my body failed to notice this fact. It's under the impression it is closer to about 50 - hence the (likely) herniated disc or two in my lumbar spine.

SO! I got a few miles in on Saturday evening. Again, tonight, I headed out and managed to properly set the sensor to record all the workout stats: 2.95 miles, averaging 15 minutes per mile. Not setting any world records, obviously, but also not too shabby for a broke down old mare. The neighborhood was still light, the kids were out playing basketball and riding bikes while teenage couples strolled hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. I never realized how many young couples with strollers there are in this neighborhood - I always assumed we were in something of a minority that way. It appears I was mistaken.

I can't guarantee I will be able to keep this up... I've had starts and stops, fits and spurts over the years as I attempted to get my body back into a healthy form. Even when we got married and I had only 150 pounds or so on my 5' 8" frame, it was more from calorie restriction, pilates, and ephedrine supplements than from actual disciplined workouts. That said, there is something about working up a good, honest sweat out on the pavement that kicks the senses into high gear and perks up the mind. Those Buddhist monks are on to something with that meditative exercise idea. Clears the cobwebs and pulls everything back towards the center.
Now if it just fixes sciatica, too, I'll be golden. And, hopefully, a few sizes smaller.

Weekly World... Not-So-Much News.

(Back posting because somehow I hit "save" instead of "publish" when this was written on Thursday...)

Strange week. T's last week at his old job. Monday we leave for Ohio, for 3 days of mini-vacation.

First stop: Harry London's Chocolate Factory. My mother would quite possibly club me over the head and sell me for parts in order to take this tour. 45 minutes with a guide to show us around each and every stage of the chocolate making process. Then we get to buy things at the gift shop. Because my pants are not tight enough yet - I can still breathe.

Second stop: Pro Football Hall of Fame and Museum. In which I will smile, nod, and attempt to distract my husband from the fact that I know almost nothing about the history of the game of American Football. Actually, I know almost nothing about the history of ANY sport. I don't know the famous players, I don't know who won the very first Super Bowl, and I don't know who holds the records for most rushing yards in a single season. My husband? He knows all of these things. In mind-numbing detail. So this stop on the Family Sightseeing Tour '07 is completely and entirely for him. Which is totally okay, as it is the almost-30-year-old-man's equivalent of taking a four-year-old to Disney World and telling him that he gets to live there.

Third stop: Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. All the little chicks with the crimson lips yell CLEVELAND ROCKS!! Okay, so I have never been to Cleveland, and I have no personal knowledge of whether or not it does, in fact, rock. That said, I am excited to drool over the Rock and Roll Icons of yester-yore and maybe drool on Janis Joplin's Porsche. Because I loves me some Rock and Roll. (So put another dime in the frackin' jukebox, baby...)

Fourth stop: This will be up for some debate, as we are equivocating between Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens and the Akron Zoo. The manor house and gardens would be more fun for mom and dad to check out, but with the kiddies in tow methinks the zoo is probably the more sound choice. Plus? They have snow leopard. SNOW LEOPARD! Those things are too cute to be real, and provide instant good juju. Plus they're endangered. So if I'm gonna get that snow leopard coat, I guess I should hurry before there aren't any left. (Before I get hacked by PETA: I'm kidding. Besides, Snow Leopard is sooo last season. All the cool kids are wearing Manatee this summer!)

So, yeah. I've been on a Carribbean Cruise. Wandered the streets of Old New Orleans (before the levees broke). Conquered Manhattan. Been beach-combing in Maui? Check.

This year? I brave the wilds of the Ohio frontier. I WILL get to see my sister (HI KIM!) which is waaaay cooler than another trip to some exotic place. (Hey, when you live in West Virginia, almost any place is exotic.)

Happy Fathers' Day.

My Dad has always been a somewhat bipolar personality. Not that he actually has bipolar disorder (at least, not to my knowledge). What I mean is, my dad fluctuates between being incredibly, frighteningly, impossibly serious... and a sort of a coked-up version of a goofy kid show host. (and by "Coke" I mean Coca-Cola, not the nose candy.) (not that it matters, as Dad is an upstanding member of the LDS church and, as such, indulges in neither of the above.)

Letters from Dad tend to be formal. Like a business letter, except from the same guy who used to sneak into our rooms at night for the express purpose of scaring the bejeezies out of us. After which he would cackle hysterically and do the same thing again 10 minutes later.

For a lot of my childhood, may dad was a mystery to me: an authoritarian figure who worked and traveled a lot. He seemed somewhat mystified at how exactly he had ended up the patriarch chief of a veritable village of rambunctious children.

So I think it is with some sense of incredulity that my dad ended up with a daughter like me. You see, in some core tenets of my personality, I am exactly like my dad - only much, much less organized. I'm a perfectionist. I'm stubborn. I work best alone, but I like someone to stand next to me and hold the flashlight. I have a short fuse and hot temper. I don't do things half-way. I'm loyal and honest and I care a lot more than I show.

And so it is that I finally begin to understand my father. I begin to understand how hard it was for him to let me go, to watch me grow into someone he hadn't anticipated, and to let me know that - for all the ways he might wish that I was different - he is extraordinarily proud of who I am.

And in so many ways, big and small, I am also proud of who he is. I am proud of who he has become. We don't have to agree on everything - I don't think any fathers and daughters ever do. But I remember so many things, so many times when I have been happy beyond words that he is my father.

*every time I have hard my father really laugh
*the handful of times I have seen him cry
*every time he asked "Who's the cutie?" to inquire who had caused the latest disaster in our house
*he made every Christmas incredibly organized, but still magical
*he pretended to believe I didn't know how the minivan got that dent in the side
*he surprised us with a trip to Maui, and the childlike glee in his eyes at pulling it off was priceless
*the "date" he took me on for my 16th birthday, which also happened to be my first visit to the Hard Rock Cafe
*he came to the "Prom" send-off parties, took photos, talked gravely to my dates, and told me I was lovely
*the necklace he gave me when I tried out for the fifth grade talent show. ( I still have it.)
*the coin he brought me from Papua New Guinea. I wore it on a necklace until it got stolen in the locker room one day. He brought me a replacement for the stolen coin, and I still wear it as my lucky charm
*The day I got married, it wasn't the kind of wedding he wanted for me. Even so, when he walked me down the aisle, he beamed with pride. When he lifted my veil and kissed my cheek before leaving me with my husband-to-be at the end of that walk, he did it with grace and glowing smile.

Most recently? I remember how he held my infant son in his arms and wondered at him - Jack's broad chest and sturdy bones, his dark hair and deep eyes. The moment I saw in his eyes how much he adored my precious little baby, I fully realized how much he loves me - and how much I love him in return.

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.

Leggo My Leg, Yo!

So just after I got back from Vegas Expedition 2007, I put on a pair of really snappy wedge-heeled sandals and took the kids to the mall to play on the indoor playground.

Those heels? They were really tall. So as I bent down to pick up Tobin, putting my weight into my heels and hauling all 20 pounds of him up onto my hip, something in my leg went "snap".

Now, I have pulled muscles and such before, and I thought, okay - this is bad, but not the end of the world. I marched my happy hiney (kids in tow) to Old Navy and got a pair of comfy flip-flops. Changing promptly into this more sensible footwear option, I found that my leg was still uncomfortable but no longer excrutiating. I figure I'd baby it for a few days, live with some soreness, and it would heal up just like every other of the million self-inflicted injuries I have endured at the hands of my own clumsiness.

Fast foward about 3 weeks: The injury faked me out with a brief lull for a few days, followed by a ramping up to intolerable levels of pain. Finally, I overcame my innate resistance and scheduled a doctor's appointment.

Of course, the doc still isn't sure what's causing the pain (which is exponentially worsened by going from a sitting position to a standing one). He has instructed me to take a muscle relaxer as needed, take hot baths, do some gentle stretches, and alternate a heating pad and ice to the area. This is no mean feat, as the area starts somewhere around the base of my spine and now radiates down through the back of my thigh, knee, and calf muscle and terminates a few inches above my ankle. That's a hell of a lot of ice, people.

If it's not better in 10 days, I'm supposed to schedule a follow-up for an MRI. Righteous.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please meet the only woman in America capable of doing herself a severe injury just by wearing shoes. If it turns out to be some gnarly injury requiring surgery, please just put me out to pasture and call it a day.

This reminds me of my death. No, really! I have always told T that I would like to be creamated and scattered over the harbor at Camden, Maine. It's the place I was happiest in my life, curled up in our room at the Norumbega Inn with T, playing scrabble in front of the fire place.

I now officially change my position, however. In the event of my death -- or in the event that this stupid, simple, klutzy mishap has caused irreparable harm to my poor leg, I hereby request that I be cryogenically frozen - until such time as the cloning process be perfected and medicine advanced to the point that my brain can be uploaded into the cloned body of Katherine Heigl.

How cool would that be? So much easier than the thought of living with this stupid injury -- one which necessitated that T assist me with putting on my underpants this morning. Now that is GLA-MOUR, baby.

Things The Children Have Fed The Dog Today

So Far:

- 1/2 cup milk, spilled on the kitchen floor (breakfast)

-1 entire carton jerky-strips dog treats (while mommy went potty)

- 1 package tic-tacs. Spearmint. (while mommy was getting the shoes together)

I'm thinking I might want to keep an eye on Gizmo today. I have a feeling there will be an urgent doggy doo at our house this afternoon.

But at least it will be minty-fresh.

Soothing The Savage "Me"

Ok, show of hands: Who knew that June was already nearly half over? Seriously? Because.. um. Didn't we just get through May?

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY SUMMER, PEOPLE?!

The time, she is flying. And the Mama, she is not keeping up. And I don't know why I'm talking this way. I think I need a hug. Or maybe a short stint in a padded cell - but I digress.

Tonight we calmed our ruffled nerves (Helllllooooooo. Last 2 weeks. New job for the hubby soon. Little bit of Limbo up in here.) ... (Not the kind with the limbo stick.)...(Or the kind between heaven and hell.) ... (Scratch that. This is exactly the kind between heaven and hell.)

Have I mentioned we won't know for a few months, yet, if we are going to move to Europe? Yeah. I feel like someone shoved a live wire up my butt. You are welcome for that visual, by the way.

... So yeah. Tonight we calmed our ruffled nerves the way we solve just about everything. FOOD!

Grilled Delmonico Steaks (medium rare, of course). Grilled zucchini. Fresh asparagus, pan fried in toasted sesame oil. Sliced button mushrooms, sauteed in butter, chopped garlic, and a splash of red wine.

Bliss. Even if my pee is going to stink to high heaven for at least a week after all the asparagus I shoveled down my gullet. Again, you are so very welcome for that visual.

While we are on the topic of my bodily functions, I should go ahead and mention one other thing. A short while back, I got a comment from a marketing rep for a product called "Align". It's a probiotic that's supposed to help with IBS. They offered to send me a free two-month supply to test out. I checked out the online literature, and it sounded promising enough. So I said, as long as there were no strings attached, hey, I was game. Sure enough, a small package arrived in yesterday's mail.

So, I will be occassionally updating the internets on the state of my bowels. I know, I do that anyway, right? But now it's, like, necessary. I've had trouble eating yogurt since my first pregnancy (not because it bothers my digestion, just one of those annoying aversions) and since that's the only other way I know of to add good probiotics to the system, this is a handy alternative. IF it works, that is. I'll keep y'all posted.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go curl up with some Alaskan Crab Fishermen and a cup of herbal tea. Again? Bliss.

Europa? But I Hardly Knows Ya!

So this new job? The one T will be starting in just a few weeks? It holds the possibility of a move to Europe sometime in the next year.

The few people I have mentioned this to have generally responded with a wide-eyed "Wow! How do you feel about that? With two little kids?!" followed by a 'oh, you poor, misguided soul' stare upon hearing that I would actually prefer such a move.

I have always wanted to visit Europe. Given that I have not yet had the opportunity, it may seem a bit... optimistic... to declare that I am ready to actually live there, in a foreign culture, far away from all friends and family.

Well, not all. My brother's family will be in Rome for the next 3 years, and if we actually make it across the pond? I fully intend to subject the effervescent C.L. ( of Letters From A Broad) to my presence at least once or twice. Beyond that, though, it would be light years away from anything I have thus far experienced.

T has been to Europe several times. His favorite spot, by far, was Amsterdam. Swans meandering through the canals, beautiful architecture, incredibly friendly populace. He assures me it is romantic in the extreme, with bicycling couples (on individual bikes, not the cheezy ones for two) holding hands as they cruise along the boulevard.

So is it any wonder that I'm having a teensy-weensy pity party for myself, stuck in this state of hopeful insecurity about the tantalizing prospect of a European move? I mean, really. Mighty Girl is headed back to Amsterdam (with her husband and, of course, Mighty Baby) after going last year with Bloggers In Amsterdam. With my few dozen or so regular readers (not including the unexpected thousands who found themselves dazed and confused when stumbling here from Gawker that one time) I do not rate a seat at the popular kids' lunch table.

While the really cool bloggers were sitting at the awesomeness table and getting a free trip to Nirvana, I was sent packing to once again eat lunch at my locker with my trusty, dog-eared copy of Nicholas and Alexandra. (True story: That's actually how I spent lunch during my entire Sophomore year of high school. Yes, I really was that big a dork. Please don't pretend to be surprised.)

So Holland tourism board? If you happen to decide to do that whole free trip thing again, and you find you are having trouble finding one last blogger to fill that last spot? (Because everyone knows there is, like, such a shortage of bloggers out there...)

All's I'm sayin' is... If you wanna come barking up this here tree? I am totally your girl.

Change Is Not A Four-Letter Word.

I have this sneaking feeling that life is about to change dramatically.

T will be starting his new job in July. He'll have a few days between the end of his current gig and the start of the new one, during which we are going to attempt our first camping trip with the kids. I'm optimistic that Toby will handle it all okay, though I'm thinking that renting one of the little cabins is a better prospect than attempting to fit the 4 of us in our tent.

T and I used to go fishing together. We would even take a row boat out onto the lake and take turns rowing it around while we tossed in our lures. Now, I'm surprisingly squeamish about a lot of things, but for some reason I seem to handle the whole fishing thing quite well. Okay, so maybe I'd rather use plastic lures than live bait, and I do make him put the worm on the hook in the rare instances we have used worms. I think that's the healer in me, though. I studied Nursing, for crying out loud, so the idea of sticking the poor little sightless critter on a hook to wriggle around until it gets eaten? I find that a little ... distasteful. Don't ask me why I can then clean and de-bone a fish and fry it up in cracker meal. Somehow I have less sympathy for the fish.

Anyway, the point is that I have been thinking about how narrow we have allowed our lives to become since the boys came along. Sure, it's difficult to haul kids to places and enjoy the events as much as we did when we were childless, but I think we somehow bought into this idea that because it's easier to stay home... somehow easier = better.

For the record? Easier does NOT equate to better. Even when it's a total pain to take the kids somewhere, we always have more fun than if we just stayed home. So what's the deal, people? Is it that we just live so far out from the events we usually would go to? Is it that we were reluctant to go camping or hiking when the boys were infants? Sure, that's somewhat valid. But how did we end up here? Where watching our favorite TV shows together is the romantic and/or entertainment hilight of our week?

It's not that I'm unhappy -- far from it. T and I have a great time together no matter WHAT we're doing. We usually engage in witty, sarcastic - yet - adoring banter. We're a little bit co-dependent, sure, but mostly because we have spent the last few years feeling like something of an island unto ourselves. We are actively trying NOT to live our lives by accident, to make our choices without trying to make everyone else happy. And we're quirky types. It's hard to find other quirky types who live close enough to come over for a game of Scattergories, know what I'm sayin'?

Recently, though, I've realized we somehow ended up so caught up in the minutiae of life, we have been neglecting to create the landmarks that break up the monotony and mark the passing of time. The things we don't need other people for, even. The getting out and experiencing.

No more. We are starting afresh - as of now. New Job. Probably new housing situation in the next few months. So, brand-spankin'-new outlook for enjoyment of life, too. The activities don't have to be big and elaborate, we just have to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE and go do stuff. So, we'll start with this camping trip.

I'm going to sit down and fill in the calendar for this summer with THINGS. TO DO. We're going to invite people over more. We're going to venture out to fairs and carnivals and craft shows more. I am going to find a babysitter that will keep the boys while we have an honest-to-god DATE, my husband and I. (Seriously. How did we go so long without that? It's been... more months than I care to ponder.)

If I were the mild-mannered alter-ego of a really kickass superheroine? This is totally where I would totally tear off my frumpy housefrau clothes to reveal a slammin' spandex bodysuit with an Aum symbol emblazoned on the front.

Be glad that I'm not. Spandex and I? We are not such good friends. But - metaphorically speaking? I'm totally taking off the spectacles and unbottoning the starched blouse, baby.

KA-POW!

That Was Zen, This Is Now

The graduation party included all of the usual debauchery and gluttony that one might expect of such an event. Copius drinking, lots of screaming and partial nudity.

Of course, in this case, the graduates were 3 and the beverages of choice happened to be juice boxes. But that didn't stop the preschoolers from partying with more abandon than rowdy teenagers, as they burned some of that boundless energy on the giant moon-bounce-slide-maze-obstacle-course-thingamajig.

Since the whole family was invited, Toby toddled along and stared, bug-eyed, at all of this unfamiliar activity. The baby pools and sprinkler were of particular interest, and before long his poor pampers were holding back more water than the Hoover Dam. The moon bounce and the sno-cone machine were not to be trusted, and he warily kept his gaze trained on both - lest either should decide to sneak up on him, he would not be caught unawares.

Jack, on the other hand, plunged head-first (literally) into the moon bounce and spent the next half-hour reminding me just how strong those lungs of his are. He emerged only to demand a juice box recharge, then immediately plunged into the water activities. After a few sno-cones, some pretzels and popcorn, and a brief (and interactive!) "If You're Happy And You Know It" story time, it was back to the moon bounce.

By the time they hauled out the slideshow at the end, the kids were good and worn out - but, thankfully, in the "tired and thoughtful" sort of way. I fought back the stubborn tears that would have to well up in my stupid eyes as I watched photos of all the activities that the kids and their high school student-teachers had this year. I recorded as much as I could for T, since he had to go into work (not least because he had 2-weeks notice to give this morning) (What? Oh! That. That's a story for another day. Mwahahahahahah!)

Jack got his diploma and a bag of party favors from his teacher. I changed the boys into dry clothes for the drive home. He hugged his goodbyes while I gathered up all of our things, and we strolled out into the sunshine.

In just two half-days a week, he has learned his entire alphabet. He learned to spell his name, and then to write it. He learned to count to 30 and the colors of the rainbow. Most of all, he learned how to listen and follow directions, how to be part of a team, and he started on the long road toward becoming an educated human being.

Seriously, people. If anyone had told me, at any time in my past, that I would be this emotional over preschool? I would have laughed long and loud. For the moment, I'll be content with just choking back the sniffles. Let's just say it's my allergies, 'kay?

Deftly Avoiding A Case Of The Mondays

The morning started with a bang. Literally, as Jack wet his bed once again (back to night-time pull-ups, because the house is actually starting to smell of eau de urine), then climbed into bed with us and bonked me on the head in passing.

Rather than let this portend the beginning of yet another heinous Monday, I decided to buck the system and set out on a determined path to a pleasant day. I put on my new flowy, white, knee-length skirt, an eggplant-colored top, and chunky foho necklace. A pair of khaki canvas flip-flops, and I'm Foho Suburban-Mom Chic. At least that's what I tell myself, and who in Wild, Wonderful West Virginia is going to dare to argue?

Get the kids up and dressed, loaded into the van, then off to the local coffee house that provides my own little slice of Nirvana on a weekday morning. Sugar-free vanilla, skim latte for me, bagels and cream cheese for the kids. Peruse the bookshelves with an ecclectic mix of books for sale from a book store in the next-door historic town, ponder buying civil war book for T. Listen to groovy world-beat music playing softly on the overhead speakers. Regard the limited prints from a local artist, on display on the same wall where my photos will be hung in the month of August.

Finish our liesurely breakfast, load up into the car and head to Walmart. Purchase pool noodles for my curtains project (no, seriously! it will look much cooler than it sounds), grab various household necessities (really? 3 kinds of toothpaste? how did it come to this?), grab soda and butter and string cheese. Try to figure out how those became food groups around here.

Stand in check-out line for 20 minutes. Kill time playing "what could these pool noodles be?" with Jack. Swords, unicorn horns, telephones, alien antennas... Swordfight with pool noodles until grumpy old lady in the next line gives the look of death. Glare back at her, then giggle uncontrollably. Sword fight for another 5 minutes until Toby gets hold of bananas from the cart and bites through the skin of one in order to eat it. Rescue the bananas and start offloading the cart onto the check-out counter. Pay, load cart, head for the exit. Stop to buy a sprite for Jack and a bouncy ball for Toby. Make it to the car, unload, get 4 compliments from strangers on my beautiful and well-behaved children. Smile, load kids into the van, giggle at the carefree feeling of the day. Head for home.

All in all, I would say that was pretty darn fine for a Monday. We'll just say the kids constitute my 40 pieces of flair.

The Cat Of Amontillado.

The title of this post is not a euphemism for anything. Really. One of our two cats, Chloe, actually managed to get herself trapped behind a wall today. Our unfinished laundry room is one of her favorite hiding places, because she can jump up into the ceiling and wander around the space between the floors over the room next door.

Today, it seems, she somehow lost her footing along the far edge at the outside wall and spent a good hour or so trapped behind the sheet rock. We listened to her mew pathetically and constantly for a good half hour or so while we debated the best course of action.

It would be important to note that we were just on our way out the door at the time. The boys were in the van, buckled into their respective car seats, and the dog had been loaded into the cargo bay. We were all set to go spend the day planting Gigi's new vegetable garden (to include pumpkin plants so they boys can grow their very own jack-o-lanterns this Halloween!)

After T spent a few minutes tearing a hole in the wall (with a claw hammer, 'natch) inside the closet where we could hear she was, he found a wood stud between him and our freaked feline. We were debating the relative stupidity of tearing another hole in the wall when, at last, she managed to claw her way back up to the ceiling. She exited the laundry room and nonchalantly settled herself back upstairs on the dining table.

That may be what prompted my immediate vision of doing her in by way of roasting in garlic butter.

So, with the day pretty much shot to hell (not to mention all our nerves), we ate pizza leftovers for lunch and have settled in for a quiet afternoon of sitting as still as possible while barely maintaining consciousness. The upside here? I get to learn to patch drywall! Yet another skill to add to my household repair utility belt.

The downside being, of course, (besides totally scrapping our plans for the day) that there is yet another household chore to be done before we can make a move towards selling this house and moving in closer to civilization.

Which brings me to the fact that I have yet to make the new living room curtains. I think I just figured out what to do with my afternoon. Dang.

Holy Crap.

THIS is decidedly one of the coolest things ever.

More Tasteful Bullet-Point Decor

* Yard sale = success. Sold off a good bit of stuff, bought some other stuff from the neighbors. Space-wise and monetarily, we broke about even. Except now I have a really cool hiking baby-pack for Toby. Which means that (seeing as how we are exactly 2 miles from a segment of it) we might actually manage to meander down a bit of the App. Trail before we die. Or at least before he outgrows the pack.

* Speaking of Tobin, I think aliens have finally taken him over entirely, as he has gone from the "point and grunt" school of communication to sudden speech. I asked him if he wanted some milk, and he turned around to get it and said "YES!". We took him to visit his grandmommy (whom we affectionately refer to as "Gigi") and he managed to call her by name at least twice. I'm waiting for the end of next week, at which point I expect him to say something along the lines of "Foolish woman, bring me my diaper" in the voice of Stewie from The Family Guy.

* I just invented a spectacular cookie. Cream cheese mixed with Nestle Quick plus a dash of cinnamon, sandwiched between graham crackers. It rocks.

* I have decided to delegate all responsibility to Jack for the rest of the day. Please refer all communications directly to him. Expect to receive his own name, typed repeatedly, in reply. It happens to be the only word he has ever typed on the keyboard. It will be at least as helpful as anything my tired brain could come up with today.

Life Management

So the neighborhood yard sale is coming up next weekend. I've been toying with what we should rid ourselves of. It's a tantalizing prospect... selling off all the things we don't need, giving them away if necessary, and clearing up some much-needed storage space.

The problem comes when I stop to consider my completely inexplicable need for redundancy.

Front/Back 2 seat stroller? Check. Side-by-side 2 seat umbrella stroller? Check. But which one to keep and which one to sell? See, the side-by-side is so much easier for street walking, and easier to get the kids into and out of. The front/back combo is much better for mall applications, as the width of the side-by-side makes me a moving target for the unbridled HATE! of people attempting to walk by me through the too-narrow mall hallways. You see my dilemma?

Same goes for the 2 blenders. Now, we have used our blenders (one of them, actually) a total of perhaps 3 times since receiving them as wedding gifts. Only one of those times was for the preperation of frozen beverages -- theoretically the only reason to have more than one. (Daquiris AND margaritas, people!) And yet? We don't actually make frozen drinks. Like, not ever. Except that one time. But the thought of being rid of the extraneous blender makes my palms break out in a cold sweat. What if I suddenly decide to make bulk sno-cones for a birthday party or something?

This all comes, you see, of having parents who are mad collectors. INSANE collectors. Collectors of metal detectors that might sorta work, maybe, sometimes, but were an awesome deal at a yard sale and who could pass that up? Seriously. The fact that I understand the NEED to own a metal detector just because you will never find one for so great a price again? Scares the bejeezies out of me. Because I know how crazy that is. And yet? I own no less than 2 sundresses that I bought at Target and will never wear, but THEY WERE ON SALE. (Is there a therapist in the house??)

So the only solution I can come up with is to convince myself that we should go ahead and sell off the excess stuff and, should a dire need for some object thus extracted from our private cache arise, I will have unhindered go-ahead to purchase a new one.

If nobody can offer a better solution, I'm gonna have to go with this. And so, I'm emptying out my basement of my college dishware, those groovy (but very old and now dilapidated) chairs shaped like sea-shells that we got at the salvation army store for $100 about 5 years ago, and the various sizes and shapes of glass vases for holding flowers. And should the need arise for me to find housing for 15 bouquets of flowers all at once? I'll just have to buy some more. I've given myself permission.

Yup.

Quix Pix

Bubbles In The Garden

Down The Garden Path

5 Things. Because I Can.

5 things you may not know about me, huh? Well, it's been floating around, and I may have done it a few times already, and you may be thinking "But you tell us so very much more than we wanted to know already, could there really be 5 things left that you have not already blabbed??" And the answer is quite simple. Yes. Aren't you the lucky ones?

1) Like the indubitable CrankMama I, too, am a Real Estate Hussy. I lust after a smaller house with a bigger yard, maybe an old townhouse with room in the back for a vegetable garden and some fruit trees. The dark secret is that I currently have both apple and plum trees in my yard, but have yet to make successful use of any of these fruits. Maybe this year I will aspire to making some plum jelly. If you're very very nice, I might send you some. If you're very lucky, it will not give you botulism.

2) I love to garden. Even if I'm not very good at it. This year, I finally got the large hostas divided and replanted, tried my hand at some dainty snapdragons (they're doing very well, thank you for asking) and watched the columbine come to full bloom for the first time. I feel like a six-year-old, full of joyous wonder, every time I plant something in the ground with my two little hands and it actually takes root and blossoms.

3) I have the hiccups. Right this second. Which may be related to the fact that I also have reflux and IBS. Isn't that just lovely? My GE specialist suggested cutting out foods which could aggravate these conditions: caffeine, tomatoes, spicy foods. I suggested she take me out behind the barn and have me put down, as the removal of these items from my life would suck a hefty portion of my enjoyment of it right down the crapper.

4) My eyes were brown when I was a little girl. They have since changed color, and are now mostly a very dark green with just a bit of chocolate brown circling my pupils. I have no explaination for this phenomenon, though I am sure a few minutes on Google could give me some ideas. Come to think of it, I believe my dad's eyes used to be brown, but have turned blue in recent years. Perhaps it's genetic.

5) I am obsessed with the show "Deadliest Catch". T and I watch it together religiously, and are familiar with the names and faces of all of the captains and most of the crew chiefs. I have a huge crush on Edgar Hansen, Captain Sig's little brother. I never, ever thought that watching a bunch of crab fisherman pull 800-pound crab-traps out of the ocean could be such compelling television... or that it would forever change the way I look at ordering a pound of crab legs for dinner.

So there you have it. Time to de-lurk for a moment and show yourselves in the comments! C'mon... share just 1 thing that people probably don't know about you.....

What Happens In Vegas...

... Stays in Vegas?

Well, sometimes it does. Sometimes you bring it home with you.

But more on that in a moment...

I spent 4 glorious days staying up too late, eating too much good food, and sleeping until my body woke up naturally. It was heaven. We watched "Rent" and "The Fountain" (both great movies I had missed out on in the theater). We gambled at Bally's and drank "Pink Cadillacs" at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville lounge, under the cooling spray of the overhead misters. We ate amazing sushi at Momo, then ate more of it (plus some fantastic, fresh sliced, garlic salmon sashimi) at the $15 all-you-can-eat lunch at Sushi Club.

On my last day, the amazing and lovely (as always) Dr. Allie-sahn set me off in her car to seek out the shopping mall and movie theater. I saw Spiderman 3 (I give it a B- over all) and spent too much on salt scrub and body butter. I had no intention of buying salt scrub OR body butter, but the Ukranian woman who cornered me in the mall was a wicked svengali. She wove a hypnotic tale of dead sea minerals and made my hands really soft. Before I knew what had happened, she was running my credit card and handing me a bag of cosmetic whoozits. Dazed, I finally managed to escape the web when she tried to rub something on "all those wrinkles under your eyes!" Apparently a strange woman touching my face was apparently more scary than the thought she might put a hex on my grandchildren, because I hastily conjured up a tale of sensitive skin and prescription face cream as I slowly backed away. Still a bit dizzy, I headed for a little Starbucks therapy and the nearest shoe store.

It was an amazing parade of humanity in Las Vegas. The casinos are neat and all, and I'm always up for a hot Centurion copping a feel on ye olde bedonkadonk.


But the hilights of the trip for me (aside from, obviously, spending time with my oldest and dearest friend... and, of course, the sushi. Holy fishpaste, Batman, the sushi!) Were seeing the M&M World store and, even more, checking out "Bodies: The Exhibition". I thought it would be macabre, but it was like walking into an anatomy textbook. Fascinating, thought provoking, and life-affirming in an odd way. It helped, of course, to have a medical student along to guide the tour. When Allie mentioned dissecting the male anatomy and removing the testicles, the look on the faces of the guys standing next to us was priceless. Of course, they immediately wanted to know more about all the rest of the exhibits, too. Rocker that she is, she answered their questions with patience, humor, and grace.

It was also really cool to see the actual "non-smoker vs. smoker" lungs in a case. Next to it, the exhibition provided a clear plastic receptacle with a cigarette pack-sized hole so people could toss away their smokes. I watched one guy in his mid-twenties study the twisted, black lung tissue of the smoker lungs before dropping in his pack of Camels on top of 50 or 60 other discarded packs. Who knows if it will stick, but it was groovy to be part of his momentary optimism.


I capped off my existential journey by exercising my god-given right as an American to consume mass-produced-crap, buying post cards and fridge magnets to bring back as souvenirs. I wished I could bring Allie and her husband, the Amazing Wonder Steve, home with me, too. But as they say... What happens in Vegas... Stays in Vegas.

Of course, sometimes? What happens in Vegas comes home with you.

And sometimes it is in your nose.


Oh, yes, my friends. Mama went and got her nose pierced. In Vegas. At a tattoo parlor called "The Precious Slut". It's a teensy-weensy little diamond stud. It was also a not-so-teensy-weensy declaration of mini-van independence.

I already broke the news to my own Mama. I can feel her hands twitching with the desire to remove it - all the way from Africa. But she loves me, and to keep her sanity I suspect she will eventually write it off of as one more of my crazy, liberal eccentricities. Like belief in global warming and allowing the kids to run naked in the sprinklers.


I can't say enough thanks to Allie and the Amazing Wonder Steve for having me out, or to T for sending me. Whenever I start to feel like the zany, madcap moxie of my youth is all but spent, I will look back on this trip and remember that I still know how to strap on my adventure shoes and set out to make a ruckus. And that my family, though they missed me desperately (or so they assure me) survived without me for a few days and emerged, mostly unscathed, to tell the tale.

Viva Las Vegas, Baby.

TGIF. And stuff.

Stuff. It's happening. And I'm actually quite busy and brain-full and not just in the "look at me, I'm so dark and mysterious and totally turned inward" sort of way. There are actual THINGS! HAPPENING! Things which justify the use of all those extra capital letters. Things which I can't talk about yet - and isn't that just the pits? Totally.

Today was a nice, domestic day. Playgroup this morning, kids running wild through the house and squealing with glee as they tried to beat each others' brains out as gently as possible. Messes made and cleaned. Snacks consumed. Many juice boxes drained.

Then bubbles blown, photos taken, more snacks consumed. Naps. Music listened to. Phone calls. Life-altering decisions discussed. Cartoons watched.

It's a strange and wonderful life, isn't it?

Can you tell I've gone off the ADD meds? My train of thought is a bit more like the diverging of a freeway junction at the moment, but it's not a bad thing. Life is joyous, and I'm learning that being quite so focused is not always the answer. Slow down, enjoy the pace, sit in the sun and watch bubbles float away.

All of that, and still no indication of what is going on around here. Isn't that just infuriating? Don't I know it. Many irons in the fire. We'll see what kicks up and I'll let you know soon.

In the mean time? Time to change my hair again this weekend, and do some pre-Vegas shopping. Mama needs some new kicks and some warm-weather wear. 6 days until I board a plane and wisk away to sunnier climes. Climes with blackjack tables and sushi and the most fun girl I know. Mostly that last bit - about the girl who I will converse with until her ears likely bleed. That will be the highlight, the rest is just icing. Sweet, gooey icing.

Life is moving forward again. Isn't it grand?

(Oh, yes. It is.)

Bullet Is As Bullet Does

* Spent a lot of time with my arms straight up in the air. In so doing, managed to paint the 13 foot wall in our living room and the stair well in a mellow butterscotch color that warms up the entire house. Who knew that living in a beige world could be so bad for the psyche? Yeah, I probably did, but was too lazy to actually do anything about it until now.

* Moved furniture. Upstairs couch went downstairs, downstairs couch moved upstairs. *phew!* Much better.

* Had friends over for a luscious, lazy cookout on Sunday. Cornish hens roasted over charcoal, more Alabama white barbecue sauce, grilled zucchini, and potatoes and onions. Frosty cold beverages and good conversation. Way too much chocolate cake. A perfect afternoon in the sunshine.

* Bought fabric for the living room curtains. Red with a floral print and a coordinating red and gold-striped pattern - soon our living room will be ensconced in a warm, old-Virginia style. It's finally looking like someone actually lives here. Besides mental patients.

* Jack requested food for his security blanket, Mimi. I handed him some invisible food, which he gratefully accepted with a "Thanks, Mom. That's a six-story burrito!"

* I leave for Vegas in just over a week. I can't decide if the heart palpitations are excitement, terror, or both. I've never been away from the kids for more than a night - and I've only done that twice since Jack was born. I'll be gone for 4 whole days. I know, I should embrace it and not think twice, right? Yeah. But apparently, in spite of my protests to the contrary, I'm a nougaty-soft-centered mommy after all. Luckily, I'll be hanging with my best girl - who has already promised to distract me with the best sushi in Nevada and a visit to the Bellagio. So I might just be okay, after all.

* Jack received a postcard from his pen-pal in California. From Disneyland. I think the universe just experienced a paradigm shift, as he realized that "Tyler is in DISNEYLAND! With Mickey! And he saw Mickey! WHEN CAN I SEE MICKEY IN DISNEYLAND?!" Watching the informational video from Disney World, FL, was one thing. It was all theoretical, you see. But now? Now that an actual three-year-old has sent him a postcard from actual Disneyland? Now it's a whole new ball game, people.

* I'm off to take a shower and get over to the preschool early. They asked the moms to arrive half an hour early today - for a "Mother's Day Suprise". It appears, despite any doubts posed by my inner critic, I am actually a mother. One deserving of glitter-and-glue, paper mache, preschool recognition. Who knew?

Standing on the Edge

... the edge of the kitchen island, in this case. When using a chair to climb atop the kitchen island in order to finish the install of the two-light island fixture, it is wise to note that an 18 month old child is surprisingly adept at moving chairs.

I realized this today as I heard the wooden feet of the chair scraping across the kitchen floor. By the time I had figured out how to climb down from my precarious perch without sending the glass light domes to their doom on the floor, the little bugger had helped himself to several unopened cans of diet Pepsi, and was enthusiastically rifling through the junk drawer on a very intent treasure-seeking mission.

Who knew we had 9-volt batteries in the house? What do we even own that uses 9-volt batteries? The last time I remember the need of one involved being 9 years old and sticking my tongue to both contact points. It was a very important dare. Or something.

I'm also working on finding good uses for several 34 cent stamps, half a hot glue stick, and a match book from some bar in Mexico I have no memory of going to on our honeymoon.

I'm taking 2 lessons from all of this.

First, I obviously need to invest in invisible fencing for the baby for use when working on home improvement projects. Second, if I don't clean out the junk drawers soon, I just might someday end up "that lady" on the news. You've heard those stories -- reclusive woman is found, dead for days, half-eaten by her pets. amidst ginormous stacks of old magazines and balls of twine.

It is definitely time for Spring Cleaning at our casa. Anybody in desperate need of 20 yellow security envelopes? 17 tea candles? A tush-load of ridiculously large paper clips? Because I am flush with all of the above, and will totally hook y'all up. I'm generous and thoughtful that way.

What's that? You have no use for my priceless treasures? Fine then. Be that way. I don't need to give my useless crap to you - that's why God invented eBay. Huzzah!

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum sonatur.**

Somehow or other, I ended up on Gawker. No, really. I swear!

Apparently, my kid is weird. Which is awesome, because that is pretty much the only thing he can plan to inherit from me, seeing as how I already blew his future trust fund on sparkly nail polish and tacky jewelry.

So it starts like this. Yesterday, I post a tongue-in-cheek fluff item on shopping with the kids, and Jack picking out some earrings for me. (I made him put back the ones with skulls, and ended up with big stars instead.) Today, I somehow ended up the poster-child for weird momness.

SO! For the record, and for anyone who is intent on reading too far into anything I may have printed yesterday, here is the Official Stay At Aum Mom Clarification:

1) Jack is three. Picking out jewelry at the store is one step down from helping mom shop for gym socks and only just higher than eating brussel sprounts. It is also way less cool than watching Handy Manny or driving around in his Power Wheels Mustang.

2) The "Lucky Monkey" T-shirt is still awesome, but is really only worn for pajama purposes. What can I say, we're kinky that way. Besides, everyone knows monkeys are funny and laughter is good for the marriage.

3) I <3 the gays. Really. My intention yesterday was really a simple loving poke at my devoutly Mormon mother, who looks heavenward every time I express a non-conservative viewpoint. I think she has to listen to extra hours of Fox News just to wash off my liberal residue after every conversation we have. I'm also pretty sure she had to have a closed confessional with Rush Limbaugh after the gay best man walked her down the aisle at our wedding. But she did give him a hug, risking her status as Mrs. Republican Universe. Because she rules.

4) Mom is currently serving a religious mission in Africa. For the moment this is quite a relief, as she is not currently in range to throw things at me for teasing her. In front of 1,300 strangers who stumbled over here from Gawker and are now wondering WTF?

**"Whatever is said in Latin sounds profound". Because, uh... Yeah. Move it along, nothing to see here.

More Cheer-Giving Non Sequiturs

* A very productive half-hour of violin practice, wherein I totally kicked ass on the "Pepperoni Pizza" song, which is not really a song at all but it's as close as I get until I learn finger position for real notes. Also, I could totally challenge any developmentally challenged six-year-old on that number and maybe possibly have a snowball's chance of winning.

* An uninterrupted hour at the mall's indoor play area, which included several silly dance moves and a raging game of hide-n-seek

* Black nail polish with a gazillion tiny bits of gold glitter in it. I'm way too old for it, and I don't care. It's fierce, and I'm sporting it like a rock star.

* Earrings with giant stars that are totally tacky and fabulous, and were selected by a very serious Jack. I'll wear them tomorrow. With a totally age-inappropriate t-shirt, like maybe the curious george one that says "lucky monkey". Because everyone should have a lucky monkey, and also everyone should have a Jack to pick out fun jewelry. I'd better draw the line, though, at letting him pick out fabulous handbags for me. We wouldn't want to give him "the gay". Not because there's anything wrong with it, but because he'd insist I take him to a professional for haircuts and would probably also refuse to wear all those elastic-waistband shorts I bought him. Who needs a three-year-old with fashion sense?

* And the last thing making me grin tonight? The mortified expression I'm picturing on my mother's face right now. Don't worry mom, I don't really want Jack to be gay. But only because I'm a completely selfish woman who is unwilling to give an inch on my demands for future grandchildren. I can hope the world would be better suited for gay couples to adopt by then, but I'm not willing to bet on it and risk all those opportunities to make rice crispy treats and let the grandkids stay up past their bedtime. Plus, the poor kid would have no fashion role model to look up to in our house (see above-mentioned references to Curious George t-shirts and age-inappropriate accessories).

And that, my friends, is the sound of a pen as it furiously writes me out of the will. Happy Tuesday!

Food, Glorious Food

Food, glorious food. Because that is what we're going to talk about today.

We're not going to talk about the HOA and how I nearly ripped my hair out by the roots this weekend. We are not going to talk about my back tooth breaking on a piece of toast this morning and how I'm making an appointment with an oral surgeon to yank out 3 of my teeth (including the broken one). And we are most decidedly not going to talk about the fluorescent shop light we removed from the kitchen ceiling - in order to replace it with a much nicer island fixture - only to find yet another instance where those glorious Dan Ryan builders neglected to put an actual fixture box, but rather used what appears to have been a claw hammer to knock an unceremonious (and uncentered) hole in the sheet rock in order to yank the bare wires through.

We're not going to mention all that because then you'd get to see what a rage-a-holic I can really be when provoked.

So instead? ... Let't talk about barbecue! Alabama-style white barbecue made with cider vinegar and mayo and various spices. I was planning to do a turkey breast in the rotisserie, but when the time came it just seemed... uninspiring. Then T suggested we give the white barbecue another go. We tried it on some grilled chickens a while back, and it was really yummy but all of the sauce was used in the basting.

This means we missed out on the best part -- the extra sauce for drizzling and dipping and... well, perhaps drinking if things get out of hand. It's THAT good. On the juicy, plump turkey breast it was phenomenal.

What's that? You want a recipe? Oh, very well then.... this is the one we used to great effect. It was spectacular.

Throw in a side of potatoes and onions -- (1-2 red potatoes per person, cut in 1" cubes, with 1/2 to 1 medium onion cut into strips. Add salt, pepper, and 1/4 to 1/2 cup butter. Bake covered at 425 until the potatoes are tender, usually about 30-40 minutes). Tah-dah.

Comfort food makes it all so much better. Between the fried chicken and the turkey barbecue, my outlook is positively cheerful these days.

No, really. It is.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Here, eat some turkey and be off with you. I have dental appointments to make.

Drug Precautions Translated

Azithromycin may cause:

• upset stomach
• diarrhea
• vomiting
• stomach pain
• mild skin rash

Translation: You will throw up. A lot. And it probably would have been better for you to skip the pulled pork with extra spicy barbecue for dinner, even though you thought all that red pepper would open up your sinuses. And you should definitely have stopped for extra TP on the way home.

Advair may cause:

• headache, dizziness;

• nausea, vomiting, diarrhea;

• dryness in your mouth, nose, or throat;

• stuffy nose, sinus pain, cough, sore throat; or

• hoarseness or deepened voice.

Translation: You will still throw up (see above). The next day, you will be dizzy but very glad you opted to have only toast for breakfast. Your nose will suddenly start to run, even though that was the one symptom you had managed to avoid up to now. You will get even more dizzy later. But you will sound like Kathleen Turner from her "Romancing the Stone" days and find the sound of your own voice strangely hypnotic. Then you will realize you are likely high on all the meds and decide to lay down, drink lots of water, and catch up on Ugly Betty. But not before you blog about it through the fog of your infectious, medicated stupor.

"This is what you want, This is what you get...." -PIL

Once upon a time, boys and girls, there was a small, infectious particle. It was a lonely particle, and it drifted on the breeze, nary a friend in the cold, cruel world. One day, the little germ at last found a warm home in the lush bronchial flesh of a woman who was working in her garden. There, he found, at last, a friend. Her name was pollen, and pretty pollen was an allergen - spawned of a lovely and delicate blossom.

Together, Pollen and Germ made a happy little home amongst the gently waving cilia of the respiratory tract. Before you could say BobsYerUncle, they had multiplied into a growing family. Times were good, the weather was hot and dry, and before long they had their own little stream flowing through the property. It was a lovely stream, fetid and sticky, and it flowed from the streaming Phlegm River at the sinuses all the way down to the alveoli, where it joined with other streams to form the rippling waters of Lake Mucus.

So happy were Pollen and Germ, and all of their many progeny, that they dug in and decided that THIS! this is where they would forever rest, and allow the future generations to rise up and populate this paradise they had discovered.

So, like, yeah. I'm sick. Really, disgustingly, Darth-Vader-wheezes, fevers of 101.1, coughing that makes other people wince, and more phlegm than I care to ponder - sick. After much protesting and dragging of my feet (because for some insane reason I don't want to go to the doctor, even though I do know that is insane) I finally have an appointment this afternoon with the family physician. He's going to poke, prod, listen, and nod, and then either tell me I'm a big pansy and I need more fluids and rest (which would actually be the preferable outcome in my mind) or he's going to say that I have bronchitis and possibly some rogue bacterial infection which will require that I add a prescription for heavy antibiotics to my already ridiculous personal pharmacy.

But, my friends, do you want to know what love is? Love is when your Mommy-in-Law cancels her whole day - manicure, yoga, and other delicious feminine delights - in order to come over and rescue you. She came in with an armload of groceries and toys for the kids, and put me expeditiously to bed. She made homemade fried chicken and green bean casserole, and left me with mashed potatoes to warm and a big bowl of fresh-cut fruits for dinner. She brought 4 kinds of soup and a big loaf of crusty french bread. Also, she kept Jack content and quiet while I crashed out for a solid couple hours' sleep, shivering under my blanket while the fever ravaged my system.

The nasty bug may still rage, but that was quite possibly the best nap I have ever taken in my life. Plus? She didn't bat an eye when I burst into exhausted tears and said "I'm so glad you're here" as she came through the door. She put me to bed, and when I woke up... everything was just fine. More than fine, actually.

So being sick REALLY sucks. But being rescued when you think you're about to die of exhaustion and drown in your own phlegm? That really rocks.

It rocks even more with some homemade fried chicken.

Someone Call Bunny Protective Services

Or "Max and Ruby vs. Charlie and Lola, a study in brief"

Max and Ruby are indeniably children, and yet there is no mention of parents. There is a grandmother, infrequently present, as well as a Bunny Scout Leader. There is also one "Mrs. Huffington" who seems to utilize Ruby for babysitting services.

Ruby is obviously a very capable child with a maturity far exceeding what is expected at her tender age. She is, however, incapable of effectively communicating with or disciplining her brother. Max, on the other hand, is obstinate and argumentative. Ruby, presumably the "parental figure" of the family, is often caught up in imaginary play and daydreaming.

A cursory review reveals a disturbing scenario wherein Ruby, a child herself, is apparently the head of the household. She is left with duty of feeding, bathing, and clothing her brother, as well as putting him to bed. There is no doubt that protective services should immediately be called to find out how these two children have been left to their own devices for survival.

Charlie and Lola, on the other hand, make frequent reference to their parents, even though the parents are never actually directly observed. Lola is a precocious child, prone to dramatic outbursts and emotionally attached to familiar objects. Charlie, the eldest of the two, is practical and patient in his dealings with his sister. He is adept at encouraging her to face the unfamiliar and accept reality. The parents are, presumably, present on a reliable basis.

It is for this reason that Max and Ruby have been unceremoniously ousted from our TiVO recording schedule and replaced with the adventures of the artistically-tempered Lola and her practical and level-headed brother, Charlie.

Also? They talk with cool British accents, which Jack imitates to my unending delight.

Oh, and also, also? This whole post was to distract you from this end part, wherein I reveal that we have traded in my sleek, sexy little Malibu Maxx for a Dodge Grand Caravan. It has cool, automatic sliding doors and such. It has a six-dvd changer for the t.v. screen in it, a 5-cd changer, and a cassette deck. It has wireless headphones and more storage cubbies and cup-holders than you can shake a stick at. And? It's a minivan.

I just heard my Cool meter shatter as the bottom dropped out.

And how was your week?

Thoroughly Thinking Thoughtful Thoughts. Thoughtfully.

Did you hear? Because I was a little slow to pick up on it...

Letters from A Broad is the cheeky blog of my favorite ex-pat who tears up the French countryside and gets to mess with her kids in TWO languages.

And she went and named me a "Thinking Blogger".




Yes, it's the "5 Blogs That Make Me Think" meme.

You'll notice that .. this post? This one you are reading? It is not called "5 Blogs That Make Me Think". That is because this is not the post in which I will be fulfilling my obligation to pass the award along to 5 blogs that make me think. That will have to be the next post, because I am going to have to actually put some thought into this one. And figure out which 5 blogs have not been tagged with it already.

I have been so busy with the kids, the HOA, various home improvement projects, signing up for violin lessons and pondering my navel... that well, I just have not found the time to compose a coherent entry in order to live up to the whole "thought-provoking" hype.

Oh, you caught that, huh? Yeah. Violin lessons.

It's kind of a long story. Still interested? Here you are...

I have wanted to learn to play the vioin since I was a little girl. I am, however, one of ten children. This meant that since my 4 older sisters played the Clarinet, we had 2 Clarinets available in our home and so.. well, I played the Clarinet. I'm grateful that I had that opportunity, don't get me wrong. I was even pretty good at it. But by the time I hit high school, band was most decidedly un-cool, and what with my cluelessness of clothing and make-up I needed no further handicap to my coolness factor. From then on, I stuck with tinkering on the piano at home. At school, I started taking pictures and got a permanent hall pass for journalism. It also got me free admission to all the school sporting events, and the chance to discretely crush on most of the school athletes up close. (especially the soccer players. I really had a thing for the soccer players.) But! Back to the topic at hand....

The desire to learn the violin came back a few years ago. I even asked for a violin for Christmas 3 years running. The problem, it seems, is that nowadays most violins are mass-manufactured in China - so while they are exceptionally inexpensive, once you get your hands on one you must allow it to be totally taken apart and put back together (kinda like The Million Dollar Man) in order to make it decently playable. By the time that is done, the cost is no longer quite so reasonable, and so.. well, no violin for me.

But then? Then I read THIS article in the Washington Post, and something snapped. I was gobsmacked. Really? REALLY?? Joshua Bell -- the man who played the score for The Red Violin, my favorite movie of all time and the music that brings me to tears every time I hear it, was ignored by Metro riders?

As someone who stops to listen to street musicians at every opportunity, at least I am content that I would not have walked on by had I been at L'Enfant Plaza that morning. In fact, I'm fairly confident that Metro Security would eventually have been forced to escort me from the premises with my screaming children.

SO! T and I discussed this article. Then we discussed, once again, the possibility that I could take violin lessons. Then, my much-wiser-than-his-other-half husband suggested I could rent an instrument from the music shop down the road. I called them to confirm this outrageous idea, and found that - yes - I could indeed rent a violin there. I could also take lessons from an instructor there at the shop. Oh, and the instructor? It just so happened that she was Concertmistress of the National Symphony Orchestra for 25 years. And, as of Saturday morning, she will be listening to yours truly as I coax the sounds of a dying animal out of the instrument to which she has devoted her life. Awesome!

Is it bizarre that I'm doing this? Probably. But I can't think of anything in the years since I became a mom that I have anticipated this much.

So there you have it. Read that WP article, watch the videos, stop and smell the frakking roses, and then get out there and try something new. Carpe Diem! Seize an opportunity to enjoy the beauty around you, lest you are left with the sinking realization that you let it all just pass by.

Oh, and this is the part where I confess that the house is a bit of a mess and the vegetable on tonight's menu happens to be ketchup. But I'm not aiming to reach perfection in result, just looking for perfect appreciation of the journey. So there's what I thoughtfully thunk for today.

Don't Panic!

No catastrophe here, just borrowing a morsel from The Hitchhiker's Guide. It seems somehow fitting for the day.

Happy Birthday tooooo meeeeee. Started the day off with emails from both of my parents (Hi Mom and Dad!) from Africa. Not fair to make a girl cry before breakfast, but it was still a great way to begin the day.

So I'm twenty-eight now. Huh. Go figure.

I came across the following song that John Mayer wrote for some Esquire contest where readers were asked to write the music to go with his lyrics. I don't know anything more about it, except that I could have written in myself. So this year, it's my birthday song.

For Every Dream
By John Mayer

I keep a note that I wrote on a taxi-cab receipt
It says "Don't you go and listen to nobody but me"
I hit the big time for a nominal fee
You lose a friend in the end for every dream that you see come true

I got scars upon scrapes, I've got bruises on breaks
Masochistically committed to see how much of this I'll take
Three years under water, and I ain't even got the shakes
I'm going deeper and deeper and deep

I've got dreams to remember, I've got days to forget
I've got a phone call in to God but he hasn't called back yet

I've spent nights in the sunshine, I've spent days in the rain
And twenty-eight years later, I don't even know my name

Oh, now, don't fret. Don't read it with all that bleakness, think of it as thoughtful poetry rather than literal and defeatist. Here, I'll add my own verse to the end to wrap it up properly.

I've been in it and through it and back out again
I have swallowed the sun, been washed clean in the pain
From this high cliff it's all smaller but it still looks the same
I'm gonna take a flying leap and ride the waterfall back down

I've got ashes to gather, I've got rose-buds to spread
I've got to give a stern lecture to the voices in my head

I've made war on the past, I've made peace with a ghost

And twenty-eight years later, I'll recover what it cost

And now, for something completely different!

Me at age 8 or 9-ish.

Approximately 20 years later
(or 10 minutes ago, depending on your perspective)

Please note the lack of focus in that second photo is intentional. Unvarnished, unadorned, and unashamed... but still not willing to put it all in glorious hi-resolution detail.

Besides, nobody else needs to count the freckles. Let's just say I have about 100 per birthday and leave it at that, mmkay?

Oh, also? Please note that the hair in the first photo was UN-intentional, and I can only plead 1987. Really. Plus, Mom cut my hair until I was in college, so I can hardly be blamed for my childhood ignorance of styling products or fancy-schmancy "sideways" parts.

Wait, is it just me? Or has my nose gotten much, MUCH bigger in the last 20 years?

So, um... Happy Birthday to me! I will now celebrate by putting on a bra before the alarm system repair guy arrives. Huzzah!

Alo-Ha-waii, Kona Come Over?

So Walmart carries Millstone Kona Blend. Who knew? But here I am, sipping a warm, strong cuppa and enjoying a few moments of quiet.

This week is Spring Break for the district where Jack goes to preschool. I had determined to take at least a few field trips with him, while we have the freedom. This proved to be easier said than done, especially with my allergies and Toby's nap schedule.

We found out there is a zoo near here, but it's one of those ones that is bigger than it should be and not enough animals to fill the space. Plus, the hilight is a petting zoo area and I think the hay feed would make my head (or at least my sinuses) explode.

I looked around for play gyms or anything else that would be new and exciting for the kids, and not overly expensive. The pickins were pretty slim, and as lunch time crept up on us yesterday I finally threw my hands up in exasperation and decided to just GO.

So I packed us a quick pic-nic lunch of PB&J, sweet potato chips, apple slices, raisins, water bottles, and honey bee grahams for dessert. Threw clothes on all of us, loaded into the car, and off we went.

Once at the park, we found a table in the shade and nibbled on lunch. The weather was more lovely than it had any right to be, really. Seventy degrees and just a few puffy clouds adorning the sky. We spent a good two hours soaking up the sun (Note To Self: BAD MOMMY! Next time, remember the sunscreen. Luckily, nobody seems overly sun-baked today.) Ran a few errands (including stopping by Walmart to pick up the aforementioned Kona Roast) and headed home.

The boys took an afternoon nap while I made preparations for a hamburger cookout, and when T got home we munched on burgers, corn on the cob, and leafy spring salads. After hands and faces were washed up and dinner had been cleared, we settled into the family room with frosted mini-cupcakes to watch "Happy Feet" for Family Night.

At the end of the day, and before Mumble the penguin met the elephant seals on his way to the Forbidden Shore, both boys went willingly and contentedly to bed. T and I settled in for a quiet evening of folding laundry, and while he watched the DC United game I quietly drifted off to sleep on the sofa under a freshly laundered jersey sheet.

If only life could always be so Tropically Serene. Maybe some day we'll move to Hawaii, where I can soak up the cheering rays of the sun and enjoy a more relaxed pace of life more often. And, of course, the Kona Coffee.

Bullets Over Bored Way

Miscellaneous Thoughts I am Having This Morning:

- We are out of coffee. Yesterday T went to 7-11 and got two cups of their new "extra-perky" blend, with guarana, ginseng, crack, and ground puppies. It did not taste especially good, but it sure did get me moving. Must get grounds at the store today.

- Setting a goal to send every member of my immediate family a Birthday card for the next entire year. Fitting, as my birthday is this week, that I should start now. Wrote down the dates of every single birthday for siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews. Must remember to buy stamps.

- Wishing we could move overseas. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but I don't think that a trip there would be sufficient to absorb what I need from the surroundings. I would love to pick up and move to Rome with my brother and his family this summer. Even more, I would love to pick up and move to Paris like my neighbors are doing. I know many Americans find the French to be dodgy, but I have been in love with French culture since I was 12. C.L. do you hear me? Can I get an "Amen"?

- Pondering completion of the downstairs bathroom. I have 4 tiles left to cut to finish the vinyl tile floor. Need to pick up a wood plaque to mount the light fixture over, since builders ripped a hole in the drywall to run the wiring rather than cutting a nice, neat one. Dan Ryan Builders has my permission to kiss my alabaster keester, thankyouverymuch. Must install new sink faucet, plus one in master bathroom. Must remember to get t-shirt printed "Home Remodel Goddess".

- Realizing taxes must be finished. Cursing TurboTax and my cheapskate inability to just hire a freaking accountant. Wondering if we should stick refund into savings or go ahead with plan to upgrade kitchen countertops.

- Jack is calling for me to fix his "Dora The Explorer" computer game. Must remember to get a new optical notebook mouse (Parent Hack: notebook mouse is the perfect size for preschool hands). Must go fix Dora before the universe implodes.

Future not-so-Tense

It's a simple formula.

T's Nintendo DS + Elite Beat Agents = My Undoing.

But at least I can console myself with leftover crepes from yesterday's breakfast. Rolled up with sliced strawberries and drizzled with "sweet-and-sour-cream" (sour cream whipped with confectioner's sugar) it makes me want to throw our lives to the wind, sell the house, and head off into the sunrise to open a Bed & Breakfast up in some tiny coastal town in Maine

I could be content serving breakfast to the guests in the morning, and then leisurely enjoying my days drinking coffee on the wraparound porch for the next 50 years. I really, really could.

Especially if I can bring the Nintendo DS.

No Foolin'

So tell me... Did you know April is National Poetry Month? I certainly did not, at least not until I stumbled across several references to it this weekend.

April is also the month of my birthday, which is only days away. I am, of course, giddy with relief at surviving yet another year. Of course, I'd be much more giddy if I was somewhere far away and tropical... but back to the matter at hand.

I'll forego my annual "We're Pregnant!" April Fool's joke this year (for which my mother will thank me). Instead, I offer a poem I wrote recently. Yes, I do sometimes write poetry. I like to think that after I'm gone someone will discover the scattered scrawlings and declare me a dead genius. Because being a dead genius is a convenient way to dodge all the pressure inherent in being one while alive.

Then again, I'll be dead, so it really won't matter if I'm just declared "Dead Crazy Scribbling Lady With Many Many Cats And A Husband Who Went On To Marry A Victoria's Secret Underwear Model". So we'll just stick with "Future Dead Genius". I might even have to put that on a T-shirt.

In any case:

Of Prophets and Poets


sculpting words
trim and discard
shape and smooth

cast ashes of body
distillation of soul
refined in sorrow
to the vastness of time

searching, grappling
to name the unknowable
to touch the face of eternity.

And Yet.

And yet, the Prophet.
listening, eyes closed
to the crush of the tide
walks onward in faith
to where the sand
meets the shore
at the end of the world

where life
is but a test
the painful birth
before the endless waking dream

And yet.

And yet, the Poet.
looking, eyes wide
hears the crush of the tide
tumbles on the breeze
to where the sand
meets the shore
and the shore meets the sky

where life
is truth
and living it
the only dream

-MRK, 2007