Peanut Butter and Pickled Ginger

Happy Valentine's Day!

2012-02-14T09:40:00.004-05:00

I fucking love Valentine's Day. I'm not even going to front. I think it is rad. I have always loved it, and I persist, despite the fact that it seems to be somewhat trendy to hate it, to decry it, to roll your eyes in its general direction.

Love is an awesome emotion, as countless pop songs have been telling us for years. So why not celebrate it? Celebrate it in its myriad forms--the love you have for your kids, your dog, your favorite shoes. And today, celebrate yourself too: put on your favorite lipstick, listen to your favorite songs, eat something incredible.

And if you are bored, I implore you to comment or email me or tweet me or send a fucking carrier pigeon my way with two bits of information: 1) your favorite shade of red lipstick and 2) best way to prepare kale. And no, these are not related although since I typed that, my mind is exploding with ways to combine the two.

Happy Valentine's Day and may you eat something so chocolatey that it makes you sick, but sick in a good way and not a bad one.

Why I Care About Whitney

2012-02-13T14:52:00.002-05:00

I found out about Whitney Houston's death, fittingly, through Twitter. My daughter saw it on her feed while the rest of the family was playing a little snowy day Rock Band (Alice was wailing on the drums, or "grums" as she calls them), and not believing her, I picked up my phone and confirmed on my own feed. Such is the way things are done now, I suppose. Within minutes, I was posting my own thoughts on Facebook and scouring other people's posts for more information.

It didn't take long, as it never does, for the trolls to come out with their typical rallying call of "SHE WAS A CRACK ADDICT! WHY DO YOU CARE! I SAVE MY GRIEF FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER COMMITTED AN OFFENSE OF ANY KIND EVER." I saw this a lot when Amy Winehouse died, and to be honest, I was too upset then to mount any kind of response. I was a big fan of Amy, still am. So I just ignored it. But now, with Whitney, it all just pisses me off.

We all make mistakes and do horrible, horrible things to one another and to ourselves. It is part of the human experience. I dare say that if all of our mistakes, issues and foibles were laid bare to the public absolutely no one would mourn anyone when they died. Or maybe we would, because we would only then realize that no one, no matter how angelic their voice or beautiful their face is immune to the very real notion of being human. Whitney struggled with a very real problem--a disease, in fact--that does not reveal her as a horrible person. It reveals her as a person, a very real, imperfect one. Much like me and you.

My parents divorced when I was two. I don't remember it at all, really, and that's for the best, I suppose. My mom and I moved in with my grandparents for three years following the divorce while my mom got her accounting license and started a business. During this time, she also bought this little gray Mazda RX-7, a two seater deal with plush, burgundy interior. It was the first car she'd ever purchased on her own. She would pull the top down on that thing on the weekends and put me in it, and we would fly down the road to Kingsport to eat dinner out on a Saturday night. Our favorite tapes were the ones by Tina Turner and Whitney Houston, the Whitney album to be exact. I thought about that a lot yesterday. My mom was the age that I am now at that time in her life. She was navigating a new life alone with a toddler and a new business. And Whitney helped, I think. No matter what was going on, she could get in that tiny car on those winding country roads and there was a perfect voice guiding her on.

I asked my mom about that tape this morning and she choked up a bit and said that she had downloaded the album on her iPod when she got rid of the last cassette player she had. She still listens to it, she said.

My first cd was The Bodyguard soundtrack. I have joked a lot in my adult life that everything I ever learned about sex was from Janet Jackson's Janet album, but a lot of what I learned about love and romance was from listening to The Bodyguard in my room, dancing like a maniac to "I'm Every Woman," and imagining who I would someday sing "I Will Always Love You" to. The music was the kind of music that you remember, that got you. I had a lot of other cds during this time period to, but I don't remember much of them. But I can remember specific moments of sitting on this big white trunk that used to sit in my room, the wicker making impressions on the backs of my bare legs and listening to Whitney.

No, I didn't know her, and it may sound odd to someone on Facebook who doesn't mourn celebrities. But she knew me. Somehow, she knew me and she knew my mom and she sang to us. She helped us grow up, to move on, to become who we are.

And yes, people die every day. And it is horrible and sad. But we should not let that reality tell us who is deserving of our grief.

The Return of Joe Mauer

2012-02-10T10:14:00.005-05:00

Joe Mauer has come back from a long Minnesota winter of chopping wood, drinking hot chocolate and sexin' you up for Fashion Friday because he really, really wants me to buy this dress.

Joe Mauer wants me to buy it--wants all of us to buy it--because it is the perfect dress to wear to a rendezvous in some airport Hilton where he'll sign some balls and you'll have steamy Lifetime movie shower sex. Which, while we're on the subject, why is shower sex even a thing? I have never seen a shower that looked particularly conducive to love making (If you can prove differently, leave a comment. Let's turn this thing into Penthouse Letters, ya'll!). But since we're leaving reality at home here in VA, let's imagine that all those Lifetime movies have been correct, shall we? Joe will tenderly pull on that front tie there, like he's plucking a guy off first (give a minute ya'll--my baseball similes have been stuck in the off-season too!), and the next thing you know, you'll be loosening his gear too, and preparing for a session that will include sex, a cuddle session while you watch Law and Order: SVU and three mocha truffles from this candy store next to where I went to college.

Joe aside, I want to buy it because I have a sick, twisted love affair with polka dots. I freaking love them. And I know what that says about me--that I am some juvenile, Manic Pixie Dream Girl wannabe. I totally fit the role as well--I've got the requisite bangs, the funky purple glasses, the English degree, the no clear and discernible plan for the future. I am, quite obviously, Zooey Deschanel without the bone structure and plus about a 100 spicy chicken asiago clubs from Wendy's. Adding polka dots onto all of that is just a little much, and I know that. But that does not stop me from just going completely nuts when I see the dots. Then I become a puppy, sitting expectantly in front of my treat, panting, slobbering and being an all-together unstable hot mess. Thanks, J.Crew. YOU BASTARDS GET ME EVERY TIME.

The kicker with this dress is that a) it is backordered until March and b) it is $148. I desperately want it to go on sale, or for J.Crew to announce a code or some such. Moreover, I don't even know what size to order. The larger of the two sizes I am now? The size I want to be in the spring (which is the smaller of the two sizes)? But I am afraid to wait too long because I know other people like the dots too, we the Mediocre Manic Pixie "Dream" Girls (heretofore known as MMPDG). So here I sit, check card in hand. Will I go ahead and order it? Will I try to wait out a code? THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING US ALL.

Joe Mauer doesn't understand any of this. He's all like, "Hey girl. It's cool. Just let me go up to Lynchburg and just get it out of the warehouse for you. And if they say they don't have it, I'll just invite them to the gun show, and I'm sure Mickey Drexler will show me the secret stores, where they keep the extra dresses in case of nuclear holocaust. It's worked before, honey. Don't you worry. And while I'm at it, I'll pick up some ribs and we'll smear barbecue sauce all over some white sheets somewhere and I'll tell you about the time I lit Tim Lincecum's hair on fire."

Note: I don't actually think Joe Mauer has lit anyone on fire, but I figure if one is dreaming, it is go big or go home.

Actually, I'm not going to front, the whole J.Crew catalog for February has kind of gotten me in a tizzy, which is not good for anyone involved. And it sucks because I'm really loving the new roll out, and I kinda want it all, which is not something that I've done with any of the more recent roll outs. But I know that all of the stuff is prohibitively expensive and that the quality is not near as good as it was say, in '07, which was a real banner year for the Crew. It really grinds my gears that I know that. I am starting to imagine myself in some nursing home someday, walking around in a bunch of moth eaten sweaters recounting the 2007 J. Crew line like one would discuss a far-off war. "I don't care about another damn picture of the grandkids! If you're comin' to see me in this hellhole, bring me some '07 merino! And some sriracha!"

Pitchers and catchers report next week, the J.Crew roll-out is looking good, I have finally found some foundation that I adore (and that Joe loves too--yeah, MARY KAY!), things are looking up. Next thing you know, I'll actually have Joe Mauer writing these posts for me while I lay back in that dress and eat those truffles. Be ready. The Morgpocalypse waits for no man.

Earthy Mom Reality

2012-02-09T10:18:00.002-05:00

I recently read this article and I wanted to write about it. I actually wanted to post it to Facebook too, to remind us all that indeed, everything will be ok, but my husband seems to think there is a special place in Hell reserved for people who post articles from European publications on Facebook ("It just shows you are too pretentious to post the same pretentious articles that everyone else posts from the Times," he said after a few glasses of wine one evening). You all, my gentle readers, are a much more forgiving audience. And it, of course, relates to my life and current experience, and since this is my party, here you go.

I have been pretty crunchy with Alice. I cloth diaper, I am still breastfeeding her at two, I co-sleep, we did Baby Led Weaning and buy wooden toys when we can and I bake my own preservative free bread and when my kid gets a fever, I put potatoes in her socks (for real-this works!). I have bought books and more books and yogurt makers and Rockin' Green detergent and essential oils and now Amazon thinks I am a dirty hippie, apparently, as they no longer recommend me mascara but instead Bac-Out and diaper sprayers. I have done it some to save money, some because I thought it best, and yes, I'll admit, some just to see if I could.

And I'll admit as well that there is a certain amount of self-righteousness that goes into it too. I come home from work and after the initial mild anxiety attack about starting my "second job," I get a lot of pleasure from stuffing the diapers, from snuggling the still sweet baby in bed. "Look how good I am," I think. "I could have just bought a box of Pampers, but here I sit, stuffing away, saving money." And yes, I suppose I am, but it is not like I am funneling all that money away into a college fund somewhere. I bought a bunch of eye shadow this week.

Holding hands with that self-righteousness, skipping along beside, however, comes its cousin, Parental Judgement. I try not to judge people for their parenting choices at all, but I still catch myself doing it. I bet we all do. "Oh, so you're giving your kid Mountain Dew....ohh....." "Your breasts are for your husband and not your baby? For real?" "Letting your kid cry it out? CONCERN-TROLL AWAY!" I never confront people about their parenting decisions--as parents we give ourselves enough guilt without some jerk giving us more, amirite?--but I can't stop my brain from thinking it.

Or maybe I can. My reality now is not that much fun, I'm not going to front. I am on my third cup of coffee of the morning right now, just on the mere hope of staying awake and performing slightly well at my job. I have not gotten a decent night's sleep in over two years. Because I co-sleep, Alice is constantly trying to "dream-feed." Although I have weened her from actually nursing during the night (mostly), she still pulls my hair almost constantly, which has always been her way of getting me awake. She does it in sleep, subconsciously, as well as saying, in sleep, "Mommy, I tire" over and over again. So every night when she starts, I go sleep on the couch and on the way there, I start thinking about something, and the next thing I know, it is 6:15 and I have totally reimagined how to organize my closet, but unfortunately, it is time to go to work, and I have not had any sleep. This is not fun. Even if she starts out the night in her crib, at some point, she wakes up enough to come to our bed and then it is all down hill. We are investigating lots of options from this point--moving her to a toddler bed, having Matt do all of the night-time bed stuff so she totally divorces the idea from me, weaning her totally--but nothing is happening fast enough. And we also struggle with the fact that we have a lot of changes coming down the pike during this year (we are planning on moving during the summer) and don't want to do too much at one time for her (we are also working on potty learning, which is something she seems totally ready for). I am trying to parent her the way I have from the beginning--by listening to her cues and doing things based on what she seems ready for--but again, it is not fast enough for me. And here I sit with my coffee, knowing that by the time 5:00 rolls around, I'll be walking in the door as a zombie, but one that is expected to make dinner (with Alice perched on the counter beside me), pick up the house, and listen interestedly as my 12 year old recounts what grievances she has against the American education system and how some other kid in her class is at best a fucktard and at worst a sociopath (my words of course).

So lately, I have caught myself thinking: "I wish I had just put her in a crib. All of this would be over by now." "I wish I didn't have to devote all that time to folding diapers on top of all this." "I wish my kids were just happy with some freaking chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese because if Sam asks for Indian food one more night this week, I'm going to kill a puppy." The judgment has started to fall away. Although there are still those times when I revel in my own crunchy awesomeness, I get it. I see all sides. I'm like this omniscient-Mommy-being with a scepter of truth and honesty and light and a perfect grilled cheese sandwich in one hand a Dora band-aid on the other.

We all make parenting decisions based on what we know at the time. We do our best. No one goes out of their way to just supremely screw up their child. We do what is best for our kid, personally. I did what I thought was best. Was it the right thing? Maybe. Could I have done it differently for a better outcome? Definitely.

It brings me great joy to know, though, that my kid will probably be ok. She'll be funny and bright and self-aware, just as she is now. She won't still be breastfeeding when she is, say 18, and I suddenly need all that money that I should have saved up by using cloth diapers. She'll be thinking about sleeping with someone else at that point, and I will dream of the days when I gazed over at her chubby-cheeked profile and brushed the rapidly growing curls away from her forehead.

And I will be ok too. I got through college, after all, on a slurry of Mountain Dew, espresso, and masochism. In the grand scheme of things, this ain't nothing.

That Other One

2012-02-07T15:43:00.004-05:00

If you are my friend on Facebook, you have heard this story, albeit in truncated form. Pardon my overlapping stories--there are only so many things that go through my big old fat head every day that are not "CHOCOLATE!" or "SSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOEEEEESSSSSS!" (In other news, my life is, indeed, a Cathy comic strip. Ack.)

Last night, my son realized that he needed to do a book report. It is actually due on Thursday, but he has to turn it on Wednesday, as he is going on a gifted and talented field trip on Thursday, and then well, Matt and I are going out tonight and he has to have Matt's help with the book report. Actually, strike that. He doesn't need Matt's help at all--he is fully capable of writing a report and doing a decent job of it--but Matt has to be there for his own self, because he wants to sit over Sam's shoulder and be all helicopter-dad and talk to him about dangling modifiers like he is a 19 year old college freshman and not an 8 year old kid. Being our kid is FUN.

So Matt asks him what he wants to do the report on. And Sam thinks a bit, reconsiders his parameters (Harry Potter and LOTR being off limits as they are over 50 pages long), and then says, "The Nose." Meaning the short story by Gogol. And while I adore that my child reads Gogol, and golly gee is he smart, of course, I am sitting there thinking, "OH MY GOD, MY CHILD WILL NEVER HAVE FRIENDS AND HE DOESN'T LIKE SOUP AND SOMEDAY HE MAY MOVE TO BOSTON!" Because I am a mom and I worry. It is just what I do. If I were a super hero, worrying would be my power. My action figure would have amazing self-wringing hands and a nervous stomach that gurgles during my children's spelling bees.

So all of this is going on, and the house is loud because I'm watching a rerun of Hoarders while I fold clothes (Hoarders related cleaning is amazing--therapeutic and amazingly efficient), and Matt is encouraging Sam to cut it down a little, because left to his own devices, Sam's book report might be 25 pages long. Alice suddenly appears. She wriggles out of her "I love cupcakes" t-shirt, given to her by her adoring big sister. Then she wriggles out of her yoga pants, flinging them to the side just so. Then she is standing there, in nothing but a pink Bum Genius diaper. Effortlessly, and I mean effortlessly, she pulls the snaps open, pulls off the diaper in one swift motion and twirls it above her head as if lassoing something particularly large.

"I'M NAKED!"

That's what she yells, and the house goes a little quiet for a bit. And then she erupts into giggles, turns around and runs into the bathroom, cackling like the little maniac that she is. I am left holding a newly clean t-shirt and wondering if strip clubs offer any kind of benefit packages that does not include all the drinks you can guzzle.

So, yes, I have the two children in the gifted and talented program, one who started a dinner time conversation about hexadecimals the other night and the other who is doing a second grade book report on a satirical short story published in 1835. And that is all well and good. But I also have that other one, and Lord only knows what she will be. Right now, she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up, but when she says that, it also sounds like she is saying that she wants a burrito. All I know is that she has an effervescent smile that lights up the room and that I am so happy that she is mine. Clothed or not.

Just remind me of that the day she calls me and asks me to bail her out of jail. Please.

Getting to Know My Daughter

2012-02-06T13:47:00.002-05:00

Over the weekend, my husband and son attended roll-out parties for Dark Ascension, which is some new thing for the Magic game that they enjoy/obsess over. This meant they both stood in front of me over the past two weeks at varying intervals and talked and all I heard was "NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD." I could tell you more about it, I suppose, had I listened without my eyes glazing over. Since the boys were otherwise engaged, the girls and I spent Friday evening and Saturday going out to eat, going to the mall, and listening to really bad pop music in the car. It was GLORIOUS.

One thing about having three kids is that you get to know your kids in terms of the others. You see the way they interact with one another, the way they handle situations differently than their siblings, the differing ways they communicate. You start thinking in terms of "X is more sensitive than Y" or "Y has a shorter temper than X." And even though it sounds paradoxical, this kind of parenting helps you to tailor your parenting to fit the needs of each individual child--you know what methods work for one and are too much for another because you can see the way the whole thing works. I try to spend as much time as possible just being solo with one kid or another, but a lot of times those times feel "functional"--I am taking them somewhere or another, they are just left at home with me while the other does something else, that kind of thing.

Being around Gabby this last weekend showed me how much she has changed. Last school year, I have to say, was a bit of a struggle for us. Gabby was moody, surly, and very nearly overcome with drama at school. It was hard to talk to her at all, much less have any type of meaningful conversation. Any time we had together was a lot of me giving her stern talks about one thing or another. This year she has been phenomenally better--we have all noticed just how much easier daily life is. The best thing is, though, that she really seems to be getting a handle on "who" she is and what she wants her life to be like. This is perhaps one of my favorite things about being a parent so far--seeing this kind of knowledge bloom in a child and watching what she does with it.

Watching her this weekend though, I realized one thing: Gabby is kickass. She is someone that had I known at her age, I would have been completely in awe of. For one thing, when I was in seventh grade, I had no handle on what I was, what I wanted, or what I could be. I was an awkward kid with braces who did much, much better with books than with actual, living people. I had friends, but none that were into the same things as me. To remedy this, I mostly just tried to hide what I was really into, and to be honest, that is something I struggle with even now. Not Gabby. She likes what she likes, and doesn't really care what you think about that. She makes no bones about the fact that no one at her school understands her music, her jokes, the internet memes she is shameless in guffawing at. And she is ok with that. Why wouldn't she be?

Her fashion is also strictly her own. She has a closet full of t-shirts and skinny jeans, mostly all in bright colors. Where she goes crazily off the chain, though, is the accessories. For instance, today I sent her to school wearing a headband that had a Koosh ball attached to it and a pair of orange Dr. Seuss Chuck Taylors. She delights in getting up in the morning and putting together these things. While shopping on Saturday, I asked her if she knew anyone who dressed like her. She just gave me this look, this "God, MOM" look that I know very well because it is my look that I still give to my mom on the regular. And I'm glad she shot me that look too, because I was needed to be reminded that she was in fact mine, and not, say, the love child of Kathleen Hanna and Betsey Johnson.

I have racked my brain all weekend, wondering what I did to make her so awesome, so different from the buck-toothed girl hiding in her huge pants and ratty sweaters. And I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could write it all here and give you all the secrets, or maybe write a book to be handed out in maternity wards: "How NOT To Have One of Those Kids From the Mall That You Hate." I think I just got really, exorbitantly lucky.

Or maybe it was the internet's doing. For once, THANKS AL GORE!

The hottest trend for Spring: NEON Colored Saliva

2012-02-03T13:34:00.003-05:00

Reader AKM, who may be the most wonderful person who has ever lived, alerted me to the fact that you can purchase Cry Baby Tears on Amazon. Why I have not looked there is beyond me. No one ever said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer. The last time I found them was in a seaside candy store in Monterey, CA, and the whole thing was kind of charmed, like running into your kindergarten boyfriend and realizing that you share a love for baby hippos and pizza with pineapple on it and that he looks like Morrissey in his prime. I figured there had to be a little bit of special in the air for me to be reunited with my childhood favorite candy. Turns out there just needs to be a little bit o' Amazon.

So while I was sitting here, trying to debate if $23 for candy comes out of the "food" budget or the "fun" budget, and, more importantly, how many Weight Watchers points one box would come out to, I read the comments from other orderers on Amazon. One person noted that they made his/her teeth hurt and tongue bleed. And that is when I remembered the pure, masochistic joy of this candy. Yes, aside from the weird effect it had on my saliva, I distinctly remember eating so many that my tongue bled. And that the mixture of the salty, metallic blood and the tangy remnants of Cry Baby's was oddly good.

Oh, you're stopping reading now?

I grew up during the halcyon days of the late 80's and early 90's. My mom was a hippie parent compared to most around us--she wouldn't let me drink soda until the tumultuous day when my dad and step-mom gave it to me, and the only fruit roll ups I got were these weird ones that were sold in big baskets at the front of the Food Lion and had pictures of fruit on them (they were basically fruit leathers). [Note: I once got tragically and horribly ill on Gushers that I had snuck into the grocery cart, and my mom basically "I told you so'ed" at me while I was puking.] Still, there weren't a whole lot of rules about my food intake. I got to go to McDonald's when I wanted, and my favorite treat was getting to go to Applebee's and order about 15 lemonades and slurp them all down. For instance, every day when I got to my mom's office after school, I bought a Mello Yello and a honey bun. Think about how much sugar is in that. I did that EVERY DAY for years, saving my change and buying it on the sly while my mom did taxes and probably worried about taking me home to feed me a balanced dinner.

Now, there's the obesity epidemic and the president is telling us all how we should and should not eat. We get mad at Paula Deen because she pushes fatty food while knowing the consequences such a diet can bring. And we look at our children, and we all monitor everything they eat. We worry about developing their palates, about making sure they are getting a variety of colored vegetables. I have sat up at night and worried over my son Sam, because he doesn't like soup. SOUP. How will that affect his daily life? What if he gets a wonderful job but is fired for not eating his boss's chili? What if he becomes homeless because of it? What will he eat because HE CANNOT GO TO A SOUP KITCHEN??!?!

I'm not saying we should all go back to not caring what our kids eat. But it does help to think in terms of moderation. Sure, you should expose your kids to a healthy, wide range of tastes. But when I think about those moments of sitting in the back of our SUV on our way to somewhere or the other, munching on so much brightly colored candy that it caused my mouth to declare war on itself, I can't think of a better memory. I kinda hope that my kids have their own special things like that. And if it is a vegetable that they remember so fondly, I think I'd be a little sad.

I am wearing bright blue eye shadow as I write this, so taking my advice on fashion is purely at your own risk.

2012-02-03T10:35:00.004-05:00

I think I forgot to mention in my slurry of Jamaica posts that our bags were lost on the way home. And not just "Oh, it's on the next flight up here, we'll bring it to you shortly" lost. Like "HOLY FUCK WE HAVE NO RECORD OF YOUR BAGS EXISTING LIKE EVER" lost. Once we came through customs in Boston, we brought our bags to be checked right back in so we didn't have to tote them to our hotel and then they entered some kind of nega-universe, time warp thing. And I'm not going to bore you here with the drama of us calling US Airways 15 times or checking the internet site 47 million times or Matt's pure anguish in realizing that his FAVORITE Einstein shirt was in that bag ("THOSE MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS BETTER NOT LOSE MY SHIRT!"). What is really important to know is that my make-up was in that bag, and on Monday I had to go to work with no make up.

HOLY.

SHIT BALLS.

In my family, going to work with no make-up is akin to walking to work in your underwear whilst carrying a nice juicy rib-eye for the neighborhood dogs. YOU JUST DON'T DO IT. Which explains why, with all the drama that was going on, I was sending Facebook messages to my Mary Kay consultant, imploring her for samples. And, because she is amazingly awesome, she came through. The next morning, her mom showed up to my office with a bag piled full of samples and one perfectly wonderful Lindor truffle. And the world continued spinning and I didn't have to call in a bomb threat to US Airways. Not that I thought of doing that at all.

(Yes, we finally got our bags back.)

So, I have used all those samples, constructing a different look everyday. Today, I was feeling spry, so I stuck my hand down in the still-full bag, closed my eyes, and pulled out shadow in Azure, which at first glance, I was like, "That is the same color as the water in Jamaica! It should be called Caribbean Blue." And while it should, that's a pretty douchey thing to think, don't you think? THERE ARE STARVING BABIES IN THE WORLD AND WOMEN WHO NEED MAMMOGRAMS. Now I know the self-loathing Mitt Romney must feel on a day to day basis, and it almost makes me feel something for the man. Ok. No, it doesn't.

ANYWAY, I have it on today, and yeah, it is bright, and when I put it on for the first time, I was like "WOAH NELLY." But now, I have to say, I kinda love it. And I kinda want it to be mine. I feel like if anyone notices or asks today, I can just say I am paying homage to Superbowl Halftime Performer, Madonna. TOPICAL. (I want to add here that I took a picture of my eye with my cell phone, but I didn't share it because it looked creepy, like a picture you might see on the killer's wall in a bad Criminal Minds episode. Just say no to eye photos.)

And I guess the bright eye shadow has me feeling an 80's vibe, because today since I am starting a new Friday tradition that will soon rule ALL our lives (Fashion and Beauty Friday--HOLLA AT YOUR GIRL), I am talking about NEON. And not Fleming-Neon, which is a high school marching band in Kentucky that is near where I grew up and who wore uniforms the same color as our marching band uniforms, and really, where do they get off doing that, and seriously, this is what I think of every time I say or think of the word "neon." Rather, neon clothing and accessories, which are having a bit of a moment this spring. While there is a huge "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" feel to say, a neon yellow bag, I have to say, I kinda like the trend. Maybe because I am just more prone to color when this time of year comes around. ANY COLOR. And because it is 60 degrees outside in February, and so I've just decided that it is time for spring, no matter what the calendar tells me.

But, there is a big disconnect between "liking" a trend on racks or on others, and actually wearing it. I find myself gravitating, more and more, to blacks and grays and some purples. So would I really wear a neon pair of pants? Hmmm. Even more problematic is a neon purse, like the one I saw at Target the other day. How weird would that look with the things that are already in my wardrobe? Let's see: PRETTY WEIRD. And even if it didn't, even if it looked cute with a black dress, how comfortable would I be with how the look influenced my own personal style? Is that worth whatever money I put down on it? Maybe not.

But then I saw this sweater, and I thought that perhaps this could be the marijuana to the rest of the trend's collective crack:

I adore the brightness of this sweater, the sunny feel. Yellow is a hard color to wear, granted, but how good would it feel to have this in your closet on a gray day? And, the good thing about it, is that it is not full-on acid yellow. Believe me--I have a 12 year old daughter who has been rocking the neon trend for a couple of years now. I KNOW ACID YELLOW. This is a gateway drug. You could wear this with black pants or denim trousers and fun jewelry or you could colorblock it with a bright pencil (or even more fun--a skirt in a fun print), and belt it with a turquoise or orange skinny belt. You could put your feelers out for more bright colors and see what else feels good. Who knows? Before long, you could be picking up that neon messenger bag at Target and knowing full-well what you are going to pair with it.

I don't know if I would wear it with the blue eye shadow.

So, before closing, I have to share a Great Neon Moment from the late 80's/early 90's. When I was a kid, my Granddaddy Jack would often give my cousin Amanda and me each a dollar and let us walk to the store about half a mile from his house. He would follow us a few minutes later in his awesome Oldsmobile and buy us a box of cookies and cream ice cream. The store was made of metal and smelled like Pall Malls and feed, which is the only thing that it really sold. Amanda and I would get there and look through the dusty candy and soda bottles and pick out something really awesome to buy. Usually for me, it was Cry Baby Tears, the sour hard candy, which did really, really weird things to your saliva. (Note: If anyone knows where I can buy this candy now, I'd love you forever.) One day, we went down there, and low and behold, they had this pair of neon green shoe laces. They were 99 cents. SCORE. I picked them up and told Amanda I was forgoing the candy and getting the shoe laces instead. Fashion to the core, you see. She informed me that I couldn't, and that I'd need extra money for tax. I hated the US government so much in that moment that it is a wonder that I haven't joined a militia group. I kept them in my hand, though, and followed Amanda around the store, basically begging here for the extra four cents. My grandfather showed up about that time and saw what I wanted, and said he'd buy them for me, "because with those things on your feet, I'd always see you comin.' "

Moral of the story: 1) I am an awful cousin, 2) My grandfather was great, and 3) Neon brings families together.

Things I've Learned About the World from Perusing Pinterest

2012-02-02T13:11:00.002-05:00

This comes to mind....

You know, I freaking love the internet. It is awesome. I can sit at my desk at work, do my job, listen to Bowie at the Beeb on Pandora, get up to date news from Twitter and see what my friends are doing on Facebook. I spend my lunch everyday, reading the Blind Items on Gawker either on my desk computer or on my phone. It is my guilty pleasure--a very spicy sub from Subway ("So you like a little sub with your burning sensation?" said the sandwich guy the other day) and a bit of speculation over who may or may not be gay in Hollywood. NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Even more indicative of my love and respect for Al Gore's creation is the fact that I am raising my children to love it too. Gabby is probably the most up-to-date internet kid that I know. She always knows about meme's before I do, seems to have an uncanny ability to get to a Wikipedia page before you've even asked her a question, and delights in being connected (don't worry-we do monitor her use, and cut off her Wi-Fi use at night).

BUT...nothing can make me madder than the internet. In fact, while I'm fixing dinner at night, my husband and I will very often find ourselves standing near the counter, drinking a glass of wine and detailing someone's Facebook activities during the day. There is a lot of eyerolling and a lot of "Where do they get off!" kinda stuff. This usually goes into a tired conversation we have about liking someone's offline persona a lot more than we like the person's online persona. And of course, we then start second guessing our own activities: "Did I come across as a douchebagess then?" or "Do you think my parents can tell what a foul-mouthed socialist I am?" (GUESS WHO WONDERS THAT?)

Pinterest adds a whole 'nother layer to that. I've detailed my thoughts on Pinterest before, and I have to say, I oscillate wildly on a day to day basis on whether I even like it or not. But I keep going back, just like I go back to McDonald's even though they keep fucking up my unsweetteawithlemonandfoursplenda. I go because part of me wonders what will happen next. It is just like getting on Facebook to read about the lives of people you grew up with just so you can feel a tiny bit more secure in your own particular brand of fuckery.

You can also learn things. Here's what I've learned.

1. People do some crazy ass shit to newborn babies. Having a baby is not fun. NEWSFLASH. Your body does stuff that it really ought not do, and then instead of getting to recover like it would, say, if an eight pound blob of flesh came popping out of your eyesocket, you have to go through a period of time where you're not getting much sleep and everyone wants to see you. After my kids were born, I spent every waking moment either trying to figure out how to get them back to sleep or how I was going to get to sleep again. Because newborns don't do anything. They are not fun yet. It is best just to let them sleep until they become real people. But you know what? The people on Pinterest didn't get that memo. You know what they're doing with their newborns? Putting them in fucking cowboy boots. For real, ya'll. I SAW THAT. A baby put in a boot. Like its body is in the boot, and the head is just there on top, like the cherry on top of redneck sundae. And not just once. A bunch of times, with assorted commentary like "Can't wait to do this with little Baighleigh!" or "SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!" No, folks, it is not cute. It is kind of bordering on abuse. All that baby wants is to sleep and have someone stick a nice full boob in its face every couple of hours. It doesn't want to be photographed, it doesn't want to have a huge fucking flower headband on its head, IT DOES NOT LIKE YOUR CHOICE OF FOOTWEAR. Leave it alone, and get some sleep so you don't push your crazy on the internet.

This is just one egregious example of newborn baby photography on Pinterest. I hate all of it. It is my not-so-secret hope that the newborns of the world will be given super smart serum and soon be able to overthrow their photographic overlords. The streets will be black with the broken hulls of Canon Rebels.

2. The only thing women love more than cupcakes is photographs of perfect six-pack abs. One day, I seriously did a count of number of baked goods to "thinspiration" photographs of Victoria's Secret models on the Pinterest "Everything" page. It is a strikingly similar number. It is especially rocking awesome when it comes from the same person in back-to-back posts: "Oh, here's a picture I love of a brownie drenched in caramel and then covered in ice cream and a sauce made purely of butter, cream cheese and heavy whipping cream. Making this next week!" and then "Someday I'll have abs like Gisele's! Fingers crossed!" My GOD, people. First off, the "thinspiration" stuff is sickening. Get healthy because you want to be healthy, because you want to live long enough to see Newt Gingrich die in a caustic explosion of evil, Old Spice and his own self-importance. It is not ok to starve yourself just so you can reach an ideal that is unattainable to 99.5% of the population, because SPOILER ALERT, it is not going to work. And even if you were to reach that ideal (or close to it) you wouldn't get there by posting pictures on a virtual pinboard. I suggest some running and maybe some sit-ups.

3. The more pictures you pin of living areas that are supposedly "just like mine," the more I will assume that you are a hoarder who stepped over three dead cats to make her morning joe.

4. People love looking at pictures of wedding dresses and nurseries. Even if they are neither getting married nor expecting a child. You know, I was going to complain about the emphasis on weddings on Pinterest, but you know what? I've expressed my ideas about weddings before, and really, I think using Pinterest to prepare for a wedding is a great idea. For instance, you can find pictures on the internet of things both wacky and conservative and cull them together to create your perfect day. Awesome. What gets weird is when you see people who are not engaged, or, even better, already married, picking out things as if they were getting ready to go through the whole process. Surely there is something more deserving of your time. Like...you could volunteer to read to the elderly...or get a part-time job so you can pay off your crippling debt....or, let's face it, just pin more pictures of Ryan Gosling eating nutella cheesecake to your board and remain pantsless.

5. There are some batshit crazy people on the internet, and they like Pinterest too. For every 20 or so normal Pinterest type postings on the "Everything" board (i.e., cakes, babies, rooms, boots), you get at least one thing that is just so fucking nuts, you really wonder why anyone would have even known it existed, much less thought they should post it to an online pinboard. Recipes for offal in which the cover photo doesn't even look like something of this planet? YES PLEASE. Facepainting tips for Insane Clown Posse juggalos? OH HELLZ YEAH. Private family photos in which someone is not wearing a shirt? YEPPERS, THAT'S A ROGER. So, really, Pinterest, like Facebook before it, is the great social equivalent, letting the crazy mingle with the disturbingly normal in a great virtual melting pot.

Wait...did someone say melting pot? Pictures of chocolate dripping? I MUST PIN THAT PICTURE TO SHOW YOU THAT I LIKE CHOCOLATE.

On Top of Things

2012-02-01T10:46:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, when I left work, I had plans to make today a day where I was purely and amazingly on top of things. I had planned my outfit, featuring a pair of J.Crew Minnie's that I just sprung for for a late birthday present. I had printed off healthy Weight Watchers friendly recipes for breakfast and dinner that I could buy the ingredients for and put in the slow cooker. I made big plans to grocery shop, head home, and then spend my evening finishing with the unpacking and laundry, and at some point, finally use the box of hair dye that has been languishing below my sink to make myself a deeper brunette and then cut my bangs.

And while I would love to say that I succeeded, I probably wouldn't be writing about it if I had. No, it turns out that while I have two slow cookers (one to use overnight for steel-cut oats and the other to fill with bolognese sauce for dinner), one had been languishing on top of our cabinets for God knows how long (because really, who needs two slow cookers?) and was covered with a greasy, icky film that I had neither time nor desire to really attack. So the steel cut oats were put off until tomorrow. I did manage to get the bolognese prepared and put into the slow cooker insert for tonight's dinner, but the mincing of the vegetables took so long that I ended up leaving a few dishes on the counter, dishes that smelled of the vegetable curry from last night and greeted me with a start this morning (this all could have been avoided had I remembered that I have a shiny new food processor just for this kind of thing). During the whole time that I was mincing those veggies, Alice was milling about my legs saying "Mommy, I tire, Mommy, I tire," and I kept saying, "Hold on, Allie, Mommy's making dinner," which really just confused the absolute hell out of her since we had just had dinner. When I finally sat down to get her to sleep, she was well past the point of no return, so she ended up sitting on the couch and eating my Special K crackers and watching Sesame Street while I passed out in bed with my book splayed over the pile of grapes on my chest.

I got up this morning, still with high hopes. But as I slipped into my new pants, I realize that they are just enough too tight to make wearing them for an 8 hour workday a tortuous proposition. The bad thing about where I am right now, weight-wise, is that I am between two sizes. Pants in the next size up are swimming on me by the end of the day, but there is that uncomfortable pinch in the next size down. So as I pulled them back off, I reminded myself that this is what Weight Watchers is for, this is why I ponied up for the service, this is why I intend on making February my TRACK EVERYTHING month. Easy enough, no "I'm too fat to live!" moments. I put on the denim trousers that I love and that I sigh in thinking will be too big by the end of the month if I work the plan the way I should and a cheery tank and a cardigan. Again, yeah, it is a uniform, but it works. And then I cut my bangs quickly and happily, tried some new colors of make-up from the plethora of samples that my Mary Kay consultant gave me, and went on my somewhat-merry way.

I say all this, not to give you an insider's glance at what constitutes a morning in my house (because really, I haven't gotten into the messy tango that is getting my two oldest children ready for school), but really to remind myself, and maybe you too, that perfection isn't possible. You make plans and if they don't get shot all to hell, you find yourself in the tenuous situation of trying to do as much as you can while the quicksand beneath your feet does its best to make sure that doesn't happen. No matter what I plan and what I imagine myself being--a thin-ish girl in black cigarette pants and heels--there is the unknown other that doesn't want that, that would much rather have me eating a bowl full of pasta with butter and salt, watching a Hoarders marathon. And that is my struggle. Perhaps it is yours too.

One way I want to slay this unknown is to really commit myself to Weight Watchers, so starting today, February 1, I am going to try to track everything I eat. I am such a mindless eater--a few of the kid's chips here, a handful of popcorn there, a small candy bar to eat on the way home from the store without even tasting it--and those things never get tracked. So that is my commitment. I also need to drink more water. I also need to plan meals for myself and the family better than I have been doing. Both Monday and Tuesday, I found myself in the grocery section of Wal-Mart at 5:00, talking to my husband on the phone as I walked around pulling stuff off the shelves that we "needed." According to Matt, we needed chips and Ranch dip and that is a perfectly acceptable side dish. When I reminded him about the Weight Watchers, he goes, "And chips and dip are bad? Well, I guess they are...." YOU GUESS? Fried potatoes dipped into sour cream MIGHT be bad. This is when one realizes they are married to Paula Deen, minus the diabetes and with a faster metabolism.

It is so strange to think about creating real, lasting change in one's life. On one hand, you feel that it must be so easy to just finally get your shit together, to create a home worthy of Pinterest pictures, to fashion a healthy lifestyle. But there are reasons why people strive for this and never quite get there--namely, it is hard. All one can do is to keep trying, I suppose, and temper those moments of planned perfection with the slothful moments in a Snuggie. The one victory I see for myself is that I am no longer hit with crazy, wild-eyed depression and anxiety when I find myself unable to measure up to those thoughts of perfection. I roll with the punches more--I go to my denim trousers and my new make-up and fashion myself back into happiness. Perhaps this is the true perfection.

Review: Beaches Negril

2012-01-31T10:10:00.007-05:00

Pictured: The beach in front of Beaches Negril.

As promised, here is a review of the resort we stayed at while in Jamaica. I thought it would be helpful to others who may be like me and never considered going to an all-inclusive resort before. Plus, it makes me feel all important to be "reviewing" something. I'll try to break it down between pro's and con's and then "things to know." Onward!

Pro's

1. It's all-inclusive, bitches. When my family and I normally take trips, we try to pay for things as much as we can beforehand so we can keep our budget from skyrocketing. It takes a lot of planning. Plus, you can never prepay meals or anything like that when traveling to other locales. Even if it is not a budget you are worried about, it can be cumbersome and annoying to travel with money/cash. My husband has developed several amazingly intricate ways to keep money on hand and convenient in places like amusement parks, water parks, and beaches over the years. And even with his systems in place, it is always something he is thinking about during the trip. Not at Beaches. As at any all-inclusive resort, the place is totally cashless. We put our wallets and cell phones in the in-room safe when we got there and didn't pull them out until we left. Even if you buy something at the resort, like a scuba class or a bottle of sunblock at the resort store, you just charge it to your room and settle up when you leave. Easy peasy. And we had a zero balance when we left, and not due to penny-pinching. Before arriving at Beaches, the kids had wanted to take some of the classes offered (DJ Academy in particular), but once they saw all of the other things going on, decided not to.

2. It is freaking gorgeous. The resort itself was amazing to behold, with great looking pools, a nice, wide beach, and comfy and nice common areas. I thought our room was very well appointed and comfortable. This was the view from outside the room:

Everything was also amazingly clean and smelled nice. I point this out even though it is kind of a "Nah duh" moment (What? You mean a beach in Jamaica is pretty? YOU DON'T SAY.) because I have heard about other resorts not being super clean. And I have to say, from the time I spent up the beach at Sandals, I found the rooms at Beaches Negril to be much, much nicer and the beach to be wider.

3. There is truly something for everyone. I am the mother to three very different kids who are at very different ages. It takes something pretty special to appeal to all of them, as well as appeal to my husband and myself. Beaches did that. My oldest daughter liked the independence of being able to walk around the resort safely and be able to experience things in a more "grown up" fashion. My son loved the Xbox Game Garage, the floats in the pool, and the fact that Matt would/could go out and get him some chicken tenders at midnight. And Alice of course loved the Sesame Street characters walking about in costume, the various Sesame Street shows and ohmylordinheaven she loved the water park. From the time her little eyes popped up in the morning to the time when she collapsed in an exhausted heap, she was saying "I GO WATER PARK????" And because everything is a walkable distance apart and there are lots of friendly faces along the way, you can feasibly do everyone's favorite thing at one time.

4. Everyone is really friendly. Every person we met at Beaches was super friendly. I mentioned yesterday that at first I was squicked about the whole thing, but made my peace with it by talking to everyone and enjoying their company and help. And if you get started talking to anyone at the resort, you might find yourself in a 15 minute conversation. I learned about my brother in law's butler's twin 2 year old girls, a waitress's 12 year old daughter named Abby, and several other fun kids going through a lot of the same stuff my own are. Although there does seem to be a little script of stuff that the resort wants them to say to guests that might feel a little disingenuous, we didn't meet one person who wasn't really, super friendly despite it.

Cons

1. All-inclusive doesn't include everything. Yeah, we knew we'd have to pay extra for things like classes, and we imagined there would be small fees for other things. There are large fees, my friend. Wi-fi is $14.99 per day. We were planning on using our phones to email my father in law at the other resort to set up times for meeting and stuff like that, but decided not to, once we found out the price. Texting was just $.50 per sent message through Verizon, which I didn't think was bad at all, but my father in law absolutely refused to try it, afraid he would get slapped with additional fees. So we did it up 1985 style by calling the landlines in each other's rooms and leaving messages. More disgusting is the laundry situation. There was a guest laundry across from our room. Now, I totally didn't want to do laundry on my trip, but after finding out that the rehearsal dinner was in fact a snorkeling adventure, I had to find a way to dry some bathing suits and cover ups. I figured I would pay a small price to use the dryer. Turns out is $6 a load to wash, $6 to dry, and if you are require detergent, you're out another $6 per load for that. Um, no thanks. And, I should note that if you find that to be reasonable, let me know and I'll send you my address where you can send all the money that you plan to ritualistically set on fire this month. We ended up doing our drying with the room's blow dryer. Also note that any time you step off the property, you are incurring fees which vary from reasonable to just plain strange. We had to use a taxi to get back and forth from Beaches to Sandals and it was a different charge every time, going from $5 to $15 one way depending on who the cab driver was (it should be noted that this was about a 2 mile drive). Also, the guy who loads your bags into the bus at the airport does not work for the resort, even though he kind of acts like he does. He expects $1 per bag plus tip. The more you know!!! Finally, make sure you are loaded up on things like sunscreen and cover ups before you get there. One bottle of spray sunscreen at the resort store was $26. We were glad we came prepared.

2. The food. Now, I'm not going to say that I didn't like the food, because I had things that I definitely enjoyed. However, I don't think I could go a week on just the resort's offerings, and really, the quality varied A LOT from place to place and meal to meal. Our first meal at the resort, for instance, was just odd. My husband and son got jerk chicken and pork which was actually pretty good and came in a huge serving. I got a buffalo chicken burger, which I thought sounded great on the menu. It was in fact a frozen chicken patty like you used to get in elementary school bathed in some buffalo sauce and topped with a very sad looking nickel sized dollop of blue cheese dressing. Moreover, the bun was stale and the fries had probably been there a while. It got a little tastier when I had another rum punch. If you are someone who knows even a tiny bit about food, you'll be able to see a lot of convenience products being used. Tiramisu, for instance, was tasty after a LOT of wine, but was made with Dream Whip and absolutely no mascarpone whatsoever. Even the mashed potatoes at the wedding reception were instant, and I shudder to think what the parents of the bride paid for that spread. ME NO LIKEY INSTANT POTATOES. Even looking past all that, if you are used to just cooking/buying what you want at any time, you might just get tired of the food offerings. Like I said, 3-4 days on the food front were fine with me, but I don't think I could do a whole week. If I were staying that length of time, I'd make sure to go off the resort and try some local restaurants at least once or twice. And it is good to know that you can go to the other resorts owned by Beaches/Sandals for food if you want and not have to pay anything extra--just make sure you catch the resort shuttle or be ready to pay cab fare. And I should note in conclusion, that this is not just me being a food snob--this was absolutely the only complaint I heard anyone have while at the resort, and I sat in the hot tub and listened to people A LOT.

Things to know and other minutiae:

1. For some reason, the beach/pool towels run out by 10:00 in the morning. Either someone is a huge towel hoarder or they just don't have enough to meet demand. If you haven't gotten one by that time, good luck. We looked for towels in vain for a good while the first afternoon we were there. If you haven't gotten one by that time, just use the ones in your room and request more later.

2. There are a lot of vendors walking up and down the beach trying to sell you stuff. Mostly it is guys pressing jet ski rides, but you also see people selling jewelry and conch shells. They are not that pushy, really, if you are friendly and they can see that you have no cash on you. After the first couple of days, they remembered us and didn't really ask anymore. Any that seem pushy or especially inebriated are escorted off by security.

3. You can check your kids into day care if you so desire. Just putting that out there. We didn't, but the facilities where they hold the day care things look nice and well tended.

4. Ladies need not bring anything other than comfortable cotton jersey dresses. These were appropriate for everything on the trip, and in fact, anything other than that felt oppressive and thick on the skin (namely, the white jeans I thought would be so nice to wear at night at the resort). If you intend on going to the fine dining restaurant, these kind of dresses are totally fine--I wore a black matte jersey maxi dress from Gap and gold gladiator sandals. Men will need to bring a shirt with a collar--I think Matt wore a linen button down and a pair of linen Armani pants he found on ebay for a song. Other than that, there are no dress code requirements, and really, I'm telling you, don't take anything but dresses. You'll be happy with that information.

5. On that same token, I found Beaches to be a great place, body image wise. I know that I have been some places over the years where I've felt uncomfortable wearing a swimsuit since I am short, pasty, and not a size 2. I didn't get that vibe there. It is probably due to the family feel of the resort, but the groups of singles we met and saw were friendly and also very "come what may." If you are in the market for a swimsuit for the trip, I would recommend a tankini with a skirted bottom like you can get from Land's End if for no other reason than the fact that you can wear that around the resort sans cover up without feeling weird. I brought two one piece 50's inspired suits I got from Lands End and Land's End Canvas, and got a lot of compliments on them, even one from my own 12 year old (GASP).

6. If you can swing it, get a junior suite or higher. Not only do you get a bigger room, but you get the suite concierge service which means that you get a faster check-in, a quick tour from the concierge, and you have the concierge service which will bring you anything you want to the room to replenish your mini bar at any time before 10:00 p.m. And you get spa robes! That is great. I will point out, though, that they usually have only person staffing the concierge center in the later hours, so you might call a few times without a response. However, if you can speak to them, they'll have you a bottle of champagne down there PDQ, and one guy just came by with his cart one morning, and let Matt just take off all the Cokes, Diet Cokes, waters and beers he would carry. Also of note is the dressing area in the junior suite. I don't think I have a picture of it, which was weird since that was my favorite thing. It was huge, with a curved double sink and built in closet stuff to hold all your luggage and things. Really, really cool, and very convenient when you have to get a whole basketball starting lineup ready to go to a wedding. And really, it is much, MUCH cheaper than getting two rooms, which is what we would have had to have done with our size family.

I think that is about all I can remember/need to tell. If you are planning a trip to this resort, and would like more info, feel free to comment or email me and I'll do my best to answer questions.

Jamaica Recap

2012-01-30T10:39:00.002-05:00

I've debated how to go about talking about the trip, because really, a blog post about one's vacation is the 21st century equivalent to a slide show where some horrible friend drones on and on while the slides click, click, click into a disjointed and boring narrative. But, you know, there may be folks out there who have been waiting five days with bated breath, just salivating over themselves to hear how my trip went. SHUT UP. THERE TOTALLY COULD BE. And well, I guess I should put it all down for posterity, you know so that someday when I am suffering from some wretched Diet Coke abetted illness, I can look back on happier times. So here goes. For those of you bated breath people, I also plan to do a review of the resort so that those of you who want to plan trips of your own can hear some of my opinions and get a better idea of what you are getting yourself into.

Before I get started, I will give you a very brief background of what drew us to Jamaica. My husband's brother was getting married. My husband and is brother both grew up quite poor, I must say, and of course, have the gross fortune/misfortune to have grown up on this huge mountain in the APPA-LATCH-UNS. They also grew up very religious. Now, my husband, as many of you know, has kind of shucked that whole thing. He has a degree from Berkeley, which should tell you a little something. My husband's brother went to Liberty University, the college started by Jerry Falwell. That should tell you another. His bride also went there, and she grew up decidedly not poor and not in the mountains. I'm not going to go much more into this, but let's just say the dynamics in our traveling party were interesting to say the least.

We left very, very early Wednesday morning and arrived in Montego Bay around 12:00 that afternoon. After going through customs, we were taken to the Sandals/Beaches section in the airport and got ready to take our bus. Beaches Negril is about an hour and a half bus ride from the airport. And really, I'll just say that I was brimming with energy before we got on the bus, but that bus ride really took us all down a little. Not to say that it was bad or anything; the tiredness just all caught up with us--all of the kids fell asleep, and Matt and I were really flagging. The one good thing about the bus ride, though, is that you get to see the countryside and of course, there's all that blue-green water to fawn over. It is a bit sobering, though, to see all of the poverty around. And I mean this in a totally un-pretentious look-what-a-good-little-liberal-I-am way, but it really affected me. There was one image in particular, of a tiny shack about the size of my living room (and I live in a very small house) with a clothes line laden with tiny, tiny onesies extended from it, flapping in the wind. A teenage aged girl was standing in the door way wearing bright pink leggings and biting her fingernails. There was a terrible beauty there, to quote Eliot. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

We got to the resort and were immediately whisked away by the suites concierge folks. We got a suite, since as a five person family, a normal hotel room doesn't quite cut it for us anymore. At Beaches, this means you get a whole different team to check you in and do all of that. Our concierge gave me a rum punch as soon as I walked through the door. And yeah, that set the tone for the rest of the week. Our room was lovely, and the kids were excited by both it and the in-room XBox. Matt and I were excited about the minibar that was filled to our demands. We were both squicked out by the concierge guy insisting several times that he was there to "spoil us." I'm sorry, but as a white American person from the South, having a good looking dark skinned person treat you like you are somehow royal made me feel icky. There were lots of uneasy glances all around.

After this, we went out to enjoy the resort. The kids and I soaked in the main pool for a while and then we went out to the beach. My kids were happy to report sightings of "fat, drunk New Jersey-ites in their natural habitat" (Gabby's words, not mine). She is not allowed to watch Jersey Shore for very obvious reasons, but hears about it from friends whose parents are not Nazis. I think she was pleased by being so close to the real action.

Later that evening, my mother and father in law came down from Sandals to watch the kids so Matt and I could go out and enjoy our 14 year dating anniversary (!). We went to the fancier restaurant at the resort and got amazingly drunk. Like crazily so. We sobered up a bit by playing some lawn chess, then staggered home and got the kids in bed before splitting another bottle of champagne on the patio and having a loud, crazy and disjointed conversation about, among other things, Schrodinger and can you fucking believe we've been together 14 years!!!! Yeah. We're those people.

The next morning, we had to go to the rehearsal dinner, which turned out to be a snorkeling adventure. Here's the thing: I spent quite a bit of money and some time procuring outfits for my family to wear to what I thought was a rehearsal dinner on a boat. I bought things that matched, you guys. Everyone was wearing navy blue. And I'm not a matchy-matchy mom so I was VERY proud of myself. I've been talking about these outfits for a long-time now. But we were told, at the last minute, mind you, that this was a snorkeling trip, so to wear bathing suits. I'm not going to front: I was pissed. Plus, when we got to Sandals, where the boat was supposed to take off from, we were corralled on an out of the way couch until someone could locate another member of our party since Sandals does not allow children (note: it took a while). Finally, we go outside to do a quick run through of the wedding on the beach, and THEN, and oh my god, guys, this is where it gets interesting, my brother in law walked out into the ocean and baptized his bride to be. Ever been to a wedding where someone gets baptized? Cause I have NOW. And here's the really weird thing: people were all just sitting around us in their bikinis and beach chairs, watching a bunch of strangers go through some weird shit. One girl, who I think my husband was, um, let's say impressed with, got up and threw down her copy of Darkly Dreaming Dexter, huffily walking away to a place where there were no prayers. If you don't think this is weird, I implore you to tell me if this is "a thing," especially for a husband to be to do it to his wife to be.

Then we got on the catamaran for the rehearsal dinner. And as grouchy as I was, this ended up being my favorite part of the trip. We went snorkeling around a huge coral reef, and then got back on and listened to Shaggy whilst I downed about 10 vodka and cranberries. It should be noted at this point that my mother and father in law paid for this shindig, and they can neither swim nor drink. I was determined to make up for that. I also showed my daughter my amazing knowledge of the Notorious BIG tribute anthem "I'll Be Missing You" and put on a Bob Marley wig to inform several people that I "felt like P. Diddy." And if that sounds strange or embarassing, you didn't see what other people were doing, and folks, those people were straight up sober. Canadians, ya'll. An interesting group.

The rest of the day was spent on island time, which means that I don't really remember what all we did, but that it probably had something to do with the water park, the attraction my kids were the most into. Awesomely, Beaches has this little water park thing, and right behind it, a huge hot tub for the adults who are there "watching" their kids. Matt and I spent a lot of time there.

That night, we took Allie to a Sesame Street parade that she was simultaneously mesmerized by and complete scared shitless of. It was quite fun, especially when the guy dressed up as the Count started doing the Thriller dance. When one is a little buzzed from fruity drinks and a lot of sun, that shit is DOPE. Our older progeny walked around the resort and made sure to delineate themselves from the Sesame Street crowd. Gabby wore a monocle, which delineates her from any crowd really, except from those who shill peanuts and oligarchs who enjoy squeezing lemons as a visual reminder of what they like doing to the proletariat. Then we went to eat at the resort's Japanese steakhouse. The cook asked us where we were from and my husband said, "Virginia." Then the cook proceeded to sing (very loudly I might add) that song "Country Roads" which is about WEST Virginia for just about the rest of our meal. And that song remained in my head for at least two more days. I went home and crashed with Alice after that, and of course, Matt was unhappy because he wanted to sit up and drink and talk about philosophy which is what you do when you are on vacation. IF YOU ARE A NERD.

The next day was the wedding, so we did some fun resort stuff and then got ready for it. The wedding was a perfectly lovely seaside affair. The bride wore Monique Lhullier, and I spent an INORDINATE amount of time worrying about the sand mixing with the beading on the bottom because as SUPER ANXIETY GIRL, I will find SOMETHING to worry about. I wore a dress from Target. It was really pretty, I think, and I kind of rejoiced in sharing that I had gotten it at Tar-jay. (Full disclosure--I ordered another dress from Nordstrom that just didn't work, so ended up sending it back and ordering this on a whim.) I allowed Alice to roll in the sand during the wedding, which kept her quiet and gave me a lot of good pictures. After the wedding, we had a cocktail hour and the bride and groom did a very cute, very interestingly choreographed dance as their first dance. It defied explanation really, but I applaud their appropriate levels of crazy, as did the drunk people watching from their balconies.

And that is when I started drinking myself. We went to a very fancy dinner afterwards, all on the beach, and the champagne flowed. I felt a little weird after the first course, but didn't think much of it, because my eating habits were shit the whole time I was there and I figured it was just my stomach rejecting a proper vegetable. There was a fire-eater guy, and my son Sam did the limbo, which I gladly paid him five booster packs of Magic cards to do. And I kept feeling weird, and not in a good, "I'm drunk!" way. Then, at some point after the bride's father promised Matt and me tickets two rows back from the catcher for a series of our choice in Detroit, I really got sick. As in, I started puking. The alcohol and whatever else just really caught up with me. I made it to the bathroom, and I won't get into it really, but if you've ever read anything on Deadspin where people detail stomach maladies that are, um, explosive enough for discussion, you know what happened. And, being pretty wasted as well, I got this crazy idea that I had to clean the whole stall, so I used all of the toilet paper in both stalls of the bathroom trying to do that. ANXIETY GIRL AWAY. Matt came after me, and I kept trying to explain that I wasn't just drunk, that there was something else at play. I don't think he was really getting it, because, who would, coming from a girl covered in vomit who had just spent the previous 20 minutes catcalling to the fire-eater? I went home with some level of disgrace, but was redeemed when the resort nurse confirmed that I had a fever and that there was some stomach malady going around at the Beaches resort. I ended up making it to my room and literally passing out in the bathtub. The kids were shocked and upset, for obvious reasons, but at this point, Matt was able to explain that I really was sick and that I wasn't just a drunk. So, small miracles I guess? I am still working up the courage to call the bride's father and say, "Remember me? The puking girl from the party? Well, I wasn't really drunk, I was actually sick, confirmed by medical personnel. So how's about them tickets???" (If we can swing it, we are thinking about seeing the Cardinals during interleague play [that's for you, AKM] and our beloved Triple A's in September.)

The next morning, I was remarkably hangover free, which was the last sign we needed that I really had had sickness and wasn't just a degenerate. We had to check out, so we got up early and went to the beach and water park again while the concierge came and got our bags. Gabby and I witnessed two men fight over a beach chair, which was awesome in its own, Jerry Springer-esque way. Then we took the bus ride back to the airport, complete with a kid and his mom puking in the front seat, as they had gotten the bug too. LOVELY.

That is the trip in a nutshell, as best as I can recall. Having had a wonderful time, I would definitely do it all again, except this time, I might wear some sort of mask to keep myself from getting whatever it was that I got. However, there are two things that if I ever hear again, I'll cut my own ears off, Van Gogh style, and promptly airmail to Jamaica.

And those things are:

1) Any white person saying the word "mon" as in "IT'S JAMAICA, MON!!!"

2) Any song by the Black Eyed Peas, especially that one about tonight being a very good night. ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH.

On Weddings

2012-01-24T11:34:00.002-05:00

As a kid, I went through this one phase where I really liked looking at bridal magazines. Someone my grandmother knew had gotten married and she had a bunch of those great big, thick phonebook type tomes that featured dresses and hairstyles and veils and such that somehow, got left at my grandmother's house. There was one summer in particular that I spent an inordinate amount of time perusing them. I would go out and play in the mornings while my mom worked, heady times when the dew was on the grass and summer was licking at the edges of the day like a cat. In the middle of the day, my paranoid grandmother would usher me inside and make me stay there for fear that I would have a heat stroke or get a sun burn or lyme disease or any number of awaiting summer ailments. Since she only got two channels on her tv (three when it rained) and I had been through all of the World Book Encyclopedias and a good bulk of the National Geographics at this point, I spent the hours of 11:00-2:00 curled up on the couch with the same three copies of Bride.

However, at the time, I wasn't planning my ideal wedding. It was the very early 90's, so if I had been, I would have been sorely unprepared for any type of occasion that did not involve yards and yards of shiny taffeta, puffy sleeves and a bow the size of a Prius on one's ass. Instead, I spent my time making up stories about the models featured. My favorite were these odd, high fashion shots where the bridesmaid dresses were all dark eggplants and hunter greens and the models had black hair piled in hasty, messy updos, dark lipstick, and stares of disdain. They were photographed next to a creek that reminded me of the one in Hanging Rock National Forest that my mom took me to for hiking. And let me just say--in my mind, those bitches got into SOME MISCHIEF. There were dead husbands (who all looked suspiciously like Bob Saget) and vampires and babies left on the steps of the hospital to be raised by nuns, a story line I was familiar with from reading the back of one of my aunt's True Confessions magazines. Those were the girls I wanted to hang out with, not the ladies in puffy white who looked joyful and wholesome and like someone who would attend the same white-bread Methodist church my mom and I went to every Sunday.

And I have to say, I never really considered marriage that much at all. At 13, I decided it was antiquated and horrible, and that I was destined to live in sin with a musician/poet and that we would do everything within our power just to piss everyone around us off. LIFE GOALS. Even after I met Matt and figured out that he was my guy, I didn't really think about getting married that much. We joked about eloping, we would say little things here and there about actually doing it, but well, I didn't really plan out anything.

And then, he proposed to me, on Valentine's Day, on a night when I drank too much cheap champagne. The next day I went to the college bookstore and got a few copies of those familiar Bride magazines. And yeah, you know me, Matt and I spent a good few days snarking on the puffy white ladies again, spicing up our normal talk of Tolstoy with the typical "Who buys this shit!?!" I ended up getting a perfectly lovely, plain, strapless dress at the same store that I got my prom gowns and that my mom got her prom gowns and yada yada yada. And I graduated from college and somehow planned a little throw together wedding two weeks later. We printed out our invitations on the Swem library printer. I think there were about 15-20 people there, at the actual wedding, in the college chapel. My best friend from high school showed up unexpectedly, and it made my day. We had barbecue pork before, and my mom and I made cupcakes with white chocolate M's on the top. We wrote our vows and Matt's vows to me included a reference to Law and Order. And that was that.

It was a great encapsulation of us, really, but as the years have gone by, and I've been to other weddings and seen shows on TV about weddings and thought about weddings and considered the fact that I really, really would have liked Wilson Phillips to sing at MY wedding, I have wondered if I had to do it over again, if I would have done anything differently. And you know, I wish there had been more time between my last semester of school and then getting married, but whatever. We were on a time table and had to be in CA by the end of the summer. So, in the moment, we did our best. And I like that about us--that we had life to get to, and couldn't really be hasseled by the huge event that a wedding can be.

There is a great passage in the book One Day by David Nicholls (which, really, is just a fabulously fun book to wile away a day with--I can't attest to the movie, as I haven't seen it) where the main character laments watching those around her get married. And I can't quote it exactly because I've read a bunch of stuff since I read this, and I'm not a superhuman, but she says (in a much more wonderful way than this) that when you get married while in college, it is kind of a joke, and everyone has fun and is almost apologetic in that the wedding has taken up other's time. She moves on to talk about weddings that occur after that, and that by the time the bride and groom reach their 30's, that weddings become a no-joke affair, with carriages being booked and huge reception halls and all of that. And while it is not true for everyone, I have noticed a trend of this as I've gotten older. The things I have heard of and seen people doing for weddings (and then later, the birth of a child, but let's not get started with that) border on the ridiculous. And I can imagine it getting more and more elaborate as the people I know embark on new lives with second spouses and such from there. It is dizzying in a way, and I am left kind of feeling glad that I have it over with. Is that weird? It probably is.

I'll just be honest and say that I feel really awkward about this wedding I am going to this week. There has been an atrocious amount of money spent by all involved to make sure this is "fun" and "pretty" and "memorable." And I look at things like Matt's big green bowtie (....AND FOR THE RIGHT....TUCKER CARLSON! [It just never gets old.]) and the cocktail parties and catamaran rides and such and I wonder how to even take it all in. To me, a wedding is, at its core, a deeply personal thing between two people. There is something voyeuristic in us all being down there, I think, chronicling the leading up to, and even worse, the post wedding morning. And I keep thinking, "What would I want?" and really I have no idea. "For everyone to go away" is the thought that most often enters my mind. "For nothing more than a bed, a view, a box of chocolates and my husband" is the next thought, but that is what I want nearly everyday. Nothing new there.

So I guess, in the end, I can add "weddings" to the things that make me uncomfortable and that everyone else seems to enjoy that I don't. I guess it is nice to discover that I really am a horrible, horrible person before I turn 30. Best to get it out of the way.

Someday, when I am old and gray, I think I will get a lot of friends together and ask them about their own weddings and if they regret anything about it or if dainty-doo and mango coulis is really all it is cracked up to be.

But did I mention I bought new shoes for this shindig? And some new dresses? That's something I'm totally comfortable with, 100% of the time.

Jamaican Me Crazy

2012-01-23T10:50:00.003-05:00

On Wednesday of this week, my family and I are going to Jamaica, to the Beaches Resort in Negril. My brother in law is getting married there (or more aptly, at the adjacent Sandals Resort, which does not allow kids), and we are attending. Everyone in the family is in the wedding, except for myself and Alice. I get to see my husband in a tux, which will be a little bit o' awesome (especially since the tux features a BIG, green satin bow tie, and when he tried it on, I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling, "And now the Guv-nah from the great state of South Carolina!"). My husband hasn't worn a tux since my junior prom. Also wearing a tux: my son, Sam, who looks appropriately miserable in it, but having served as a ring bearer before is more comfortable and more...let's say tactful about his lot in life than Matt is. AWESOME SAUCE.

Going to an all-inclusive resort of this kind is not something I think I ever would have done, had I not been invited, or needed a reason to get the hell out of Virginia in January which is, let's face it, a really sorry ass time to live in Virginia. For instance, when Matt told me about the wedding, my first response was, "Wait...they're getting married at the place where Michael Scott took Jan that time? Holy shit." That was my only frame of reference because I had never considered doing this kind of thing. I'm more of a "Let's fly to Edinburgh with really no plan at all, and just experience the country!" kinda girl. We are the people, after all, who turned a little four day trip across the country into a 10 day event just because we decided we wanted to go to Tombstone, Arizona. And when family vacation is involved, we're the educational parents, the ones waking our kids up at 7 to go to museums and eating at local food dives we find on the internet. For instance, my husband is planning a trip in 3 years (yes, we look out that far when it comes to travel) to Europe and he wants to spend half a day showing our kids the historic Parisian sewer system because an old professor told him that was "fun". OUR KIDS LOVE US.

People keep asking me if I am excited, and I guess I am. I am excited to start drinking all the watered down drinks some guy who made two whole dollars last year can shove down my throat. I am excited not to be at work, and to get to see my kids during the hours of 8 and 5. I am excited to go out to dinner with my husband, with whom I will have been with for 14 years on Wednesday and who shares my love for making really bad Jamaica jokes that end with the word "mon". I am excited to wear the new shoes I ordered from Lands End Canvas last week. But as far as being super excited about the trip, I'm not.

I've struggled with that a bit, and I've come to the conclusion that I am just a curmudgeonly old woman. And I wonder a lot about this, if I'm so different from other people my age around the country (PLEASE SAY I'M NOT--I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE ON THE ISLAND OF UNDERWHELMED). I see people who get so excited about stuff--going to Disney World seems to be a popular one, or eating bacon--and I feel pretty disconnected. Sure, I get inordinately happy about things--the start of baseball season, for instance, or 40% sales at J.Crew (HELLO, JARDIN SKIRT)--but I don't get wildly, haphazardly excited about stuff anymore. I am pretty neutral all the time. And I'm not medicated, if that's what you are thinking. For better or worse.

I wonder when I left all that behind, when I became this way. I also wonder if it is not necessarily a bad thing. Like I said, I am pretty neutral, so just as I am not excitable all the time, I'm not oscillating into wild, self-flagellating depression either. YEA. Here's to not locking myself in a room to listen to Nirvana's Unplugged album for a day, while I write really bad poetry, weep, and try to "feel!"

And since this a Debby Downer post in a way, I'll just declare a short intermission say this: BALLS.

Yeah.

You think about balls and try not to be happy. Doesn't matter what kind of balls are bouncing through your mind right now (and I think we all know what kind are floating through mine), you're smiling.

BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED ENNUI AND SELF REVELATION.

Shockingly, I feel the same way about Pinterest, I have come to find out. When Pinterest first started, I really liked it. I am the type of girl who sits at the computer with a legal pad beside of me, where I write down things I see that I like, be they recipes or dresses or whatever. Here was an online board where I could keep all those things together. And the pictures are pretty. SCORE. But now, when I look at it, I realize that what Pinterest is really used for is just porn for girls who don't like porn. It's is furniture porn, food porn, BOOT porn (which I'm pretty guilty of myself). It is "Here's a brownie, with a layer of fucking cookie dough on top of that and then because I really, really hate my arteries, the little fuckers, I'm going to pour hot fudge on top of that and call it a recipe. BOO YAH." It is someone's dream world, set to pictures, and given a jar of Nutella. But it ain't my dream world, really. Since I am old, and crochetty and given to melancholy and black coffee, I look at that stuff, and I file it away in "No one really makes that," or "That would kill you," or "How to turn a kid into a sociopath in 5 easy steps!" or "IN THIS ECONOMY?!?!" I keep going there, thinking it will change, but it doesn't, and my pins are halfhearted, and I just know you can tell. So really, what I'm saying is, I suck at Pinterest.

And at going on vacation.

Sorry.

Did the internet do this to me? Divorced parents? Being an only child? Television?

Let's go with the internet. Thanks, Al Gore.

On Marriage

2012-01-20T09:35:00.002-05:00

I read last night that Dooce blogger Heather Armstrong and her husband have split. Well, I guess, "trial separation" is the more appropriate wording. I read Dooce pretty religiously when I was living in CA--her style really appealed to me as an ex-southerner living smack dab on the other side of the country. I stopped reading about the time of the "washing machine incident" which was about the time that the Armstrongs started getting fancy. It just wasn't palatable to me anymore and led to me feeling more pissed off after I read each post. I didn't need that in my life. But, still, I totally dig Armstrong's style with words.

I guess that is why this news struck me so strangely. I was up last night thinking about this shit, ya'll. And while my anxiety ridden mind will often find really odd things to get fixated on at 4:00 in the morning, I think there are other reasons why I'm sitting here at my desk, listening to Ryan Adams's Cry on Demand and feeling all together like a sadsack 14 year old. I know it sounds odd, but I have a strange idea (especially strange, since I am a child of divorced parents) that marriages, when they are entered into by smart, caring, modern people like myself and Armstrong and all three of you readers, are infallible. Love, as it is, will find a way and if you are quirky enough to accept the fact that the other person is wackily, oddly adorable and their faults similar, you are more than ready to accept the mantle of that lifetime commitment. So basically, to put it simply, marriage in my mind is a Zooey Deschanel movie. Sure, it can be irritating, but in the end, it is too wonderfully dorky to step away from. Seriously! Look at those eyes and walk away!

Of course, that is not true at all, and despite my heart's protestations, my brain knows better. People get divorced all the time, even if they are bright and spend their days looking at Tumblr blogs and clips from The Daily Show. Matt and I have had our rough patches, and none of them were caused by anything cerebral. They were all caused by complete and utter shit, the daily minutiae of life that eats at you like a bedbug. Take, for instance, last night. Alice is going through an especially trying sleep time right now, a problem that has caused me much (yes, even more) sleeplessness and has really threatened my sanity (for reals, ya'll). I couldn't get her to sleep last night, just couldn't do it, and Matt and I were both pissed at her for it. Yeah, we were pissed at a 2 year old. But she is an especially adorable little thing, and well, you shouldn't be pissed off at something that really can't control anything in it's life, even it's own bodily functions. So we took it out on each other. Finally, Matt took Alice and a stack of books off to the bedroom, and I sulked on the couch and thought mean thoughts about him until I fell asleep. Maturity, ya'll. I HAZ IT.

This kind of crap, day in and day out, that's what does it. Tears the adorable Zooeys into screaming Kris Kardashians. And people tell you all this stuff about marriage, that you have to work at it, that you shouldn't go to bed mad and all of that. And it is all true, I suppose, for someone's marriage. Not necessarily mine. In my mind, saying I have to "work at" something, means that I won't do it, just like I won't work at learning math or developing a decent skin care routine. So I don't think about marriage in those terms. And if I couldn't go to bed mad at something, nothing would ever get solved. I will stay up and argue until I am blue in the face--if I can just go to bed, get some sleep, however short it may be, when I get up, I will be much more pleasant, and probably, have forgotten what pissed me off in the first place.

So I don't know the answers. I don't even have a decent, funny platitude to write on the "Recipe for a Successful Marriage" card for my brother-in-law's wedding reception next week. But what I keep thinking about is this moment, right after my actual wedding. Matt and I ditched the hokey recessional and walked out of the Wren Chapel (like bosses, I might add) to Heroes by David Bowie. And there was this moment, when we were standing in the back in front of the big double doors, and no one from the rest of the wedding had moved yet, and we just stood there together with these big goofy grins on our faces and I can only describe the feeling going through my mind as "LOOK AT WHAT WE JUST DONE DID." It was definitely one of the happiest, most sublime, almost otherworldly moments of my life. And I guess, if I had to write a tip for marriage, if I had to boil it down to what I want and what everyone deserves to have, it would be to always be with the only other person in the world who remembers that moment. The only other person who was there, and who was there all those other times and has the same screwed up memories that I do. I want to be in my 80's and be able to look at the other person at the kitchen table and say "Remember when Alice was a newborn and she had a green tint to her butt-crack?" or "Remember that time we took the kids to New York and got Sam's stroller (with Sam in it) caught in a subway turnstile?"

So I guess that is why I am sad. I want that, and I want for everybody to have that, and the fact that Heather Armstrong, a person who I have never met and will probably never meet and will probably not really remember in 10 years might not have that, well, it fucks with me. I am not the most sane person on the block.

Marriage will make you that way, I suppose.

My Experience with Mary Kay

2012-01-19T09:48:00.002-05:00

So. Last night, in the grand tradition of treatin' myself for my birthday, I had a Mary Kay consultant come to my house and show me some foundation. The whole line to get to this point was arduous and fraught with issues--I had an appointment scheduled, then my daughter got sick and I had to cancel, then I got sick, then the consultant went to Atlanta, then I went to Gatlinburg, then....FINALLY, all of the ducks got in a row to where I could do this thing. And it was about damn time. I was almost totally out of the True Match foundation I was using, having to resort to doing an odd, gyrating dance to get the last bit out of the bottle in order to do my face this past week. Being from the South however, ya'll know there was no way I was goin' out of the house with no make-up on. This is the road, surely traveled, to wearing Eeyore pajama pants to the grocery store. HELLS TO THE NO. So gyration it was.

And I have to say here just want a complete darling my consultant was during all this. I had originally contacted her to get some of the Ultimate Mascara that I had heard so much about, and once we started having issues with scheduling, she dropped the stuff off with a friend of mine, no questions asked, along with a bunch of samples and catalogs to get me started. Plus she was super friendly and made the process so easy. Love her.

Anyway, so we scheduled for my birthday. We decided she would come to my house. Now, I'll just say (in the spirit of total honesty) that this caused me a bit of anxiety, as with a toddler in the house during the day, I never quite know what I will be walking into when I return from work. It could be relatively straight and nice looking, sure. Or I could have a pile of baking soda on the floor reminiscent of a scene from Scarface. You never know. I had this fleeting thought, just for a bit, that perhaps my children and husband (who was home before me) would think, "Golly gee. I love my mom. Perhaps I'll clean the whole living room to pristine nature before she returns home from work since it is her birthday and I desire nothing more than her happiness on this, the most special of days." And, of course, I was wildly wrong. When I walked in the door, the kids had sort-of, kind-of straightened up Alice's toys in the living room, but there was a pile of shoes in the area around the door, and an even more tenuous pile of jackets/backpacks/lunchboxes laying on the living room furniture. And there sat my lovely children in the middle of it, playing on their iPods and threatening each other with bodily harm. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM.

So I ran about, hanging up jackets. I went to a little side table we have that at this point is just a repository for Diet Coke bottles and books and thought that I would dust it and get rid of the strange assortment of books. There was a copy of Sartre's No Exit on there, along with a Spanish/English dictionary, some Raymond Carver short stories, and I believe, a history book about presidents. What would the Mary Kay lady, who had been so wonderful to me, think of us upon seeing this collection of tomes? I'll tell you what I would think: PRETENTIOUS, BILINGUAL JERKS. These are the things I worry about, folks. So I reach for the Sartre, and guess what? It is fused to the table. With what, I have no idea. There is a 2 year old afoot. It could have been anything: juice, a forgotten half-chewed fruit roll-up, HUMAN NOSE DRIPPINGS. Anyway, I just left it, hoped no one would look at the table, and made some of that Harry and David cream cheese dip that you make with the relish so that my kids and husband would hopefully be pacified while I got prettied (which, if you haven't tried, is kind of like crack but creamier). By that time, the consultants had arrived. And I had realized that in my rush, I had neglected to pick up the pair of Green Lantern boy's underwear inexplicably laying on the bottom of our entertainment center. F-U-C-K.

And I hope they didn't notice that I live with a bunch of wild animals, because I enjoyed the absolute HELL out of the time they were there. First, they took off all my make-up, and I used the Mary Kay products for cleansing and microdermabrasion. Again, total honesty here: I suck at any kind of skincare routine, even though it was on my 30 b4 30 list. SUCK. Skin care routines and me are like math and me. Sure, I get why it is important. Sure, I can get by. But for some reason, there is a block in my mind about actually doing it with any consistency. But by the time that I was done, my face felt so wonderfully soft and cool and just...nice, I started wondering if Mary Kay could be my skin care rehab. Maybe? The set they sell together is $90, and although I would have loved to go all in on that, I have a few products in my bathroom (a bottle of Cetaphil that isn't even half used, for instance) that I should get through first, and well, there's that whole "feeding my kids" that I should consider as well. But really, next month I am thinking about purchasing it. Especially since I am at an advanced age now. This is something about the Mary Kay experience that I didn't think I would like (washing my face in front of strangers), but I have to say, the products were pretty daggone good and the consultants gave me some tips that I had not considered before. I recommend doing a facial with them, even if it takes you out of your comfort zone a bit.

And then we get to the main event, at least for me, which was foundation. This is where I can't gush enough. I have a horrible time with foundation--HORRIBLE. I have very pale skin, but I have some red undertones, so a foundation that matches my neck might be much too light for the rest of my face. When I was younger, I used Prescriptives foundation that I adored and that really was the only brand that could truly match my problematic skin. But I have used three different formulas, and each time, the color or kind I used was discontinued promptly after I started loving it. I have also used MAC with some degree of love, but the last bottle I bought seemed to change colors on me in the middle of the day and the salesperson I bought it from was a touch rude and the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth (especially for the $40 I paid for it). Strangely, L'Oreal True Match is my go-to foundation, at least lately, but I find myself buying two different shades and mixing them, and for the amount of time and money that takes, I could get a prestige brand that I like more.

I tried to explain this to the consultant, so she started with at least five different shades, doing stripe tests on my cheek. She put me in different light, moving around the sticky table from above (GASP) to see how each worked. Then we got the shade down to two choices and we did half my face in each. And we let it set for a while, while I looked through other make-up choices. Then, finally, the three of us made an executive decision. I ended up getting a 5 in color! A five! Usually, a make-up artist just puts me in whatever is the lightest (usually a 1 or a 0) and goes from there. However, with Mary Kay, the gradation is pretty small within a certain tone (there are three tones), just varying slightly on tint. This makes it much easier to get that perfect shade. I felt so confident with my choice. No make-up artist has EVER taken that much time with me to pick a shade and I have never felt so sure that I was getting exactly what I needed.

The formula for the make-up is pretty rad. I'll admit that it took me a bit to get used to this morning when I was putting it on, mostly because I used True Match before that. True Match is a thin foundation, more like a veil of cover more than anything. The TimeWise Luminous Wear Mary Kay foundation is much creamier. I know this isn't likely, but you put it on and feel like you are doing something good for your skin, not just covering it up. It is a bit thicker too, more of a cover than the True Match. But the finish is luminous, and when I got it all applied the way I like, I could still see my freckles. I feel like I could up it a bit too, for more of a nighttime, DONE look. I am VERY happy with it.

I tried the other make-up too. I feel pretty confident that I'll stick with Nars Orgasm for blush, since I'm nearly married to it in a non-legally binding way, so I can't tell you much about the blush. It looked nice when I put it on, I'll say that. But I am partial to Orgasm (aren't we all?). The mineral eye shadows were perfectly lovely, and I liked them much more than the mineral shadows I've used before. Application was easy and not messy which is my numero uno complaint about any mineral product. Plus, the price ($6.50 per pop) is pretty nice and allows you to customize several different looks without a whole lotta cash. My consultant gave me one of the shadows as a gift, it being my birthday and all. Once I run out of the Benefit cream shadows I am using now, I plan to try some of the other colors. I liked that one of the consultants told me she used the shade I chose (the Honey Spice) as a highlighter both above and below her eyes and on her nose. She said this looks great in photos, and I plan to utilize this trip when I attend a wedding next week.

And since this is getting long, I'll add succinctly, the Ultimate Mascara comes really close to laying-in-bed-naked-with-a-chocolate-truffle-and-Liev Schrieber-levels of awesome. Reminds me a lot of Dior Show, although the brush is smaller and dare I say it, more manageable. Love it, love the price, and this might go on my list of things I will carry with me when I kill over from the horrible disease given to me from drinking my daily bottle (or 2...) of Diet Coke.

After the consultants left, my husband and I were making dinner together and he asked me why I had had the consultant over. He said it didn't seem like something I would normally do. I admitted that it put me out of my comfort zone a bit. I can be a bit standoffish in real life, believe it or not, especially if I don't know someone that well. Initiating any kind of contact that would put a stranger in my house, touching my skin, is not like me at all. But I did like it. A lot. And really, this is the happiest I have felt with my makeup in a long time. So here I am, getting old and trying new things.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to try to figure out how my 8 year old son has not figured out that it is not ok to leave his underwear on the living room furniture.

Treat Yo Self

2012-01-18T11:58:00.002-05:00

I once read this thing for bloggers that said if you aren't around for a while and then you come back, you shouldn't mention it, that a "Holy shit, I'm sorry I haven't updated in a hot minute--um, six months!" post is purely amateur hour. But yeah, I'm purely amateur hour, so here you have it. I ain't been around. There are reasons for this. Reasons that I'll hopefully explicate in some detail in this post.

Life has really been weird these past....four or five months. No, nothing has really happened. I'm not pregnant, I'm not getting divorced, I haven't grown a tentacle or had my nose run off to join the army. Life has just been blah. Somewhere in the daily battle to curtail the never ending flow of laundry and get to work and try to be a somewhat decent human being, and oh, well try to decide what in the living state of SHIT I am supposed to do with my life, everything got a little lost. Truthfully, I got a little lost. And it is kind of hard to keep up with a blog when you can't think of anything in your life to do except complain. No one wants to read that, and if they do, well, there's Facebook. 24 hour a day complaining about everything from censorship to Starbucks to one's love life. It is truly horrible, but if you're like me, you have your phone glued to your hand all the time, ready to subject yourself to more of it. MASOCHISTS, ya'll.

These past four to five months, I didn't go shopping one time (at least not for myself). I quit reading a lot of my favorite blogs, I quit paying much attention to anything fun or interesting. It all felt a little pointless, I guess, and sad in a way. Empty. I fought with myself about the person I was, the person I saw myself becoming, the person I needed to be. Somehow, wrap dresses and denim trousers and boots didn't seem to fit into that. I started to gain weight, mostly because I've been eating complete and utter crap. We're talking Wendy's for lunch nearly everyday (for reals, ya'll, have you had the asiago ranch chicken sandwich with spicy chicken? OMFG, those things are too freaking good. I will end up with botulism or butt cancer or something because of my love for them over the past little bit, but despite it all, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for them).

And then, one night, I sat watching What Not to Wear whilst eating a chunk of Trader Joe's caramelized onion cheddar and realized that I was turning into the lady on the show, pre-makeover. She complained about not having time, she had circles under her eyes, her clothes were sad. I almost cried. I went to bed feeling defeated.

So now, here I sit. I am now 29 years old. I am not where I want to be, ultimately, but really, I have some plans in the works, and things are starting to solidify. And this past weekend, I went to the outlet malls with my mom handily watching my children, and I got new clothes. And yes, it is sad, but I feel like a different person. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, wearing new crisp denim trousers and a cardigan (yes, it is a uniform of sorts), and I felt good. I felt like me. Which is an altogether different feeling than what I've been experiencing. Was it the clothes? Yeah, probably. But not just them. They, and a little bit of learning to accept myself and what makes me happy FOR BETTER OR WORSE is what did it.

I can't tell you how to live your life, because, well, if you took advice from me, you'd be stupid. I am, after all, a 29 year old mother of three who lives in a small town she alternately despises and is indifferent to, who does nothing to use her hard-won college degree and sometimes has a hard time differentiating between right and left. SERIOUSLY PEOPLE. RUN. But I'll tell you this: be true to yourself, no matter what that means. If you like lipstick and beer, fuck it, that's what you like. Don't overindulge to the point of messing up your life, but you know, enjoy those things. Don't fight it. Don't try to change things that have no business being changed.

And TREAT YO SELF. Life is too short to go through it wearing bad shoes.

I've put a lot of thought into this, and perhaps today is a good day to share this, what with it being my birthday and new beginnings and all of that: from now on, when I post on here, I'm going to be 100% truthful with you about everything that is going on with me (of course, leaving out anything that has to do with poop or health things or other people who might defriend me on FB, or you know, set fire to my house were I to share too much). I have never really lied on this blog, but anyone who uses the internet knows that absolutely no one is completely truthful about this stuff--we all share what would flatter us, what would make others think that we are amazing credits to the world. And I think this is a problem. It is hard to compare your behind the scenes daily issues with the highlight reel everyone else shows. So, I'm just gonna say it. I ain't perfect. My life ain't perfect. And if I can help someone else by admitting as much, hell, I'll be happy to do that.

And ya'll, as of tomorrow (after I eat the luscious dark chocolate raspberry Nigella Lawson creation that I have prepared for myself), I am back on Weight Watchers. And I'm going to talk about that some too, just to keep myself on the wagon. This is especially going to be tough here at the beginning, as I am going to Jamaica next week. More on that later when I have a bit more sarcastic jocularity to share.

So for now, happy birthday to me and thanks for reading this, if in fact anyone is. Treat yo self.

New Clothes Can Save the World

2011-10-24T10:43:00.002-04:00

This past weekend, I had the joy of visiting my cousins and their lovely families, two groups of people that I don't get to spend nearly enough time with. The reason I went, however, was not a pleasant one. My cousin's wife, a beautiful, strong mother and all around cool lady, has cancer, and the outlook is not great. And really, I'm not getting into that, because really, it is between them: my cousin, his wife, and their kids. It is not a good situation, but they are all pretty amazing people who are dealing with it with more grace and love than I could even muster in my finest moments.

But here's the thing that no one realizes: when a person gets sick, things suck, yes. But shit keeps on happening. Your bills are still due, you still have to eat a dinner that can't wholly consist of cookies and ranch dip, the kids don't stop their growing until the drama subsides. So when we arrived at my cousin's house on Saturday, one thing that needed to be done was for us to go to the nearest mall and buy my cousin's kids some clothes. Money was not an issue, none of that. My cousin just had not had time to turn around, much less go to the mall and buy jeans for a pre-teen girl. And let me tell you folks who don't have preteen girls: buying jeans for them is kind of like buying jeans for a baby elephant. Nothing you are going to find will fit on the first try. I refuse to believe that there is a preteen girl alive who fits in the standard size--this is where you get into slim sizes and half sizes and moving up to juniors and all of that. And the baby elephant that you are trying to dress? It is going to continue getting surlier and surlier the more jeans you have to try on it. You are going to spend a good long time trying to placate the baby elephant while finding it jeans, caving and also purchasing a feather headband and then drowning your sorrows at Cold Stone Creamery. So THAT's the battle my cousin was facing, and he was coming into that battle war wounded and without a gun.

I had my daughter with me, in fact, one of the very reasons we had traversed across the state was so that Gabby could spend some time with her cousin. So, with two preteens in tow, my mom and I set out for the mall. We fought the baby elephant, and we got it into new jeans, four pairs even (!) along with sweaters and t-shirts and camisoles and what have you. And we had a jolly, wonderful good time on top of it all. For the hours we were out, my daughter and her cousin were just two girls in a mall, having a wonderful time, with no worries or sickness or strife to bring them down. We came home laden with packages and headbands and bags and stories about an unfortunate lunch lady affectionately named "One Tooth Wonder". And when we got back, both of her parents had smiles on their faces. Their minds were at peace on this one tiny detail, able to put that small bit of minutiae behind them.

I'm not going to lie and say we made it all better. We didn't. This whole thing is a wound that can't be tidily covered with a bandage, forgotten with retail therapy. And driving home yesterday, I struggled with it a little bit. Would it have been better to leave the daughter at home, to ride out more time with her mom before there is no time left? Why are clothes so important? Was this just me forcing my own little bit of crazy on my unsuspecting cousin and his daughter?

But here's the thing. First off, he asked us to do it. Second off, clothes help. In a mad, mad world, full of crazy and pain and things that just should never happen to anyone ever, the clothes you put on can give you a bit of control. In the small act of getting dressed in the morning, you control how the world sees you. And the right clothes give you a bit more, an armor almost. Bad stuff will still happen to you, yes. Things that suck will hit you like a barrage. But the right jeans can help. It is one less thing to worry about, one more thing to have in your arsenal, one more line of defense in a world that refuses to be understood or contained.

The coming days and weeks and months and years will be hard for my cousin, for all of us as a family for we are a close knit group. My cousin's daughter is one of my own daughter's best friends and they text each other daily, along with trips and family events they plan and drag their hapless parents along with. I hope that I can help in some small way. My cousin has been there for me--it was his face that I so happily saw standing outside the hospital room when my son was laying in the in the pediatric ICU, taking Gabby to his house so that I wouldn't have to worry about her, he and his wife who showed up after Gabby was born to goo and gah appropriately when I felt sad and like a total fuck up. I'd do anything for him. And if that means shopping, if that is the little gift I can give to him in thanks, then by all means, I'm thrilled to do it.

On Raising a Girly Girl and Sundries on Facebook (in no particular order)

2011-10-20T13:56:00.003-04:00

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while.

FOR YOUR MOM.

Yup. I went there. Felt good, didn't it?

Today is a wet and gross and altogether horrid day. I hate it. It can die in a fire. Nothing particularly awful has happened to me or anything. I just find myself staring out the window and thinking of random things. Give me some precipitation and I become a picture of non-productivity. So what better time to update one's forgotten blog?

I also feel I should post because I just want to write about Alice. Having multiple children is such a trip because of how different they are. And yes, I know this is obvious. No one seriously thinks that they are going to have three little clones, gorgeous in their similarity. But when I had a daughter, I imagined her baby and toddler years would be a lot like my oldest's.

ERNK. Sorry, try again.

Gabby never was that girly. Yeah, she went through a pink phase, and a Hello Kitty phase (where it got all kinds of Mariah Carey up in my grill) but at her core, she's always been a bit strong, a bit more "steel" than "magnolia." I like that about her. She's also a bit aloof, as if any kind of label (like "girly" or "tomboyish") would be offputting on a child such as her. Gabby has been a product of two kids in college, in grad school, reading a bunch of theory. And it suits her amazingly well. But Alice, woah, Alice. Alice's feet hit the floor in the morning, and she's wanting me to do her make-up. She comes into the bathroom where I usually am when she wakes, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her legs still toasty warm from the blanket. And she's reaching for the blush brush. Yes, my daughter wears Nars Orgasm blush nearly everyday. No, I'm not kidding. No, I'm not from Texas, nor was I ever on an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

I'm surprisingly fine with this. Yes, I am still the mother that bristles and complains when Matt calls her "my princess." She's not a princess. But she is a human being who enjoys the feeling of a natural hair brush over her cheekbones, likes the allure of "sparkles" (her word for make-up). To her, it is fun. And I agree. I think it is fun too--have since I was 13 years old and started wearing make-up, only not wearing it on days when inflicted with SEVERE stomach viruses. So I indulge her, and we do it together in the morning. Nothing strong, nothing I feel would cause a reaction with her skin. She puts on barely enough to even see. And we talk, about how we are beautiful without our make-up on. We talk about being strong girls.

Alice is girly in other facets of her life as well. She loves clothes and accessories--necklaces especially. I think this is a shared family trait because at just a little younger than her, Sam was obsessed with having things around his neck (his favorites were a big pink boa and a men's necktie that had a picture of the Eiffel tower on it). She tends toward the pink in life--she has a pink dump truck that she loves and at night when I put her down to bed, we look up at the ceiling and imagine that we are seeing a beautiful night sky. Sometimes she says she sees a plane, or a bird, or a light. But every night the moon is always pink in her little mind's eye (somtimes the stars are black, which seems to be her other favorite color, interestingly, and yes, I've dissected that like the good English major I am).

But conversely, she ADORES her big brother. And even more, his room. She goes in there and picks up cars and action figures and brings them back into her toys. The other day I found a Star Trek figure sitting in her Little People Doll House. She has become obsessed with a Batman Batcave of his and will retrieve it anytime anyone has the fool idea to put it back in Sam's room.

And then, last night, I was folding some towels. I usually watch TV while I do this, but in this case, I had the TV off. Alice came toddling in and said, "Mama, we watch baseball?" I went over to the TV happily, looking for the pregame to last night's world series. As soon as CJ Wilson's face came up, stats all around, she said, "I like watchy baseball wit you." She said it while wearing these absurd baby headbands around her neck (they are her necklaces, she says), a psychadelic patterned summer tank top she wanted to sleep in (with purple diaper and Minnie Mouse pj pants, mind you) and holding a tube of Benefit That Gal highlighter in her chubby little paw.

Yup, that one's mine.

So during the time that I'm not raising the most awesome child in existence (aside from my other two of course), I spend some time on Facebook. Don't we all? And here's the thing. I think we all have our beefs with this particular little piece of social media, but how do you resolve them? I am asking for your input on these, gentle reader. Fire away.

a) Can you defriend a family member if that family member has posted something so strange and rather off-putting (nothing political or religious, mind you) that you can't think of this person without a little uneasy giggle? Will they ever notice? What will Christmas be like if you did?

b) How wrong is it to just be friends with someone for the sheer fact they make you feel better about your own life?

and lastly:
c) What do you people spread on your pictures before scanning them? I know this one lady, who I could swear spreads about an inch worth of baby oil on each and every picture of her children and then scans it on a scanner she bought back when her screensaver was a flying toaster. And I'm sitting there wondering what in the immortal fuck I'm looking at, and people are commenting like crazy with "Lovely picture!" and "He is so cute!" Cute? That three headed beaver is cute?!?! Oh, that's her son. Nevermind. Perhaps I should pull out some old baby pictures of myself, get a bucket of vaseline and scan them up. Perhaps you will think I am cute then.

And let me just say this: when I call you, I don't want to hear music. I WANT TO HEAR RINGING, NOT YOUR FUCKING RING BACK TONE. The Beethoven you picked for Verizon to play for me does not make you seem smarter, nor does the country song about needing some rest make me think anything other than that you are an evil dumbass and that I prefer the sound of the freaking phone ringing. Because it is a phone. I'm calling you, probably for something you don't want to be called for. You don't have to entertain me. I have this thing called the internet for that.

I feel much better now.

The A to Z of Me

2011-09-26T13:34:00.003-04:00

What was a CRAYzy morning has given way to a nice, settled Monday afternoon. I've gotten work done, I've stopped sneezing, and life is generally a bit brighter than it seemed in the harsh light of 9:00 a.m.

So, on that note, I am doing this meme. Why? Well, the office is quiet, and it is one way of putting off actually doing the corrections I worked on last night on my (very depressing, sadsack McGee type) novel. I have located a reader, so that means two things: 1) This thing is getting real, and 2) I'm about to ramp up my procrastinating web usage about 200 fold.

A. Age: 28. And I don't know quite how to feel about that.

B. Bed size: Queen. I have always had a queen bed, even as a toddler. I don't see myself moving into a different size anytime soon.

C. Chore that you hate: Washing dishes. I would rather have my toenails ripped out than spend a day washing dishes. Which sucks because my dishwasher is dying a slow death of something horrible and antiquated like TB or something. Something that I can't cure by cleaning it, whispering lullabies to it or kicking the absolute shit out of it. Because I've tried all those.

D. Dogs: I'll just say that I don't like dogs. Not really. I don't like cats either--I'm allergic. I'm not much of a pet person. My daughter has a miniature schnauzer named Hinkleton (if I were to say it belongs to our family, I would risk her wrath, which is not something I am willing to do), and I like him fine, but as far as actually wanting to spend time in the company of pets, no thanks. I especially do not like big dogs. If you have a big dog at your house and it stays indoors, I will not visit you. Period. I know that sounds mean, but I really don't like them or the smell they bring to a house.

So now that I've pissed off dog lovers everywhere, I'll move on.

E. Essential start to your day: A shower and then a little rest to enjoy the silence of my house. I usually go and sit on the couch for about 5-10 minutes apres shower. Sometimes I read a magazine, but most times, I just sit there. It is the only time that our house is quiet for any extended period of time.

F. Favorite color: It has always been purple. Really dark, rich purple, though, none of this namby-pamby lavender stuff.

G. Gold or Silver: I wear mostly silver, but lately have been feeling a bit of gold. I think I'll always be a silver girl at heart though.

H. Height: 5’3”

I. Instruments you play: I took piano lessons as a kid. My mom is a pianist--a damn good one--and she really thought I had some natural talent. I don't. I also played clarinet in the band for about 2 years. I did this mostly as a way to meet cute and nerdy boys but they were too busy playing Dungeons and Dragons to notice.

J. Job title: I recently changed jobs, and to be honest, I have no idea. I work for a small firm and we all just pitch in and do whatever needs to be done. If I were to put it on a resume, I'd probably put something like Researcher/Case Assistant. I like to call myself the Legal Beagle, because I spend a lot of time looking at law.

K. Kids: I have three. Gabby is 12 and she has started wearing high top converses that fold down to reveal a plaid lining and big, puffy headphones around her neck like she is one of the Quad City DJ's. I don't know quite what to say about that. Sam is 7 and is the youngest kid in our area on the Magic card game circuit. He is a self-proclaimed nerd (I don't fight him on that). Alice is 2, loves bling and is a ball of fire. That kid will either rule the world or end up in jail. I'm hoping for the first.

L. Live: I live in the fucking boonies where I grew up. Our town has 1,007 residents. Hopefully, this will not be the case for long because I really do.not.know.how.much.more.I.can.take.

M. Mother’s name: My mom's name is Irana. It is said "I-RAIN-A." My grandparents got it off of a soap opera.

N. Nicknames: My mom used to call me Morgie, and I hated it, so she quit. My oldest daughter calls me MoMo.

O. Overnight hospital stays: Just when my kids were born. I hope that is the very last time. If I ever have another kid, I am doin' it at the house!

P. Pet peeves: Number one is being late or people who are late. I think it shows a total disrespect for yourself and everyone else involved. Also: people who wear pajamas in public. People who don't discipline or watch their children in public places. The word "muggy." Body lotions and candles that are very sweet smelling (namely that Warm Vanilla Sugar stuff from Bath and Body Works. If I wanted to smell a cookie, I'd bake one, ya'll.) The grocery store on the first of the month.

Q. Quote from a movie: I wish I had something really intelligent to put here, and I probably should, given the sheer number of film classes I took in college. Ask me about "quote from a book" and I'll give you some obscure Romanian play quote that I read in college that will make you think twice about our friendship. But movie? Anything from Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Growing up, my dad owned and worked on the crew for several stock cars at local tracks. He also watched the race every Sunday. I hate Nascar and will probably never watch another race as long as I live, but I do love me some Ricky Bobby. There's a definite familiarity there. My favorite scene is here. Pick any of those quotes. I also just SQUEE at any mention of the name "Mike Honcho."

R. Right or left handed: LEFT. When I was a kid, my mom would take me to this place in Atlanta's Underground Atlanta shopping complex that sold notebooks for lefties and t-shirts and things like that. It was a real-life Leftorium. I had a shirt that said "Left handers: Only ones in our right minds!"

S. Siblings: I ain't got any. I'm an only child. I used to love it, but I've had my issues with it lately. But then again, if I had a sibling and they were a real jerk, I suppose I'd want to be an only child. Grass is greener and such...

T: Time you wake up: Usually about 5:30 on weekdays. Trouble is, Alice has been getting up around then too, so I end up laying back down with her to get her back to sleep (she will say "Nuggle and nigh nigh, Mommy" and I have to relent to that). That means it is sometimes 6:00 or 6:15 before I get up again which is as grand excuse as any not to exercise. I have to get a handle on this. On weekends, I sleep in until about 7:30 or 8:00.

U. Underwear: My mom got me started on these Gilligan O'Malley bikinis from Target. They are uberthin--I don't know what material they are. They are very comfy, and no VPL. I also like all the underwear from Aerie, although it makes me feel like a dirty old woman to be shopping in there.

V. Vegetable you hate: BEETS. Beets can die in a fire. Matt made borscht once, and just the smell was enough to make me puke. At one of my former jobs, I used to know this woman who ate a pickled beet with her lunch everyday. Just the thought makes me wretch.

W. What makes you run late: I don't like being late (see pet peeves) so I very rarely am. If I am, it is because of some very unforeseen event (like crazy traffic or extreme sickness). Or because Matt or Gabby is involved. You can bet that if that is the case, I am fuming in the background with unmistakable rage on my face.

X. X-Rays you’ve had: I used to get bronchitis as a kid a lot, so my lungs quite a few times. I think I had my ankle x-rayed once when I was a kid and did something weird to my achilles tendon in ballet class. My grandfather and his boy scout troop built the x-ray room at the clinic where I went as a kid, so every time I had to get it done, someone told me about that. That's what I remember--not the actual procedures.

Y. Yummy food that you make: I can bake pretty well. Amongst my dad's family, I am the pie girl. My daughter is always very proud of my cupcakes and her friends ask for those quite a bit. My son is a big fan of my mashed potatoes, and I have to admit, they are pretty bomb diggity. There is a secret ingredient, and I ain't a tellin'.

Z. Zoo animal: I really like hippos. And I like walruses. These are pretty rare things to see at a zoo, believe it or not. Probably because they are so big. I have been to a freaking ton of zoos, and have only seen hippos in San Francisco (and one died while I was living there) and in Memphis. Walruses I have only seen at Six Flags in Vallejo, CA. My kids think that my love of these two animals is amazingly hilarious. They like to buy me hippo and walrus things or send me pictures of them. I have a little plastic walrus I carry around as a good luck talisman. His name is the Walrus of Plenty or WoP. Don't ask.

I have a crush on Johnny Cash and other stuff you did not need to know.

2011-09-22T14:56:00.003-04:00

I am alone in my office today. It is awesome. It is not that I dislike the people I work with totally--I don't. They are, for the most part, easy to work with and friendly. But there is something freeing about being in one's office and being able to listen to music all day. And getting work done without the pile getting any higher. And doing those things that need to be done, like packing files away and getting keys made and drinking vast quantities of Diet Coke while making files for things. Organization can be oppressive sometimes. When one is alone, it is just right.

I knew that I'd probably have time to write a blog post today so I thought briefly about what to tackle. I have a post that is just dying to be finished about moms and their inability to give truthful advice to each other. And another about women and self-deprecation. Those are there for another day, though. Today, I just feel like typing out things that are, for lack of a better term, random. Things that are of no particular interest to anyone really.

My Top 6 Favorite Songs

1. Suffragette City by David Bowie. When I was in college and made coffee for a living, I always worked the closing shift. My favoritest manager ever would turn on music for us as we did the mopping up and putting away. He would play Suffragette City for me just so he could hear me yell "WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM!!!!" And I did it, no matter how tired I was, and yes, it always made me feel 700 times better.

2. Howling for You by The Black Keys. I adore this song. It is my "getting ready to go somewhere" song. I also have a black skirt that I call my Howling for You skirt. I don't know why. It just seems appropriate.

3. Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen. Thematically, this song fits my station in life better than any other (except for maybe Beg Steal or Borrow by Ray LaMontagne).

4. Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones.

5. Soma by the Smashing Pumpkins. This was my favorite song when I was my daughter's age. She is enamored with Cobra Starship right now. I wonder if she will keep a place in her heart for them when she is my age.

6. Because the Night by Patti Smith. Because I can sing it like nobody's business.

And a near tie--Better Man by Pearl Jam. I have a whole teenage pseudo-romantic story to go along with this one, but that's for another day. Also, Knockin' on Heaven's Door by Bob Dylan.

I am thinking of applying to get my MFA next year. I don't really know. I am definitely considering it. And this is officially the first time I've admitted that to anyone. WHEW. In order to do that, I need to work on my (sad, whiny) novel. And in order to do that, I need to get someone to read it for me. I am thinking of asking my high school English teacher, which seems a bit sad. I also thought of this professor I had in college, but I can't figure out if I want to ask him because I think he would be a good source for help on my writing or because I think he is hot.

If I don't write the great American novel (or at the least, a serviceable novel that someone can make a really crappy movie adaptation of), I think I am going to open a pie shop. Or start a Patti Smith cover band.

I do not know how to ride a bike. Another fact about me that few people know. I had a bike as a kid, but I never really learned--the best I could do was fly down the hill behind our house on it (which technically, a blind paraplegic monkey could do). I have decided I really want to learn. I have consulted a couple of bike riders about this, and the overwhelming consensus is that yes, I can learn, but that it is going to hurt a lot more when I fall now that I am an old lady. But I think I am determined (I think....) and I think I am going to go through with it. I have located an old bike of my mom's to learn on. Now, I don't think I am going to be any great bike rider. But at least I will know how. And I can, you know, if called to by a deranged serial killer who tells me that he will disembowel me unless I can bike in a circle while singing the Marseillaise with peanut butter in my mouth, do what needs to be done.

I have never liked potato chips. I mean, they're ok, and I'll eat them at a party or with some beer or something. I like the baked ones ok. BUT. I have become obsessed with Kashi pita chips. I really need to stop with the pita chips. But they are so good! So amazingly good. And because they are from Kashi, I can lie to myself and say that they are good for me. Yesterday, I really wanted some, so I went to Wal-Mart. And they didn't have them! God, I hate Wal-Mart. I hate Wal-Mart more than I hate beets.

I have lost the will to watch Law and Order: SVU since Stabler left. A pour out for my homie.

Sometimes I feel like I am a girl without a country.

Top Five Food Items to Bake this Fall

2011-09-20T11:23:00.002-04:00

As you can tell, I'm really feeling the Top Five list lately. Why? I love lists. I work best off a list--just ask my boss who keeps them coming all day long (she is out of the office this morning, which gives me ample opportunity to write this). So when planning to enjoy my favorite season, I feel like I have to have one just to get everything done and properly enjoyed. Is that weird? There is something to be said for spontaneity, but I think I may have left that behind at around 23 or 24.

Fall is probably my favorite season. That is a popular feeling these days, as anyone with a Pinterest account can attest. Everywhere you look, people are posting pictures of golden leaves and pumpkins and everything flavored with pumpkin that you can possibly think of. I get it people--as a nation, we like pumpkin. Fall is also a very twee season, I think. Gone is Summer's blaze and the bikini-body-onslaught that defines it and we're not quite to the overall grandeur of the holiday season. Fall is stuck in the middle, being all cutesy and enticing with its sweater layers and homey appeal. There is no pressure in Fall, I don't think. It is a time to enjoy the outdoors but get used to the pleasantness of the indoors again. It is a liminal time, exalting in its being stuck in the middle.

Fall is definitely my favorite time to bake. I love baking year round, and holiday baking definitely has its own attraction, but there is something lovely about being in the kitchen in the fall. The ingredients that abound are amazing tasting with all the freshness of summer but the warmth of a winter fire.

To carve out time to take part in baking (as well as running and very possibly learning to ride a bike--more on this later), I took the step this weekend to start a weekly (or even biweekly) "Cooking Sunday." "Cooking Sunday" is a day for me to assemble meals and put them in the freezer for easy access during the week. This is something I've always thought of doing, but never quite got around to. This past Sunday, I made a huge batch of chili (that we had for dinner, with some of the leftovers stocked in the fridge for lunch this week and the rest frozen), cilantro lime chicken for tacos, carnitas, and chicken kiev. We had the chicken kiev last night, and despite a small hiccup with a (much) longer baking time than expected, it was delicious. And easy. And in fact, I spent a large portion of last night, sitting on my bed, wondering what I could possibly get into with my newly found spare time. Tonight, I plan to use that spare time to make blueberry muffins (which I meant to make on Sunday but didn't because I went to two parties instead!), stir together some homemade salsa, and perhaps, if I'm feeling spry, make some of my truffle cookies for Alice, who keeps looking at me with her huge eyes and saying "Choc-wate....COOKIE!." (I should note that this is a huge step for Alice, verbally, as until very recently, she called chocolate "Fuck cat." As in, when at a restaurant, my grandmother asked if she wanted some ice cream and she yelled, "YES! FUCK CAT!" and I had to say loudly and uneasily, "CHOCOLATE! SHE WANTS CHOCOLATE SUNDAE! HA HA!") Other days I plan to use that spare time to sit around on my couch and do absolutely nothing or to, you know, keep my daughter from becoming some kind of deranged pre-teen outlaw clad in gray jeggings and hair feathers who attacks Tokyo after she doesn't get enough "Likes" on her perfectly crafted Facebook status.

But, without further adieu (or rambling), here is a list of other things that I can't wait to make this fall:

1). Maple Walnut Fudge. I really like fudge, as the good people who staff Kilwin's in Gatlinburg, TN can tell you. Of course, the chocolate variety is my favorite, but I also love my grandmother's peanut butter fudge. And chocolate is kinda "done" too--my mom and I always make a batch to take at Christmas time, using the recipe she got off of the back of a Nestle package when she was my daughter's age. I'm really digging this stuff because it is different and oh so Fall. Plus, my grandmom always finds some great fresh walnuts that she passes on to me during Fall. Here is the recipe I plan to use, although I haven't done any other research to see if I have a different recipe (with pictures--always a plus when making candy!) in a cookbook at home.

2). Sourdough bread. I have been wanting to get a starter going forever, and this just might be the time. I'm really seeing this made into panini or with a big pot of soup. Planning on using the recipe set forth in The Cheese Board: Collective Works cookbook, from the shop/cafe I so adore in Berkeley.

3). Focaccia. Focaccia is delicious, and though I've made it a few times, I don't think I've ever really gotten the hang of it. I really plan to this time around. I feel like I've seen this in a Barefoot Contessa cookbook that is hanging around in my kitchen, although I could be vastly wrong. If all else fails, I will go with Joy of Cooking on this one--just a good basic to get me started.

4). Pumpkin Roll. Every cook in the South, it seems, has a day set by to just make pumpkin rolls. I am a glorious exception, because I will admit that I have never made one. My mom has made many of them in her day, maybe even sold a couple. I have made a Buche De Noel a few times, so I know the rolling technique, so perhaps I am well prepared for this task. Perhaps not. I would really like to find a kind of off-kilter pumpkin roll, maybe with cinnamon cream cheese in the middle. I really adore cinnamon cream cheese on red velvet cupcakes (just enough to say "HMMMMM...."), and feel like it is a natural here.

5). Classic Apple Pie. I have made many, many apple pies in my day, a lot of them for my Uncle Ricky who hides them and won't allow anyone else to have one. I always use the same recipe for his, from an old Better Homes and Gardens cookbook my mom got as a wedding present in 1973. When I make them for my dad, I like to use Granny Smith apples and a healthy slug of bourbon. My late grandmother preferred her apple filling on the top of a thin cheesecake with a vanilla wafer crust. This year, though, I want to perfect the art, maybe with some local apples. I've even considered perfecting a French tart while I'm at it, with a pate brisee crust. And when I do it, the pie will be all mine. No sharing allowed.

Does Fall bring out the cooking bug in you? If so, please share your recipes and secrets!

Top 5 Fall Desires

2011-09-14T09:40:00.003-04:00

I have to admit that I am a bit behind on going shopping for Fall. I usually don't take my kids Back to School shopping per se because it is still pretty freaking hot in VA when they go back to school, so I know that new jeans will go unworn for at least a few weeks. Plus, I have discovered that things that look awesome before school starts might be eschewed for a a newer style or desire once classes actually commence. This year, I made the plan to take them later, and I thought I would just do my shopping at around the same time. After all, my mom has moved to an area with lots of outlet malls and other shopping destinations, so I planned to visit her once she got settled and take advantage of the plentiful options. And in all the busy-ness of going back to school and having Allie's birthday and cleaning out my garage and just generally BEING ME, I haven't even really looked online to pick up a few things like I normally would.

But now I can feel the nights getting cooler and the mornings starting to feel crisper. I adore Fall, I really do--that nip in the air takes me back to college and walking on brick sidewalks with leaves swirling around my ankles. Sipping strong coffee and reading Paradise Lost. Good stuff. Moreover, I love Fall clothes--the sweaters, the tweed, THE BOOTS. But I feel lost a bit this year, not having purchased anything new for my coffers. Sure, I have the stuff from last year. But there is something sublime about that first new sweater of the season, the way your arms feel when it is no longer oppressive to have that nubby fabric on your arms but instead, welcome. So I find myself dreaming a bit, taking lunch hour jaunts to my favorite websites and planning, planning, planning. I made my lists over the weekend (both for me and for my lovely darlings), and I am starting to feel on top of things.

*I guess I should note here that making fashion lists of "Must Haves" each season is another indication of my particular brand of cray-cray, but it is also wholly helpful if you are trying to build a wardrobe and don't want to end up with a whole bunch of say, long sleeve t-shirts, and nothing else. It is just like going to the grocery store--you wouldn't go there without a plan, I dare to say, so why attack a whole season worth of clothes purchasing without a well-defined list to keep you in order? So yes, crazy, but helpful, and budget friendly.

Here is my Top 5 List of things to look for, with a heads up that there will be more. Oh yes. More.

1. Orange Full Skirt. The plan heading out of the gate, at least, was orange. Now I'm starting to think a nice golden yellow would be nice, even something the color of olive oil. This is a bit of a tricky purchase, so it is a bit odd that it is at the top of my list, as I am short and full skirts, unless they are the perfect length, have a tendency to send me on the one way express to StumpyTown. This is a contender right now (only available in the yellow color that I spoke of), but maybe not as full as I want. And I'm really partial to the orange. I feel I'm going to have to try a few of these on, even if I end up ordering online, just to get my bearings. Right now, I'm seeing it with this shirt that I bought earlier this week or with its unpatterned cousin which hangs in my closet and these lovely shoes, which I own in my dreams. Or with cognac boots which you will be seeing further down. I also see it with a neutral v-neck, perhaps in merino. I had this gorgeous ivory J. Crew merino v-neck in California, but I lost weight and it doesn't fit anymore (the hidden, soft, white underbelly of going to a smaller size), but I would love to find a dupe. And we all know me and my preponderence of black sweaters and other tops--this would be a great way of utlizing those.

2. Blazers--tweed and bright. The last few seasons, I've really wanted some nice jackets, but I haven't gotten them. Well, I take that back--last year, I got a great tweed moto jacket, and a ponte moto jacket at Gap on Black Friday that I love and can't wait to pull out again. But as far as blazers go, I've struck out mightily each year. The fit is always a bit off or the look is too stuffy for me. Maybe I just don't know what to pair them with. Or maybe I have Hulk arms.... This year, though, I'm coming back to the plate. I love the brightness of this velvet Schoolboy from J.Crew, but I'm not totally sure about the velvet yet--for some reason, it screams holiday dress to me. If I could figure out a way to style it with items I already have, I know I'd be drooling. Last year, I missed out on a beautiful houndstooth jacket at Gap that I have been dreaming about since (I had it in my hand! In my size! But I talked myself out of it, and I have regretted it ever since), but I feel like the longer length on this riding jacket might work and finally make me forget it. I'm feeling that with jeans and boots on the weekend.

3. Bright/printed pencils. I have realized lately that it does me no favors to purchase work pants for myself. I'm just not as comfortable in them. Sure, it is nice to have a pair of well-fitting black slacks in my closet for a day when nothing else works, but more and more, I find myself gravitating toward skirts and dresses. I used to think that skirts fit me weirdly, but either my body has changed or the skirts have because I am wearing my standard black J. Crew pencil to death. And although basic black is versatile and great, I'm really feeling the bright colors I'm seeing lately. Of course, I am partial to J. Crew's loveliness here, but it is not on sheer inertia of brand loyalty. Their pencils do have the best fit, and I feel, the best bang for the buck as far as classic style and quality fabric. The printed varieties at J. Crew Factory are also lovely, but I do warn that the quality is not as good--I've had a particular skirt to my grandmother for repairs at least 3 times here (seam falling, back slit issues, a strange hole in the waistline). I also dig the ponte varieties I have seen, including the real steals at New York and Company--the plum one I recently purchased is no longer available online, but the deals are great, and I found the fabric to be thick and to hang nicely.

4. Cognac Boots. If you follow me on Pinterest you know that I have been a bit obsessive about finding the perfect pair(s) of boots. I have a pair of black riding boots that I like a lot (and whose appearance belies the cheap price I paid for them) and a pair of well-loved Frye Harnesses in a tan color. I want to add to my collection this season--if there is one thing that I can wear that maks me feel like a million bucks, it is a pair of boots. I have wrestled with whether I am going to buy one pair of holy-crap-amazing-I'll-be-buried-in-these-suckers boots (i.e., another pair of Frye's) or if I want to get a couple of pairs of pleasant, nice, gets-the-job-done pairs now and hope that I happen into a bit of cash around the holidays and pony up for Fryes then. I am opting toward the first option for now, mostly because I have started to come up with outfit ideas that utilize more than the one pair. Plus, it takes the pressure off of me a bit to get the PERFECT pair and allows me to experiment a bit with looks so that I know what to look for when the time comes to lay down the big dough. My first pair, I'm thinking right now, will be a cognac pair. I especially am loving the look with black--especially a black jersey dress and tights (see below!) or black riding pants and a black tunic-y sweater-y thing and a turquoise necklace (just go with me on this--I saw a similar ensemble on Bruce Springsteen's wife on a benefit concert I was watching and it was magical). Right now, I contemplating these which I know have been done TO DEATH, but which are at the price point that I'm looking at right now. Moreover, I like the wedge heel on them and think I could dress up/dress down pretty easily. I still am looking for suggestions, though, so if you have one, you know where to find me.

5. Black jersey dress. I have lived the summer in dresses, mostly ones made of jersey. I am wearing one right now come to think of it (with a cardigan and sensible office footwear, of course). Facing a world without this quick option in my closet? NO THANK YOU. A few requirements--it has to have sleeves so that I can wear it without a cardigan or jacket (I will probably pair with another layer most of the time, but I want to have the option not to), it can't be too long, it can't look weird with tights, and, most importantly, I have to be able to wear it to work and on the weekends, no problems. Too much to ask? I hope not. I haven't found "the one" yet (and really feel like this might be an in-person grab when I do), but here's something similar. Simple, to the point, and versatile.

So what is on your must buy list this season?

My Top 5 Beauty Items EVAH

2011-09-12T13:37:00.004-04:00

I know that the last few posts to this blog have been of the Debbie Downer variety. Sorry about that. Life has been busy and not altogether fun the last few weeks, but that doesn't mean that it is all bad. It does mean, however, that the only times I've actually taken the time to come out with something on the ole blog is when I'm feeling overwhelmed or tired or upset and just needed an outlet. And I will say that writing each of those posts made me feel much better. Hitting that "publish post" button is kind of like my therapy.

But you know what else makes me feel good? BEAUTY PRODUCTS. They make me feel like I'm on crack--a really nice crack that doesn't make me lose my teeth or force me into any situations where I have to consider what horrible things I would do to a Republican senator for a little scratch. I get this honestly--growing up, many nights that started off poorly would end in a trip to a quiet beauty counter in some desolate Belk's and a new lip gloss. Witness this verbatim (as best as I can remember it) conversation with my mother, who recently moved:

Mom: Well, I'll just pick it up when I go to Dillard's next week.
Me: What are you getting at Dillard's?
Mom: Well, I just haven't been to that one yet. And I need to go find it and see what it's like. For when I need it.

And yeah, I knew exactly what she meant. And for those of you who don't, you have to realize that she recently took a teaching assignment at a college that had an Ulta on the same exit. That wasn't the only reason, but it was a big draw. For when she needs it.

So without further adieu, I give you My Top 5 Beauty Items, EVAH.

1. Nars Orgasm Blush. (See an original post about it here.) Nars Orgasm is that kind of holy grail product that you find once in a lifetime. It is kind of like true love in that regard. What makes it so special? Well, the color for one. It's that "Oh look at my cheeks! ONLY BETTAH!" kind of look. There is a bit of subtle sheen that comes off fresh--not tarty or too young. Also, this stuff lasts. And lasts. And lasts. I have used this every day of my life for about 4 years (it is a very true fact that I wore it while in labor with Alice and touched it up that afternoon--a fact which many of the nurses found to be humorous) and I'm only on my second compact. That should tell you something. Lastly, this stuff looks good on everyone. My mom wears it and she is 56 and has a much different skintone than me. She even has it in The Multiple. And as we have discussed together, the color really seperates the women from the girls. It takes a strong ass woman to walk into a Sephora and say loudly and proudly, "I'll take one of your finest ORGASMS please!"

2. Moroccan Oil. (Original post here.) They say that absence makes the heart go fonder, and that may not be true in all cases. Absence sometimes makes the heart go on Facebook and rekindle with lost loves. Or it makes the heart start hitting on that cute Starbucks barrista who really understands you...and how to shake your double shot to perfection. But when it comes to some hair products, this is very true. I had Moroccan Oil and I loved it. Dreamed of it. Wanted to marry it in a very twee ceremony where we read vowels printed off the internet and take pictures of our hands making hearts. And then I ran out. It was over the summer and I was busy and had started cutting my own bangs, so I wasn't at the salon to replenish my stock. I thought about ordering more online, but didn't. Either I kept forgetting or I went over my budget for the week or I was on vacation. You know the drill. So I went without. And I'll say, my hair missed the stuff. I started getting gnarly tangles on the back-right of my head. I would pull them out, soak them with conditioner, and then they'd come back. Weird. The ends of my hair looked deader--fried even. Some of this I attributed to summer activities--FUN IN THE SUN, YO--but it was then that I realized that the major difference was the Moroccan Oil. As soon as I bought it again and remembered how to use it (start with a little on ends and work up through wet hair), life continued on and again and my hair was shiny, lustrous, and AWESOME. And the world continued spinning on its axis.

3. L'Oreal The One Sweep Eye Shadow: When I first wrote about this here, I was not as enthused with this product as perhaps I should have been. It was servicable, yes, but not something fantastic or life changing. It was pretty. Definitely pretty. However, I didn't realize just how awesome it was until I my life got a good deal more demanding after summer was over and the kids were back in school. Then it became imperative for me to get ready even faster (since I have to be at work 30 minutes earlier than I used to) and to look even prettier (new title means I'm with the public more). That's when I realized that this stuff is magic. In just a few rushed minutes, I can put on my whole face of make-up, including eye shadow, which used to be the hardest part (and the most likely for me to skip). When I'm feeling especially daring, I've found that a little liner picks the whole thing up. The most conclusive evidence that I like this stuff? Not only did I repurchase it when I ran out, I got three more colors. And for a girl that never repurchases, that just goes after the next shiny thing like some sort of terrier on meth, this is saying something.

4. MAC Mineralize Satinfinish Foundation. This is another one of those, "You don't know what you've got, till it's go-one" kind of things. I used to buy this stuff when I lived in California. I'll admit that first I bought it because I just really liked how this particular drag queen who did makeovers put it on me. It is the one time in my life that I looked in the mirror and thought, "HOLY CRAP, I LOOK STUNNING." But then I realized that even with my untalented paws applying it, it was still pretty damn nice. I have a hard time finding foundation because I am exceedingly white, and everything that I try and like gets discontinued (AHEM, PRESCRIPTIVES.), but this has been around for at least 5 years and still works like a charm. And it's funny--I fight its working. I have tried everything else since I found it--drugstore brands, other prestige brands--and always wish I had gotten this. Which brings me to a good point--if you find something you like, you're probably not going to find something that measures up. I have wasted tons of money trying to pick up something that would be just as good, or do in a pinch and failed miserably each time. So you best sack up, drive the hour and a half to go pay $40 for it, buy yourself a caramel macchiato on the way home and just forget about it.

5. Burt's Bees Tinted Lip Balm in Rose (See my original review here) When I bought this, I went typically ga-ga for it, as I well should have. It is awesome, the lipbalm equivalent of coming home to find Ryan Gosling in your living room holding a plate of chocolate eclairs and a declawed baby koala. To be honest, though, when I bought it, I thought of it as a typically spring/summer product--light, airy, easy to apply and cute. However, as we have inched into Fall, I've seen that this product is going to be in my purse (and in my makeup bag and in my desk drawer--yes, I have three tubes) all year round. The color is the perfect "totally my lips, but better" and I love that the formula moisturizes well while looking pretty. As someone who is a chronic lipbiter when confronted with a stressful situation, I can say that this product does a wonder on my lips, even after the worst day. It is my go-to lipcolor for work and play, and I love it, in the way that my daughter loves Dora, deserts love the rain, and Justin Bieber loves the nose candy (What? You don't think he does? Did you see that movie? That's the only excuse for that nonsense.).

In closing, I will point out that combined together, these products not only allow you to have sex with Joe Mauer, they allow you to take him on an apple picking excursion where you have a charming photo shoot with a pile of leaves, wear cardigans from Anthropologie, and drink pumpkin spice lattes from an independant coffee house, possibly out of those big mugs that are more like bowls and that you bought a lot of when you were in college, thinking you would make your own coffee, and then you were like, "Fuck this noise. I'm just going to eat an entire box of cereal out of this crap and watch E! until I puke." And then, you know, you'll have sex and fall asleep in a lovely pile on a bed with sheets that he lovingly knitted together for you out of old Twins t-shirts, using a pattern that he pinned on Pinterest just last week. It's like that, yo.

So, if you need me, I'll be the girl in the cardigan, waiting for the Twins' no good, very bad season to end and patiently reapplying her lipbalm.

September 11

2011-09-11T18:01:00.002-04:00

I'll just be honest and say I've never really observed September 11. I've never paid attention to the specials on TV or watched the various memorials. The date served as a small reminder of the day, but nothing more.

This year has been different. My kids have shown a real interest in it, as they are both at the age to where things like this are questionable. They both like history, and because of that, both like the History Channel. And the History Channel shows a lot of September 11 documentaries and things like that. We watched a couple of them as a family, and I answered the precipitating questions about each. In doing so, I thought a lot more about the event than I have since it happened.

The most obvious question that anyone asks is the ubiquitous "Where were you?" kind of thing. I was 18. It was my freshman year of college at The College of William and Mary; I had been at college for just a few weeks. I was living on my own for the first time, such as it was--interestingly, I was living in a hotel room as the dorm I had been assigned to was being ripped apart because they had found asbestos in it. I was taking English 203, Calculus, Biological Anthropology, and a freshman seminar called Indian Fiction. I had a crush on the professor of that one.

On September 11, I got up early and went to my 9:30 Biological Anthropology class. I rode a bus from the hotel, and I remember being the only one on it. I was the kind of kid, at least during my freshman year, that showed up early for class so that she could review her reading and make extra notes and generally just be ready. I got to the room where the class was held, Washington 201, which is one of the biggest rooms on Old Campus--one of the only ones that can fit over 100 students. I took a seat in the middle of the right side even though I was the only one there. A guy who was a real gunner--my God this guy was annoying, which means that he's probably a doctor now--showed up. We had never talked before, but all of a sudden, there he was, right beside my seat. He asked me if I knew what was going on, and I told him that I didn't. He told me about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. I don't really remember having a reaction. I remember thinking that it must have been a horrible accident. We talked for a bit, then he went to his seat, and then he got up and started walking around. Again, I didn't think anything of it. Nervous guy--nervous energy.

Matt was taking the same class that semester. We had planned to take a class together, even though at the beginning of that semester, we were not really getting along. We did enjoy the class though--well, I take that back. We both hated the class, thought the professor was arrogant and a little weird. But it was fun having someone in there who rolled their eyes at all the same times. We generally sat together and commiserated for an hour and a half and then went our separate ways for the day.

Matt came in around the same time that lots of other people were coming in, which is unusual since he was usually late. He said that he had been brushing his teeth back in the French house and had seen the second plane hit. It was about that time that people started realizing what was happening. We talked quietly until the professor came in. She was weirder than usual and we spent the first part of class with just everyone comparing notes on what they had seen or heard. At some point, her teaching assistant came in and whispered that a plane had hit the Pentagon. The professor told us, and all Hell broke loose. Most kids who go to W&M have some relationship with the D.C. area: either they live there themselves or they are a diplobrat or have a family member working in the government. People started getting up and running out. A few people screamed. I remember a girl standing in the hallway, crying and punching numbers on her cellphone. Matt and I left, but didn't really know where to go. We walked together to the University Center, more following the crowd than anything. I remember laughing uneasily on the way there--I had not seen any footage yet, and nothing felt really "real." I remember thinking that this all could be some elaborate joke.

When we got to the U.C., we watched the towers fall on the big screen TV there. People cried and hugged each other. I remember being really numb about the whole thing. I guess I was scared. I felt strange and out of it--unlike most of my classmates, I didn't know anyone in D.C. or New York. I had been to both cities--had a picture of myself on a ferry with the World Trade Center in the background hanging in my dorm room. But I had no idea how to feel. I bought myself a peanut butter mocha frappuccino thing from the college coffee house and walked to Calculus, thinking I'd get out of that and go home. The professor, a very strange Canadian man who just may have been a sociopath, told us that he didn't understand what the big deal was and made us do a bunch of problems that none of us understood. What a douche. But what can you expect from the country that gave us Nickelback?

It wasn't until I got back to my hotel room and started watching TV that the whole gravity of the situation hit me. I started to get scared, watching the military units from around Newport News and Norfolk starting to go into threat stage. I finally got a hold of my mom, who begged me to go to stay with my uncle in Richmond. Why? I have no idea. I sent an especially fraught email to the professor I had a crush on, who advised me to come to his office the next day and gave me some Buddhist texts to read before I came. Like a boss.

And then Matt came over to my room. We watched the footage for a while, and then decided we had to get away from it. Since I was living off-campus, I had my car, so we went out to eat at Ruby Tuesday. I have no idea how we picked it--a lot of places were closed, but Ruby Tuesday was open. We were the only people in the restaurant. We went to Target and then came back to campus. I did some homework, talked with my roommate, and went to bed. Matt and I promised to see each other the next day, and I was fine with that. We saw each other for every day after that, as I'm sure you know.

And I still didn't know what to think or how to feel.

A few days following the attack, classes were dismissed for the day. I went to the campus's memorial, and finally, the waves of grief and sadness started hitting me. On my way back to my room, I picked up a copy of our college's newspaper. On the front, I saw the shining eyes of a girl, much like myself. She was an alumna, had graduated the year before and she had died when the plane hit World Trade Center 1.

I read enough to find out that like me, she was a mother. She had balanced having a child (born before her senior year at W&M) with getting her degree. She was married to another W&M alum. She was from VA. She was beautiful and full of life and resilient and intelligent. And now, she was gone.

Seeing that face is what brought it home to me. Just what we had lost. I think of her every year, wonder what her life would have been like if she had been late for work that morning. Every year, I think about her in relation to my own life--Would she have moved? Left NY? Would she worry about her daughter growing up too fast, the same as me?

The year I've thought about her the most. Her daughter and my oldest daughter are the same ages, and I have started to wonder if they will ever meet--if they will both follow the route of their parents and go to W&M. I wonder if she would message her daughter on Facebook like I do, even when that daughter is just a room away, if she would send her daughter funny pictures of dogs in bathing suits. And my youngest is two now, the same age as that daughter on 9/11/01. What would it be like to leave her now?

Gabby has asked me lots of questions this last week. Where was I? What did I do? Was I scared? I have answered truthfully. She asked me how I felt that day. And I am truthful there to. I told her that I didn't know how to feel. And that that didn't change, until I met someone who I wish I had known earlier, who I think of every year, who I would give lots of things just to buy a coffee for one day and share memories about pushing a stroller around the Sunken Gardens.

Rest in peace, Alysia.

Morgan and the Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

2011-09-06T13:19:00.002-04:00

I realize how horrible it is that I come back from an extended hiatus, where the last post was a typical sadsack type affair in which I quoted a Ryan Adams song and became very dramatic and angsty, and I return with a title like the one I just typed. But here's the thing. When today is over, as it will be in just 10 glorious hours, I will laugh about all this. Because from the outside, all of this is comical in a wonderful, belly laughing way. Perhaps for you it will be comical right now. And from what I've read on blogs and via Facebook status message, today just sucks for everyone, all around. Today, Tuesday, September 6, is just a giant douche. It should die in a fire.

Let me first start out by saying that it has rained here FOREVER. It started over the weekend, continued into yesterday and is still sort of sprinkling right now. Rain in VA at this time of year is usually of the variety that only sticks around for a bit, an hour tops, and then dissipates . This, however, has been unrelenting. Now, I know this is small potatoes for those of you affected by hurricanes and tornadoes and all of the jazz, but let me be clear: this blows. Unless you are at home, under your covers with a good book, there is absolutely nothing good that can come of this. Again, with emphasis: BLOW-Y.

The rain yesterday was so heavy that it caused a leak in my house. I, in all my years of living on my own, have never had a leak. This is important because it explains why I was running through the house when I discovered it, yelling insane things about buckets and towels and rain boots. Where does the leak spring up? Well, of all places that it could have happened, of all easily discoverable places, it happens behind my closed closet door. So I don't notice it or hear it until well after it got started. So all of my clothes got wet. Puddles formed inside of my pumps. I don't have to tell you that that BLOWS. I took things out of the closet, but I didn't get everything in time, of course.

So with that in mind, and just for ease, and well, because you guys seemed to like it last time I did it, I will give you a brief, truthful run-down of my day:
--Get up. Wonder if I am being tortured for sins committed in a past life. Getting up after a three day weekend is like that.
--Take a shower. Everything is still going ok here. I am surprised.
--Wander into kitchen. Realize that I have neglected to buy anything for breakfast the day before. Eat a cookie and drink some orange juice. NUTRITION! (I should point out that the cookies are ok, nutrition wise, made from this recipe.)
--Wander back into bathroom to blow dry hair. Find that the water and leak has tripped up the wiring, so now none of the outlets in the bathroom have power. Fiddle around with it, thinking I can fix it if I just click it on ONE MORE TIME until I have very little time to get ready.
--End up putting hair in very unfortunate ponytail.
--Realize that nearly all clothes are wet with rain.
--Find favorite chambray shirt clean and pressed. SCORE. Decide to wear it. Realize then that all of my bras and shapewear are wet from being washed on gentle the night before and totally forgotten in the washing machine. Shirt cannot be worn with out a cami underneath as it comes unbuttoned easily. DRATS.
--Find a sweater and cami from fall of last year and put them on. Try not to notice that the arms of the sweater are a tinge tighter this year. (If you had seen what I ate over the weekend, you wouldn't be a bit surprised.) Also try not to notice that horrible bra straps from horrible bra (only one not being washed) can easily sneak out from behind sweater neckline.
--Get the kids up. Gabby is abnormally grouchy. Sam has a meltdown when I tell him that we don't have cereal. Offer toast, eggs, any imaginable breakfast food. He refuses to eat any of them, and falls in a sleepy heap on the couch, rising only to eat a small cup of yogurt when begged, pleaded with, and cajoled.
--Put on make-up and a lot of jewelry, hoping that this masks the fact that rest of me looks like crap.
--Get kids out the door. Gabby lets slip that she has received a text message from an old acquaintance telling her that the school she attends is closing. Tell her this is a rumor and not to worry about it. Quietly wonder if it is true.
--Get to work. Check bank account. Realize a deposit that I thought had been made had not because of the holiday. Quietly freak out.
--Find huge stack of files and collection of passive aggressive notes left by boss who worked on Labor Day. Plot her demise. Smile graciously when she arrives to work.
--Call vice principal of school re: rumor and the independant study class that Gabby is taking (and I am supervising). Try to ignore her tone of voice regarding the class (more on this later). Have her tell me school will "probably not" close.
--Fire off slightly stressed sounding email to superintendent of schools. (It is best just to get out of my way on days like this.)
--Call insurance company to ask a question about vision benefits. Get so angry about phone answering system (and the fact that I don't have our policy number handy) that I hang up phone in disgust. Vision benefits can suck it! I'll buy my own damn glasses! Pay for my own appointments!
--Think better of this.
--Spend all day in quiet war with neverending stack of files on my desk.

Seeing it all typed out here, it sounds rather benign. It has not felt that way. But perhaps having typed it all out is a way of coping, a way of seeing it and saying, "Well, ok, that's not so bad! Chin up ole chap!"

I have to admit that I typed this out for another reason too. This past weekend, I went over to a friend's house to drop off some clothes she had purchased from me. We were chatting as she went through the items and we started talking about being a mom and and a wife in this time of Facebook and blogging and all of the other stuff that the demise of our world will probably be blamed on. We both ended up sort of lamenting the lack of "real-ness" out there, how that we both felt that we were floundering sometimes in the face of all of the "perfection" put out there by others.

And that's the thing about the internet--everyone is perfect here. Or at least that's what they would have you believe. No one admits that they have bad days or that somedays, they come to work with their bra straps hanging out but they just don't give a damn. No one lets it slip that they sometimes have cash flow issues, that best laid plans are derailed by having to get their damn breaks fixed on their damn car, that it is becoming more and more rare that they make it out for a run, that some days their house is a veritible sea of toys that they are lucky to wade through to the front door.

I'm here to tell you that I am not perfect. That my life today is a grand scale of fuck-uppery. That I've had a bad day, and it is mostly my fault--I forgot to take out the bras, I didn't buy the cereal, I didn't pay close enough attention to my bank account.

But oh well. Live and learn. And hopefully, September 6 will go peacefully and die in the corner like the horrible, mangy dog that it is.

When the Stars Go Blue

2011-08-23T11:14:00.003-04:00

It's only Tuesday. But it has already been that kind of week around here.

Without getting into anything in particular, I'll just say that nothing in my life seems to be going particularly well at the moment. There is a blind feeling of speeding down a path that is not one that I want to go down right now. And, perhaps most pervasive, there is a sense of loss for a person that I knew for such a fleeting, relatively short time.

So here I sit at my desk, wearing all black and listening to the Ryan Adams station on Pandora like some lovesick 20 year old. I kinda don't know what to do with myself. Where ever I find myself, whatever I am doing, it doesn't seem quite right, doesn't seem to be what I really need to be doing.

Mama said there'd be days like these I suppose. Kind thoughts appreciated. Also appreciated: bottles of wine.

Let's Talk "Birthday"

2011-08-18T15:00:00.002-04:00

Alice turns two a week from today. This is a monumental event. Not really because of the birthday itself, per se, but because at that point, we will officially be in the "Terrible Two's" and I'll be able to explain any of her wild behavior by saying, "SHE'S TWO, FOR CHRISSAKES!!!" Perhaps then whoever I'm talking to will understand a bit and put down the taser and the elephant tranquilizers.

I'll just be straight and say that sure, I remember my kid's birthdays. If you manage to push something out of yourself that weighs over five pounds or so you tend to remember the date(s) you did it. However, it sure doesn't hurt that starting about a month before each one, my mother starts asking, "What you going to do for Alice's birthday?" And I have to start coming up with something to get her off my back. I've started to get really creative. When she asked for about the fourth time while we were at the beach (which says something about her nutty-professor forgetfulness), I said, "Well, I thought about getting some strippers and one of those cakes in the shape of a penis. And I'm thinking of calling Vince Neil and see if he'll do the entertainment." I don't think she has asked since. What's funny is that now my father has gotten into the act. Ya'll, we are at Threat Con Delta when my dad is starting to get curious about birthday parties. I even went, "Seriously? You're asking me about this?" He goes, "Um, yeah," and I say, "Well, ok, um....."

I'm not one of those mothers, as you've probably guessed, that thinks about her kid's birthday parties for a year. My husband used to work with someone who reserved spaces for her kids' parties up to two years in advance. I know of people who get caterers. Nope. Not me. I definitely want my kids to have a special day, but there's a limit, you know? And even if I don't spend the better part of my life obsessing over it, I think I throw a pretty mean party. Here's what I do:

1. Buy some streamers and some plates with whatever character/color the kid likes.
2. Clean the house.
3. Make a bunch of food. People like food. I like preparing food. We're good.

There. Done. There is really not a lot of planning involved. ESPECIALLY when your kid is 2. I mean, what is she going to do? Have a crapload of people over and do body shots? Fly her closest friends to Vegas? SHE'S TWO. She knows very few people outside of our families, and even if she knew everyone in our area code, the fact remains that SHE IS TWO. Give her a spoonful of frosting and a cardboard box with a wooden spoon and she's good for a couple of hours.

I've kind of pulled the whole thing out of my ass, basically just to answer the myriad "What are you doing for Allie's birthday?" questions, but here's my plan. Ask everyone to bring a book since that is her favorite thing (besides, of course, destroying Tokyo). Dress her up in a red dress and striped tights so she looks like Olivia, her favorite character. Make lots of red foods, since Olivia likes red and Alice loves tomato sauce. BOOM. Did I just blow your mind with my party planning magic? Really? Because I literally came up with that shit in the 30 seconds of saying "Uhhhh...." after my mother in law asked what I was doing for the anniversary of my child's birth. Oh, and make this cake. I don't know why I want to do that so badly--I assure you, it is mostly for my own selfish reasons such as I love making Martha's swiss meringue buttercream, I have a lot of gel food coloring that I like using (I keep it in a tackle box!), blah blah blah.

When I was a kid, my mom would bake me a Wilton cake, this (obviously) being one of my favorites. One year she did that and bought me a whoopie cushion. That was the best birthday EVER. Sure, I got gifts every year. But there was no big party. Sometimes I got a sleepover. But that was it. I had two parties that didn't take place in our living room--one at McDonald's when I was four, and another at the Pizza Hut across the road from my house. I am just fine, ya'll. I'm not going to go shoot up a party supply store because I didn't ever have pony rides on my special day. My kids will be fine too. In fact, I'm sure they'll look back and think, "Golly gee whillickers, that sure was fun!" Because birthdays are fun by their very nature. You eat cake, you get gifts, people wear funny hats. No pony rides needed.

My only real issue right now is setting the date. Matt has this thing where he thinks we should do the party on her actual birthday, but that is a Thursday, and I know I'll be super tired from work and from whatever else life decides to throw my way that day (the universe doesn't give you a freebie on your kid's birthday, I'm sorry to report). I want to do it Labor Day weekend where I have some time and everyone can come and not feel stressed about getting back home/to work/etc. That will be a little bit after her actual birthday (like a week and a half), but SHE'S TWO, lest we forget. And I thought we'd do a little something on her day, like I'll make her some enchiladas (thinking of making this weekend and putting in the fridge/freezer so that I get maximum play time with her that day) and maybe a Wilton cake of my own (a small one). Just a little recognition of the day. Does anyone think that is neglectful of me? I hope not.

So weigh in on birthdays, if you like? Big deal or not so much? What was your most memorable childhood birthday? I'd love to hear about it.

Moment of Zen

2011-08-18T14:05:00.002-04:00

I am not a pretty girl. Never have been. (There are a ton of pictures on Facebook from my family vacation that will attest to this fact, but if you are my friend and you are judging, let me just say that if you had my husband, and he was making you do the things he was making us all do, you would look similar.) I've always been "cute" or "fun" or "smart" or had someone comment on my eyes or my skin or my hair. Never the total package. I'm the Jessie Spano to the rest of the world's collective Kelly Kapowski. And I'm ok with that. I'm never going to be gorgeous, just as I'm never going to be (consistently) a size 2 and I'm never going to learn Chinese and I'm never going to be an Olympic gymnast.

But I do fix up pretty well. It has taken me 28 long years, but I've started to get the hang of looking "pulled together." I can put together an outfit, I know how many accessories are too many, what kind of cuts flatter my figure, where to buy my clothes. I know that my hair looks best when hot rollered or pulled stick, stick straight, and that a bit of Smashbox Lip Gloss in Radiant at 2:00 p.m. (combined with a Diet Coke from McDonald's) will make me look more awake. Yes, these are things that I've worked on over the course of years. But they are also the kind of things that I take pride in. It's my "thing." If you come to my house, you will not find designer home furnishings, and I do not drive a fancy, or even nice, car. But I have no debt (other than no-good, very-bad, awful student loans) and I look nice on a day to day basis. Those are my goals, and I'm happy with them.

Looking pulled together, however, is not a goal of lots of those around me here in my rural area. You don't know how totally REFRESHING it was to be in DC last week and see people everyday on the train, at a museum, at a restaurant, who had obviously taken pride in what they put on that morning. Matt and I both noticed it. I surreptitiously pulled out a little W&M notepad to write down future outfit ideas on the train, so impressed was I by what I saw. Was it everyone? No. But there were people there who, like me, gave a damn. And it was nice.

But, alas, like I said previously, living here you don't see that a lot. I went to the grocery store on my lunch break today to pick up stuff for breakfast for dinner tonight (trying out some new [healthy] dishes and will definitely report on here how it goes!). I was just kind of happily walking about picking up my stuff, so pleased to be at the grocery store without having to entertain Alice or make sure that Gabby and Sam aren't picking up stuff with crazy faux-ingredients. I walked past a couple a few times who were also buying stuff. I'll just be frank and say that they looked quite poor and probably addicted to something. Both were dressed in oversized sweats and t-shirts. The girl was wearing some flip flops and had her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, no make-up. To be honest, it didn't really register, because this is kind of the going look in the grocery store here (and probably, sadly, a lot of places). However, I noticed the guy kind of smiling at me a couple of times. Most notably, I was picking up some bittersweet chocolate and some coarse sea salt (for a special back-to-school week treat for the fam) in the baking aisle, and I almost backed into him. I smiled and apologized, just the same as I would do if he were an 80 year old grandmother or a dignitary or a spider from Mars. I could feel him watching me as I walked back to my cart and on down the aisle.

The girlfriend, however, didn't take this too well. We checked out around the same time, she and he a bit ahead of me. By the time I paid and got my stuff back in the cart, she and he had taken their things and settled on a bench in the front of the store, presumably to wait on someone else. As I was walking by, I heard girlfriend say loudly (and pointedly), "I DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL SHE THINKS SHE IS, BUT I FEEL SORRY FOR HER BECAUSE THAT SHIT CAN'T BE COMFORTABLE."

It took me a minute to figure it out, but when I did, I looked out of the corner of my eye. She was glaring right at me. The boyfriend was kind of nervously giggling at this point and going, "Nah, nah, you know it ain't like that," as I picked up my stuff out of the cart to walk out to the car.

That, my friends, was my moment of zen.

To be honest, it is pretty comfortable. Right now I'm wearing a denim pencil skirt, a white sleeveless shirt that is a bit loose and a lavender cardigan. Nothing fancy. My only jewelry is a pair of drop earrings made out of different colored pastel stones. I am also wearing black croco peep toe heels that I've had forever. I blew out my hair this morning and straightened it--almost halfway, to be honest, because I had to get lunches packed.

But regardless of what it is, even if I were wearing something boned or heels an inch higher or a shorter skirt, it would still be more comfortable than a lack of self-confidence. Because being happy with what you've got is a whole hell of a lot more welcoming than a pair of ratty sweatpants anyday.

Dear Alice:

2011-08-17T13:37:00.002-04:00

This past week, Alice, we went on a vacation to Washington, D.C. You will remember it kindly as the "trip where Mama threatened to sell me to gypsies."

Alice, I love you, more than words can ever express. You are amazing in the way you can light up a room, in the glorious effervescence of your face and actions. You are bubbly and bright and you have the most amazing smile.

But, girlfriend, you are, in the words of my grandmother, SOMETHING ELSE.

During our one week trip, you did the following: 1) terrorized a tiny Chinese restaurant until the management plied you with extra chop sticks and some cookies, 2) tried to escape a Metro car, 3) yelled "GOD LO-OVES YOU" (which you learned at bible school a few weeks back) over and over again to every person walking between the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument with us like some crazed Jehovah's Witness with a methamphetamine problem, 4) picked up about 40 sticks in a park and then laid them at the feet of the poor guy who was supposed to be leading us on a Lincoln Assassination walking tour, 5) other things too numerous to even begin to count.

Part of this is our fault, I suppose, in that we didn't really consider the fact that you would be nearly two years old when planning this trip. Our bad. Another part of this is that your behavior has gone to 11 this past month or so, the trip being no exception. So while we could have seen this coming, I guess, I don't think there was any way to really know how, erm, far-reaching your personality development would be. At this point in your short life, it is hard to guage what you will be from minute to minute--for instance, you were fine at other restaurants we visited during our trip. Perhaps you just didn't like the decor of that poor Chinese establishment.

And as much as your behavior exasperates me at times, I have to say that I love it. You are spirited in a way that is refreshing and fun, in a way that is much different from your older siblings. Sure, you're a bit loud at times. Yeah, you like to run. But you are also sweet and kind, and whenever I say something to you about it, you go, "Saw-wee, Mama!" and I can tell that you genuinely are. I want to see you have that spirit forever, that wild-eyed lust for life. I posted a picture of you on Facebook with that gleam in your eye, and a friend commented that she wished she could bottle your happiness. I agree wholeheartedly, wishing that I could bottle it for when you turn 12 and have some kind of boy issues or a friend who is not so much a friend any more. I sincerely hope that I can always look into your eyes and see that burgeoning mischief.

You and I are alike in a lot ways--same kind of rebellious spirit, same general joviality. In a way, I almost look to you, wishing I still had a bit of that wildness, that devil may care attitude. I think of that, of a tattoo that I've wanted to get since college, and think that because of you, I might just do it.

So, Alice, no matter how many sighes I heave, no matter how many cross words leave my tongue, I never really want you to change. Sure, I don't want to have to apologize for the 10th time to the poor little woman with the cookies and chopsticks, and I'd rather not have to whisk you away to the bathroom for a break when we're in a museum and you discover how to make yourself snort. I do expect a modicum of good behavior. But that wild spirit? I don't want it to be tamed, not now, not ever.

Love,
Mom

DIY Can SUCK IT

2011-08-16T12:16:00.002-04:00

This is going to come off a bit ranty. Fair warning, ya'll. This has been brewing in my psyche, worming its way around my brain through vacations and sleep and Pinterest sessions. And especially on Facebook. Facebook can just suck it.

Here's the thing. I am not crafty. Nor am I artsy. The lowest grade I ever made in high school (and no, I'm not shitting you) was in Home Ec, most notably, the sewing section. I made this absolutely atrocious pillow with a bunny on the front that I gave to my grandmother (aka, the sweetest woman on earth) for Christmas, and even she was like, "Um....thanks?" I have been tempted throughout the years to take up knitting or crocheting or something else equally as benign and then found myself cursing wildly within the first five minutes OF READING THE INSTRUCTION BOOKLET. It is just not in me. Just as it is not in me to understand science, science fiction or any of the Lord of the Rings novels.

So I guess I'm coming at this whole thing already at an 0-2 count. I know I can't do it, so subconsciously, maybe that is what is fueling my rage. Take it with a grain of salt, I guess.

But, I can't help but get a little, well, perturbed, when I see all this DIY stuff floating around on the interwebz. Like I am supposed to, as a woman, have this huge desire to make my own glue for my kids and sew their clothes and make little envelopes out of fabric for them so that when they get up each day, they can read a little inspirational note from me (an example I've thought of: "Gabby, If you don't pick up your laundry, I am going to staple it to your face. LOVE YA! MOM"). Yeah, I'm not going to do that. If you want to, whatever, I don't care. If you want to do it while naked, while smoking a bong, while listening to George Jones' Greatest Hits, I still don't care. Live and let live, ya'll. What I do, in fact, care about is the prevailing thought amongst many DIY-er's that I have encountered that you HAVE to do it. That it is not optional. That if you don't, it is tantamount to giving your kid a bottle full of Mountain Dew and a straight razor and saying "HAVE AT IT. Call me if you bleed or something."

This, I think, is just one more thing that we women have to struggle with in this endless battle of trying to be perfect. Or rather, to appear as though perfect. At last count, I figure that we all have to be doing the following on a daily basis:
1. Get up. Look perfect. Exercise. Put on a face full of make-up and blow out your hair every day to perfection. Be careful to not look "too" good though, because people might think you are having an affair if you do. Wear heels, but not really high heels, because really high heels mean that you are a slut and that you don't care about your children.
2. Fix a perfect breakfast buffet (with options for picky eaters!) for your children. Eat a banana and drink black coffee and call it a morning. In the middle of this, pack lunches that you have homemade, preferably of ethnic foods so that child does not become a bad eater.
3. Get everyone to school while quizzing kids with homework trivia on the way.
4. Go to work. Do perfectly. Smile a lot.
5. Come home to clean home. Clean it some more.
6. Make child a dress and supervise a craft project using homemade glue and a castle made out of an old pool noodle.
7. Prepare a lovely dinner. Not too much sugar! Go easy on the butter, FATTY!
8. Shuffle everyone to bed. Make sure no one has spent more than two hours looking at a screen of any kind. Wash behind everyone's ears.
9. Have amazing, glorious sex with husband, preferably utilizing three different positions, a feather, and a garter belt. Don't want anyone to get bored!
10. Go to sleep for 8 wonderful hours.

Ya'll, I'm just going to honest here, which is not something you see on the internet that often. This was my day yesterday.
1. Get up. Try not to wake baby who is saying "MOMMY" in her sleep. Turn on shower so that I can't hear her anymore.
2. Put dry shampoo on my hair since I'm too lazy to wash it. Hot roller the heck out of that crap. Curse loudly when I realize I'm out of Bumble and Bumble Setting Spray. Baby, who had gone back to sleep, rustles around. Say "FML" under my breath.
3. Strap on a pair of leopard print heels that are high enough to warrant future back surgery on my part. They are comfy though, and I like them.
4. Walk out through overgrown yard that my husband and I neglected to pay $80 to have mowed while we were gone on vacation. Be vaguely worried that neighbor will come out and give me a glare.
5. Drive to work with the gas light on. Drive to McDonald's to buy some oatmeal, but realize the line is too long and I'm a tad late. Go without breakfast. Remember to call the water company about the bill I totally forgot to pay before we left for our trips and blame them for my own forgetfulness since they are too stupid to automatically withdraw like every other company in the whole damn world.
6. Get to work. Wait until everyone is gone to meetings and curse at the typewriter for being a bitch. Forget to call someone about a meeting. Hang out on Facebook until I get mad at all the people posting how many miles they ran the night before while I was eating a strawberry shortcake at TGI Friday's.
7. Have a busy day and end up not eating lunch, but I did manage to solve some printing issues and get a shit ton of work done. Be happy with myself. Husband calls and tells me to pick up some butter on the way home. Curse husband.
8. Leave work. Buy gas and butter and get mildly happy when a weird kid checks me out at the gas station. Go to Pal's and buy a humongous tea and a large order of french fries.
9. Get home to messy house with the still overgrown lawn. Pick up baby who is wearing mismatched winter pajamas (that's on Matt, though). Sit down on couch with several catalogs and a big pen. Mark "must have" and "dream" purchases while baby watches Olivia. Pretend that I'm watching as well.
10. Remember that I have to do laundry from the trip. Start it. Moan a lot about it.
11. Remember that I have two other children. Go see them in their rooms. Child 1 is both texting a cousin in Richmond, while using her DS to talk to the same cousin. That's two screens. Child 2 is playing Magic on the Playstation and starts harassing me about buying him some more cards. Tell him I'll do it Wednesday. Make no plans to actually do that on Wednesday.
12. Fix mashed potatoes with lots of butter and honey glazed carrots with extra honey for supper while husband grills steaks. Delight in the unhealthiness of my contributions.
13. Clean off table but leave dishes dirty in the kitchen because we are out of dishwasher tabs and both of us forgot to buy them, and I did enough dishes for one day while I was making supper.
14. Play with youngest kids on the floor. Find a half eaten banana laying on top of the TiVo.
15. Leave husband in the living room with Child 2, still playing Magic. Check on Child 1 who is now watching something on TLC and still chatting on two devices with her cousin. Take Child 3 to bed. Find Java Chip Frappuccino ice cream in the freezer and decide that I love my husband again, despite the butter incident. Give him a hug, which he is surprised about.
16. Eat the whole single serving ice cream thingie and pass out in bed while watching Hoarders, leaving make-up on. Leave husband to put other children in bed.

Now, I have better days. I was insanely tired yesterday from our trips and having arrived home at 2:30 the night before. But still. That's a pretty accurate portrayal of hum-drum life. It is not perfect. I am not perfect.

But there is a lot of love in the imperfection. Last night, Alice fell asleep and I looked at her, the same chubby cheeked profile she's had since birth. She is happy and loved and fun. My son is the kindest, most sensitive soul that I know. And my oldest daughter is amazing and funny and wise. I love them, and while I don't show them that love with crafts and love notes, it is there, and it works for us.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I should get back to work. And quit being vaguely tempted to try to make Alice a pillowcase dress (I have the cutest pillowcases from my college apartment, ya'll. It would be so cool---um, NO.)

Back in Black

2011-08-15T12:21:00.003-04:00

Last night at about 2:30 a.m., I returned from my myriad vacations. Ya'll, I am tired. But I am happy.

This has to be sort of short and sweet because I have a crazy amount of things to do, especially given that my poor, sad children return to school in TWO DAYS. But know that I am well, and I have a shit ton of stuff to opine about. Namely:

1. What it is like being married to a living, breathing incarnation of Clark Griswold.
2. What I REALLY think about our nation's capitol.
3. God, I've got to get out of this place.
4. And by "this place" I mean this town. For real this time. No backsies.
5. And, most importantly, OH MY GAH it's time for FALL and I want LEATHER AND TWEED. In my head right now, "I Want Candy" by Bow Wow Wow is playing in a constant loop and I'm raiding a Nordstrom in complete ecstasy.
6. Oh, and I'm trying to be more fiscally responsible because you know, "adult," "moving," "freeform jazz," "tax exemption". And also because my husband told me to. And he used big words and moved his hands a lot. And well, because there's grad school, which looms out there. And none of this jives with number 5, does it?
7. Fuck that noise. SHOES.

Lifetime Movie Classics: The Betty Broderick Oeuvre, Part One

2011-07-29T00:01:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid, I spent a good deal of the time that I was at my dad's house playing with this old doll house, long forgotten by my older stepsisters. I had a doll house at my mom's house that was much bigger, but I had a special love in my heart for the other, older one. Why? It was decked out in all the "wonderful" styles of the late 70's and early 80's. There was a padded rust colored couch, a mustard colored kitchen with lots of wood paneling, a tiny, wood paneled stereo, complete with turn table. The doll house was a perfect vestige of the day, beautiful in a dated, almost sad way.

Thinking of that doll house now tells me what Betty Broderick's life was probably like before her life was completely turned upside down, a victim of her husband's betrayal and her own batshit craziness. The first Lifetime movie about her and her crime does a pretty damn good job of showing us that. Probably better than any other Lifetime movie out there (except for maybe The Two Mr. Kissels, which as you know, I'm particularly partial to), this movie shows us, rather than just hitting us over the head with, the world that these characters live in.

Really, A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story is a freaking master of the TV movie genre. Here's the story if you are so sad and deprived and dedicated to quality programming that you don't know it by heart already: Boy meets girl. Girl marries boy and stays with him through med school, then law school, then four kids, then overwhelming prosperity. Boy meets younger girl at law office and becomes a cliche in an expensive suit. Girl goes completely Ozzie Osbourne style CRAY-CRAY. Boy gets a few restraining orders and a divorce. Girl hits boy's house with her car. Girl shoots boy and younger girl and as boy is laying in the floor, dying, pulls the phone out of the wall so he can't call for help. LIKE A BOSS.

Matt watched a snippet of this movie with me and had an interesting point about it. If you look just a tad farther than Meredith Baxter's insanely good acting, you have a weird thing going on here. Namely, you are being asked, in fact, the movie is DEMANDING, that you sympathize with the cheating husband, the 40-something lawyer who shacked up his 20-something "legal assistant," who, as Debra Jo Rupp tells us, can't type a damn thing, and, further, that you demonize his strong willed wife. SURELY YOU JEST, LIFETIME. As we all know, Lifetime has made a mint demonizing the Dan Brodericks of the world, those men who shuck the women who have supported them through thick and thin right at the moment when things are starting to sag. And why wouldn't this be a profitable way to go for the network? Their target demographic lies in the saggy, the married, the Ben and Jerry's eaters of the world. Those 20 something legal assistants are all off presumably riding jet-ski's and giving blow jobs, not watching movies about women who had their face eaten off by dogs and then, inspirationally, made much better. But, crazily, here we all are, quietly cheering for the relationship between these two quirky kids in their big house and wagging a weary finger at the woman who leaves them dirty voice mails. Way to go, Lifetime. You just BLEW MY MIND. As Matt pointed out, Meredith Baxter might as well wear a goatee in this movie because it is BIZARRO WORLD.

Perhaps this is part of the charm of this movie. Perhaps that is why it is so damn good. But perhaps it is also because of these little moments, little nuggets of awesome that stand out. For instance, there is one moment when Betty is just doing her damn best to drive her huge, hulking SUV type thing into Dan's living room. She does it with this calm swagger, which in itself is badass and just more indication of how much Meredith Baxter truly rocked this role. But the best part is what is going on inside the house. The kids are all scattered about, trying to figure out what the ruckus is all about, which is well, what you'd be doing if someone decided to go all Wal-Mart parking lot on your front door. And one of the kids is standing on the staircase, and he just goes, "Dad, IT'S MOM." The kid really rocks this line. There is this worry in his voice, and as soon as he says it, this pang just hit me, and I knew that no matter what else I do as a parent, I don't want my son to ever say that about me. Which brings my list of parenting goals to two: 1) Keep the kids from becoming serial killers and 2) Don't let my kids ever see me doing something so egregious that they get that tremor in their voice. It's good to set the bar low when it comes to parenting, you know?

The other line that comes to mind is actually not too far into the movie. Dan and Betty are at a party, but it is not really remarkable because they are always at a damn party. Supposedly, Dan is working these 80 hour work weeks, and you know, he's a partner at a law firm, so that's plausible, but they sure do find time to party. I refuse to believe that this is a realistic portrayal--I think Lifetime just wanted to have more time to show a dude in a cape and top hat. SEXY. Anyway, Dan surprises a partner, as well as the partner's wife and Betty, with a Paris vacation on the following Thursday. This is when I paused the movie and told Matt that if he wanted to surprise me with tickets to Paris, even if they were to Paris, Texas, I wouldn't have a problem with that, and when Matt chuckled and I swore to invent that divorce app I've been thinking about. Betty sure as Hell has a problem with this spontaneous showing of wealth and affection. She whines, "But Dan...that's my manicure day!" And, that my friends, is how a patented response gets started in this house. Matt said something to me about going to a cook-out tomorrow night, and of course, I had to say, "BUT MATT....that's my manicure day!" And of course he had to say, "It's YOUR MOM'S manicure day." And, of course, I had to guffaw loudly and think about all witty and awesome I am. And, of course, you had to roll your eyes and promise to never visit this seedy area of the internet ever again.

Ladies, do yourself a favor and buy a good volume of alcohol (if that is your thing), a good cheese and some crackers and watch this shit. You won't regret it. When you get done, you'll not only be just a tad scared that Betty Broderick will get paroled, but you'll also be delightfully frightened that Meredith Baxter, who just enjoyed herself to the MAX in this role, will show up in her SUV at your front door, call you a bunch of dirty names and spray paint on your walls.

Drop Everything and Go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

2011-07-27T09:20:00.003-04:00

This is a truly wretched picture of me, staring into the sun with the wind blowing me like crazy and (of course) I'm being crazy and throwing the devil horns to show how truly rock and roll I am. Matt and I were looking through our pictures taken through the years last night and noticed that we are giving devil horns in an inordinate number of them, so much so that we have created an album called "Devil Horns Across America." Klassy.

This past weekend, my husband and I went to Cleveland. When I first told my mom we were going, she cracked up, so maligned is Cleveland in the general thoughts and minds of us non-Clevelandites. She still thinks it is pretty damn funny, asking me jauntily if I enjoyed my trip to the "mistake on the lake". To be completely honest, we didn't actively choose to go there. We basically wrote down every baseball stadium that is within driving distance of our house (including a few minor league teams) and threw them in my straw fedora and said we'd visit whichever one we pulled out. Progressive Field won, so we went, feeling doubly excited with the thought of the Hall of Fame looming as well.

My husband and I are both huge rock fans. He very much enjoys classic rock--I don't think he listens to really anything made after 1985 or so except for the White Stripes and maybe Muse. Matt grew up in a very, very religious household and only really started listening to popular music at all after he left home for college--before that it was all classical stuff and a little bit of oldies. His favorite song when I met him was "The House of the Rising Sun" by the Animals, which he listened to on an old stereo, turned down low to avoid his mom overhearing a song about a whorehouse. I, however, was very different. My parents loved rock, and I grew up on a steady diet of Neil Young, The Who, and Springsteen. When I was in kindergarten, the first thing I ever took for show and tell was a "My First Walkman" that my dad had bought me and my mom's tape of Tina Turner singing "Proud Mary," which was my favorite song at the time. Some of my best memories are riding around with my mom in her little two seater Mazda RX7 on Saturday nights, listening to our local rock station. My mom is a classically trained pianist, and at night after I had gone to bed, she would play Carole King's Tapestry from some old sheet music that was yellowed and falling apart. As I got older, I became very much enamored with Nirvana and the Smashing Pumpkins and Sonic Youth and Radiohead, while still listening to my mom's stuff--I wore out Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence" at about 14 and developed a long-standing tradition of listening to Zeppelin whilst bathing. "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac IS my 18th year. In fact, when Matt and I met, I once heard him refer to me as "that girl with the big eyes that likes history and listens to weird music."

So, given all that, I guess you can take all this with a grain of salt. We are predisposed to like this stuff, just as we would be predisposed to like the Baseball Hall of Fame or the Cheese Hall of Fame. That said, I would dare mention that anyone would really enjoy this museum. There is truly something for everyone.

Some things to know if you plan to go:

Allow all day for your visit. Unless you plan on sprinting through it, there is plenty there to keep you all day. It opens at 10 and closes at 5 (on every day but Saturday and Wednesday when it closes at 9). We got there and bought our tickets at 9:50, and we were the last people through the gate and into the gift shop at 5:05. Granted, we have a tendency to be big readers, and have quite the intestinal fortitude it requires to read all of the stuff in there AND we watched about an hour of the concert downstairs (which is streaming on Netflix if you are interested--we watched the rest last night) AND watched the inductees video upstairs, which took about an hour. If you don't want to do those things, you can take less time. But know that they are definitely worth it and add to the place, even if Matt wants me to add that the production values on the video (showing the first inductees in 1986) are similar to something one could make "with the software that came on my first computer, right beside of the Grollier's Encylopedia and Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing". You can't win em all, I guess.

Load up on food beforehand. We ate a pretty big breakfast at our hotel before leaving, and I'm glad for that because we simply did not have time to eat! The HoF has a cafe, but Matt, always the consummate budget traveler, told me to stear clear because he had read it was expensive and not delicious. I am a person who normally eats lunch right at 12, but I did not get hungry, perhaps from all the excitement and the walking. You are not supposed to eat in the museum, but I think you would be well-served to put some peanut butter and crackers or an apple in your bag and nosh on that in the cafe area. If we visit again, that is what I'll do. But to be honest, I didn't really need it, although I realized I was starved when we left and we had to make a beeline for something to eat.

You can't take pictures, so know that going in. Listen folks. I like taking pictures as much as the next person. It was so, so fun to sit back and look at the ones we took of our trip when we got home and compare them to pictures of other road trips we have taken. But. You can't take pictures of everything, so get used to that fact. There were people getting visibly pissed when told they couldn't use their cameras in the building. And really, it is much more fun to go around and see the stuff instead of having to worry about getting the perfect picture. There is a coat and camera check downstairs, so take advantage of it, and try not to be so grumpy when someone tells you that you can't use your camera. Geez Louise, people. The world is a cruel place; let's all get used to not getting our way all the time.

If you like the Beatles, get in line. Matt has a guiding principle for life, he says, and that is that there are two types of people in the world--Beatles people and Stones people. We are Stones people, as you may or may not have guessed. Most of the people who were visiting the day we were there were Beatles people. The Beatles have quite a large display of their own at the HoF, but you can barely get over to it for all the people just sitting there. Quite the clusterfuck, if I do say so myself. Matt said it reminded him of the line to see Lenin in Moscow, which made me laugh, because Lennon/Lenin. GET IT? We ended up kind of skipping it because the Stones were in the same room, and well you know. But just know that if you want to see Beatles stuff, you might have to throw an elbow to get your wish. (Interestingly, the Stones section was totally quiet, except for a teenage punkish looking band who were touring the section with security in tow. I have no idea who they were, but Gabby probably would. Matt made the comment that if any of them had farted, they would have blown their shoes clean off, so tight were their pants.)

Bring a pencil and a notepad to write down acts you might want to look up after your visit. Some of the more awesome things that the HoF offers are kiosks where you can, among other things, see songs or bands that defined rock and roll and find out more information about them. A lot of this information is given in the form of acts that predated and inspired the work or the creator. By the time we got to the second round of these kiosks, I had located a free W&M pad they sent us in one of their 5 billion monthly requests for alumni donations and a pen and we took the time to write down a lot of blues acts and specific songs we wanted to download upon going home. This is a great way to extend the fun, and I'm really digging all this new Billie Holliday stuff I downloaded last night.

If you can, try to get there before February 26, 2012. This is the last day to see the exhibit of Women Who Rock, which is there for a limited time exhibition. I liked this exhibit for obvious reasons. Was it perfect? No. The top floor was a lot of outfits worn by female rock acts. I loved this because I love clothes, but then again, it kind of had a "Dresses of the First Ladies" feel and I would have liked to see more information about women, sexuality, and music, not just a bunch of pretty dresses. The best part? Joan Jett's leather jacket, with its "Pro FUCKING Choice" button and of course, the Marianne Faithful and Patti Smith stuff, which were conveniently located right next to each other for maximum drooling effect for me (Matt saw them together, looked at me, and goes, "Well, I guess I'll see you in an hour or so...."). The other problem? They soiled the whole thing with a Taylor Swift dress! I hate to be all boo-boo kitty about stuff, but Taylor Swift just brings out the anger in me. I told Gabby about it and she rolled her eyes and goes, "I thought it was Women Who Rock and not Little Girls Who Sob." And with that, I present my daughter who truly, truly rocks. Of note, however, is a photograph display downstairs (near the Elvis stuff) all of women, with a bit of commentary on each one. They have a wide breadth of people from Gwen Stefani to Whitney Houston to Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics to Tina Weymouth of the Talking Heads. Matt and I both felt that it was a better homage to the women of rock (albeit smaller) than the upstairs exhibit.

This is long, and well, to be honest, there's probably only a handful of you people that actually care. I do encourage you to go, if for no other reason than to really feel the way that music affects us all. I do not consider myself to be a hokey person, and to be honest, that is something that I pride myself on. I hate faux sympathy, I hate anything I consider to be emotionally fraught. But I am not kidding--I straight up teared up in front of the Seattle/Grunge display. Something about knowing how that stuff had affected me as a kid, and seeing it all there, in front of me, knowing that I am now a year older than Kurt Cobain was when he died. It really affected me. And the best thing about music is that it is like that. No matter how far removed you consider yourself to be, there is something there that will move you, that will take you away to a simpler time and place or to a place where the music was all that you had.

I told Matt that I planned to write this and he wanted to add two things: 1) You can get cheaper parking (I think it is $6 as compared to $10, which is a big deal to Matt) is you park at the little airport down the street. It is not a much farther walk than the $10 lot. And 2) (this is a direct quote): "The only thing that place needed was more Charlie FUCKING Watts."

Ok, then.

Skewing a Bit Bohemian

2011-07-20T10:27:00.003-04:00

Things are starting to change a bit for me, fashion-wise. A big part of this has to do with me getting hella old and starting to try to do things like manage money wisely (ICK) and really trying to figure out what I want to do with my life (DOUBLE ICK). And an even bigger part of this, as hokey and cheesy as it may sound, has everything to do with me becoming more comfy in my own skin.

I am starting to realize that even though I may push myself into the ole reliable Gap Perfect Trousers and other vestiges of business clothing, I will always have a bit of bohemian running through me. I am most comfortable in a dress of some sort and my starting-to-get-just-perfectly-beat-up Frye Harnesses. I know it is TOTES SHOCKING--the girl who (still) breastfeeds her toddler and washes out her cloth diapers in something called "Rockin' Green" would be a bit of a hippie. WHO KNEW? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go fertilize my tomatoes and tell you what the REAL CRIME is.

(I'm just going to go on the record here and say I'm having tomato envy. No, that has nothing to do with fashion. I have the hugest tomato plant--biggest I've ever grown. And while all my gardening buds have little tomatoes, I have just a few blooms. NADA, really. My grandmother reassures me that mine is a late August bloomer. Whatevs. Tomato envy is the worst.)

At any rate, though, coming to terms with my hippie-dippie self has been a real breakthrough for me. I would like to say that that is cheesy, and that is not how I really feel (the "breakthrough" and all), but really, it pretty much sums it all up. I feel kind of renewed on the whole fashion side of things, and JUST IN TIME FOR FALL. Sadly, I'm sure the divorce papers will be in the mail the second that I go to Matt and say, "Honey, by the way, I've discovered myself. And the new me needs a fur lined vest and some mini dresses. Oh, and to get my MFA. Because how can I be bohemian chic without (another) superfluous degree!?!?"

I owe a lot of this to Anita Pallenberg, I must say. After putting it off for a couple of months or so, I finally read Keith Richard's Life, mostly in preparation for our decidedly adults only trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this weekend (!). And I found myself with this huge girl crush on her because of some of the pictures in the book. Those pictures led to some innocent googling, and before I knew it, I owned a pair of metallic gladiator sandals and was foaming a bit at the mouth as I compared them to a black and white picture on the internet. And while you ponder at how weird that is, let us all be thankful that I'm emulating her in fashion only and haven't developed any kind of paranoid heroin addiction. Yea for my particular brand of crazy! And yea for the fact that I haven't decided to emulate anyone in Motley Crue's The Dirt, which I also (re)read! To paraphrase one of my favorite shows, Californication, one wrong step in that direction and you're the asslicker. No, you don't want to know what I'm referencing.

This is what I'm talking about:

I just love the unfussy glamour of it all. The lady certainly knows her way around a hat. And did I mention that she rocks BANGS? JUST LIKE ME? My God, people. The awesome.

I really want to make an effort to imbue my Fall purchasing with just that little bit of boho. Sure, I have the parameters of real life to work in. There's work and there's parenting and there's a lot of other shit to contend with where I can't wear a humongo hat and a fur coat and just be like, "What?" I took a look at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale the other day (and didn't buy anything...boo-urns on being a responsible grown-up person who has to take her brood on vacation and you know, feed them and shit!), and noticed some key pieces that I think I'm going to buy later/find dupes for. And I'm starting to think of accessories in a new way, trying to jazz up what I already own with some belting, some big ole bangles, a jazzy new necklace or so.

One late summer purchase I've made (to wear to the RnR HoF, actually) in this vein is this dress. Let me just say, I adore it. If you are a shorty like me and have been wanting a maxi dress and just haven't found one you can rock without a hem job, this is your dress. It is the perfect length on me in REGULAR (they do offer petite if you are so inclined, but read the reviews). I am currently trying to think of some very fun ways to style it--have thought of my long, black fireball dupe necklace, a fedora, a paisley scarf, and a skinny silvery belt as all contenders.

Interestingly, I was trying all this on the day that I received the dress and ecstatically removed it from the package. Matt was sitting at our computer, planning our trip to DC, which he has choreographed TO THE VERY SECOND. I came out with the scarf looped and belt on, and Matt goes, "Are you trying to look like Steven Tyler?" I said, "No," and moped a bit. I go, "I'M TRYING TO LOOK LIKE I AM DATING SOMEONE IN A FAMOUS ROCK BAND. BUT NOT LIKE I AM HIGH ON SMACK. GOD." Matt smiled at me and said, "You know, if I were in a famous rock band, it would probably be a band like Rush."

Maybe the divorce papers will be on the way WAY before I do my Fall shopping....

I Watched It So You Don't Have To: War of the Amy Fisher's

2011-07-18T13:24:00.004-04:00

This past weekend, I was a slug. The two older kids went to stay with some of Matt's cousins for the weekend, so I was left to my own devices with just Matt and Al. We planned picturesque hikes and trips out for our little party of three. However, it rained all weekend. And I found myself pretty tired. And well, Lifetime Movie Network was running a "Tainted Love" weekend movie marathon, so well, you know. The story writes itself.

Alice happened to take her Saturday nap while Casualties of Love: The Long Island Lolita Story was having its run. I have never actually seen any of these Amy Fisher tell all movies (of which there are three, all made in 1993), so I settled into the couch with the August Real Simple, my leopard print Snuggie and some WW-friendly smores that I make in my oven. This, my friends, is what I imagine heaven will be like--just me, a silent house, a magazine and something cheesy on the tube. I really hope all that fornication doesn't keep me from experiencing it.

The movie was truly, truly horrible, which of course, means that I enjoyed the absolute hell out of it. Seriously, if I could watch that movie again, you know I would. With that in mind, I decided to see if I could find the Drew Barrymore version (CoL stars Alyssa Milano). Sure enough, some kind soul had uploaded that on YouTube. You don't have to know me that well to know what I did next. BUT! I did it for science, for posterity, for YOU, my litte sachertorte. Yes, I pitted Alyssa Milano and Drew Barrymore against each other in the ultimate Amy Fisher challenge so that you would know which one is superior and thus, is deserving of your rainy-Saturday afternoon moments. You're welcome in advance.

(And yes, I understand there is a third Amy Fisher movie starring the lesser loved Noelle Parker. But a girl can only take so many tired Long Island accents before she is committed, so I didn't watch that one. Sorry, folks. Maybe another day. And besides, Noelle kind of crashes this awesome Drew/Alyssa thing I have going on in my head, which probably gives me something in common with any dude who was masturbating in the early 90's.)

I have broken the movies into several important facets to make all this simpler. But before we start, here's a quick breakdown on each movie:

Casualties of Love (heretofore known as CoL): The Buttafuocco's version of events (and no, I'm not spelling that correctly. I refuse to google. They will heretofore be known as Mr. and Mrs. Zubaz for reasons that will become apparent later). This movie is so factually incorrect that it is laughable. In this one, Mr. Zubaz is the victim. Not because his wife got shot, mind you, but because he is an upstanding business man/family guy who some slut is fixated on. Basically, Mr. Zubaz gets addicted to the nose candy, goes to rehab, and comes back as Ward Fucking Cleaver in a mesh t-shirt. He loves his wife. You know how I know that? Because they have sex in the shower. In Lifetime world, pure, unadulterated marital love is shown in two ways: 1) children and 2) spontaneous shower sex. Alyssa Milano is the "Aimee" in CoL, so misspelled to avoid lawsuits, I assume.

The Amy Fisher Story (heretofore known as AFS): This one is no one's version of events and is pieced together from accounts from other people, not the actual parties involved. Boo-urns! And it is told in that weird, choppy flashbacky way that you see in a lot of Lifetime movies which usually means that there is some big old fat plotholes lurking around and you best not try to put it together too neatly. The story is the basic girl-gone-wrong diatribe. Amy is a wild, petulant brat whose parents indulge her every whim. I'll tell you this: I wanted to punch her through a good 2/3 of this movie. Like really punch her. She has a lot of sex with Mr. Zubaz, and some of it is pretty kinky (detailed below). There is a reporter running around through most of the movie trying to give the movie some kind of moral center about the villification of a sexualized girl, and really, all her points are valid, but you want to punch her too because she kind of makes the movie drag a bit. I don't want "feminism" and "morality" in my Lifetime movies. FUCK THAT NOISE! Give me another faked orgasm and a mom wringing her hands! That's more like it! Drew Barrymore is the Amy in this version. Slutty 90's Drew. That's a whole other bit of awesomeness right there, amirite?

The Fisher Parents: Both movies deal with Amy's parents in different ways. AFS gives them more of a spotlight in its showing, paying close attention to the mother's total denial that Amy is nothing but a slightly flawed princess. The dad, however, gets major points from me because he wears these huge 80's style glasses for much of the movie. They are truly amazing. Also, one of the better scenes in AFS is a domestic scene with the parents where Amy makes lasagna for them. Mom goes (and yes, I'm paraphrasing), "Amy, how much cheese did you put in this? Your dad has to watch it for his cholestrol." And Amy goes, "Uh, about 2 pounds." 2 POUNDS! That's when I knew she was a vile seductress. 2 POUNDS OF CHEESE. In the inimitable words of Urkel, HAVE MERCY. However, CoL takes this category on the stength of just one well played line. The parents are really played down, but there is a really priceless scene of Amy and her parents. She has just told them that she has herpes. And the dad goes (and this is a direct quote): "Amy, you said Joey gave you THE HERPES." Ladies and gentlemen, not only is that the best quote of this movie, it might be the best quote in a Lifetime movie ever. Advantage: Milano.

Wardrobe: Unfortunately, AFS really falls apart in the wardrobe department. Drew looks pretty staid in a lot of this movie, rocking some knee length skirts and a couple of tunics. WTF? A word to all you costumers out there: this is not how slutty girls in the 90's dressed. I mean, I didn't try to knock off anyone and my Blow Jobs Given to People Wearing Zubaz Pants tally was stationed solidly at 0, and I didn't dress that frumpy. However, just where AFS lacked, CoL really picked up the pace. I present to you, Exhibit One:I'm pretty sure that when Alyssa Milano finished filming this movie, she had one hell of a yeast infection. Her pants were that tight throughout the whole movie. She also wore some dynamite cropped shirts, double belts, some thigh high boots--HELL YES this is how a slutty 90's girl would dress! There was one scene in the autobody shop where she's wearing this skin tight gray cotton leggings and a tied up shirt. Matt, who was playing Civ World on the computer, turned around and said, "God bless Barry Zito," making reference to one of the many baseball players Ms. Milano used to boff. And I had to agree with him. That ass was PADOW, ya'll. I would totally shoot someone in the face for it. Advantage: Milano.

Overall Look: However, we have to remember that Amy Fisher did not look like Alyssa Milano, bless her heart. AFS does a much better job of giving us a more truthful look of Amy. I spent a good portion of the movie wanting to hold Drew down and straighten her hair because she is sporting some serious frizz in this movie. And I have to say, I loved that she had some kind of brown drawn on late 90's J. Lo eyebrows going on. And brown lipliner! HELLS YEAH. AFS kept it real with Joey too, having him spending a good amount of time wearing zubaz pants and skin tight polo's, which I think we all know is how Mr. Zubaz was hanging IRL. CoL really went for more flash on both accounts, with Mr. Zubaz even having to stand up for his flashy look to his dad. There were a lot of gold chains, some ill-advised mesh, the whole kit and kaboodle. What is funny is this is Mr. and Mrs. Zubaz's own account. So you know they were loving all that nasty stuff. Which is pretty icky, just as well, you know, banging someone underage. But for reality's sake, let's say Advantage : Barrymore.

Sexy Times: This is kind of a moot category, because CoL does not contain any Amy on Joey sex because in this alternate view of reality, Mr. Zubaz did not have sex with that woman! (Despite the fact that he would end up confessing to it.) There is that shower scene between Mr. and Mrs. Zubaz but ick. No. I refuse to comment. AFS, however, picks up the slack like mad. In fact, I read that this scene was labeled "too hot for tv"--it was in my YouTube version, but apparently edited out of the original. And it is easy to see why: there is full on boob suckage and you can see Ms. Barrymore's ass at one time. The fact that it is happening in Amy's bedroom with full on ballerina posters and shit like that hanging around is kind of a lady boner killer though. But, you know, if you are thinking of this in the more academic type way, I guess that the sex scene is good because it shows the complete and total wrongness of the whole Amy/Mr. Zubaz thing. Not me though. I'm there for the pornishness. And I have to give credit where credit is due--Ms. Barrymore does a pretty dynamic job in the scene directly before this one; her flirtations are pretty spot on, and she acts the hell out of it, playing the teenage nympho role to a tee. And well, this gets major points because I'm pretty sure it is the only sex scene ever committed to celluloid that features one of the participants having to take off his zubaz pants. Let's hope it is anyway. Advantage: Barrymore.

Overall (Tiebreaker): This is a toughie to explain because it really gets at the core of why anyone would watch a Lifetime movie. ASF is definitely the better movie--it features a more double sided view of the events, and is more factually based. There is that moral sense about the whole thing, a kind of commentary on women's sexuality and the hungry public's clamoring for it. HOWEVER. It is boring. I clicked around while I was watching it. Reading Facebook comments about soccer games suddenly became a lot more interesting, even though I hate soccer and about 85% of the time, Facebook. CoL, on the other hand, is the Disney Land version of the Amy Fisher story. It is so out of left field and just so Lifetime-y (Crazy sexual tart in fatal attraction with married man! Beautiful wife assaulted! Excuse me while I clutch my pearls!) that it is much more entertaining. Yes, it is truly a horrible movie. But, you know me. Advantage: Milano.

I can only hope that someday, there are three Casey Anthony movies out there for me to watch and pontificate about. Because you know, somewhere, Jennifer Love Hewitt is wearing a pink tuxedo shirt, practicing her dead eyed glare and just waiting on her phone to ring.

Summer Survival Guide, Part III: Shorts

2011-07-13T12:47:00.003-04:00

I'm sure somehow, somewhere there is recorded evidence of me talking about how much I hate shorts. Because I have mounted a nearly lifelong battle against them. Most of it has been in vain because my mother, well, she loves shorts. ADORES THEM. She will probably be buried in a pair of shorts. As a kid, she was always pushing shorts on me, partly because she loves them and the rest because I grew up in VA. And she didn't want me to die of heat stroke.

I went along with it, rather halfheartedly. I, at one time, got obsessed with these overall, shortall things that were very, very long (it was the early 90's--shut up), like manpri length. Kind of Dexy's Midnight Runners come to think of it (and it is here that I will take the time to give big up's to the Pizza Hut in Alamogordo, NM, where once, my darling husband serenaded me with Come On, Eileen and, for that matter, Free Bird). They were basically pants, but I had this whole theory that they were much cooler than shorter shorts because the air could circulate freely. I shared this theory with others, and God bless my mother, but she let me, and shook her head in agreement. It was totally stupid, and probably came off a bit unhinged, but it did the job of hiding the real issue.

The issue is that I HATE MY CALVES. MY GOD. My calves, due to preadolescent ballet dancing and bad-fat-leg genes from my mother's family, can grow to gargantuan proportions. The good news? They are strong. I have a muscle in the back of my leg that is either amazing/totally gross, depending on who I am running with. But when you are 12, you don't care about strong. You want long, graceful. Beautiful. I shared this with my stepmom at about that age, and she said, "But you are so lucky! Your legs are shapely!" And now, I look at that, and I truly thank her for the compliment. But then, I thought, "'Shapely' can kiss my ass." Even worse was when my college roommate was looking at my high school annual and saw a pic of me in my cap and gown. She goes, "Oh look, you're wearing cute white pants." Um, no. THOSE ARE MY LEGS. Awkward. And let me tell you--I have done some hardcore work on my legs to make them more shapely and less, um, fat, white and gross. Has it worked out the way that I want? No, not totally. It is something I think of and work on (not as much as I might want, I'll add). But I am more proud of their strength now, I'll tell you that. And that is a good feeling.

So I have started wearing shorts. And to be honest, I probably would have whether I looked good or not because ya'll, it's hot. And the older I get, the less I care, you know? I mean, not that I am going to be walking around in my pajamas--no one except my immediate family has ever seen me not fully dressed and without make-up, and I'd like to keep it that way. But if I can look nice and still be cool at the same time, I'm all for it. I'm less concerned with making sure my legs are picture-perfect. Shorts are just a means to that end.

And you know, shorts can be very flattering and truly cute. They are not just for the beach, ya'll. Witness one Anita Pallenberg:

Now, granted, to look like this you either have to be a) dating a rock star and getting a little something-something from his bandmate, b) living in a much more glamourous world than the one I currently inhabit (I JUST SPENT MY MORNING DESIGNING AND FOLDING BROCHURES! GLAMOUR! FABULOSITY!) and c) be totally freaking gorgeous. But I love this picture, and I am not even kidding when I say that I would gladly shoot someone in the face to look like this. So shorts! Let's rock with it! (And I'm sure I'll be back with more pictures like this, because me and Anita--well, we're having a moment.)

1. Know your inseams. From most companies, the shortest you can get is about a 3" inseam. That's pretty short. I have read that shorties like myself should wear shorter shorts to make the legs appear longer, but you have to think about comfort. 3 inchers, on me, give me that bizarre, riding up in the front, front wedge. Know what I mean? If you don't, go to any theme park, and I guarantee you that within about 10 minutes you'll see a few. Because my legs touch each other when I walk. No matter how thin I get, no matter how many cupcakes I sadly throw in the trash, my legs are always gonna touch. Chances are, you have the same issue. Know this going in. I like a 5" inseam because it is still short for maximum leg lengthening, but it is comfortable. And I think the look given by a 5" inseam is flattering on a lot of different legs. Plus, it is comfy and you have that whole "dress it up/dress it down" thing that is a bit trickier with shorts, but is still there.

2. That said, longer is not always better. You may hate your legs. They may truly be disgusting. I doubt it, but you know, it could happen. But you're doing yourself no favors by going with whatever is the longest thing available. I used to gravitate towards bermudas for that reason, but here's the thing: bermudas made me look like I was on the one way express to Stumpytown. They drew attention to my calves in some bizarre way and made me look like I had the legs of a piano. Because of the stumpy thing, I felt pressured to wear heels with them, which And the thing is, bermudas typically look the best on people who are long and slim. Now, ain't that just a kick in the nuts? It's the truth. When buying, don't concentrate so much on what the length is (just make sure it is comfortable to you), but rather, how it looks on you. Trust me, the hideousness that you think you are covering is just going to be magnified if the shorts don't flatter you.

3. Have fun with color. Shorts, in a great number of cases, are the ideal "Let's not take this so seriously" clothing. That's why they are so prevalent amongst stoners and Jimmy Buffett fans. So have fun with them. I recently bought a pair of French lavender colored shorts from the J. Crew Factory. Would I wear French lavendar pants? HELL NO. But I love the shorts, and really, they are much more versatile than one would think. I, for instance, love them with an orange striped tank I have. Orange and lavendar?!? Say it ain't so! It is so totally so, and I love it.

4. Do denim...with reservations. I used to be very, very anti-denim shorts (you can read a past blog entry with a cute pictorial lesson here), and still am in a lot of cases. But this year especially has shown me the error of my ways. I actually have two pairs now (gasp!)--a pair of beat-up looking ones and a pair of dark denim, more refined ones (kind of like a denim trouser in short form). Given the right circumstances, I love them both. For instance, the beat up ones are perfection with my Frye Harnesses, an old cut-up ACDC shirt and a dark eye. The trouser-y ones were recently worn with a structured white top, Jackie cardigan, and a chignon. The message is, watch your styling, and you can really have fun with denim shorts. Just remember this cardinal rule: DO NOT WEAR THEM TO A THEME PARK (or really, any place where you are going to be walking a lot or getting wet). Why? You'll look ridiculous, you'll be hot, and MY GOD, PEOPLE, THE CHAFING. My thighs are weeping right now at the thought of the thousands of thighs that will be chafed this year in denim related theme park accidents. Sadness.

5. Watch your shoe choice. Nothing says, "I played the decoy on To Catch a Predator" like wearing denim shorts with socks and tennis shoes. Leave that look to the 12 year olds. Opt for sandals (you decide how dressy you want to go) on that. In a pinch, Converses or Jack Purcells are acceptable, but only with NO SOCKS or at least, very short ones. STEP AWAY FROM THE SOCKS, PEOPLE.

6. And remember, whatever you wear, don't sweat it. It should be obvious, but don't wear anything that makes you uncomfortable. If you can, order some shorts online and try them out. If they make you feel icky, don't keep the suckers. I know this seems obvious, but I think a lot of times we try to force ourselves into wearing something because someone says we should, and it just doesn't work out. I'm here to tell you that you probably look pretty awesome in them, and not to worry about it. Again, just because you're paying mondo attention to your legs, doesn't mean other people are. They are too busy worrying about their own shit/wondering if their baseball team will ever win again/trying to force themselves into NOT singing "S&M" every time someone says something about Matt Kemp/being insecure about their own dimples and rolls. Sure, there's someone out there who cares--as a wise man once said, "Haterz gotta hate"--but you shouldn't care.

Here are some shorts I like, have tested out, and own:

J. Crew 5 Inchers. I've bought these in a 6, I've bought them in a 16, and they've always been flattering. And, as is the case for most Crew items, the color choices are amazing. Quick tip--the Factory ones are good as well. Fabric is a little thinner, but I like that during the summer, and from what I've seen thus far this year, they hold up much like the non-factory version. In a lot of cases, these are cheaper in the store than online (just be wary of the size choices--they were dicey with middle sizes--6/8/10--in my closest outlet).

Land's End Canvas Lightweight Chinos. Basic, with a nice fit and good quality material.

Old Navy Distressed Denim Shorts. Very cute on. It is very hard to find a denim short that doesn't skew "Daisy Duke," and these fit the bill.

Gap trouser shorts. Mine are these, just the Gap Outlet version, and I love mine (and they were just $17!). Very versatile. Love the look with something crisp and white and a big turquoise necklace.

Alternative Punishments for Alternative Children

2011-07-13T10:29:00.002-04:00

The other day, I was down at my grandmother's house with my kids. They were wiling away on her couch, looking at some iPhone app or something, and then all of a sudden, the two older kids started tusseling. There was some good natured giggling, then a couple of "ow's" and then before I knew it, they were really going at each other in that brother/sister type way. I don't think anyone was really in danger of getting hurt, but I really abhor violence of any kind because on one hand, I'm a hippie dippie kinda gal, and on the other hand, the noises they were making were damn annoying. So I break them apart. Gabby retreats to the recliner, Sam lays wounded on the couch, clutching his iPod. And I decide in my great motherly wisdom that now is the time for a "Life Lesson" about violence and making annoying sounds while in my grandmother's house (never mind that my grandmother wasn't paying attention to any of this, as she was doing her best to turn Alice into one of those morbidly obese kids you see on Maury). So I sit down and look at both of them and adopt my stern voice and start to tell them about why fighting is not a good idea. And I am really intending on bringing it around, talking about violence inherent in the system and golly gee, I'm really trying to think of something topical and cultural to really drive it home, and all of a sudden, Gabby, in a perfect deadpan, starts singing, "Everybody was kung-fu fighting...."

And that's all it took. I tried to swallow my laughter, but it didn't work, and there I sit on the couch, just chortling away. Sam starts laughing too, just really going at it, and his laugh is truly amazing, so that just makes it all worse, and before I know it, we are all laying on the couch in a shaking, giggling heap, and Alice is standing in the doorway, clutching her second ice cream cone of the hour and going, "What do?" which makes us all laugh harder.

PARENTING FAIL.

And then last night, Alice started throwing the bowl of popcorn that she had begged and begged for, all over the bed. At first, I just said no. But she didn't stop, so I reached out and kind of made a slapping motion at her hand. I didn't really hit her, but I thought the motion might shock her into putting her handful of popcorn down peacefully and retreating into good-childom. It did. And she even acted as though I hurt her (remember: I did not touch her), so I kissed her hand and politely told her to not do it again, why it was bad, the whole bit. For one minute, she just sat there and watched the All Star Game with me. And then, she picks up another handful of popcorn and loudly shouts, "DO AGAIN!" at which point I realize she wants me to punish her again.

I guess I don't have to say this, but SECOND PARENTING FAIL.

I really suck at the whole disciplinary thing. It is funny, because a good deal of Gabby's friends think I am the strict mom, since we have a mandatory bedtime in our house and I have absolutely refused to buy her a cell phone until she is 13 (with my patented response to the inquiry at "Who are you going to call? Dora?"). I have also taken the very mean and awful, Medici-esque steps of outlawing those sweatpants with writing on the ass and not allowing anyone in my house to step out of our yard wearing pajamas. CRUEL, I TELL YOU. But when it comes to actually laying down the law, I talk a big game, but very often, I crumble. And when it comes to things that I find to be amusing, I absolutely cannot keep a straight face or carry out my original mission. In short, I'd make a very lousy terrorist and Dr. Phil would probably really lay into me, given the chance.

So I have devised a new list of punishments for my hellion offspring.

1. If anyone brings home a bad grade (and yes, in my house, that equals anything "B" or lower), I will put that person in the front seat of the car, and I will drive around our town, blasting Blackstreet's "No Diggity" windows down. I will loudly sing every word, and when I see someone that that child knows, however vaguely, I will yell "PLAY ON PLAYA" at that person until I get a response.
2. Anyone caught doing anything vaguely unsavory on Facebook (and yes, I keep tabs on these things and have the passwords) will have baby pictures tagged by me. And I will tag them while the child in question has been grounded from internet devices and cannot un-tag. I will also feel free to post things on the Wall of the offender, including, but not limited to, poems of adoration and a great number of posts that begin with the words "Remember that time that you peed on yourself?"
3. Anyone caught being mean to a sibling will be forced to clean the kitchen on a day after I make roasted chicken (have you see the roasting pan post-chicken?--ick). I will also make some kind of bread that has to be rolled out and--oops!--I will forget to use a cutting board to roll it out on. And yes, I'll check between the tiles to make sure the cleaning has been thorough.
4. A child caught lying to me will have garage cleaning duty for a weekend. Prior to the actual garage cleaning, I will leave the door open for a night so we can get a nice mixture of creatures milling around in there. Feral cats FTW!
5. An untidy room means you get to sit and watch a Hoarders marathon with me. I don't think that is punishment, but I'm sure they will, especially when I sit there and play-by-play it. "Oh, they're going to open the bathroom! Five bucks says the water has been off for 5 years and there is a bag of excrement in there. Wait for it....OH YEAH! BAGS OF POOP! TOLD YA! PAY UP!"

I am lucky that my kids are pretty good little creatures because I'm really running out of ideas. Or maybe I'm not lucky. All of these sound like they'd be pretty fun for me. Maybe I really do have the soul of a dictator....

Summer Survival Guide, Part II: The Bathing Suit

2011-07-06T11:01:00.003-04:00

Just the mere mention of the words "bathing suit" has the power to turn even the most ardently feminist, logical, level-headed among us into a squealing mass of estrogen, tears, and chocolate shavings. I don't care how thin you are, how peaceful and zen you are about your body, you probably have some jiggly bits that you are less pleased with showing to the world. ACK, indeed.

However, bathing suits are a very real reality, especially if you have kids. There is the errant pool party or the incredibly hot day where anything else on your body feels oppressive. I spent a couple of years in CA when I didn't buy one--the beaches in Norcal are not prime bikini spaces--but really, I'm happier when I have one in my arsenal. Think of all the joyful moments of your childhood. Summers in the water, friends at the pool....in how many of them were you wearing a swimsuit? If you are anything like me, you have more than your fair share. Having a bathing suit that is comfortable that you like and enjoy is like having a key to a whole bunch of summer fun.

Getting to that point, though, can be a bit trying. I don't know anyone whose idea of "fun" is defined by taking a stack of bathing suits to the dressing room. And we've all been there, haven't we, doing the best we can under the harsh lighting, trying to make sense of what magazines tell us will surely flatter us and then finding that perfect suit in your size. It really is horrible, and actually, very avoidable. Quick tips for you (in list form because that's the way I roll):

1. Order your suit online. The easiest thing to do is skip the whole shebang and order online. That way, you can try things on in the comfort of your own home and do a whole bunch of crazy moves to make sure it stays in place/flatters your boobs in all positions. Make sure, however, to find an online company that has a great policy for returns. You can do a couple of things here--a) either order a panoply of sizes and pick the best fitting of the options, or b) talk to a service rep, either by chat or by phone about picking the perfect suit. This is what I did last year. I knew I have quite an issue with bathing suit--I have big knockers, and a not so big waist and very problematic hips--so I got on chat and talked with a Land's End representative. If you go this route, be ready with a tape measure to give them your measurements. The rep will be able to tell you not only your size, but what suits they offer that can most play up your assets. They can also guide you as to what styles come in special sizes. For me, I had to get a top that had DD cup sizes if I wanted to order my dress size in tops OR I could get a bikini top (that did not have a DD cup option) in a larger number size. I ended up ordering one top and one bottom and when it came in, it fit like a glove. Crisis averted.

2. If you can, pick a suit that you can mix and match with other pieces. I am going to risk sounding like a huge Land's End commercial with this post, but really, I'm so in love with their suits that it will just have to be that way. My suit last year was a tankini with low rise bikini bottoms from their Beach Living collection--black with white polka dots. I wanted to order more pieces at the end of the year, but this desire got kind of tabled when I started seeing fall stuff hitting the stores and wanted that more. What can I say? I'm like a dog going after something shiny. At any rate, I had the tankini and that was enough. However, earlier this summer, Land's End put some of their pieces from last year on super, super sale. I was able to get a bikini top and a swim mini in the same matching print in my size and ready to go for a SONG. Like, less than a song, like a clip of a song. And the fit is still the same and looks amazing. I was chatting with another blogger about this and she said she had done similar things with the swimsuits from Land's End Canvas--she had a great navy blue tankini from there last year, and this year, was able to score cute orange striped bottoms that looked complementary, as well as navy blue boardshorts. If you go relatively neutral, you can really play with it and come up with a swimsuit that is as unique as you are. And having an extra change is perfect for those days when your suit is still wet but there is fun to be had.

3. Once the suit comes in, test it. I call this the "Do a Load of Laundry" test. When you try on your suit for the first time, keep it on. Walk around your house and do normal stuff. Can you do a load of laundry without adjusting yourself? For me, if I can navigate the toys in the living room, pick up a child, switch the clothes around, walk back in the living room, laundry basket and kid in hand, fix a sandwich, turn on a baseball game, and fold the laundry, all without being uncomfortable or showing part of my genitalia, I may have found a winner. Come up with your own test, and if you can complete it, it's a keeper. If not, keep looking.

*This test also applies to high heeled shoes, thongs, and shorter skirts.

4. Know your limits. I have really tried to shy away from blanket statements like "Don't wear a bikini if you are over 40" or "Don't wear anything in neon green." I think we all basically know what styles and colors do us no favors. For instance, if you have over a B-cup, please do not wear one of those triangle tops. Unless you are just really, really happy with your uber perky bosoms that can, you know, stand up and do tricks on command. But really, only you can know exactly what your limits are. I used to think that I would never wear a bikini top (as opposed to a tankini). But now, I'm kinda thinking that the one I have is a fun, cute look and flatters me. Remember that as long as you are confident and own the look, you can get away with a lot more. If you aren't confident, you're going to look like shit, even if you've been doing P90X everyday for the past five years. So find the suit you want, make yourself happy with it, and rock the hell out of it.

5. Don't wear pants at the beach. Remember the video for Wilson Phillips' "Hold On" (which was my JAY-UM way before Bridesmaids came and co-opted it)? They're all singing and they're happy and they're feeling it and my God after all these years, I still want Chynna's hair, and wait...they're on a beach. And Carnie is wearing a suit? Were you fooled then? Did you think that maybe she was a size 2 because all of her fluff was hidden by a curtain of black polyester? No? Well, no one else was either. And they won't think you are suddenly thin if you show up to the beach in pants. Buy a bathing suit that you like, rock it, and fuck that haterz. No one is looking at you anyway--they're too busy looking for sharks/reading that tell-all about Suri Cruise's shoe closet/giving their husband sand boobs/HAVING AWESOME FUNTIMES BEACH FUN. NO ONE CARES IF YOU HAVE BUTT DIMPLES. And if they do, well, you shouldn't want to impress them anyway. They probably watch a lot of Nancy Grace and call "frappuccinos" "frah-pu-CHIN-os." Bastards all.

Here are some links to help you on your journey. If you haven't ordered a suit yet (and I realize I'm pretty late in the game with this post), you're in luck because there are some jim-dandy sales going on.

This tankini is similar to mine, although mine is a halter. Note that you can get D, DD, and DDD cup sizes, along with a host of other choices.

Swim mini's are great in between bikini waxes (just sayin').

The Crew always has beautiful one pieces in amazing colors if that is your thing. I used to have one--purchased for a song on Ebay--and it was lovely.

Old Navy is the master of the mix and match suit. Especially if you don't have the healthy bosoms (does it creep you out when I say "bosoms"? Cause I'm giving myself chills over here.)

My mom likes these.

Finally, a quick story as to why all this is important: my elementary school boyfriend runs our local pool. Yeppers. And my daughter, who I may have disowned shortly after this incident, managed to squeal "MOMMY, IS THAT THAT GUY THAT YOU SAID YOU LOVED IN LIKE FIRST GRADE OR SOMETHING WHO CAN DO THAT LIZARD FACE?" In front of him. While I was wearing a bathing suit. Ah, yes.

Anyone want a 12 year old for hard manual labor? Preferably something that involves poop?

Baseball Sucks but Joe Mauer Does Not

2011-07-01T12:59:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, I decided that I hate baseball. HATE IT. The A's decided to trade my favorite player, the superbly underrated Mark Ellis, and on the same day, they lost. To the Marlins. The Marlins won like 3 games the entire month of June before they played the A's. But of course, my team could not hit the broad side of a barn if you gave them a tee and a whiffle ball bat, so you know. HATE.

Baseball, and I'm sure most other sports, really does a number on its fans. One minute, you're riding high, and so amazingly happy with your team, the sport, the entire freaking universe. And the next minute, you are answering questions on a "Are you clincally depressed?" online quiz, and wallowing in a rage that is so completely blinding that you should not be allowed to drive. This is my life between the months of April and October. I'm ok with that. But there are certain moments (for example, yesterday) that just make it that much worse. And that is when I decide that I hate baseball more than anything else in this world and that it should do me a grand favor and just die in a fire.

The last time this happened, when my husband's favorite catcher of all time was traded, we drank ourselves into oblivion. Like that was the drunkest I ever got. I puked more that night than I puked in my entire college career, no kidding. It was absolutely horrible. I am a bit older now, and knew I had to work today, so that was not an option. Instead, I have ordered myself some new jeans, some Nars Illuminator and some tanning towels. Retail therapy, ya'll. I HAZ IT.

And since I now hate baseball with every fiber of my being, I should not care about Joe Mauer. But you know what? His is a beauty that lives on, thriving despite my absolute, white hot hate. And he knows all this, you know, and he's all like "Hey girl. Why don't you make yourself feel better by writing about that lip gloss and that eyeliner that I like? You know that stuff I saw you wear when we were laying in that DoubleTree in Cleveland and watching that clip of Buster Posey getting his leg shattered over and over again? You know that video makes me hot."

And since he deems it so, and well because he looks like this

I'll go ahead and give you these product reviews. Remember, these are two products that, if worn, will allow you to have sex with Joe Mauer. There's a 98% chance of it. Give or take that pesky 97%.

NYC Cosmetics Lippin' Large Lip Plumper: This is one of those reviews where I should just start it with the words "Well, I was in Target the other day..." I was there to buy a sports bra and some sunscreen and some pajamas for my kids. But, well, you know how that goes. Thankfully, this is one of the smaller purchases I have made under these conditions, running about $3. For my lip plumping needs, I usually use Bare Escentuals Buxom Big and Healthy Lip Polish in the color Dolly, in reverence to one of my favorite Southerners and the creator of Dollywood where you can get the best damn turkey legs in the world. However, I left my last tube in my mother's car and she promptly drove it back to Memphis, thinking it was hers since she uses the same stuff. No biggie, you know. I have plenty of lip gloss and I don't use any of them anything close to exclusively. But sometimes you just get the craving for big old fat Angelina Jolie lips, you know? Thus, the purchase. And I have to say, I like this stuff. I got the color Strawberry Mousse, and there is a bit of a strawberry smell, though nothing cloying or even that noticeable after the first little bit of wearing it. It comes in the little tube like thing that I like in the summer. And the formula is nice--not sticky, not goopy. Pleasant. It makes your lips feel moisturized and happy. The color itself is gorgeous--I could definitely see this color on a more expensive gloss. Now, the plumping abilities? I'm not sure. There is a cool tingle, not so unlike eating a York Peppermint patty, so you're not getting the full-on "I just spread pure uranium on my lips!" feeling of a Lip Venom. It is pretty similar to the Buxom gloss that I'm used to. And there is a bit of noticeable plumping. I'm not sure it is all that much more than a regular gloss where any plumping has just come from drawing more attention to my lips, you know? So if you want GINORMOUS lips, this is not the product for you. But really, I like it. For under $4, I LOVE IT. It is a great, easy product to keep in your purse for when you are riding down the road, air condition blowing on your lips and drying them out.

And the best part? Even for the low price point, it comes in a little box, so you know that even though you are buying it at Target, it has not been tampered with. Cover Girl could learn a thing or two. And you know that gives Joe Mauer a bit of piece of mind. He doesn't want your lips to be tampered with! He wants them all to himself, so he can kiss you and lovingly feed you little chocolate baseball bats that he molded himself in his cabin in Minnesota while he was also preparing a lovely roast leg of lamb, repairing a diesel engine and thinking about rubbing your feet.

Almay Intense I-Color Eyeliner (with Light Interplay Technology!) You know, aside from the internet, I hate technology. I don't have a Kindle (I am the only person in my family, aside from Alice, who does not), I don't have an iPad, I have a rickety old iPod nano that I only use when I'm running and can't convince the husband to come with me, I use my phone for calls. I like things that are old, like books, and tangible desk calendars and writing letters. You guys, I don't even have a food processor--what's the point! I can chop and make pie crust my own damn self, thank you. My husband thinks I'm insane. If it were up to him, we would live like the Jetsons. He keeps track of all new technological developments, and gets giddily excited about them. He has whole conversations about how much he loves living in the age we live in and how excited he gets by change and progress and whatever. Blah. Humbug. Give me a baseball game on the radio (uh, I forgot that I hate that game for a minute there. HATE.) and a nice long book with a broken spine, and I'm ecstatically happy with myself.

So when I saw the words "light interplay technology" on this package of eyeliner, I rolled my eyes. Right there in the Target aisle. But I needed some eyeliner, and I had seen some scuttle about Almay's eye products as of late, so I tried to ignore the fact that "light interplay" technology is the stupidest crap I've ever heard. It's a pencil, ya'll. A kohl pencil. The same sort of shit Cleopatra wore. It doesn't organize your calendar or chop your onions or forward those jokey emails that you get about tequila. IT IS A PENCIL. NO NEED FOR TECHNOLOGY. But I bought it anyway because at my most base level, I have to admit that I was curious. Would my eyes glow with beauty? Could I blind someone with my new ocular laser beams?

The fact is that it is just a basic eye pencil. I don't notice any technology, I don't feel any glowing or see anything crazy. Here's the thing though. The formula is pretty rad. It goes on well, and it has a little smudger on the end. I usually don't use pencils, eschewing them for the flowing-ness of a liquid eyeliner because I prefer the silkiness of a liquid to the sometimes painful and uncertain pencil. But this I like. I think it is perfect for a less heavy handed eye-lined look, especially for the summer. Today I am wearing this and mascara on my eyes. That is it. And that's saying something for a girl that likes her shadow. But I like the look--clean and easy yet defined.

They have lots of colors, and you purchase them based on the color of your eyes. I have boring black, but which is "Black Midnight" since that is what was specified for brown eyes. Whatevs. Joe Mauer, you know, prefers the black, but he says you could go with anything really because he loves your eyes just they way they are. "Just the way you are"--Joe Mauer just loves Billy Joel. Now, if you'll sit still, put your feet up, and eat this bowl of chocolate ice cream he just made in his Cuisinart Ice Cream maker, he'll play you some of the piano man's greatest hits. AND ALL BECAUSE YOU WORE THAT EYELINER. Girl, you are one lucky lady.

I hope you have enjoyed these tips for having sex with everyone's favorite American League Central catcher. As I was typing this, I checked Facebook and saw a post from the Oakland Athletics, and I briefly forgot that I hated them and planned on cutting out some recipes while I watch the game tonight. They are pulling me back in, I know they are. Sigh. A pour of vodka out for my homie, gone to the Rockies, but never forgotten.

Summer Survival Guide, Part I

2011-06-30T10:40:00.003-04:00

I live in VA. Summers in VA suck. That is all there is to it. They are hot and humid and you frequently find yourself oscillating wildly between a hot and burning exterior and an over air conditioned, artic interior. My office building is a prime example of this. Some days, it is stuffy in here and the air has an icky feel. Other days, I could swear it is February. I have a fan in my office, as well as my wool J. Crew grandpa sweater that I frequently wear on days that I have to unearth my car from a layer of ice. There have been a couple of days where I have used both at different points. Such is the perk of working in the dead center of a giant building with no windows or other forms of natural aeration.

Therefore, you have to have a few tricks up your sleeve in order to make it through comfortably and not looking like you are "hot as a Trojan" (I don't know where this saying comes from and if it relates to ancient Greeks or condoms. My grandmother said it a lot growing up, and from her, it could be either). Here are a few things I have found that are helpful.

Goody Spin Pins: I have long hair, and come summer, my number one activity is finding a cute way to keep it off of my neck. Ponytails are ok, but I really don't want to rock a pony all day, every day. Health magazine ran an article about summer hair a month ago (June's edition, I think) and there was a cute bun in there that I wore a bit and liked. Real Simple had some ideas as well, notably one for a side pony that I have worn with my fedora to great acclaim from the husband. However, bobby pins are never really that fun. They fall out, you lose them, they bring back horrific memories of dance recitals in years past. They are a general pain in the ass. This is where the "spin pin" comes in. Basically, this are tornado-esque pins that you put through a little chignon and they hold it in place. Two pins and you're solid. And you know, I really like them. In fact, I am wearing them right now as I type this. They are fast and simple (I am pretty much all thumbs with a wide array of hair styling, but I got the hang of this pretty quickly), they hold the hair securely, and the look is cute and a little better than a pony. Plus, you don't even have to use a hair elastic. Really all you need are the two pins.

I will say that you should give yourself time to get the hang of it. It is quick to learn, but it can be frustrating (like really, HULKSMASH style frustrating) when you are in a hurry and trying to get your hair up and it just won't work. The real trick is to try to put them in straight up and down--not on an angle. Also, you are a bit limited on what you can do with them. The Goody box specifies three styles--the classic chignon, a side chignon and a double chignon. A quick Google search tells me there are other options on You Tube. But, for the money, this is a great product and a real helper in the summer time.

Goody Headwraps It is somewhat fitting that the first two things on my list would be dealing with hair, because I think hair is the biggest issue in a hot humid summer. At least it is for me. These are your standard head wraps, designed to pull the hair back from your face like a headband without the headache. If I remember correctly, I rocked some very wide cotton ones in strange colors during the early 90's. I originally bought these for running to smooth the sides of my head from the bits of hair that pop out from my ponytail. However, you can do a lot more with them. If you buy the ones in the color of your hair (brunette for me), they blend in and can really smooth those little fly aways on the sides that humidity pulls out of me. I have in one right now with my Spin Pin chignon. It is just there to keep things smooth. I have used these things forever, but I recently saw in the June Health where frequent contributor, Bobbi Brown (of make-up fame, not of Hell to the No fame) uses them as well, even for formal events, and I can definitely see how you would do that. Like I said, it is just another weapon for you in your battle against humidity. And by the way--don't order them from Amazon via that link. $17.59 is crazy. I just bought a new pack a couple of days ago to share with Gabby, and I think they were $4-$5.

Jersey dresses: I don't really feel like this is new information or that I'm blowing the lid off of anything here. Jersey dresses are super comfortable and are a summer staple. The racks are filled with them--I see classy ones, slutty ones, ones that are made of that weird stuff that is often flower printed and looks like it is wrinkled (anyone know what this stuff is called? IT IS THE DEVIL). But I also see a lot of women walking around in places where a jersey dress would be perfection, looking hot, tired, and uncomfortable in ill-fitting shorts and dresses made out of stiff, non-breathable materials. Stop the insanity people! Every year, I purchase a new one of these dresses from J. Crew. I might get a few others in various places, but I always, ALWAYS get a J. Crew one. Why? Because they are flattering, and I have found them to be of consistent quality. Just for an example, I wore one of them throughout my pregnancy with Alice--I think I wore it the day before she was born! This year's dress is this one. I have found it to be unique in that has a little bit of interest--the elastic belt, the almost Grecian look at the strap--that set it apart and make it ok for a not-so-fancy evening out or with a cardigan to work (especially around here where the lack of students is making us all a bit more casual than during the school year). Plus, it is super, super comfortable, and miracle of all miracles, was not too long on me when I purchased it! Super, duper score.

Neutrogena Wet Skin Sunscreen Ladies, sunscreen is not optional. I am uber, UBER pale and I would love, DREAM OF IN FACT getting a nice bronzing while laying at the beach, reading Motley Crue's The Dirt. BUT. Skin cancer is a very, very real thing. You probably remember this if you read regularly, but I recently watched my grandmother die of skin cancer. Besides the obvious sadness because this was my grandmother, this was probably the saddest, most horrible death I can imagine. I won't go into details out of respect for her, but believe me when I say that this is not something that you even want to tempt into having. I have always been a bit of the sunscreen queen while on vacation with my kids and that kind of thing (and really, what mom is not?), but this year I have definitely stepped it up a notch. I am glad I found this product. It is perfect for applying at the pool--you can apply it right after exiting on to wet skin, and it will adhere just perfectly. Plus, even if you're not chilling pool side that much, it is perfect for sweaty bodies. My husband and I used it yesterday after riding in a hot car (read: bit sweaty) and then going running and it stuck to us and worked great. Great for touch ups too. I will tell you that I don't wholly trust the super high SPF's that I see, so I think I have 30 or 50, but it goes up to like 85 if you are into that kind of thing. There is also a kids formula, but my kids are fine with this version.

Guys, I don't really care if you buy this sunscreen. I don't buy it exclusively--I use a lot of different brands depending on where I am, what I need and what is on sale. But please consider wearing it this summer. We put it on our kids, we'll make sure they are covered with rash guards and hats and such, but so many times, we as women forget about ourselves. And that's not ok. Layer it on so that you can enjoy many, many more summers with them and love that sun and that trashy novel as much as you can!

Futures I Thought I Might Have: Jonathan Taylor Thomas

2011-06-29T12:56:00.004-04:00

I, like a good many women in their mid to late 20's, spent a good part of my adolescence embroiled in a passionate, one sided love affair with Jonathan Taylor Thomas. I liked to think that I had more of a right to him than other girls in that, I felt I had "discovered" him. While lots of other ladies were still tearing out the glossies of Jonathan Brandis (RIP) and watching Seaquest for their jollies, I had fully boarded the JTT train and was busy making my mom tape Home Improvement for me every week. By the time that the rest of my classmates had hopped on that train, I felt that I was the conductor. And that, yes, as a reward for sharing his unimaginable beauty with the world, he would be mine.

I did a lot of odd things for the love of one JTT. I made my mother search all over the greater Tri-Cities area for feta cheese, as I had read that was his favorite food and it, at that time, was not readily available in a rural VA grocery store (she found it, in a huge package, at a Sam's Club). It soon became my favorite too (and now, reading that, I want some). I purchased every Bop and Big Bopper and Tiger Beat imaginable in duo--one to leave together, to gaze at, dreamily, and the other to tear out the pictures to place inside of my Lisa Frank trapper keeper folders. Most funnily, when Man of the House (a movie starring Chevy Chase and JTT) came out, and I found out our local radio station was offering a Man of the House gift pack, I made my poor, embattled mother sit outside of my gymnastics class, frantically punching in the numbers on her new bag phone so that she could be caller number nine. She managed to win (probably because no one else wanted a prize pack that included a movie ticket and a Duck Head t-shirt from the Watson's sale rack), and she came running into my class excitedly, yelling, "I won it! I won it!" When we finally got to pick up the shirt, it was a copy of one that JTT wore in the movie. NOT THE ACTUAL SHIRT. However, I was convinced that it was still imbued with some indelible JTT-ness and decided to never wear it, and to let a large, forgotten teddy bear rock the look instead. I slept with that bear for a long time, and got pretty angry when my grandmother finally washed the shirt.

I imagined that JTT would find me utterly amazing. We were both smart, I figured, and I think I read somewhere that he liked to read. I imagined us reading together, and being very charming and eating a lot of feta cheese and shrimp pasta since that was my favorite dish. He also liked the outdoors, so we would hike some, and I would bring him to the falls that were close to my home and he would love it and we would kiss passionately on all of the bridges. We would snark a lot together about Jodie Sweetin, who I irrationally hated, so affeared was I that she and JTT might find a common thread of being on family centric ABC sitcoms and discover a hidden love. But mostly, I loved JTT with a love that can only be felt by pre-teen girls--shallow yet pure, adoring yet naive, happy yet frightened.

For some reason today, perhaps boredom, I got this hankering to see what old JTT is up to. IMDb and Wikipedia pages were startingly bare, with nothing doing since about 2005. A simple Google search brought up some pages, most of them linked to whether he is gay or not. Finally, I happened upon a page which says with absolutely no authority that he is now producing movies in Vacouver under another name. Since I'm not completely insane, and since I don't care that much, I decided to leave it at that.

But I like that idea of him, living (slightly) anonymously in Canada. Being old now, I can't imagine living with that kind of fame, of having your name permanently attached to another person living in a time long, long ago. I think of myself when I was younger, of my buck teeth and braces and head gear and fine dishwater blonde hair. Sure, he was a much cuter kid. But superficially perhaps, I don't think anyone really "likes" who they were at that point in their life, trying to sort it out what it means to be a grown up or a kid or whatever else you woke up feeling like this morning.

My daughter is now this age, this crazy knock-kneed age where nothing is what it seems. Yesterday, we took her and the other kids to see Cars II and to grab some sushi and ice cream. She came out of her room wearing a new tank top and a pair of (short!) plaid shorts we bought at Aeropostale over the weekend, size 0. Her hair was long and she had gotten it pin straight by some miracle (a real miracle since she doesn't have a straightening iron and her hair is difficult to put it mildly). She was wearing big, dark sunglasses. The only vestiges that belied her age were a tiny zebra pendant she bought at the zoo last week, and a pair of pink sequined Chuck Taylor-esque sneakers. I couldn't stop looking at her--there was a certain care she had taken with her looks, a certain je ne sais quoi, something that I don't think I fully got until I was out of college. She had tried to cultivate that look, worked to get it perfect. I kept telling her how amazing she looked, because really she did, and she just smiled at first, and then got sick of hearing it and shot me The Look.

But on the way home last night, I really got worried about this world in which we live. In my time, back when JTT reigned and there were no cell phones or Twitters or Rihanna's, being unperfect was some sort of a token, something that you couldn't escape, like Pogs or the flying toaster screensaver. For Gabby's generation, there is an emphasis on perfection at all costs, at all times. I was telling Matt last night, when we were kids, I felt music gave you an outlet--"You feel alienated? Awesome! So do we!" For Gabby, I feel the prevailing message is one of "You didn't look perfect when you rolled out of bed this morning? WELL FUCK YOU TOO!"

Now, I don't know if my daughter feels this pressure. We have talked about it some, in those roundabout Mommy/Daughter my-mom-sure-took-too-many-women's-studies-courses talks, and it is not something she owns up to, not to me, and probably not to herself. But seeing her yesterday being so perfectly lovely made me feel, yes, proud and happy in that Mom-ish kind of way (though not nearly as happy as when she brings home straight A's every quarter, or when she wins the school's Art Award), but also frightened. And worried. I want to take her aside, back to 1995, when everything was just a tad bit less plastic, when perfection was found in a Smashing Pumpkins chorus, not on the face of a 12 year old.

I don't wish that I was married to JTT or living with him or even knowing more about him. I am quite happy with my strange, nerdy husband, with his comic books and his glasses and his deft ability to make a reference to Russian literature and another to Spongebob in the same sentence. But I do wish for that innocent feeling of 1995, of that feeling of a world that is real and understandable, of 12 years old meaning blind crushes and the beginnings of bad skin, not a beginning of perfection.

Things That Suck: Cover Girl Natureluxe Foundation

2011-06-27T12:07:00.003-04:00

First of all, Joe Mauer does not approve of this product, and would not condone your using it. Because he is not interested in having sex with an Oompah Loompah. Of course, if he decides that he is, you know who'll be first in line. THIS GIRL. Because I already have the foundation to make me Oompah-ish and because I was once in a production of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory so I have the requisite experience.

But despite me not sullying Joe Mauer's good name with this, here's a picture of him in a hammock. Because it is Monday, because he is hot, and because at the end of the day, it is my blog, and if I want a picture of a very, very tasty piece of catching goodness hanging out in a hammock, gosh darnit, I'll have it.

Ok, back to the foundation. Really, you know, I should have known better. I saw this stuff in Wal-Mart when I was shopping for make-up a long time ago, and I avoided it like the plague because it was being shilled by Taylor Swift. I have a deep, nonsensical hate for Taylor Swift, a hate that is shared, and I feel bolstered, by my 12 year old daughter. And you're sitting there hating me right now, because how could I hate someone as harmless as Taylor Swift who sings about being the non-cheerleader and all of that and oh, isn't she so cute with her blonde hair and tiny, beady little eyes. But her music makes me want to put my head in a wood chipper. I hate her voice. IT GRATES. Gabby agrees, and this deep, abiding hate has brought us closer, I feel. It is a strong mother/daughter relationship when you can hear a Taylor Swift song come on the radio and both scream in unison, "TURN IT OFF! KILL IT WITH FIRE!"

But I ran out of my L'Oreal True Match that is my "filler" foundation that I use between bottles of MAC when I can't get over to the Johnson City Mall to get my fix. And I was at Target, and I was thinking that maybe I should get something light that would be acceptable for days that I don't have to work and are just flitting around with the kids. I like Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer for this, but I'm out of that too, and it is a bit pricey to just be wearing around the house. So I picked this up. I don't even remember why I thought this was a good idea, but I know that I did match it up to my skin as best I could.

First off, the price on this sucks. I think it was $12, which in my opinion, is a little much for a drugstore brand tinted moisturizer. Plus, it is just the tube--no external packaging. Which means that every bottle there has been opened and tested by some other poor sap who thought it was a good idea to buy this stuff. For my $12, I think the good folks at Cover Girl could invest in something that might keep this stuff from being tampered with. But maybe that money went to Taylor so she could buy more Joe Jonas voodoo dolls to impale.

Now, the formula, I'll say is pretty nice going on. It blends well, and the smell is "natural" in the way that Pine Sol is natural. It is not obnoxious, and I didn't mind it, although I've since read some reviews from people who did. I wouldn't say it is necessarily "luxe", but I can see why that name was attached to it. The first time I put it on, I liked it, and I started crafting a "Products that Allow you To Have Sex With Joe Mauer"-style product review in my head.

But I wore it to the zoo with my family on Thursday, and I have to say that it changed colors. Now, mind you, this is a pretty transparent style foundation/tinted moisturizer that you can build coverage with. So it is not a heavy color to begin with. But somehow, I ended up with an orange-y face about halfway through the day, and I didn't change any of my other make-up. This is an outright fail in my book. Sure, the product "works" in a way--it is a serviceable tinted moisturizer, that allows you to have light coverage for a drugstore (albeit upper end) price. And maybe it is just my skin and the fact that it is very pale. But for whatever reason, it gets orange-y in a hurry.

I am willing to play with it a bit, adding powder and a lighter blush and what have you to try to salvage it because I spent $12 on it. But that is a lot more than I WANT to do since I just bought this stuff to wear on days when I don't give a crap. And the thing is, I'll still go and buy my MAC tomorrow and I'll probably STILL be on the look-out for a good tinted moisturizer.

The worst thing about all this is that I really should have just followed my mother's longtime advice. Growing up, my mom taught me two very important things that I should never forget. They are: Never buy cheap foundation or cheap shoes, and if you do, be ready to live with the results. Wise words, and it burns me that my mother was right yet again.

What say you, gentle readers? What foundation are you loving these days? I am getting increasingly curious about mineral foundation--I have tried Bare Minerals to no real success, but I've recently read that most mineral foundation lovers don't even consider BM a mineral make-up because of all the fillers and ingredients. I am thinking of ordering a mineral kit to try it out. Any ideas? Brands?

Things that Suck: You Belong to Me

2011-06-27T10:23:00.002-04:00

On Thursday, Matt and I took the kids to the Knoxville Zoo and to Pigeon Forge, TN for a little trip. We decided to only stay a couple of days so that we didn't have to worry about kenneling the dog (we had family members stop in to feed and take him out) and so we could enjoy a little time at home before trooping back to the salt mines today. And that was a good idea. Because any time we do any kind of trip, we do it HARDCORE. Like EXTREME vacationing. No laying back to relax! We do as much as possible for as long as possible, which means that we all end up bone-tired when we return. But it is a happy tired, an accomplished, holy-shit-that-was-fun tired.

This is why Saturday evening found me laying on my bed, watching Lifetime. We had just returned, and of course, I unloaded all of our outlet shopping purchases, and then, fell in a big heap with Alice. I was pretty happy with just watching whatever came on. And at first, I was just glad that it wasn't that crappy Army Wives shit or that Drop Dead Diva show which offends me to my core that they can't just make a show about a confident, happy plus-sized brunette chick. NO! She has to have been a blonde knockout in another life, thus making her fun and awesome! Everyone knows chubby brunette chicks are just miserable and wear only muumuus and cry tears that taste like vanilla bean frappuccinos! VOMIT.

But then I watched You Belong to Me, which just may be the absolute worst Lifetime Movie ever made (disregarding, of course, that schlocky shit they show at Christmas that I do not have the intestinal fortitude to even attempt watching). It stars Shannon Elizabeth (yup) and is a Lifetime "horror" "movie".

And that's not even the worst part. Basically, I think this movie was made because some dude somewhere had a horrible experience with an ex-girlfriend who was an English major. And since I was an English major, this offends me. And it made my head hurt.

Here's a synopsis of the movie: Basically, girl meets boy at work. Boy becomes obsessed with girl. Boy is a generally creepy English major. Boy stalks girl. Boy falls off of cliff. Girl's house becomes haunted. A vase is thrown by a ghostly scepter with horrible, horrible aim and girl realizes that boy wants her to join him in the afterlife. Girl finds boy's grandmother and finds out that she is a dead-ringer (har har) for boy's dead mother. PAGING DR. FREUD! WE'VE GOT OEDIPUS ON LINE ONE! Girl fights boy's ghost for her soul and that of her son. The end.

Sounds horrible, huh? Now imagine it with Shannon Elizabeth doing the "acting". Are you vomiting yet? No offense to Ms. Elizabeth, but holy crap. If there is any justice in the world, she and her majestic rack are working in a nondescript office job right now, somewhere where she can't hurt us any longer.

So the English major thing: yes, the creepy guy/antagonist (BIG ENGLISH MAJOR WORD, YA'LL) admits to being an English major. And I'm like, "Well, ok, yeah, we have some creepers among our ilk." People who like to spend their time writing and reading obscure things are generally not the most sane people you know, amirite? So I'm willing to cop to that. But this guy...whew. He spends about 9/10 of the movie trying to quote various Brownings. I kind of expect him to jump out of a closet and yell, "I AM AN ENGLISH MAJOR GODDAMMIT. AND SINCE THE ECONOMY SUCKS SO HARD, I AM LEGALLY OBLIGATED TO QUOTE THE ONE GODDAMN POEM I KNOW AT LEAST FOUR TIMES A DAY. BECAUSE I MAJORED IN ENGLISH. AND I DID IT SO FUCKING HARD." In fact, it would have helped the movie along if he had done that and probably shaved about 15 minutes we have of mindless Browning-rambling. And here's my picky English major point that pissed me off more than anything--he kind of skips around between Robert and Elizabeth Barret Browning. LIKE THEY ARE THE SAME PERSON. My lord, Lifetime. If you're going to feature someone being a complete English major douche, at least do it right! A real English major would point out the differences between the two, and would probably give you some really quippy point that would make you secretly hate that person a little and ultimately, remove them from your Christmas card list.

As if all that isn't bad enough, this movie had another major detractor. And that is some of the most horrible, cringe-inducing Lifetime movie sex I've ever seen. Now I'll tell you, no Lifetime sex is good sex. And if I had a quarter for every orgasm I'd seen faked in a Lifetime movie, I'd have enough money to be able to watch my trashy movies on a brand new 3-D tv. But this stuff is so cringe inducing that it made me squirm a bit. Ms. Elizabeth does have some gorgeous breasts--I'll give her that. And they looked lovely in her lacy little bra she wore in BOTH of the sexy instances. But the rest of it was just BLECH. The first time was especially wretched. Basically, Girl is talking to her lawyer boyfriend (we'll call him Boy II), who is completely non-threatening in a Lifetime movie man kind of way. And he's talking about how much he loves kids. And then they just start making out. Ok, ick. Maybe it is just me, but I don't find talking about my children to be an aphrodisiac. Usually, I am the most erm, excited, when I have not even thought of my kids in a good while. But I guess Lifetime feels that the only way ladies can get in the mood is if they are a) trying to have a baby or b) have found a man who just loves talking about the kiddos. Part of that pisses me off, and the other part just squicks me out. Blech.

So, in the whole scheme of things, with one being Christmas Lifetime schlock, and five being The Two Mr. Kissels, this movie rates about a 1.5. And it only gets the .5 because of this awesome line of dialogue (and note that I'm approximating here--I watched this on Saturday):

Boy II: If this ghost is so powerful, and he really wants to kill you, why hasn't he?
Girl: I DON'T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN THIS TO YOU!

What's funny here? Well, I feel like with this line, the good folks at Lifetime are acknowledging they've made a really shitty movie with a big old fat plot hole. And you know what they're saying? They're saying, "Well fuck you too! We don't have to explain anything to you. We'll make you EMBRACE that plot hole, you randy housewife!"

So, bad as it may be, this movie has some balls. Albeit tiny, sad little balls, but balls none the less. Watch if you dare.

The Optimum Number of Children for Maximum Awesomeness

2011-06-22T13:31:00.002-04:00

Last night, as I stood in a Chuck E. Cheese, wearing a fedora and clutching a Guitar Hero guitar and trying desperately to not look like a total idiot while activating star power on the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage", I began to think about families. Around me were families of all sizes, shapes, and variety. Kids were running around, doing the kinds of things that would get them thrown out of any establishment but a Chuck E. Cheese. And parents where there, some of them wrangling, some of them peacefully eating pizza, some of them melting your fucking face off on Guitar Hero.

Two women, however, stood out. One had obviously just come from work and was wearing a lovely pair of linen blend pants, just casual and summery enough to be seasonal, but not so much to preclude her from wearing them to the office. With it, she had a refined knit v-neck shirt with some shirring, flat black sandals and a long, thick necklace. Her hair was styled simply and her make-up looked effortless. The other lady was wearing a simple knit pull on skirt in a lovely blue, a black shirred t-shirt (not so unlike the other lady's white version) in a refined, substantial knit, and bronze gladiator style sandals. Her hair was pulled back in a clasp, and she wasn't wearing noticeable make-up. Both ladies were lovely, in a pulled together, appropriate way. One clearly had spent her day at work, while the other was probably a SAHM. Neither had the perfect body. But seeing them was enough to say, "Wow."

I will come right out and say that I wasn't stalking them because otherwise it might sound that way. If you've ever been to CEC, you know that you're stuck in there with everyone else and it is kind of like maybe being in a bank hold up together--you become comrades in a grand scheme to placate the terrorizing people (or, as they are better known, your children) around you. That said, I did notice that both women were there with 3 kids. And I smiled a little bit because I have three kids, and well, us 3-kidders are just the most awesome people ever, don't you think? I immediately started thinking of how that the three most stylish people in the CEC had three children and that couldn't be a coincidence? Right? RIGHT?!?

Anyway, I brought it up to Matt on the way home, and he was (probably rightfully) alarmed that I would consider such a thing or had really bothered to notice so much about these ladies (I AM NOT A STALKER!). But he quickly warmed to the idea, and soon, we were crafting a list of the ways to maximize your life's awesomeness by having the right number of kids. And yeah, you may disagree. But whatever. We all know I'm right.

1. You have to have a back-up kid (or two). Let's face it. You may be awesome, but it is totally possible that your kid may turn up being a fuckhead. We all know awesome people who have raised some real gems, amirite? Think about that kid on your freshman hall who ended up only wearing a bathrobe for the better part of his first semester and ended up in such a state that the counseling center had to come and debrief you all. That kid's parents were probably ok. No matter how good you do with being a parent, your kid could end up on the receiving end of some poor life decisions, and the next thing you know, he's living in your basement, eating tater tots and organizing rallies for Sarah Palin. Good thing you have a back-up kid (or two)! Your back-up kid can probably be goaded into doing extra special good to make up for his lackluster sibling. AND the back-up kid can even take on some of your job as a parent and try to help that sibling. While you sit back and watch Law and Order. Holla.

2. Movies have shown us that only children are creepy as all hell. I was an only child. Was I creepy? HELL YES I WAS. I had all these imaginary friends, the most prominent of which were weirdly named "William" and "Mary." I'm not kidding. William skiied a lot and Mary was a cheerleader. For what sport, I don't know. She just wore a cheerleading outfit around and carried pom poms. Did I mention they were bears? Cause they were. And this is not an isolated phenomenon. Damien from the Omen? Rosemary's baby? That creepy kid from The Shining? Norma EFFING Bates? All only children and all people that I don't want to meet in a dark alley. Plus, only children think they are special. We are not special. And when life beats us down to tell us that, it hurts. Excuse me while I blow my nose.

3. Multiple children can play together. When you have more than one kid, they can amuse each other. Case in point: last night, Matt and I took our brood to CEC. Alice is just old enough to where she can run amok and ride stuff and throw skee-balls at unsuspecting Little League teams. And sure it is fun enough to walk around with her, and put her on rides and hear her scream "NO!" and then relax and realize that it is fun and enjoy the heck out of it. All that's great. But then the pizza gets there, and you just want to sit down like a normal person and have a slice of pizza and talk about The Traveling Wilbury's. Older siblings to the rescue! Gabby (semi-relunctantly) "volunteered" to take Alice around while Mommy and Daddy finished eating. The best thing about this? These older children can be bought with basically nothing. Matt gave Gabby two extra tokens for her troubles (the equivalent of $.50) and SHE TOOK IT. HA HA HA. Before she goes out in the world, I'll teach her to not be a sucker, but not until I reap the benefits of this to the maximum.

4. A family of four gets squeezed into a booth. A family of five gets a long booth or the round table. Case closed.

5. Four or more kids, however, raises your likelihood to have a douche by a lot. The more kids you have, the more you're tempting fate. And the more your attention slides and the less you're going to notice. Sure, they could all turn out to be solid citizens. But the more you have, the more you skew those odds. You could end up with a kid who wears a lot of Ed Hardy, moves to Peru and names your grandkid something like "Cool Beans." They could just slip under the radar, and then one day, you're sitting at the dining table at Christmas and you realize the guy with the mashed potatoes is rocking looks like a paunchy Jonas brother. Man, that shit happened on your watch! Be vigilant and keep the kids down.

6. But lastly, the more kids you have, the better memorial service those kids can throw you. I have three kids, and I'm going to pay to send those kids to college. My main reason for this is so that when I die, I go out in a blaze of glory the likes of which you have never even dreamed of. I want to be cremated, and I want my children to take my ashes (which will be kept secure in a Folger's coffee can) on a cross country trip in my old Volkswagen. I want them to film this, and I want one of them to make it into a quality documentary film about my life. And I want them to get me to the Marin Headlands, right off of Highway 1, and there I want them to shoot my ashes out of an authentic colonial cannon and into the ocean while blasting ACDC's "Whole Lotta Rosie" from the car's stereo. See? I've gotta have three kids to finance that. I'm an only child, ya'll. You wanna know what I intend doing to my parents up on their death? Do the words "backyard BBQ spit" mean anything to you?

My baby is better than yours.

2011-06-20T11:55:00.003-04:00

Is your baby advanced? Cause mine sure is! Just look at her! Can your baby count to 100? Can she do it by 10's? 20's? Mothereffing 3's? Because mine can do that shit right now. Can yours? No? Well, if she can't, I'd recommend you start filling out that Wal-Mart application for her right now. Because, unlike your kid, my kid is super advanced!

Is your 21 month old potty trained? Because mine sure is! Not only that, she can go to the bathroom, put her own Dora seat down and complete the entire New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle IN PEN before she finishes taking her sweet little baby crap. I don't know what a six letter word meaning "A shower in Paris" means, but I know that the other stuff means that my kid is advanced. And if your kid isn't potty trained by the time he or she turns two, I think we all know that she will never be advanced! Looks like it is a promising career in porn for your kid! Don't cry--I hear that's how Marilyn first got her shot.

My kid likes playing with toys! Did you hear that? Get your jaw off the ground. She can pick up tangible objects and manipulate them in a playing manner! HOLY SHIT YES. That's because she's very, very advanced. Does your child play realistic games, reenacting key battles of the Crimean War in French? No? Um, have you had that kid checked for....developmental delays? No developmental delays here! Do you know why? Because my kid is ADVANCED.

Do you read to your kid? I do! Because my kid is advanced! In fact, I read to her in utero. IN FACT, before she was even conceived, I read to my husband's balls. Every night! And not like those letters to the editor printed in Hustler. I read Tolstoy to my husband's balls. Did you do that? Well, I'm sorry that you are not going to have an advanced child. Maybe she'll let you use her discount at FasMart.

Have you thought about where your child will attend preschool? I'm filling out applications as we speak! I already have a preschool, elementary school, high school, one-on-one high school tutoring, Ivy League university and an awesome internship with NASA lined up for my kid. Do you have that for your kid? No? Who are you? Do you live in Pakistan? Obviously, since your kid is not advanced.

Are you breastfeeding? No? Then I'm sure your kid has scurvy. Or rickets. Or gout. At least that's what I read on the internet! In fact, my (public school attending) breast milk is not even good enough for my advanced child. I have breastmilk flown in from only Ivy League graduates. You know why? Because my kid is advanced! No plebian tit for her!

Stop the presses! My kid just said her colors!!!! In Old Church Slavonic! Can your child say their colors? They can't?!? I speak five languages to my kid. I suppose you only speak English to your child. Maybe you should read this book I read about intelligent people speaking a bunch of languages. Especially French. Because French is so useful.

Is your child advanced? If not, maybe it is not too late for adoption. Maybe you can get a nice Asian family to take her and try to help with the situation. I'm sorry if you don't like that. But that's life if your kid isn't ADVANCED!

Just sayin'!

I will not go to mothereffing Disney World.

2011-06-17T11:49:00.002-04:00

I got reported to whitewhine.com earlier this week for posting something on Facebook about scheduling family vacations. And yeah, I know, first world problem, blah blah blah, but ya'll, let me tell you. That shit is hard. Last year, I just let Matt do the whole shebang and then just showed up with a smile on my face, rocking the greater Williamsburg area LIKE A BOSS. But this year, I told him I'd do something, like research stuff and whatever, since I sit in an office all summer just working on my novel (SHUT UP!) and occasionally fielding calls from people who preface their requests with "So, I'm thinking I might like to go to college and shit." So it's not like I don't have the time. Anyway, I start looking and let me tell you--it is bananas. Tripadvisor is great and all, but there is only so much you can take before all the pictures start to run together and you really start thinking that the DoubleTree in Cleveland is the Hampton in DC is the SpringHill Suites in Gatlinburg. And yes, ya'll, at some point this summer, my husband and I are (willingly) going to Cleveland.

Matt has this (nerdy) Five Year Plan for family vacations. He describes it as a "Ward Cleaver cum Clark Griswold cum Hal Jordan BOSS move." Whatever. This year, we are taking our kids to the nation's capitol, because we enjoy feeling like we are burning from the inside as we gently goad our progeny into looking at some mothereffing pandas. The kids are really excited, because, hey, what can I say--we raise nerds. Sam is all like "OH MY GOD MOM. CAN WE GO TO MOUNT VERNON!!!!! GAAAAAHHH!!!!" And then he laid down in the floor and did this really weird lay-dance. Wanting to capitalize on all this blatant nerdery and Matt's seemingly endless patience for travel, I had the great idea to also take some "fun" weekend trips as well, where we really just go over the top and perhaps visit places where we don't have to read anything. Like the J. Crew Outlet. And since this is my baby as it is, I have to plan that too, on top of the Great Washington DC Nerd-Out of 2011. Had I realized that, my kids would be having the same kind of summers I had as a kid, which mostly consisted of me riding around with my mom as she audited the area school systems, playing Tetris and picking scabs.

So last night the kids were at the table and we're eating and I get the great idea to really tease them, and I go, "So kids. Guess where we're going next week?!?!" And the answer, I'll tell you my loyal readers, is the Knoxville Zoo (we are members after all) and to the greater Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg area which, yes, has a J.Crew Outlet and more blatant redneckery than any of you really thought possible. There is fudge there too, and a decent minor league baseball team, so you know, it might be the greatest place on the planet.

Gabby, however, who probably ingested just a little too much chlorine a the pool yesterday, goes, "DISNEY WORLD?!?!?!"

A normal mother would gently say, "No, sweetie." A slightly more unhinged mother would have said, "Um, in what universe do people just pick up and go to Disney World for a couple of days just for giggles?" And of course, I said, "Uh, no. If we decide to visit America's stretch mark any time in the next 5 years, I'll give you a little bit more than one week lead time."

Now, I mean no disrespect to anyone who lives in Central Florida. If you live there, you can take massive solace in the fact that I live in a town that is not even really a town, just an unincorporated land mass, and it probably ranks pretty low in the ole per capita tooth rankings. One of the finer dining options in my town is called Ma's and Pa's and they let you trade gold teeth in for fish dinners. They do not, however, accept Visa. NOT JOKING. So Central Florida, comparatively, is probably a lot better than where I live. But I'll just say, I've been to Central Florida a couple of times, and it is what I imagine the Gaza Strip is like. It is really hot, there's gunfire, random things are on fire, buildings are sitting there, half completed, there are random car parts laying in random places. Even more disturbing is the high concentration of really old people in shorts. Not my cup of tea, ya'll.

The fact that Disney World is just plopped in the middle of this crap is, I think, just a big middle finger to all us parents. It is like taking my lovely Liev Shrieber and plopping him down in a sequel to Kangaroo Jack. Sure he's great and all, but do I really want to go sit through that steaming pile just to see him? HELL NO. And the thing is, I don't think Disney is all that great. Sure, I've been there when a couple of times when I was younger, and I think I liked it. I don't have any strong memories either way. But the thing is, I grew up in a simpler time. My kids are growing up in a time with iPads and TiVo and all manner of quality television programming and private pools and all kinds of crazy shit I couldn't even conceive of as a kid who only had three television channels until she was 10. They've been to theme parks on both sides of the country, beaches, had parents who, you know, totally effing RULE. I would find it highly surprising if my kids could even pick Mickey Mouse out of a line-up. Why would they want to go see a guy dressed up as said mouse and hug a princess who probably works the late shift at Captain Jack's Girls and More?

But they do. Gabby went to Disney with a friend earlier this spring, and she's just ga-ga for it, I guess. And when she mentioned it, Sam's eyes lit up. And I'm thinking, "Oh HELL no. Sure, you can puke on me, scratch me, keep me up at night, force me to see the freaking Gulliver's Travels with Jack Black and even admonish me when I try to tell you afterwards what the book was like. But this shit? And I have to pay for it, to be willingly tortured? To see princesses that I, yes, morally object to because I am just that kind of self-righteous, pretentious beast? Oh NO. MOMMY OUT."

Matt though, being Captain Geek Sparrow himself chimes in with a "I so want to go to Universal Studios and ride that Harry Potter ride." And while I briefly consider the fact that I'm pretty sure I should be arrested for being married to someone who is obviously a 12 year old with incredible beard growing abilities, I think, "This is happening. My God in Heaven. This is really happening."

There's part of me that wants to make a line in the sand and just say that we're to my limit. That I'm allergic to mice and princesses and tacky castles made out of stucco. But I won't. Because I love my kids, and my husband for that matter. Sure, I'll object to the point that even the dog is rolling his eyes at me. But they will put it into some dazzling SIX year plan, I'm sure, and I'll go along because really, they're awesome and they let me watch them do things like play baseball and dance and be just generally along for their ride.

But I'm saying it now: some kids that I know better be gettin' those iPod's and DS's and PSP's ready because they will be accompanying me to go outlet shopping a whole hell of a lot to make up for this. Mama knows how to make these things right.

Forever 21

2011-06-13T12:09:00.003-04:00

When one is in their mid to late 20's, as I am, there is a great deal of angst and agony over where one sees one's self on the age scale. Or maybe there is not. Maybe it is just me. At any rate, I find myself toeing the line between kid and grown up, toeing it ever so lightly, pitching over it at some points. Yes, for all intents and purposes, I am a grown up. I pay taxes, I have a job and utility bills and weekly grocery store lists. But there is still that part of me, laughing at fart jokes, all too willing to seperate myself from the grody adults I see walking around my office building in their sensible shoes and polyester skirt suits. In many ways, I find myself identifying with my 12 year old daughter as she toes the ever-changing line between child and adolescent. And I like to think that the whole "where do I fit in" thing is a shared experience with my fellow late-20's group as well.

On Friday, my husband I sent our children to stay with his parents for the weekend. Our anniversary was actually last weekend, but my MIL was out of town and could not watch the kids, so we put it off until this weekend. We had many, many plans. At first, when we began considering this weekend away months ago, we had considered going to Bonnaroo. But then I wondered if my husband could take it, him not being the music fan that I am and not having the uh, let's say, weak tie to personal needs and cleanliness that I have (which is not to say that I'm some Pigpen-esque woman--you just haven't met my fastidious husband and his perma bottle of Purel). And then we thought of driving somewhere else--a cabin we went to last year, a minor league baseball team several states away. We decided to leave it to the fates and decide spur of the moment on the day of our parental parole. But then, on Friday, we were tired, and it was oh-so easy to make the executive decision to have a kid-free staycation. Lots of books, booze and very un child friendly movies and TV shows. What a plan.

On Saturday was when I first felt it. The freedom of it all. Our house was messy--toys that had not been put away littered one side of the living room, laundry laid in a haphazard pile in the bathroom, dishes rose to frightening heights in the kitchen. This normally would cause me to, no shit, break out in hives. But for some reason, I was ok with it. I laid on the couch and watched an entire season of Californication and consumed all too many calories and was just generally ok. Matt remarked on my general demeanor. I was chill. I was calm. For the first time in literally as long as I can remember, I was not multitasking. I was sitting there, being. My neck was no longer tight. At night, I slept in a happy mass on the bed, not waking once, not moving. I slept until 10. And it is here that it should be noted that I have pretty wretched insomnia and often get up around 3, often with Journey's "Lights" playing over and over in my head (analyze that shit, ya'll).

On Sunday, Matt and I drove to a close by city to eat Thai food and look for Green Lantern stuff for Matt's upcoming-nerd-Christmas. On the way there, I remarked that I wish that I had something worthy of a nerd-Christmas--I have mentioned earlier on here that I have never really hooked into a pop-culture fad (no Twilight or Harry Potter or comic book movie--not because I am pretentious or mean, but just because it doesn't appeal to me). I lamented the fact that I feel old, that nothing gets me super excited, that no movies are really made with me in mind. That I am stuck in reality a bit too much. Matt normally rolls his eyes at these laments. But that day, he smiled and said, "Well, you haven't been very old this weekend. You've seemed a lot younger. I bet you don't even know how much fiber you've had today."

I smiled because it was true. I had had precious little fiber, except for that from a smattering of banana peppers, eaten greedily from the jar. And I did feel younger. Like a younger version of myself. Then I bristled a bit--had he meant that I'm normally an old, heinous bitch?

We got to the mall and did a cursory look around. Matt got bored and wanted to go to a comic book store a bit down the road. I said ok, even though I was really done with the mall myself. Faced with not much to do, I found myself ducking into the humongous Forever 21 store. Now, let me just say, I have said my share of negative things about F21. I felt their clothes were cheap, poorly constructed, and made much, much too small, especially when I was a size 14/16 gal. If anything, they pissed me off because they didn't have anything to fit my frame at that point in my life (they have since added plus sized offerings, I'm told). I hadn't really given them much of a chance. But lately, I've seen ladies finding some cute, serviceable maxi dresses there, dresses that would be perfect for days spent with my kiddos, bathing suit on underneath. I began my search for the cheap, elusive maxi dress.

I'll just tell you now that I didn't find it. I tried one on (this is the closest approximation I could find online) that I absolutely, bar-none adored, but alas, I'm about 6 inches too short to really rock the look. So that was a fail, a sad, weeping fail that I spent a good chunk of our dinner talking about. But I did find so, so much more. I ended up walking out with a flowy camisole, a floaty vest type thing (neither of which I readily found online, but really, that whole website is a clusterfuck and I'm not very patient), a fedora, some turquoise earrings, a necklace with a matroyshka on it, and a pair of espadrilles. Yeah, none of this is representative of a classic piece, something I'm going to come back to forever. Who gives? It is fun--full of summer and and fun and perfect for an easygoing time with the husband and kids. I have started wondering where F21 has been all my life.

And while I was in the dressing room with my 14 articles of clothing, just having a grand time, I listened a bit to all that was going on around me. My fellow dressing room denizens were teenage girls, not so much older than my daughter at home. They were excited, they were happy with the clothes, with a day out with friends, with their bodies and their place in life. Their mothers, however, seemed old, standing there in the harsh light, wearing oversized t-shirts and khaki shorts. And they were oh so tired. And negative. And I was saddened for them and for myself, knowing that in ways, I am much closer to that than I am to the girls giddily zipping up dresses and matching up outfits.

I won't say that I have changed because of this past weekend. My kids came home to a clean kitchen, and I would have gotten a nice start on the laundry, had our machine not decided to overflow and flood our entire laundry room. And then, well, I woke up with a start at 3:00 this morning, went to the couch and tossed and turned for an hour and a half before I finally threw in the towel and read, finally falling asleep at 5:30 and waking again at 6:00. I ate my old lady cereal, and for lunch, I enjoyed a low-fat chicken salad sandwich that I made, and really, there is no more old lady food than chicken salad. But, in ways, I feel a little farther from that old lady line, a little closer to the line where I sleep like a baby and where my neck is free from the knots and bumps that usually reside there. And I think I know better now about how important it is to stay far, far from that line with the downturned mouth, the grumpiness, the multi-tasking need to get it all done. And maybe I have Forever 21 to thank for it.

My Kingdom for an Effective Strapless Bra

2011-06-06T11:47:00.003-04:00

I had a very, very full weekend, one that found me out a lot and wearing a strapless bra every day (and interestingly, an airy, floaty dress that probably looked wretched on me). It was then that I realized how much I freaking abhor strapless bras, even this one that I bought duo's of last summer and that I thought would still work this year. Yeah, it kinda works, but it is not comfortable to wear for, say, three days of activity. And when I got up this morning and got out my Liberty of London halter-y (it is not actually a halter, just has a high neck and no shoulders...so it is a? I don't know. It is cute though, I'll tell you that) and realized I just couldn't do it with a regular bra, even though I am covering up with a cardi in office, I gave myself a momentary pity party. One more day of boob squishing. One more day of hiking this thing up every little bit. I resigned myself to it though, because it is hot, and the LoL top was the only thing I could think of putting myself into to any success. Then, I'm putting the bra on, thinking that I will set the convertible strap to halter (or to stun!), and the whole thing just breaks in my hands. Thanks, Victoria's Secret. Awesome. My $50 bra that I bought at the end of last year, EXPRESSLY for the purpose of having a convertible bra at the ready for early summer awesomeness was now in incapable of becoming a halter or anything else convertible. And the strapless-ness is not too great either because the little hook that broke has a remaining piece of metal that is stuck in its holder and keeps stabbing me. I ended up securing it with fashion tape and ignoring the pain. Wanting to be bra-strap free will make you do things like that.

So here's my question for you guys: what kind of strapless do you recommend? I would like to order one online because really, who knows when I'll actually make it to a mall to purchase one and be able to give this the time and care that such a delicate situation calls for. Plus, my options for bras are severely limited by living in the middle of nowhere (thus the fact that this other one came from VS which I really, really do not like). Any ideas? I really want something that is durable because this bra is going to take a licking from me, even if I buy a couple. And let's remember that I have humongo knockers to contend with.

Thank you in advance!

When Something You Love Doesn't Love You Back

2011-06-03T11:54:00.003-04:00

I actually wrote about this topic a long, long time ago (three whole years, which I guess wasn't that long ago, but since it was on the other side of the country, it feels like a different life) on my old blog, and well, I used the same exact title back then. This was not intentional. I'm just not that creative, despite what the years and years of Odyssey of the Mind competitions would have you think. You can go read that post if you want, but I'll summarize it for all you efficient little workerbees out there: Back then, when I was a size 14/16, I loved cardigans. But cardigans made me look like my dad in a pouffy wig. I was sad. But then I was like, "Well, screw it, I'm a gonna do what I want to do! And I'm going to be freaking happy about it because I live in CA and have access to delicious Thai noodles all the damn time!" And I made peace with looking like my father, ordered a few J. Crew Jackie's and called it a day.

Now that I'm a size 4/6/8/10 (depending on which blind paraplegic hobo is doing the sizing at my favorite stores this week), I can definitely rock a cardigan. And it is a good thing too, since when I cleaned out my closet on Memorial Day weekend, I had 16. And that is just for summer, ya'll, and disregarded the ones containing any wool and/or fall/winter coloring. So, as you can see, as my body has changed, I have embraced the cardigan much, much more. Probably a bit too much, truth be told.

But of course, with the old bod changing, so does the the list of things that I used to wear that now make me look horrible. So now, the thing that I love that doesn't love me back is the fluffy, airy, lovely summer dress/skirt. Allow me to give you some examples. Let's see. This makes me look like someone's hippie second grade teacher who has subsisted on a diet of Nestea, ramen and saltine crackers her entire life (and yes, I own it, took the tags off, and wore it on Tuesday). A cute maxi dress that I bought last week makes me look like a Greek goddess who is four months up the stick with a centaur. And a blue Calvin Klein dress that I bought and adore, yes, makes my boobs look AH-MAZ-ING, makes the rest of me look like I could give birth to a burrito at any moment. Oh, and then there is this:

I bought this dress last year when it was part of the Liberty of London installation at Target. I knew before I went to Target the first time to load up on LoL crap that I wanted this dress. I love the peacock-y print (it looks really awesome in person), and I like the style of it. And truth be told, I rocked it last year. However, I got it out of my closet this morning, put it on, and realized that a year makes a big difference in the way I am carrying my weight. Although I am roughly the same weight now that I was last summer (having managed to lose the 15 or so pounds that I put on around the holidays-grumble, grumble grump), I think I could take this dress up about 3 or 4 inches in the back. I mean, it still works since it is meant to be floaty, but I am really, really tempted to secure it with an office clip. And, let's just be honest, I already would have done that if I didn't have a cramp-y back already today and wouldn't be able to stand the extra issue of having my office chair poke the clip all day.

To make matters worse, I walked out of my room this morning and was playing with my kids. We were asking each other questions about the day, and just about every question got the answer of "YOUR MOM" or "YOUR MOM wants to go on the Bays Mountain field trip next week!" Yeah, it is important to have a level of maturity around your kids, you know? Anyway, I said something to Gabby and she goes, "Well, you look like a big peacock today!" And while I' sure she was just being funny, of course, I was like, "BIG?!?!! I LOOK BIG?!?!?! WTF, WORLD? HAND ME MY CELERY AND LAXATIVE SMOOTHIE!" (Just kidding--healthy weight loss, ya'll. THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!)

The truth is, I have a very hourglass-y shape. You would think this would be amazing and I would be like Sofia Vergara. HA! Matt wishes! But the thing is, it is not awesome. Not in the least. If I am not wearing something a bit form fitting, I am on a one-way train to Frumpsville. I need structure, I need pencil skirts and sheath dresses, and lined trousers and creased denim and all of that. But here's the thing: you can't wear something form fitting all the time. Especially when you are Queen O'PMS and are retaining more water than the Titanic right about now. And ya'll, it is SUMMER. In Virginia. The last thing I want is to look sexy sexy, yet give myself a heatstroke.

And there's another dimension too: for some reason, Matt adores these things on me. Always has. I don't know why. When most men are turned on by really short stuff, Matt really prefers the look. He was all "WOWZA" this morning, and I thought, "Seriously?" Although when we were on our way to work this morning, he cranked up Elton John's Rocket Man and declared it his "jay-um" so, you know, consider the source.

So, I can't quit you oh airy skirts and dresses. I will be rocking them all summer, and really, I don't give a damn about what anyone says. Here's the other thing--these things are damn fun to wear. I mean, you can TWIRL in them. And when you can twirl in something, you automatically feel a bit better about yourself, despite what you may look like.

What do you love that doesn't love you back? Anything? Please share, and we'll all hold hands and sigh together.

Lifetime Movieness: A Crime of Passion

2011-06-02T11:16:00.003-04:00

Menstrual cycles are not something that I talk about a whole lot. Well, ok, none. Ladies at my work--well, that's a different story. They will tell you just about anything that you could ever even conceive of asking about their monthly friends, no matter how gross or strange or odd. And of course, I just stand in the corner of the office bathroom, like the kid at camp whose boobs haven't come in yet, and hope that they do not notice that I'm not contributing to the conversation at all.

However, I will tell you that every month or so, I become the biggest stereotypical girly girl that has ever been spawned. Not that I'm some big genderless blob the rest of the time (I think you know that since I spend a good deal of time being all OMG LIPGLOSS!), but during this short time period (usually 1-2 days), I'm a big oozing well of estrogen. Got a romantic comedy starring Katherine Heigl you've been dying to see? LET'S GO. I will not make one snarky comment, and we can do an over/under on whether I will cry or not. Want to eat an entire Vermonster and talk about how fat we are? AWESOME. I've got my lucky spoon! Want to sit on the couch and watch an entire season of Grey's Anatomy/Sex and the City? SURE. Yeah, I've watched about two of each of those shows in my life, and yes, my eyes hurt from all the rolling, but on that day, I will do it, and once again, I'll probably cry. Or hulk smash something. But that's just the estrogen talking!

This happened to me last night. I found myself footloose and fancy free at 8:00, as Alice had passed out because she didn't take a nap earlier in the day, Sam and Matt were playing a rather animated game of Risk, and Gabby was in her room plotting sixth grade domination. And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking about how much I would enjoy a plate of brownies topped with a full pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and wearing a leopard print snuggie and a pair of cropped yoga pants from Old Navy. I'm getting ready to turn on the Cardinals/Giants game when I think, "You know, I would much rather watch this Lifetime movie on LMN called 'A Crime of Passion' starring none other than Tracey Gold." And so that's what I did.

Now, I may have seen bits and pieces of A Crime of Passion before, or it could be because A Crime of Passion is a big ole stereotype of a Lifetime movie in itself. Basically, here's the plot: Widowed doctor meets stripper with a heart of gold (heretofore known as SWAHOG). Widowed doctor's daughter, a failing pre-med student (Tracey Gold) does not approve. Widowed doctor marries SWAHOG in Vegas. Widowed doctor realizes strippers do not automatically turn into Lil' Suzy Housewife the moment someone puts a ring on their (dirty) fingers. Widowed doctor asks for a divorce. Widowed doctor is murdered whilst clutching his coin collection. Daughter (Tracey Gold) is suspected of his murder. BUT YOU KNOW IT WAS THE STRIPPER! My lord in heaven, ya'll! SHE WAS A STRIPPER! Being a stripper at any time in one's life means that your hobbies will always be having abortions, getting your nails done, and KILLING DOCTORS. No matter what element your heart is made of.

Now, the plot is pretty stupid, I'll give you that. But there are a couple of things that make this movie totally fucking awesome. First is this: let's imagine for a bit that you are a 50 year old man. A red-blooded American 50 year old man, not some foppish dandy who spends his time following Kate Middleton's sartorial choices and eating vegetables. You're laying in your big old four poster bed, reading at night. And your new bride, who worked a pole for 10 years, so you know, has some moves, comes out in the black meshy thing and starts gyrating on a bed pole. Something tells me you'd put down the book and enjoy the show for a bit and probably do some things that are illegal in the state of VA. You know? I mean, you're the guy that married the STRIPPER. Might as well reap the benefits of that choice. But not this guy. He sits there and has the AUDACITY to look exasperated. Like, "WTF, YO? You're the woman I married, not someone who I want to have sex with?!?! Now go put in a casserole, darn my socks and make yourself useful."

That's when I knew that when he died, I wouldn't be a bit sad.

And he does. SWAHOG is (rightfully) embarassed by the whole ignoring the sexy dance event, and runs back off to the strip club where she erases her sorrow by making out in the parking lot with her golf instructor. IT'S ALWAYS THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR, AMIRITE? And OF COURSE one of Mr. This-Book-of-Tax-Codes-is-Way-More-Interesting-Than-Blow-Jobs's country club crones just happens to be driving by at that moment (probably because he got lost on the way back from the Stereotypical Old White Man Emporium) and reports her, so SWAHOG is given the boot. Thus the whole shit tornado that eventually ends in murder is birthed.

And all he would have had to do to avoid this is to watch his sexy wife do a striptease. THE HORROR.

The other awesomely awesome thing about this movie is the fashion. Holy high waisted jeans, Batman!!! But more importantly, rather, the way fashion is used to show that whole Madonna/Whore dichotomy that we women, try as we might, can never fully extricate ourselves from. Tracey Gold is a 1st year med student in the movie, and her wardrobe consists of marled sweaters, sensible shoes, and these godawful highwaisted, wide leg, stonewashed jeans that I'm pretty sure were marketed only to fathers as the poor man's chastity belt. Holy lord. They were horrible. And Tracey is a perfectly lovely girl--there was no need for that. By the same token, SWAHOG is given a wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure the wardrobe person took one look at it and goes, "Well, she's a stripper, so let's uh...just cut about 2 inches off of every hem! For authenticity!!!" As she continues down her path of destruction, it just gets worse and worse. By the end of the movie, she's basically just wearing a corset with a lacy bra sticking out of the top in every scene. Going to the DMV? I used to be a stripper, ya'll!!! Funeral? BOOBS AHOY. Career day? Did you forget what I used to do for a living? Here's a nipple to remind you.

So on the scale of Lifetime movies, 1 being those horrible inspirational schlock fests they show at Christmas and always feature a sad-eyed child with dirt on its face, and 5 being The Two Mr. Kissels, this is a solid 3.5 or 4. Watch and be amazed the next time your estrogen is soaring.

SAHMishness

2011-06-01T11:35:00.003-04:00

I am very, very lucky to have a flexible job and one that respects its employees and their family demands. I'll say that first of all. With everything that I struggle to maintain (schooling, family, housecleaning, trying to make sure Alice isn't out roaming the neighborhood looking for dogs), I am truly blessed, and I recognize that and that a lot of women don't have that. They have to work, and sometimes for some not very understanding employers. So when I talk about struggling with being a SAHM, please know that I'm not sharing some smug, white lady problems.

Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.

Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.

I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.

Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.

And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.

Giveaways on Other People's Blogs: Mary Kay

2011-06-01T10:34:00.002-04:00

I am blogging about this giveaway to get another entry into a contest. It is not my giveaway--I think we've established that I will never have my shit together enough to actually give you a reward for reading this crap. Sorry. Check your expectations at the door, my little croquembouches.

When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay cosmetics. She kept them in this huge metal credenza in this extra office in her building, a place where she also kept a lot of old client files, a mini-fridge, and a really awesome old Commodore 64. I don't have to tell you that this was the most awesome room that has very been put together EVER. I spent a good deal of my childhood in that room with a pair of roller skates on my feet, retrieving files when asked, typing weird documents on the computer made up mostly of pixelated hearts, and trying on lipstick.

My favorite lipstick of the bunch was an incredibly bright fuschia. My mom only had a couple of tubes, mostly because she probably knew that no one, other than perhaps Baby Jane and daydreamy young girls, would buy that shit. It was so bright--I can't find anything comparable on Sephora now, and believe me, I've looked. I would pull it out of its box and stare at it and think about how wonderful it would be to wear it. At that point in my life, I knew a lot about what I would be like when I grew up: I would always hate chicken salad (note: not true), I would never wear earrings (again, not true) and that I would wear Mary Kay matte fuschia lipstick every day.

My mom made sure to send me a summer arts day camp every year, probably because she got sick of hearing those roller skates coming down the hall every day for 8 hours a day, three months of the year. We would go for six weeks during the summer, all leading up to a huge play production at the end. Every year, a new director would be brought in from some exotic place (Knoxville! Asheville! Roanoke!) and we would have a great time with the play. One year, we did a Broadway melody type thing, where each group performed a few songs from various musicals. My group did Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma, and South Pacific. Because there were so many kids and so many costumes, a few of them were left to the parents to come up with. I remember mom got me a pair of Hawaiian pink shorts and bright green top at Belk's for South Pacific--I thought it was an amazing outfit. Mostly because the shorts were the same color as the lipstick I adored.

So I asked mom if I could have the lipstick. For art! To match my shorts in my big number! She said ok. I took it with me to the performance, carefully placed amongst my other belongings. I put it on as we were getting ready, as South Pacific was our first number. And then, because I was afraid it wore off, I put it on again. And well, because it felt good, I put it on one more time before arriving on stage.

When the curtains opened, I stood in the middle of the stage in my new shorts and top. I started singing about washing some man right out of my hair. I thought I rocked it. However, now when I look back at the video my parents lovingly made with their 14 pound camcorder, you can't hear my lovely voice. All you can hear, all you can think is LIPS. BRIGHT LIPS. HONEY, GET ME SOME RAY BANS CAUSE THOSE LIPS ARE BRIGHT.

So, enter this contest. And get some lipstick. I'm sure Mary Kay no longer has as bright a lipstick as they did during the very early 90's, but you know, you can try.

This Week in F?&k You: Oprah

2011-05-27T14:21:00.006-04:00

I actually meant to write this post on Wednesday. However, I took the day off on Wednesday to stay at home and play SAHM with Al. This was just following our graduation service that forced me to be here for 12 long, excruciating hours in heels and work appropriate LBD, trying to find something to talk to our provost and my boss about that did not include the words "That's what she said!" And well, I took the day off on Thursday too, to go out with my husband, eat a fucking barbecue sandwich that was the size of a dinner plate, see The Hangover Part II, and then wash it all down with a veritable vat of ice cream.

But here I am, sitting at work on a Friday and there is no one here but me, being as how I'm the girl who drew the short end of the stick having to show up on a Friday before a holiday. And while I was gone, they brought me a new computer, and yes I know this is a First World Problem and boo fuckin' hoo, but the screen is so big that it now hurts my neck to look at it. WAAAH. I'll reserve my table for one at Weenie Hut Junior's, please. ANYWAY, all of this is more than enough to make me a little stabby, especially since I had a convicted felon come in an ogle my cleavage for about 20 minutes today in this totally creepy, off putting way. MEN OF THE WORLD: WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING AT. DON'T THINK YOU ARE BEING SLY ABOUT IT. AND WHILE IT IS A LITTLE FLATTERING, ANYTHING OVER FIVE MINUTES IS CREEPY AS ALL SHIT AND DOES NOT MAKE ME WANT TO LET YOU MOTORBOAT ME. Just an FYI.

Now, many of you might like Oprah. Lord knows she has a shit ton of fans, and I don't begrudge her that. Lots of people and things that I don't like have a shit ton of fans, and without that, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night with the smug sense of elitist entitlement that allows me to dream about things like The Fleet Foxes and Tolstoy. But Oprah, to me, is insanely off-putting. Basically, she has made a career out of saying a lot of inspirational psycho-babble that basically amounts to her tooting her own horn in about 50 different octaves. BUY HER BOOKS! LISTEN TO HER DOCTOR! BUY THE FUCKING KEY LIME PIE THAT SHE LIKES TO EAT! All of this will make you a better person and give your life some sort of meaning that it didn't have this morning while you were snaking your drain and living some life cursed by normalcy! Oprah, despite her humble beginnings or whatever else I hear about anytime I dare to not toe the party-line on this subject, is a BRAND. She is not an inspiration, she is not your friend, she is not someone to emulate and aspire to be. She is a marketing gimmick in a poufy wig and overpriced shoes.

I don't understand why most people are sickened by the kind of brazen self-promotion that we see the Kardashians and other reality show stars participate in daily, but let Oprah by with that level and MORE. Folks, Oprah has a magazine that she puts herself on EVERY DAMN MONTH. The next time you say something snarky about one of the Kardashians and her fame hungriness, just remember that she is a product of this post-Oprah world, a world that encourages you to be your own biggest fan and act accordingly.

So, in short, I'm really pretty stoked that she won't be on TV anymore. I'm jazzed about a world where I don't walk into a bookstore and find myself accosted by whatever she's deemed worthy enough for her 1,000's of followers to read. I'm thrilled that I won't see clips where she's talking about the perfect weight loss plan, the perfect banana pudding, the perfect poop. You can laud her all you want to, but the way I see it, she's been lauding herself for years, so I think she's gotten enough.

This has been This Week in F&*K You. At this point, I'm off to begin my lovely summer holiday weekend. Hope you eat something from a grill and wear something delightfully airy, no matter where you are.

Take off those godforsaken yoga pants and come sit by me.

2011-05-24T13:56:00.003-04:00

As many of you know, I get a bit tetchy when I hear other moms playing the martyr card. "I can't even shower, much less put on make-up!" "I have spit up on my shoulder and it has been there for two days!" "I wear yoga pants all the time because I'm a good mom and don't have time for fasteners on my clothing!" "WOE IS MOM."

Yet, it is usually these moms who update Facebook 3-4 times a day, posting pictures of their offspring doing something "adorable." Priorities, folks, it's all about 'em. And if looking your best is not your priority, fine. Photography is not mine. But please don't assume that those of us who choose to actually give a damn about how we look are selfish and/or not being a good parent.

*End rant.*

Anyway, when you are a mom, or rather, when you are a sentient, active being in this crazy, 24/7 mobile world of ours, children or no children, you definitely do not have time for make-up and hair routines like, say, you did when you were 13 and could spend an entire day putting perfect blue streaks in your hair and lining your unlined, bag-free eyes with glittery Hard Candy eyeliner. You need a few quick tricks to get you in and out of your bathroom in a hurry so you can prevent your child from spreading toothpaste all over the ottoman you lovingly have moved across the damn country twice because you like the thing, or, rather, getting there 30 seconds after the kid has done just that so you can admire her handy work. This is a list for that. And I would be oh so greatful if you could leave your tips in the comments--I know I could always use something new in the arsenal, and imagine others could as well.

1. Know what works for you. 7:30 on Wednesday morning is not time to try out the new glittery eye trend or bright red lipstick. Get a few basics and keep them. I am the world's worst for trying out every new marketing gimmick or product that passes through a magazine's hallowed pages, however, if I'm in a hurry, even I know better. Keep some of what works around at all times, just in case you having an inspiration-free day, or have to put your make-up on at your desk or while sitting on the couch, holding a baby and watching Max and Ruby. Here are my go to's:
Foundation: L'Oreal True Match
Blush: Nars Orgasm
Mascara: L'Oreal Voluminous (I always have a bit of DiorShow on hand for night time, but in a pinch, I love Voluminous, especially the new Carbon Black.)
Lipstick: Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick
Little sumthin' sumthin': Benefit Girl Meets Pearl

2. Hot FUCKING Rollers. (And I'm serious, whenever I say the word "roller," I think of nothing but The Oatmeal's hilariously apt Gay Roller, and I'm just sorry, but I can't keep a straight face. Heh. Straight face.) I used hot rollers in high school. Like a lot. I had this steam operated one, with little pink rollers, and you put the roller on top of this steam spurter and it made it...hot and steamy (that's what she said) and then you rolled it up and clamped it on. Anyone else have one of these? It was the SHIT. And when my hair was all nice and rolled, I let the little curls down, put my head between my knees and threw on an accordion headband and then threw my head back, stripper style and sprayed the shit out of that stuff with LA Looks aerosol spray. This made for a very, um, full look. Hey, it was the South, ya'll. I didn't know no better. But, folks, I'm here to tell you, hot rollers have changed. And I think lots of people use them. And not just in the lower South. And not just for beauty pageants, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Or, at least, that's what the ladies at Ulta told me when they sold me my set. Basically, these things give you Cosmo-model hair, but without having to use a curling iron, which, let's face it, sucks balls. And the volume lasts. Like 12 hour work day lasts. Like I-had-to-take-my-heels-off-but-my-hair-is-still-PADOW! lasts. Still not convinced? This set in particular heats up in about 85 seconds. So basically, you can plug it in, brush your hair a bit, maybe squeeze a zit, and you're ready to rock.

I have started washing my hair every other day, and using this on the day when it is unwashed. I do a blow-out the other day, but truthfully, it looks better on the day that I use the rollers, even though the blow-out takes about 3x longer for me to do, what with all the clips and the round brush and yada yada yada. With the rollers, I just put it up, do my 5 minute make-up, make the kid's breakfasts and lunches, convince Sam that no, his legs are not frozen, and yes, he can, in fact, walk, and then pull it down. And I get compliments on my "lovely hair." And people, my hair is not lovely. It is fucking blah. But with this stuff, I can definitely fake it.

3. Carry stuff with you. No one looks perfectly pulled together all damn day with no upkeep. This is where it is important to keep your tools at the ready. If you drive or have a commute, trick your car out. I personally keep two pairs of shoes in my car at all times--a pair of stilletto heels, and a pair of low-profile running shoes. That way I can change if need be and I don't look like a tool being the mom at the baseball field in heels. I also keep duplicates of my favorite make-up in a free bag I got from Clinique a couple of beauty bonus times ago. That way it is ready when I am--and I don't have to worry about leaving my favorite make-up in the car/at home when I need it. Also important--babies like to play with make-up. Not like put it on. They like to look at it, carry it around, chew on the end of a mascara tube. So multipurpose. Hellz yeah.

4. Dresses ya'll. Lots and lots of dresses. I am a very, VERY firm believer that you should get dressed everyday in something you would allow someone else to see you in, no matter your vocation. I know people disagree with me on this, and that's fine. But I personally do not know anyone's mental health that was helped by a wardrobe of yoga pants and stained t-shirts from college. Let's face it--you take a shower and get dressed, some little part of you feels better. And it is so so worth it. I've had three kids, ya'll, and I can only think of one day that I went without a shower and fresh change of clothes, and it was when Sam was in the Pediatric ICU and there was no shower attached to the room. But I totally get how putting on a pair of jeans can make you feel uncomfortable. Jeans, no matter how well they fit, are not the best things for laying around the house, especially if they are rigid or if you are doing a lot of bending and sitting (which all of us do around the house). But dresses are another thing all together. There are some amazing day dresses out there, a lot of which can be paired with leggings for a very cute sitting-around-the-house-waiting-on-something-awesome-to-happen look. Even better is the fact that you can find a lot of wrap styles that are convenient for nursing. The best part? If you are on a budget, buying one dress is cheaper than buying a shirt AND a pair of pants. When my husband figured this out one day, he gave very real thought about picking up a lovely frock at TJ Maxx under the guise of "If it worked for J. Edgar Hoover...."

5. "I guess the key is that it doesn't matter if you look like the 'before' picture, just act like you're the 'after' one." --Mindy Kaling via Twitter. Could never say it better, not in a million years.

Poverty Pasta Sauce

2011-05-23T10:56:00.002-04:00

This past Saturday was my daughter's dance recital. She was very excited about this, as well she should have been, given all the work and time she has put into dance over the past year. And because she is my daughter, she knew that with an event such as this one, she would probably get her choice of meal from me before the show. That's just how I do things with the kids--which will probably be evidenced someday when they are all on the show Heavy and talking about how their mom rewarded them with food, thus crippling their lives forever and ever.

At first, Gabby wanted to go out. We were ok with that, but with the timing of things and the fact that driving to get to a decent restaurant would mean nothing fun, we tried to persuade her to eat something at home. It didn't take but just a second before her eyes twinkled and she said, "Oh, Mom. Make me that pasta sauce you used to make when I was little. The marinara from Williamsburg!"

I was shocked at first. Matt and I had promised her anything that we could get in our little town--I expected filet mignon (Gabby definitely knows her way around a nice cut of meat) or crabcakes or homemade pad thai, chock full of shrimp. But she was asking for homemade, long-simmered marinara. I enthusiastically said yes and went to the store for the ingredients.

And really, the pasta sauce is much, much more than just sauce. When Matt and I were in college, we had very little money, which I guess goes without saying. We got student loans to pay for rent, Matt worked a student job in the Modern Languages department, and I worked long hours in a coffee shop and waiting tables. On top of our regular bills, we paid for Gabby to attend a private preschool run by a W&M alum that was close to our apartment, and we had a host of student baby-sitters to watch Sam for the short times when neither Matt or I were home. We stretched every dollar as far as it could go. But there were definitely times when the dollars refused to stretch any farther. Times like when my brakes went out, or when we had to buy a new sofa or when our rent was raised. And every time that that happened, we would go into lockdown mode and I would make a pot of pasta sauce.

The pasta sauce would sit bubbling on the stove and we would remain amazingly optimistic. Of all the crazy shit that we have done in our lives together, that is what I am most proud of, I think. We would literally have no money to our names, but we would remain happy with our kids and our books and a big bowls of carbohydrates. Sometimes we would make the pot of sauce last a week until someone got paid, every meal some iteration on marinara. Mostly, it was eaten greedily with different shapes of pasta, but there was the odd time when I would make a pizza crust and cover it all with some kind of cheese left in the refrigerator. And there were late night sessions--Matt and myself baking bread and then dipping it happily into the sauce while we alternated between sips of 7-11 coffee and sips of Mountain Dew to keep ourselves awake to finish one last paper.

As I prepared the pasta sauce on Saturday and the smell filled the house, all of this came flooding back. And I thought of Gabby, so young during that time. We were so happy to have her all to ourselves, sleeping down the hall from us in her tiny bedroom with the Hello Kitty comforter. At the time, we wanted everything perfect for her. Hell, we still do, and find ourselves rushing around like mad trying to make sure that she has the right shorts, the perfect shoes, a perfectly balanced meal with no sugar and plenty of vegetables. But those times spent in that tiny apartment with the pasta sauce--this is what she remembers. The times when we were at our wit's end and facing a very uncertain future--somehow she remembers this with love and happiness.

I once read an article about a woman who had been a single mother to a son while struggling with clinical depression. She talked about how she remembered her child's early years with a kind of embarassment because she felt that, given her own struggles, she could not possibly have given him what he needed. When he was grown, she asked him what he remembered from those years, and he listed off a littany of happy stories about trips to the zoo, camping out in their living room together, trips to the grocery store. She was amazed that that is what he remembered. I felt the same way with Gabby on Saturday. Kids are amazing that way--they don't need perfection, they just need parents who adore them and try their best. Even when their best isn't that awesome.

Morgan's Poverty Pasta Sauce
Makes a blue ton. I'm thinking about 9 or 10 cups. This stuff also freezes very well.
1 tbsp. olive oil
3-4 onions, chopped
1 tbsp. sugar
1/2 cup dry red wine (you can forego the wine if you are really in the soup, and I've done that. But it is really better with the wine, and there is always $3 Chuck.)
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil (or just the standard kind you used before)
1 tbsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. kosher salt
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. dried basil
1/2 tsp. pepper
1/4 tsp. crushed red pepper (don't be tempted to leave this out. It will not make it that spicy, but it will give you a nice depth of flavor that is too awesome to leave out.)
6-8 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
2 (28 oz.) cans crushed tomatoes, undrained
1 (28 oz.) can petite diced tomatoes (if you like it chunkier, feel free to use the regular dice)
2 (6 oz.) cans tomato paste

Heat the oil in a very large pot. Add the onions and cook until light golden brown, about 20 minutes. Watch these because they can go from nicely golden to bitter black pretty quickly. Add the wine and cook for a minute or so. Then dump in all of the other ingredients. Wait on the sauce to come back to a boil and then turn it down and cover the pot. Let simmer for about 2 hours, stirring every now and then. Watch the texture--when it gets to what you like, take it off. It is your sauce after all!

On Saturday, I purchased all the tomatoes, a bottle of wine, some pasta, a big head of romaine, parmesan, and some Alexia garlic bread (that is divine, I should point out) all for the low, low price of $21. We ate this stuff all weekend, and having chicken parm tonight. So it stands the test of time! And the smell of the house while it is simmering....that is priceless.

Dressing for the Rapture

2011-05-20T10:29:00.002-04:00

You probably know by now, but the rapture is supposed to be tomorrow at 6:00, your local time. I have noticed from reading my Twitter and Facebook feeds that not a lot of people know what the Rapture actually is. As someone who spent the better part of her formative years attending a somewhat fundamentalist Baptist church, I know a lot about the Rapture. Basically because I know some people who have been looking forward to it the way you or I might look forward to a 90% off sale in the Nordstrom shoe department. My brother in law, for example, who attended Jerry Falwell's Liberty University (which--prepare to be angry--received $446 million in federal funds last year) has a thingie hanging off his rearview mirror that says "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned!" My brother in law lives for the Rapture; other things my brother in law lives for include Disney World and Pokemon.

As you probably have guessed, I don't expect to be ascending to high heavens on Saturday. I've lived a pretty decent life, I guess, but there's been a lot of premarital sex, and there's that whole "bleeding heart liberal" thing to contend with. My husband assures me, though, that if we see people starting to ascend in Asia (since 6:00 local time will happen there first), there is always time for us to repent of our sinful ways. And, well, his uncle is a preacher, so if worse comes to worse, Matt says he will call him and have him baptize us all in our bathtub. Matt has had a much better religious upbringing than I have and when the Bible category comes up in Jeopardy I know I'm screwed (I only attended the fundie church after we started dating, and only then as a way of seeing him), so he assures me that this will probably work, even if one has committed the mortal sin of having gone to Berkeley and voting for Nader. I, of course, have my doubts. But then again, I wouldn't be in the position of having to plan my outfits for the post apocalypse if I weren't somewhat doubtful by nature.

So without further adieu, I present to you "What to Wear As You Prepare to Be Engulfed by a Horrible Earthquake Fed by the Fire of Gay Pride."

1. First off, if you think you will in fact be ascending to heaven, congratulations. Please do not wear a dress. I usually advocate wearing dresses to everything because they are comfortable and always look acceptable. HOWEVER. You will be floating above us all as you make your exit to a land of paradise and gold streets. We don't want to see your underwear or your cellulite. There will be a lot of snarky people left on earth, and although you may be rising abovie it all (quite literally), I don't think you want to be the butt of a bunch of sinful jokes. Get it? BUTT of our jokes? See, that's what us sinners do. Make jokes. As our world burns around us.
2. Wear comfortable shoes. This could be your chance to get that huge flat screen or that iPad or those Louboutins. I mean, I'm not sure when the looting will commence, but I know I'm planning on hanging out in a Target tomorrow around 6:00, probably in the electronics section. And if you've ever been shopping on Black Friday, you know to be ready. And just think--all the good people will be gone. It will only be us heathens. Therefore, I'm wearing my Frye's which I think will only be helped in appearance by the blood of the unholy. And I'll be carrying a shank.
3. As we descend into a terror-filled existence marked by earthquakes, fires, pestilence, locusts and many, many gay men having sex on street corners, you may find that you no longer care about wearing make-up or counting calories. I would say that that is fine. However, this is also the time to live out your wildest fashion fantasies. Always wanted a B-52's style beehive and a pair of white go-go boots to wear to work? Now's your chance. Prepare accordingly. Me? I've always wanted a dressing gown, a pair of marabou lined mules and some winged eyeliner. When the shit really hits the fan, you'll find me gazing at myself in a mirror lovingly and imploring Zsa Zsa Gabor to eat her fucking heart out. Keep in mind other non-fashion related end-of-world wishes. For example, I will want to keep my jeans around because at some point, I plan on riding a miniature pony down my high school's main hallway while listening to Queen.
4. In the coming months, as supplies dwindle and the world is slowly devoured by chaos and thousands and thousands of aborted fetuses, I predict that DiorShow mascara and Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick will be considered currency. Once again, plan accordingly.
5. You may be reading this and thinking, "My God, Morgan. I'm worried enough about finding things to eat, much less wear!" In this case, I give you two words my friend: EDIBLE UNDERWEAR. Look into it. Actually, though, if you don't know what edible underwear is, nor have experienced it first hand, or hell, you don't have a pair hanging around that you are saving in case of apocalpyse, you might be one of the lucky who gets to eat dinner with your homeboy, J.C. tomorrow. In which case, MORE FOR ME.

I hope that the nearing apocalpyse finds you happy with your lot, whether you will be ascending or staying here to await your horrible, boil and canker sore infested fate. If you are around, I hope that we can meet-up. I'll be the girl trying to trade mascara for gas.