the would-be writers guild

Thought for the day

2012-01-17T15:21:00.002-05:00

The longer I live, the more I am rendered speechless. I'm expecting to be a mute by age 40.

Care To Help a Leper?

2012-01-11T16:53:00.000-05:00

I have leprosy. It's a mild case, but I thought I should let you know. There is a small, scaly stripe of skin on my left eyelid that hurts. Leprosy is painful, in case you didn't know. It's serious mild pain I'm experiencing. Each morning, I shed another layer of flakey, pie-crust-like skin. One step closer to death.

I've been administering hydrocortisone cream to it for three days, even though the tube distinctly says, "DO NOT USE ON EYES." I suspect this is because the makers of the medication are anti-leper, and prefer that we suffer. It's an age-old bigotry that I'm fighting, as well as a dermatological disease. (See: The Bible.) So far the leprosy is limited to my eyelid, but things can get serious fast. I could wake up tomorrow without a leg.

I think I caught leprosy because I'm also suffering from hypothermia. It's that hypothermic time of year around here, and everybody knows that hypothermia often leads to leprosy (and dressing in ugly fleece clothing). We keep the thermostat at Effing Cold* during the day to save money. And since I'm the only one home during the day, I dress like an eskimo and pray for global warming.

The bad news is, the hydrocortisone and fleece sweatpants aren't working. (But the praying does make me feel better temporarily.)

If you are wondering how to help me, please send cash. Insurance, as you might guess, does not cover leprosy. (Anti-leperism runs deep in the insurance industry.) Only cash will help me now. Its cool, soothing, papery texture will be administered to my eyelid in the form of a makeshift patch worn for five minutes per bill, after which a new bill must be administered. For some reason, twenties and fifties seem to work best.

Thank you for your time and your concern. And your money.

Love,
Me

(*I am not a fan or user of the F-word, but I find the term "effing" hilarious. So sue me. After you send me cash.)

A Confession

2011-11-14T15:20:00.001-05:00

I bought Ryan some cologne that I loved so much that I started wearing it myself everyday until one day he said, "This cologne is running out really fast. Even when I don't wear it."

Heavy, Heavy Hang Over My Poor Head

2011-11-03T18:08:00.000-04:00

Remember when we used to say that at birthday parties? "Heavy, heavy hang over thy poor head." And then we'd smack the birthday kid in the head with our gift and say, "What do you wish me with a bump on the head?"

Where do these strange traditions come from?

But I digress. There is heaviness hanging over my poor head and not in the form of gift wrap. I am going to stop challenging the Universe with thoughts like, "This year can't get any worse." I'm beginning to fear it's like tossing the Universe a soft ball, and the Universe can't resist proving you wrong.

This has been a monumentally difficult year and on Friday it got exponentially worse. (That's right, I'm pulling out the five-syllable guns for this one.) As one dear friend of ours is fighting the good fight against cancer, another of our dear friends was snuck up from behind by it, sniper-style, with what looks like a fatal blow to the pancreas. And the ripple effect of that blow has brought us to our knees. In a year filled with heartache, frustration, worry and angst, there's nothing quite like the looming death of a loved one to be the proverbial cherry bomb on top and change your perspective on just about everything. And I mean everything. The problems and stresses of Thursday seemed embarrassingly manageable by Friday afternoon. I can't even feel bad about my lack of employment in good conscience anymore.

I feel especially drawn to my kids right now. I want to soak them up and hope that their resilience rubs off on me, just like their scent of must and grass stains. They take terrible news in great stride. They care, they love our friend as we do, and yet they keep moving along finding joy in the same places they always have--candy, corny TV shows, friends, and pizza. They don't try to resist the news, spinning the wheels of "whys" and "what ifs" as if they will turn back time and give us a chance to undo what is already done. Is it because they are still operating in a world protected by the umbrella of our love and security? Because the structure of their world--mom, dad, house, food--is still in place? Or is it because they understand more than we do that there is very little in this life that we can control, and it's only as we get older tinkering with checkbooks, thermostats, and career paths that we mistakenly believe we are in charge?

My first reaction on Friday was to cry. My second was a fleeting determination to stop loving people because it often includes instances of pain. My third was to try to approach this situation with acceptance. My fourth was to bake.

And the baking, as it turns out, was the most productive thing to do. Our friend seems to have developed a healthy sweet tooth in spite of his physical decline. Apparently a cookie can provide temporary joy in this temporary life. Apparently when there seems to be nothing to do to help, a small act of kindness is something.

The kids probably could have told me that.

Happy Housefuls

2011-10-24T22:51:00.001-04:00

These four have had a lot of fun over the years. A lot. We're excellent multi-taskers. We can talk, laugh, eat, cry, validate each other, and make inappropriate jokes all at the same time.

We spent the weekend together at our place with all of our kids (for a grand total of nine) and today the house feels strangely empty without them here. Usually when they come to visit, they accidentally leave an article of clothing. I was really jonesing for Becky to accidentally leave that gorgeous orange coat, but I can't find it anywhere.

We had a great time riding roller coasters, eating deep fried everything, watching movies, roasting marshmallows, and staying up too late. In other words, we had lots of fun. Lots of multi-tasking fun.

When I was young, I thought I'd have a bunch of kids just like my mom. Turns out, I only had two kids but a bunch of visitors, which means that I have a bustling houseful of people...on occasion. It suits me well, I think. It's a nice balance.

My Day in the Pitts

2011-10-19T17:24:00.001-04:00

When you think of Pittsburgh, what comes to mind? Industrial town? Steel mills? Cold, gray, desolation? Depressed, forlorn factory workers who dress in ratty black jumpsuits and chain smoke and complain about "the man"?

Um, that is not Pittsburgh. Why were we thinking that was Pittsburgh? Why am I dragging you into this with all this "we" talk? Because this is my blog.

Pittsburgh is beautiful. Like, really beautiful. It's nestled inside some lush mountains. Or, large speed bumps, as we call them in the West.

We ventured to Pittsburgh to cheer on the Utah Utes. Here are my boys representin'. Please notice in this photo that Pittsburgh has three beautiful rivers that join in it and a plethora of lovely bridges throughout. See the one in the distance? See the one we're standing on? See the cheery yellow stadium in the distance? Bee-yoo-tiful.

We were also representing with our intake of local food. I love local food. We did our homework (a.k.a. hours of Man vs. Food watching) and found these Quaker Steak wings at the stadium. (By the way, is it just me, or does Max look exactly the same as he did when he was three? Yes? I know. So weird.)

We cheered on our team. I also cheered on the sun who was battling the clouds that day. Go Sun! You can do it! Show me the sunny!

We got there a little early and were lucky enough to sit in the visiting team family section. Careful what you criticize when you're sitting in the team family section. Somebody's mama might bop you on the head. (By the way, whenever Ryan is dressed in hat and sunglasses, I think he looks majorly CIA. I, on the other hand, look majorly DORK.)

Our cheering paid off. The Utes won! The team came over to sing the fight song after the win. It was really cool. It was also really cool because the clouds beat out the sun for the weather win. Womp, womp.

Pittsburgh also has beautiful architecture and a nice city center. We did not see the Pittsburgh ghetto of my imagination. I don't think it exists. Everybody we met was really friendly and nobody threatened to kill us with steel beams. Several people even called me "hon," which actually threw me a little off guard. I guess I'm getting used to our proximity to Philly because I was about to say, "Yo, knock it off with the 'hons' if you know what's good for yous." However, since I lived most of my life in Utah, I just smiled and said, "I sure do apprecia'cha!"

Speaking of Man vs. Food, we followed Adam Richman's advice and made a bee-line after the game to Primanti Brothers for their famous sandwiches. There were lots of "hons" flying around that place, but it's not what you think....

It was me saying, "Well, helllooooo, hon," to this sandwich. Let's dissect the layers, shall we? Bread, tomatoes, tomatoes, cole slaw, cole slaw, cole slaw, runny egg, french fries, french fries, cheese, pastrami, and bread. Don't make that face. It was bliss, I tell you. Pure bliss.

Pittsburgh. It's the land of many wonders. Like, I wonder why I had such totally false ideas of what it would be like. Perhaps the word "pitts" is to blame. Maybe subconsciously the ideas of avocado pits and armpits created the negative connotations?

If I were the mayor of Pittsburgh, I'd start a PR campaign to educate dumb, prejudiced people like me. And the first thing I'd do is change the name officially to Brad Pittsburgh. It's much more appropriate and fitting, don't you think? It brings to mind all sorts of wonderful connotations.

Brad Pittsburgh: The Devastatingly Handsome City

Brad Pittsburgh: We'll Adopt You And Love You Like Our Own

Brad Pittsburgh: We Oughta Be In Movies

Brad Pittsburgh: Angelina Jolie Chose Us, Why Don't You?

Those are just a few ideas off the top of my head, but I think I'm on to something.

Goodbye, Brad Pittsburgh! I hope to see you again soon!

Sometimes I Have to Remind Myself...

2011-10-13T15:24:00.002-04:00

When I don't feel like a writer, I can just pretend to be a writer.
There's an ebb and flow to everything, especially good times and bad.
If I want to lose weight, I have to stop eating stuff.
Taking my contacts out feels monumentally easier at 8:30 than at 10:30.
Loving people doesn't require solving their problems.
Making dinner is usually more fulfilling than going out. Except for when I'm really, really tired.
Being a good person usually requires action.
Cleaning the kitchen doesn't take nearly as long as I think it does.
Everything is better with mushrooms.
I'll thank myself for every time I record my kids on video.
Trashy TV should only be enjoyed in small, delicious doses.
Good ideas usually come after about 300 dumb ones.
Putting myself out there almost always ends up paying off.
Be thankful, appreciative, and gracious at every opportunity.
Celebrate anything. Everything.
I am not my job, my salary, my weight.
Accept change. Welcome it, if possible.
Dance in the kitchen.
Sing in the car.
Give funny greeting cards.
Don't judge. Ever. Not even when you really, really want to.
A root beer float is delicious when you haven't had one in a long time.
Err on the side of compassion.
Electricity is amazing. So is pasta. And guacamole.
Never pass up the opportunity for a ridiculous self-portrait.

Hey Me, Where Are You?

2011-10-12T16:05:00.000-04:00

Do you ever feel out of touch with who you used to be? I've been wondering how I became estranged from me, version 2007. I liked her. She had lots of energy and ideas.

5 Unrelated Facts and 5 Haikus

2011-10-10T17:46:00.000-04:00

Max has been referring to his "Netherlands" as his "boing loings."
My dog is getting fat.
I love Man vs. Food. It's part of my watch-people-eating-instead-of-eating diet.
Christian gives shockingly wise love advice to his compadres.
Ryan likes apps on his Blackberry.

Here are five haikus dedicated to those 5 facts.

Boing Loings

Call them what you want

But make no mistake, my friend

No one wants them kicked.

Fat Doggy

It hurts my feelings

The way you look at my dog

And judge her. Stop that.

Weird Diet

I'll watch you eat that.

I'll imagine how it tastes

While you gain the weight

Dr. Love

He might be a kid

But don't ignore his advice

If you want the girl.

Apps

Fandango, TripIt,

Open Table, Weather Bug,

The man has got apps.

A Worthy Cause

2011-10-04T22:34:00.001-04:00

Max just informed me that he needs to wear pink tomorrow and bring at least five pennies to school tomorrow to help fight "breath cancer."

I hate breath cancer. I hope I never get it.

In other cancer-y news, I get to accompany Alyssa to her last chemo treatment tomorrow. (Hooray! Hooray!) I made cookies to help celebrate with her chemo friends and nurses. I packed them in a Brookstone bag I had from last Christmas. I hope the bag won't cause any confusion for anybody. I don't want them trying to use the cookies for an ergonomic neck pillow or to try plugging their iPods into them.

It's just a bag, people.

Anyway, tomorrow, whatever you're doing, I hope you find time to think about those fighting the good fight against cancer. Breast, breath, and otherwise.

For the Record

2011-09-28T14:33:00.001-04:00

I did work on the Book yesterday.

I also made the first pot roast of my life.

But wait, there's more.

I plan to do both again.

Thanks for the encouragement.

But wait, there's more.

Here's my boys. Remember them? One is really enjoying himself and one is really restraining himself.

Here's my other boy. This photo was taken by Max as part of a two-part series called "Happy Dad, Abstract Dad." I accidentally deleted "Abstract Dad." Oops.

But wait, there's more.

Do you need anything texted for you? I know a guy. He's very good at it. Quite proficient. Quite prolific. Quite protextual.

I hire most of my texting out to him.

Shhhh!

2011-09-27T12:01:00.004-04:00

Pssst! Over here. Yeah, down here, under the table. Hurry, before it sees you! I'll scoot over so you can fit.

Yes, we're hiding. But seriously, you've got to whisper before it finds us.

What do you mean, what are we hiding from? Isn't it obvious? The Story, the Book. It's lurking around here trying to find me, trying to make me make good on my plans to write it today. But I figured if I just crouch down here under the table until the kids get home from school, I'll be safe for another day. Good idea, huh?

Yeah, the Book is driving me nuts. It's like this big, fat obligation I have sitting on my head. I try to be nice to it, but it's so....I don't know, needy and oppressive and entitled. And sloooow. I mean, it's really hard for me because I'm so different from that. It's a very one-sided relationship, you know?

Wait. What? You're leaving? But you just got here! I was looking forward to your company!

You expect me to sit all alone under the kitchen table all day by myself? I brought Oreos and nail polish and an iPod! You can play Angry Birds! You know, as long as you're really, really quiet.

No, I'm not crazy. This is very rational. You just don't know the Book like I do.

Stop being judgmental.

Yes, I want to write the Book. I do. I really do.

I just don't want to do it today. I'm not "feeling it," you know?

Well, probably tomorrow would be better. Maybe Thursday. Yeah, Thursday. Definitely.

You don't mean that. You don't really think I'm an idiot, do you?

Well, thanks a lot. Some friend you turned out to be. Give me back that Oreo.

Wait, stop shouting. Oh my gosh, please stop. The Book is going to hear you. Quit ratting me out!

I AM NOT HIDING UNDER THE TABLE, BOOK! I WAS...DUSTING. AND PICKING UP OREOS!

Oh. Well, there you are! Hey, Book! I see you've met my friend. You know, the overbearing, pretentious one I've told you about. Yes, yes, it has been a while. Heh, heh.

What? You've been wandering around the house for an hour looking for me? That's crazy! I was here! I was right here just, you know, waiting for you to get here so that we could spend some quality time together. I thought you were late, or forgot or something, which is totally okay because that stuff happens all the time. That's just life, you know? I'm very forgiving and understanding of such things.

No, no, don't be silly. I would never try to avoid you!

Don't listen to her.

That's not true.

I never said that.

She's taking that completely out of context.

Well, yes, we do have our issues, Book. That's probably fair to say.

Alright. Fair point.

I can be that way, sure.

Wait a minute, now. A wussy? Me? I'm...I'm speechless. I don't even know what to say to that.

Very funny.

Yes. Yes, I do want to write the rest of you, Book.

No, I really do. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't.

Yes, I realize that.

Yes, I know.

That's true.

You're right.

Yep, one page at a time.

I know, I shouldn't care about that.

Or that.

You're right. We do need each other.

Sure, let's hug it out.

Oh, you mean all of us? Well. Okay.

Me too. I'm sorry too. To both of you.

Yes, let's get writing, Book. I'm ready. Let me just say goodbye to my friend.

Okay, you too. Thanks for coming by.

No, you can't have the Oreo back.

Just kidding. Thanks again.

54 Thoughts

2011-09-23T13:46:00.003-04:00

I'm killing time.
In forty minutes I'm heading out the door.
I'm going to New Jersey.
I'm going to have a sleepover in New Jersey.
I've never had a sleepover with New Jersey before.
I've packed my bag and a sleeping bag.
And a toothbrush.
The TV is on to keep my company.
A generic decorating show on HGTV.
I'm venturing out from my regular two channels: Bravo and Food Network.
You should be so proud.
This is the part of the generic decorating show where the homeowner gets doubtful about the decorator's color recommendations.
This is called "decorating drama."
I'm not sure, but I have a feeling they're going to love it in the end.
It's raining cats and puppies.
A while ago it was raining cats and dogs.
This weather report is brought to you by generic decorating shows.
Want to know why I'm not watching Food Network right now?
Because the Neelys are on.
They drive me nuts.
I'm all for being in love with your spouse, but there is way too much sugar going on.
And exuberance.
And self-satisfaction.
And spouse satisfaction.
Oh my gosh, the the big reveal just happened on the decorating show.
The young couple has yet to use an exclamation point, though I think they like it.
This is very confusing.
Have they not seen decorating shows before?
They're supposed to cover their mouths with both hands, jump up and down, and joyfully express a few expletives.
It's not unusual to see a few tears.
Rookies, I guess.
I hate to admit it, but this couple could use a little "Neely" in their expression of emotion.
I'm sorry, Neelys.
I harshly judged you.
Forgive me.
And then forgive me for continuing to boycott your show.
The rain is not letting up.
I need to go out and check the mail before I leave.
I guess I will drive to the mailbox on my way out.
I need to put the clothes from the washer into the dryer.
But it's raining cats and dogs.
I realize that I don't have to go outdoors to get to the washer and dryer.
But I thought I'd try that excuse.
Did it work?
There's a new show on now.
The challenge is to decorate a Cape Cod home.
Three decorators are vying for the job.
If they choose the first decorator, I'm going to throw a fit.
The couch she suggested was ridiculous.
I have to leave now.
I'll never find out.
Maybe that's for the better.
I'm off to Jersey now.
Yo.

I wish I had written this...

2011-09-21T20:48:00.000-04:00

Found here.

What I Done Did

2011-09-20T14:59:00.001-04:00

First I got on a train. I sat behind a group of judges who'd been in Philadelphia for a conference and were on their way home to New Haven. They were playing Words with Friends on one of their iPads and complaining about the computer's lack of respect for them and some of their words. They joked and giggled and gossiped and acted generally immature together. Judges gone wild.

Next, I got off the train in New York City. You know you're in New York City because of the smell of fresh urine and pretzels. Mmmm. I met up with my sister-in-law Betsy and niece Sydney. You know you're with Betsy and Sydney because of the fresh smell of shopping bags. Aren't they cute?

We ventured to Brooklyn and stood in line for the best pizza on earth. It only took an hour to wait for the best pizza on earth, which is reasonable, I think. Especially on a beautiful fall day.

Later, I sat in their hotel room and asked them to share all their shopping finds with me and, oh, what a parade! Ladies and gentlemen, the economy has officially been stimulated. I lived vicariously, delighting in the gorgeous fabrics and frugal finds. I may or may not have coveted a poncho and lusted after it in my heart.

The next morning, I arose bright and early and donned my walking shoes. I made like a pioneer and walked and walked and walked all day. First, I walked to Alyssa's apartment. Look how cute my baldy friend is! We're calling her new look chemo-chic. My look is slept-on-the-floor-frazzled. But I think it works.

The color theme of the day was pink. We joined a sea of pink at Central Park for the Race for the Cure. I'll be honest, mine was more of a walk for the cure, but I know the cure won't mind.

After the race, we had lunch with some of Alyssa's friends (such nice people, by the way) and then Alyssa and I spent some much-needed sofa time together at her apartment, laughing, talking, and occasionally crying. Eventually it was time for me to catch my train, so I walked and walked to the station. They oversold my train, but I pushed my way through before I could get bumped to the next one. I was ready to get home to my house full of boys. And also my bathtub.

The next day, I got to have dinner with my brother John who is in Philadelphia for some meetings this week. Lucky for us, it's Restaurant Week in Philly, so we took him out for swanky Mexican food. (Did you know Mexican food can be swanky?) We ate ourselves silly. We ate so much, my hair lost all its volume and pizazz.

I crashed in bed last night. I slept like a corpse. When the alarm clock went off this morning, it was a foreign and disturbing noise. I must have been dreaming that I was a wealthy aristocrat, able to sleep to my heart's content and never bothered by such annoyances as alarm clocks. I love that dream. I finally awoke, firing the butler, and crawled back into my everyday life.

Everyday life today included more walking, some writing, some emailing, some errands, and the creation of the first butternut squash soup of the season. It's roasting in the oven now, bathing in Thai spices and coconut water. I will patiently wait.

And that's what I done did. I wonder what I will done do next.

Cool is a Temperature and an Attitude

2011-09-16T17:04:00.000-04:00

It's cool outside today.
And I like it.
I think I'm growing up because I can let go of summer now without throwing a tizzy fit.
(I love the term "tizzy fit.")
Maybe I'm only acting mature because autumn on the east coast is beautiful.
Riveting.
Stunning.
Ridiculously flamboyant.
And an actual season.
Instead of two weeks wedged in between summer and winter.
(No offense, Utah.)
I'm going to a Phillies game tonight.
I'm going to wear a jacket and a scarf.
And I'm going to eat a pork sandwich and nachos.
And possibly some crab fries.
(Crab fries actually contain zero crabs.)
If there's room left, I will enjoy some Graham Slam ice cream, the greatest ice cream flavor in the world.
The food at the Phillies games is top notch.
You heard it here first.
The coolness actually set in last night.
Ryan and I slept with the window open.
The cool air brought our sleeping bodies back together in the middle of the bed for warmth.
After a sweaty summer apart, clinging to the cooler borders of the mattress.
Hello, stranger.
Mind if I warm myself for a while?
Fall is not so bad.
(Don't get me wrong, summer is still the best.)
But fall is not so bad.

This one time...

2011-09-15T17:08:00.002-04:00

I looked in the backseat of the car and Max had been swallowed by his t-shirt.

But he made the most of it by turning it into a reading nook.

Are you children safe from their t-shirts?

Misson' Out

2011-09-13T15:05:00.000-04:00

I headed to Target today to buy Comet for the sink, bread flour for my favorite cookies, and designer Missoni clothes and accessories for my blogging self-esteem. I wouldn't have known to fall in love with Missoni design if it hadn't been for countless bloggers dangling it in front of my face and making me want it. Much to my surprise, arriving at Target at 11:00 a.m. was plenty early for the Comet and bread flour inventory, but about four hours late for nearly all of the Missoni inventory. Apparently there was a line outside the Target doors at 7:00 a.m. while I was making toast and wiping crusty sleep boogers from the corners of my eyes. (What? That's what I call them. Quit giving me that look.)

Bloggers, why didn't you tell me I had to camp out at Target last night?

I didn't give up hope immediately. I was down, but certainly not out. In true Missoni fashion, I zig-zagged through the entire store, hoping to find someone's cast-off or sneakily hidden designer finds. I really wanted the beautiful blanket, and the dinner plates (and the beach bike, too, if you're wondering). But the only thing I found were empty shelves, lonely racks, and the unexpected embarrassment of having been left in the dust.

It reminded me of a trip to Wal-Mart a few weeks ago in preparation for Hurricane Irene. Ryan and I wandered the eerily empty aisles that only hours earlier held bottled water and emergency provisions like flashlights and m&m's. It was all gone, baby, gone. Could it be that my fellow east coasters stocked up this morning on Missoni in anticipation of an upcoming fashion emergency? Like the return of the mullett? Or really big shoulder pads?

Eventually my persistence paid off. The two Missoni votive candle holders I found on a lonely shelf are quite beautiful and among the most affordable items in the collection. (At least I think they're Missoni. Imagine my horror if I find out they are merely Mossimo or Merona! What will all the cool bloggers think?)

The brightly colored pretzel m&m's on sale for $2.66 were a nice consolation as well. I'm organizing them in a zig-zag pattern before stuffing them in my face. Kids, if you can't have Missoni, make Missoni yourself. That's our lesson for today.

Of Blogs and Burritos

2011-09-12T16:39:00.002-04:00

I won't bore you with the details, but Wynonna Judd made me feel better about blogging again. I haven't felt the itch to blog the way I used to and I wondered (once again) if it was time to let it go. Lately I've been expressing my creativity through food instead of blogging, concocting meals that made me laugh and smile and occasionally cry the way my blog used to. I've discovered a latent knack for pastas, salads, sauces, and cookies. Something about the temporary nature of a good meal speaks to me right now. Because if I've learned anything of late, it's that you have to find joy in the moment. And sometimes the joy of that one little moment stands in stark juxtaposition to the greater background of the present time. As in, life might be a giant ball of prickly awful, but if you happen to have a good burrito in the midst of it? Well, that's a gift.

Back to Wynonna. She said something that stuck to my ribs like good southern soul food. (I can't tell you what it was because it's a special secret between Wynonna and me.) And the misgivings I had about putting my fingers to the keyboard flitted away. Gone. Oprah would call that an "Aha! Moment," but we've all forgotten who Oprah is by now. Let's call it an epiphany because it's more fun to say and it rhymes with my name.

So, I'm going to come back here with frequency. And I'm going to flex my creative muscles in word and dish. Because if I can do that, despite anything that's going on in the background? Well, that's a gift.

P.S. Want to see pictures of the day my face almost melted off in Chicago? Here's outside the jelly bean.

And here's inside the jelly bean. I loved the jelly bean.

P.P.S. I'm craving jelly beans.

I feel like I really need to tell you this...

2011-09-08T10:08:00.001-04:00

I hate capers. I don't want them on my food.

Thank you for your time.

Oh, and here's photos from Tuesday, the first day of school. Mandatory, you know. Photos and school.

The eighth grader. This one is taller than me, has bigger hands, eats twice what I do, and yet I still outweigh him by a few bowling balls. Why?

The third grader. This one is shorter than me, still snuggly, eats slower than cold tar, and puts all of his money in the bank. Why?

These two still go to Taco Bell a lot. Why? I'll tell you why. Because it's delicious.

No capers at Taco Bell.

More Grateful Than Ever for My Mother

2011-08-30T00:30:00.000-04:00

Egads, let's pretend this much time hasn't passed.
Okay?
Okay.
I love pretending.
I'm going to pretend that I'm not having a hard time writing these days.
I'm also going to pretend that I didn't just get sucked into Kate Plus 8.
I have sympathy for Kate.
You know, with those 8 and minus that 1.
Can't be easy.
But the girl gives me anxiety
Some or all of the 9 need a Xanax.
In fact, I feel like I need one.
And yet, I can't stop watching.
I should be asleep.
I'm in a terrible sleep pattern.
The pattern is stay up way too late, and then sleep in late or get up early feeling groggy.
If Kate were my mommy, she would scream at me to get to sleep.
I want to go to sleep, Kate, but you're scaring me.
I mean, bless your heart, but seriously.
Wow.
Okay, I'm going to bed now.
And expecting anxiety-ridden dreams.

You know what drives me nuts?

2011-08-05T08:35:00.000-04:00

That the word buses doesn't have two Ss in the middle. It should be be busses, I say. That's been bothering me for years.

Catch Up

2011-07-15T18:15:00.000-04:00

The N key on my cell phone is malfunctioning. When I type an N in an email or text, I either get two Ns or no Ns at all. I fluctuate between souding like I have a terrible cold ad cat clear my ose, or else I sounnd like Poor King George and I cannnnot quite spit out what I'm tryinnnnng to say.

We're headed to Chicago for a week and excited to explore a new city. Let me know if you have a Chicago must see/eat/do. I'm planning to hijack a parade downtown and sing "Twist and Shout" atop a float whilst wearing a sweater vest, but I'm open to other ideas.

Christian is officially taller than me at five feet three inches. He had to have a physical and a booster shot for school, so I accompanied him to the doctor last week. He was dreading the hernia test, which the doctor said she didn't have to perform since this was a regular physical and not a sports physical. He was so elated until I asked the doctor to go ahead and perform the test anyway. Heh, heh.

Max and I have been spending a lot of time at the pool this summer. He swims laps and I roast on a lounge chair until I can't take it anymore and jump in. Yesterday there were a few kids playing with a giant inflatable toy in the pool. Max eased in closer to them just as they were trying to flip the toy over. He added a helping hand until one of them looked at him and shouted, "You can't play with this! We don't even know you! Get away from us! We don't even know who you are!" Max quietly backed away. I jumped in the pool and beat the kid to a bloody pulp. Actually, I didn't. I just yelled, "Max, stay away from that kid. He's a jerk!" For the record, I hate jerk kids.

There, you're updated.

Things I've Grown to Like That I Swore I Never Could

2011-06-27T10:30:00.001-04:00

Blue Cheese
Horseradish
Cool showers
Foot rubs
Non-fiction
Sushi
Taking my contacts out
Flossing
Politics
Rap
Talk radio
Baseball
Cleaning
Sleeping on my back
Being a little chubby
Small towns

Mouthy

2011-05-31T23:24:00.000-04:00

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I'm sort of excited about it because, for the first time in my life, I've been flossing regularly. I'm not sure how I got things to click with me and dental floss, but it's now part of my morning routine. The other day I ran out of dental floss and felt mild panic until I was able to locate some more. Ever find yourself thinking that people will never change? Well, I'm living proof that yes, Virginia, there is hope for the infrequent flossers of the world. Now I no longer have to cower in the judgement of the chatty hygienist as she retrieves particles of roast beef circa 2007 from my teeth while we talk about the weather, the price of gasoline, our respective summer plans and everything but the fact that I'm totally disgusting.

I have to say, though, my history of semi-annual flossing has served me well. I've only had a few cavities as an adult, significantly fewer than Ryan who flosses more often then he has bowel movements. Seriously, the guy is always flossing, even if there is no floss available. He goes into total MacGyver Mode when he feels the need to clear the pathways between his molars. The list of strange items he has used to floss with includes, but is not limited to the following:

loose threads from clothing
drinking straws
paper clips
torn pieces of plastic cup lids
torn pieces of shopping bags
printer paper
envelopes
business cards
elastic
fiber optic cable
headphone wire
pencils
car keys
tinsel
Easter basket grass
real grass
wheat
uncooked spaghetti
measuring tape
jumper cables
fingernails
corn husks
twist ties
fishing wire
action figures
refrigerator magnets
CD covers
floppy disks
spatulas
magazines
clotheslines
barbed wire

Okay, so maybe a few of those I made up, but the point is that Ryan flosses a lot. And in the most unusual ways. And unfortunately, his extreme flossing practices have brought him little success in the realm of anti-cavity-ism compared to my previous methods of microscopic food storage. His victory has only been in moral superiority.

But, of course, that's all changed. I'm a regular flosser now. Tomorrow it will be noted on my official medical records. The hygienist may even let me take two prizes from the treasure chest filled with an endless supply of neon-colored junk from Oriental Trading Company as a reward. We'll chat about the usual nothingness and really mean it this time, instead of using it as means of avoiding the elephant in the room. Specifically, the one lodged between my #3 and #4 bicuspids.

I'm giddy with anticipation.

What about you? Do you floss regularly?

Today I'm...

2011-05-26T10:58:00.001-04:00

...wearing pink in support of Alyssa's first day of chemotherapy. Funny how those little pink ribbons you see around don't mean much to you until they mean everything to you.

...thinking about Oprah's final episode and her words of wisdom. It gave me a lot to think about and struck a few nerves, especially her thoughts on our feelings of unworthiness. Hadn't considered that before.

...sweaty after my morning walk and likely to be sweaty all day: temperatures in the upper 80s with an abundance of humidity.

...counting down the days until my parents' visit. Can't wait.

...considering starting my own podcast because I'm in love with podcasts and interested in the challenge of learning something new.

...wishing my legs were tan. The pool opens tomorrow.

...missing Ryan. He's out of town and the house feels weird without him.

...listening to music. Oh, Johnny Cash, I love your gravelly old voice.

...finding it hard to write these days. I'm slowly slipping into an uninteresting writing coma.

...glad you're still here. I'll work on reviving myself.

Cash, Bakeware, and Bragging Rights

2011-05-20T13:58:00.000-04:00

Hey there, blog friends. If you're a goddess in the kitchen (and I know many of you are), it's time for you to enter a recipe contest over at Mrs. Fields Secrets, reinventing the chocolate chip cookie.

First prize wins $250 cash, a bakeware package valued at $100, and major bragging rights among your friends and family. Seriously, you can flaunt that kind of win!

Four runners-up will win bakeware packages and bragging rights too, but unfortunately, no flaunting. Womp, womp.

Enter now and help spread the word (please!). You really should do it. Think of the children.

Blast from the Past

2011-05-19T16:27:00.000-04:00

Last night at dinner I decided to do a dramatic reading from my junior high journal. I can't remember what prompted it, but I left the table and retrieved it from my desk drawer. It's been in there for the past few months, ever since I found it while going through a box of stuff in the basement. I started reading, thinking it would be kind of funny, but it fell a little flat.

I don't remember being an overly dramatic child, but most pages were sprayed with my melodrama. There was a lot of hatred directed toward my mom, which I feel terrible about. There was a lot of complaint about having to clean my room, which was always a disaster. There was an over-arching theme of my plight as the put-upon middle child, the one who nobody understood and yet expected to be perfect.

"Where are the happy parts?" Christian asked.

That's the problem. I didn't write those down. Oops.

I got out the journal in hopes of connecting with Christian, as evidence that I actually was his age once and might have a clue about the thoughts running through his head. And after reading through a few entries together, he and I certainly gained a new understanding of one another. I understand now that he's not nearly as difficult and moody as I'd been thinking, and he now understands that I'm completely nuts.

Prepare Ye More Guacamole!

2011-05-18T11:05:00.000-04:00

I have mixed feelings about the world ending on Saturday. On the one hand, it's nice to know things in advance; I hate surprises of the life and death variety. It's also a relief that we'll all be going together, removing the need for any long, sappy goodbyes (something else I dislike). Another plus is that I've cancelled the June car and student loan payments and have more money now for guacamole, which I plan to eat in excess until midnight Friday. I kept the June mortgage payment scheduled as a small show of skepticism, but also because the mortgage industry has been hit so hard, I'd like to throw them a bone. I call it an economic goodwill back-up plan.

However, it's not all fun and guacamole when we're talking about world's end. There are a few down sides to this. I have a familiar feeling from my school days when I'd be really excited about a project, visions of A pluses dancing in my head only to approach the deadline with last-minute scrambling and wishes for at least a B minus. I planned on being a much more accomplished, interesting, and philanthropic before the show was over. I've been scheduling an exciting shoulder pad comeback in 2012. There were life lessons and personality quirks I'd been planning on learning and ironing out in late 2018, followed by a bestselling memoir documenting the process. I'll miss finding out if I actually lose 15 pounds this summer, what Christian and Max grow up to do with their lives, and what travel deals Ryan would have found for us over the next 50 years. Greece? Dollywood? Mars?

It's a mixed bag, I tell ya. Now, pass the guac please and tell me the up and down sides of your imminent demise.

Here's to Big Ideas

2011-05-11T15:44:00.000-04:00

Rats. I didn't get the job I interviewed for yesterday. Judging from my portfolio, they didn't think I was capable of big ideas or concepts. Ouch. The sting-y kind of ouch.

Being on the job hunt for an extended period of time does a number on your self-esteem. A number two, to be more specific. Upon each rejection, I face the possibility that the reason I'm not getting hired is that I stink at what I do. And everybody knows it but me.

I cried for two minutes after getting the news today. I was wrapping my mind around the big concept that I'm not good enough. (I even came up with a catchy headline for it: Face It--You Suck!) And then I smacked myself in the forehead and tried to wrap my mind around the bigger idea that I am good enough, even if one or two or thirty-eight employers think I'm not. I've just got to keep at it. (New headline: I Think I Can! I Think I Can!) But I'm telling you, the first concept is getting easier and easier to believe.

In other news, I'm pretty sure my hair could land a job. Everybody seems to love the hair.

Only a Few Years Left to Qualify for the Kids Menu

2011-05-10T16:32:00.000-04:00

Kids. They grow up so fast. It seems like one day they're little...

...and the next day, they're big.

Yesterday Max turned eight entire years old. Yowza! I'm so far removed now from babydom, I can barely remember how to wipe another person's butt!

We had some friends over for cake and ice cream last night to celebrate and played a little party game, featuring true and false statements about Max. He really enjoyed being the star of the show. You can play along if you like.

True or False? Max...

Was a fat baby.
Once killed a rabid fox with his bare hands.
Wants to be a stand up Canadian.
Refused to sing the Mother’s Day song at church because he felt it was “creepy.”
Took a little extra time to learn to talk.
Can collapse his nostrils on demand.
Likes his nails trimmed.
Is a BIG fan of Oprah.
Is into “skate and rap.”
Is rumored to have been part of TEAM SIX.
Can correctly identify the make and model of most cars over 100K.
Can correctly identify most planes and jets.
Can begrudgingly identify Justin Beiber.
Is a poet.
Likes ketchup, but not mustard.
Eats tomato ice cream
Has decided not to run for president.
Coined the phrase, “Shooby Dooby.”
Enjoys kneading fleshy upper arms with his fingers.
Feels like starting a new life in France.
Loves cheeseburgers and long walks on the beach.
Is an amazing traveler.
Invented several successful wrestling moves, including: Payback Time, Slimey, Friend, and Takedown.
Is best friends with a Pakastani muslim.
Has a habit of sticking his face in the sand at the beach.
Is a heckuva kayaker, cat-sitter, and Pokémon trainer.
Is unusually strong.
Can build aircraft carriers and model homes out of printer paper.
Loves the Vampire State Building.
Thinks "hobos" are a great punchline to most jokes.
Once dated Betty White.
Invented a catchy alternative to “Eeny Meeny Miney Mo" called, "Meeny Miney Dead Bunny."
Wrote a popular country song titled, “I Got a Little, Little, Little, Little, Little Banjo.”
Is the executive producer of The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

This morning Max woke up and wished that it could be his birthday again because it was "so awesome." Then he qualified his statement by saying that other people could get presents too, because that wouldn't really be fair. This kid appreciates life to the fullest, with arms wide open, and is always looking on the bright side. He is kind and thoughtful and has a hilariously inappropriate sense of humor. (Genetics!) And no matter how big he continues to get, he'll always be my baby.

I Like Being a Mom

2011-05-09T13:18:00.000-04:00

I also like being taller than my kids. (For the next five minutes, at least.)

Sharing

2011-05-06T18:08:00.002-04:00

I think I will look back on this period of my life as The Time People Felt Bad For Me Because of How Badly I Felt For Other People. And I think that my lack of writing very much has to do with the fact that a lot of the stuff I have been feeling bad about is not really mine to write about, but I also think I've been playing editor with this quirky online history of me. You know, if I don't write about it, it didn't happen!

And in 2278, when my online works are being studied by college students in space, they will write term papers hypothesizing the lack of content in late 2010 and early 2011 on this blog. Most of them will attribute this to there being a constant stream of the Real Housewives of Anywhere on TV. And they would only be partially wrong. (I'm two tablespoons deeper than that.)

So, I am going to tell you something sad that I have been feeling bad about.

I got a text from my friend Alyssa last week, telling me she had some heavy news and would rather tell me on the phone than by text or email. My stomach dropped a little. In the 45 seconds it took between that text and us talking on the phone, I considered a couple of possibilities. Maybe she lost her job? Maybe her dad is sick?

I never in a million years would have predicted that my healthy, active, globe-trotting, smart and sassy friend would tell me that she has breast cancer. She's thirty-five.

And then I said something supremely stupid: "Are you kidding me?" What, because people are always pranking each other with cancer scares? Duh. I immediately wanted to rewind and say something more appropriate, like, "Oh shit." (Which is a special word I save for such occasions.)

And then, in the course of our 30-minute conversation, she explained in calm collectedness how all of this began (with a lump found by her doctor), what she knew about her prognosis, what her plans were regarding treatment, how she'd spent the days between the biopsy and results reading and not-sleeping and gearing herself up for the monumental fight she knew-but-didn't-know was coming. As if to balance out her calm collectedness, I spent the half-hour with tears streaming down my face, choking on the news.

I invited her to come and stay with us for the weekend, and in the only act of emotionally-impaired decision-making I've witnessed thus far, she agreed to come.

I tried to pull my crap together before she arrived and did okay. We had a really nice weekend, one I'll remember forever. I'll especially remember how I've never seen anybody cope with bad news with such a level head and sense of humor. Even if she falls apart later on and becomes a slobbering, whining fool, she will always have five trillion bonus points for the grace and composure she is exhibiting in the moment. (And I'm keeping score, Cancer!) In fact, on that subject, our household psychologist Ryan made a point to tell her that she's been amazing to be around, but that we still want to be around when she's not so amazing. Amen to that.

We sent her home on the train and into the arms of appointments, doctors, consultations, and other scary realities waiting for her this week. In an act of courageous proactivity, she had her hair cut short (anticipating the chemo) and ended up with the sauciest hairdo I've seen in some time. Best cancer makeover ever. Of course, she sent her long, dark hair to Locks of Love. (Is she secretly trying to become the Oprah finale, I wonder? Will the tear-jerking amazing-ness never end?)

Alyssa said something interesting to me while she was here. As she has shared her news with other people, the burden of it felt lighter, she said. I've always known that in theory, but it was amazing to see it happen with my own eyes. The sharing of burdens really does make them possible to carry.

Guess who needs to learn that lesson? Yup, that's me looking sheepish.

So, I'm writing this here. I'm telling you that I'm feeling bad. Sad, but hopeful. Sad for my friend and for many of my loved ones fighting scary fights and unknown outcomes. But, yes, hopeful. Because I can't help it. People are amazing. I should know, I'm surrounded by them. And that includes you.

(You could and should keep up with Alyssa's story. She's making a triumphant return to blogging.)

Stand Up

2011-04-28T15:53:00.001-04:00

Max seems to be forging a plan to have a career as a stand-up comic. He comes to us with time to time with new material, which he shares without too much prodding. This is one of my recent favorites:

"I have a great idea for Harry Potter. How about in the first movie, Harry uses a Bad-Guys-Die-Immediately spell? Because--duh--he's a magical wizard! And there you go--all the bad guys die immediately and we don't have to go through all that stuff for seven movies. We're done in one movie!"

Random Thoughts on Writing

2011-04-26T18:20:00.000-04:00

It's warm here. Finally.
The trees are in full bloom.
I can set to rest the fear I have that winter will never end and everything will be gray and ugly forever.
There's a fine layer of dusty pollen on my kitchen counters, the results of leaving the windows open all night and day.
I left it there and escaped to the library, where I am now.
The library is quiet except for the occasional, thunderous throat-clearing of another patron.
It happens every 25 seconds or so.
Good thing I brought my headphones.
I'm at the library to write.
Specifically, I'm here to work on my novel.
Writing the word novel makes my stomach churn.
Lack of confidence, I suppose.
I am ignoring my lack of confidence and spending every Tuesday night writing.
(There goes the throat-clearing again.)
Writing a novel is a strange experience so far.
It feels a bit sometimes like I'm playing God with lives of people I've created.
I have no desire to play God.
I'm trying, instead, to be a storyteller.
The messenger.
Relating the story as it unfolds.
That makes me feel less weirded out.
Because, let's face it, the world would be a scary place if I were God.
French fries and milkshakes would make you thin.
Money and clothes would literally grow on trees.
People would never die.
And every night the crickets and frogs would croon indie-folk music to sing us all to sleep.
It would never work, of course.
We'd be overpopulated in, like, five minutes.
And civil wars would break out before I have time to realize that some people don't enjoy singer/songwriters as much as I do.
Which is why I'll stick to storytelling.
Throat-clearers and lack of confidence be damned!
(Which, of course, I don't have the authority to do.)
Over and out.

Oh, Yes I Did

2011-04-18T22:14:00.000-04:00

And I'd do it again.

C'mon, I'll Race You to the Top

2011-04-13T13:43:00.000-04:00

I developed an unexpected crush on the Eiffel Tower. I didn't expect it to sweep me off my feet the way it did. It was golden and lacy and mesmerizing. Every hour on the hour it twinkles, as if it's suffering from the most adorable, romantic case of goosebumps. If it's not on your bucket list already, I'd go ahead and add it now. It will not disappoint.

And if you're not sure when you'll get there, I'll help you cheat a little and give you a ride to the top. (No stair climbing required!)

Pretty amazing, no?

Fourteen Years and Counting

2011-04-11T15:20:00.003-04:00

Today is our fourteenth wedding anniversary. On Saturday, we picked out cards for each other at Target. Anniversary cards are especially hard for me to select. Do you go with the funny? Do you reach for the sincere? Where is the card that says, "I am equally amused by and enamored with you," and could it have a chimpanzee on it? 'Cause I like cards with chimpanzees.

As I type this, there are two squirrels on the tree outside, chasing each other round and round the bark of one of our trees, creating quite a distraction as I try to write. I don't think they are married yet, because it's 2:47 in the afternoon. Married squirrels usually chase at night, on the weekend, when the baby squirrels fall asleep early and there's nothing on TV. Sigh.

Today, I searched the Internets for a quote I remember liking from Garrison Keillor on marriage. He said, "In general, the rules for marriage are similar to the rules for being in a lifeboat on the open ocean: don't crowd each other, no sudden moves, and keep all disastrous thoughts to yourself. "

It's pretty sound advice, I think. I may pass it on to the squirrels outside who have made their way to the lawn and, in the process, transfixed Lucy who can't help but dream of what squirrel tastes like. They seem as if they have no plan at all beyond the chasing. I should help them.

If I added my own advice to Garrison's it would be to pass the time on that lifeboat by doing an awful lot of talking, listening, and encouraging each other. Hold hands. Don't force the other one to play games to pass the time, because he doesn't like to play games, he really doesn't, no matter how many times you ask. Oh, and one more thing: wear sunscreen.

The squirrels have disappeared, Lucy has settled back down into the seat cushion beside me, and I am off to celebrate fourteen amazing years with my best friend. You know, right after I print off this blog post and staple it to the tree. You're welcome, squirrels.

Prolly the Best $82.60 I Ever Spent

2011-04-06T16:41:00.000-04:00

"I feel like starting a new life in France," Max said as we wandered the steep hillside town of Beynac on our first day. He said it, but I think we were all thinking it. The tiny cliffside town felt like another world, another time, and definitely another life. We spent the first half of our trip there and it was fantastic. Everywhere you turned, there was another castle or sweeping vista. I'll let the photos do the rest of the talking.

There were other highlights, which I will write about when I have less jet lag and more chocolate. If you are anxious for it, send me a nap and a candy bar to speed things up.

Taking Up Arms

2011-03-24T13:54:00.003-04:00

Max does this thing with me that is sweet-slash-horrifying. He clutches my upper arm and squishes the flesh, kneading it like dough, while he exclaims, "Squishy! Squishy!" I find it sweet because it's this little corner of my body that he has discovered and claimed as his own. It makes sense as I think about it. He's spent a lot of time with my upper arms; they cradled him as a baby, hoisted him around as a toddler, and shouldered snugly next to him as a reading buddy or fellow watcher of the Disney channel. It's the soft, warm security blanket he never had, I guess. The horrifying part, of course, is that few women (and probably men, too) enjoy having someone describe them as "squishy." With exclamation points.

Usually I ask him to stop. I try to be comfortable in my own skin, but it only takes about four squishy-s until I am sufficiently uncomfortable. And sometimes he seems genuinely hurt. He can't understand why I don't want my squishy arms celebrated! Frequently! In public!

Semi-related tangent: I remember this young couple from our church congregation when I was younger. The husband was whispy thin and his wife, while not fat per se, was quite thick, outweighing him by at least a few industrial bags of flour. Somewhere along the line I remember hearing that he was attracted to her soft, jiggly, fleshy arms because they reminded him of his mother. Aaaaaaaaaack! That kind of disturbing detail just doesn't leave you.

Okay, back to my story.

Beyond the regular, run-of-the-mill body image issues, I think the discomfort comes from somebody loving something about me that I find un-lovable, something I would like to change. Why isn't he obsessed with my sense of humor? My cooking? My blog?

I started doing pushups to de-squish my arms. They've always been bigger than I'd like, but once upon a time they were toned and muscular, so I decided to go retro with some exercise. I made the mistake of doing my pushups once while we were all watching TV together. Max cried out, "Noooo! Don't get rid of Squishy!"

Oh my gosh. Squishy isn't just an adjective, it's a proper noun. Kill me now.

We talked about it and struck a deal. I would keep Squishy as long as Max provided back scratches whenever I asked. (Let's break this down: I stay fat and get unlimited back scratches. Winning!) To his credit, I've received a few on-demand back scratches; however, I'm still doing pushups in the privacy of my own room (with no noticeable results). So we're both happy, I guess. Though I think the real exercise is finding a way to receive this very specific love. I'm not even sure where to begin. Every time I dip my toe into that pool, I can't help but think that someday Max will marry some wonderfully fleshy woman because it will remind him of me. Aaaaaaaaaack! And then I run away do more secret pushups.

What about you? Has somebody loved something about you that you dislike? How did you overcome?

I Like You

2011-03-21T21:03:00.000-04:00

Let it be noted: very nice people read my blog. People like you, for example. Thank you for sharing your happiness with me on my last post. It lifted my spirits and I'm genuinely excited for the great things in your lives. Giddy, even. As I hoped, it convinced me that I've mistaken this vehicle for a handbasket and assumed the worst about the destination.

Thanks for setting me straight.

And now for a bit of my own good news: I was contacted today regarding a job I applied for in January. (Good grief, I can barely remember January.) Everything is VERY preliminary at this point, but I think I'm going to indulge myself in a little bit of cautious optimism. 'Cause you know what? It feels goooood.

I think you brought me good luck. If I land the job, I'll buy you some Cheetos! Keep your fingers crossed for me?

Will You Tell Me Something Happy?

2011-03-18T09:18:00.000-04:00

I'm exhausted from bad news. The last weeks, months, and year have been among the worst ever for some of the dearest people in my life. Honestly, at times it's felt like an avalanche of bad news, compounding in weight and speed as it chases all of us. I feel like I've been heartsick for so long, for so many different reasons, sometimes it's hard to breathe. (It's certainly hard to blog.) My own un(der)employment is a lesser worry compared to some of the challenges being faced by my loved ones, but still adequate enough to give me the beginnings of an ulcer. I don't know which is disintegrating faster, my stomach lining or my belief that I'm employable. And all of this is aside from the daily dose of disaster on the evening news. I can barely watch anymore. My worry is maxed out.

I think this is part of my fixation on our trip to France. It's the one little daffodil bursting up through the broken sidewalk. It doesn't solve anything, but it's given me something to look forward to, a week to escape reality.

Yesterday the sun was out and the temperature climbed higher than the forecast predicted. I went outside to get reacquainted. I stuck my hand out for an awkward handshake, like I was meeting up with my favorite cousin after a long absence. I pulled out the rake, shovel, garden gloves and I worked in the sun for hours, until my back threatened to break. And while I was working, I had a thought. I thought that maybe there is more good news in the world than I realize. Just because the pond sample I'm scooped up in is thick with problems, it doesn't necessarily represent the whole body of water.

So, I'm asking you to tell me some good news, something wonderful happening to you right now. What is going right in your world? What is making you smile? What is giving you hope? No matter the size or scope, please tell me about it. I truly want to know, so don't be a stranger. Let me rejoice with you.

Don't Worry, It's Not Contagious

2011-03-16T21:05:00.004-04:00

The countdown to France is on. Ever since the fifteen minutes of frenzy when we bought our tickets, I've had the opposite of ADHD. I can focus only on France. Would you like France on your toast for breakfast? Toss me the France so I can change the channel. We're all out of France in the downstairs bathroom. When you go out, will you fill the car with France? Do you want a spoon or a France for that?

Ryan, the Travel Whisperer, has been reading the holy canon of Rick Steves, Frommers, and Fodors. He nudges me in bed while he's reading to share a tidbit, custom, or must-see. I find it mildly annoying, since I'm very busy, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the France.

At the bookstore, we picked up a french language learning program from the bargain bin. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea, but I'm still under-employed and the Rosetta Stone CDs cost 400 billion dollars. Our CDs only cost our dignity. As it turns out, the program we bought is nothing more than a very sadly written off-Broadway musical, featuring John and Jaqueline, two lovers brought together by their love of the french language. It wasn't completely worthless. We learned how to say "beige" in french. It's beige, pronounced bayzsh.

I've taken it upon myself to educate my family on french culture. I filled our Netflix queue with important french films, including The Pink Panther, Chocolat, The Phantom of the Opera, and The Bourne Trilogy. I've encouraged everyone to temporarily stop shaving their legs and pits. At meal times, we serve french fries and Nutella. I've arranged french manicures for all of us the day before we leave.

The kids are excited, but not exactly suffering from my condition. They seem to be able to carry on with everyday tasks, such as completing a sentence that doesn't include France. I admit, I'm a little jealous. They seem to do it with such ease.

Lucy, a proud German, is disgusted. She ignores me when I greet her with a proper bonjour each morning, and rolls her eyes when I shake her paw with an enchanté. When she saw me reading My Life in France on the toilet, she promptly trotted out and took a crap on the living room carpet.

After this trip, I plan to return to my regular life and thoughts. I hope I will recognize them. My apologies if I've neglected any of your phone calls or Frances. Be patient with me, please. It's only a matter of France until this is over.

Self Help

2011-03-15T16:56:00.000-04:00

I decided something today. I'm going to start making decisions that will benefit Future Self instead of just satisfying Present Self. Present Self is driving me nuts, eating too much, and not being tidy. She's like the worst college roommate. (Wait, I was that roommate, I think.) Time to put Present Self in her place and start sucking up big time to Future Self. I heard she's awesome.

Two Things I Want to Say

2011-03-11T21:29:00.001-05:00

1. We have friends living in Japan right now, not one but two families. I'm very thankful to have heard from both of them today, letting us know that they are all right. Whew.

2. I love caramelized onions. On everything. Especially nachos.

Interview with My Second-Born

2011-03-07T09:31:00.000-05:00

We spent some time this weekend reading old blog posts of mine from 2006. We came across an interview I did with Christian. He was seven years old, the same age Max is now. I copied the questions and gave Max the same interview last night. (Apparently, there is a lot of resentment towards teeth brushing in our house.)

What did you have for lunch today?

Let's see...oh yeah, um, Chinese food. Oh! Japanese food!

Where do babies come from?

Mama's stomach.

What do you like best about your parents?

They care for me, they care about me, and they love me.

If you could drive the car tonight, where would you go?

Gamestop.

What’s the best part about being a kid?

You don't have to do work. You're not really into, like, "We need to get our professor things more up!"

What’s the best part about being an adult?

You can do whatever you want and you don't have to sit there and be yelled at, like, "Brush your teeth, you fat lady!"

What’s the best part about being a little brother?

That you're more luckier than the older brother because the older brother always gets more made fun of when he does stuff wrong.

What do you like about your friends?

That they could play with me and I don't have to sit there playing with my brother only.

Name the three greatest inventions:

Video games, money, and care.

What do you like about girls?

Nothing at all. All they do is talk nonstop and think they're so cool and so better than boys.

What’s the worst part about second grade?

It's way harder than first grade and first grade's way funner. Second grade is fun, but first grade---Wow!---way funner.

What does it mean to be happy?

It means that you're just kind of normal and not like, "Heyyy! You brush your teeth!"

If you were going to write a poem, what would it be about?

I'm glad I'm on earth and I have all the things that I love, like video games and my family.

When will you get a job?

Probably about 21 through 32, because if you're a doctor you have 12 more years of school.

Describe a perfect meal:

Cheeseburger, fries, root beer, drumsticks, spaghetti, robin noodles, chocolate brownies, pumpkin cookies, and cake.

What’s the worst feeling in the world?

The worst feeling is when you're really sad or really, really, really mad. You know I was really, really, really mad one time?

Are you a republican or a democrat?

Wait. What are those?

What’s the best use of five minutes?

Play DS, have fun with mini puzzles, and sit down and relax watching TV.

What’s life all about?

Having a really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really good time.

It's Probably Time to Talk About the Alien

2011-03-03T17:30:00.002-05:00

"Confidence is fleeting," Ryan said to me one day. He was quoting Joe Montana or Joe Namath or somebody who never had any business being un-confident.

It hit me like a football to the back of the head. Confidence is fleeting, I thought. I used to have some, but where has it gone? It's a haunting feeling, knowing it was there one minute and gone the next, like that favorite pair of sunglasses that grew legs and walked away unannounced. Apparently I had been storing my confidence supply in the claw-footed bathtub of my psyche. The one with an apparent leak. 'Cause it's gone, baby, gone.

The timing is wretched. First, I lost (most of) my job. But then (and more upsetting, it seems) my son's voice dropped an octave and he started giving off strange vibes. My vibe-reading told me that he suddenly had no interest in carrying on a conversation with me and that my opinion on anything and everything was completely irrelevant. Pesky, even. There were stronger vibes, ones that invited me to cease from interacting with his friends, teachers, coaches, and any other acquaintances that met him first. He would, I surmised, admit our relationship to others strictly on a need-to-know basis.

It's not just me, either (which helps my confidence a smidge). Ryan took him to school one morning after a dentist appointment. He walked in the building with our son, only to find himself suddenly several paces behind. He started to say something to him in the crowded hallway and was met with a quick "We don't know each other" glance, followed by a bionic stride to distance the two of them by at least two zip codes. Guilt by disassociation.

"It was the strangest thing," Ryan said to me afterward. He confronted Christian about it later that same night, who plead innocent.

"What was that all about?" Ryan asked him. "I work with kids your age all the time. I'm young and cool. Why would you be embarrassed of me?"

I hated to break it to him, but stating that you're young and cool sort of immediately invalidates the claim. Christian whatevered us both with a shrug and went downstairs in the basement to obliterate rival villains/sports teams/spy networks with his Playstation controller.

"I feel like he's lost to me," I said. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I'd even had time to think about them. But that's how it feels a lot of the time. Sure, there are moments of lucidity, when his pre-teen self bobs to the surface to mingle with us---he might laugh at one of our jokes or voluntarily remain in the same room---but they are bittersweet moments that never last for long. Sooner or later, a text comes through on his cell phone, and he dives back down into the deep blue new world of his adolescence.

I find that every time I talk to him, I'm telling him what to do, what to straighten, what to pick up, what to tuck in, what to comb, what to read, and what to take his feet off of. It's like an involuntary act, a form of Parenting Turrets Syndrome, which has so much less to do with his need for regulation and so much more to do with my need to remind myself that I'm his mom.

I had confidence before Christian was born, right up until the moment they put him in my arms to send us home from the hospital together. Any confidence I gained after that point was hard earned, but eventually it came. I got comfortable in our routines, and for a long while I sort of knew what I was doing. I should know by now that those feelings of self-assurance (particularly in the realm of parenting) are the quiet before the scream, the calm before the storm, the smooth side of Life's sandpaper.

My friend once said that her children were taken over at age 12 by alien life forms, only to be returned mostly unscathed at age 20. She came to accept it, expect it, and eventually laugh about it. It seemed like a sweet anecdote to me at the time. You know, when my kid was six and liked to snuggle before bedtime. (Waaaaaaaaaaa!)

This afternoon I ran an errand, heading to a place I hadn't been before. I plugged the address into the GPS in my car and put the car in drive. I pulled out of my driveway, and was flooded with memories of using that GPS every time I stepped outside my door when we first moved here. I practically needed it to find the mailbox. Back then I couldn't imagine the day would ever arrive that I would drive out on my own, knowing exactly where I was going and precisely how to get there. I honestly don't remember when I stopped needing it every day; it's been quite a while now. I guess it's just the way things go. The unimaginable slowly becomes the norm. The days we think will never come arrive without announcement.

I'm going to remind myself that it's a good thing.

Some Thoughts On Personal Safety

2011-03-01T17:18:00.000-05:00

I passed a frog on my walk yesterday. He was crossing my path, making his way from the little pond, across the road and toward the lake. It's strange to encounter animals that you're used to seeing only in animation. His slow, deliberate hop was so grandiose, it was like a caricature of a real frog. I guess I thought real frogs were much less dramatic. Perhaps he was an actor frog.

His long legs extended at least a foot launching him into a wet plop on the asphalt as he began his real life game of Frogger. (Lucky for him, it wasn't rush hour.) He seemed to be in no hurry, resting thoughtfully in my path. It makes no sense, but I was nervous as I got close, as I am with all animals despite their size. I know I'm bigger, more threatening, and higher on the food chain, but I don't like taking anything for granted. I want to be ready for any surprise attack or sudden, threatening moves such as whipping out a tiny banjo and singing about rainbows.

I passed him without incident, keeping my 3.3 mph pace. I got a few strides beyond him when I felt that eerie feeling of being watched. By the frog. I whipped around, one hand in karate position, the other securing my phone for a call to 911 if necessary. He pretended to ignore me.

For the record, Mark Zuckerberg, I thought of it first.

2011-02-24T17:27:00.000-05:00

You know what facebook is missing?

Foes.

It would be so much easier to keep track of everyone in your life on one social network, instead of flipping between facebook for your friends and buttfacebook for your enemies.

There Is No "We" in "Mole"

2011-02-23T15:28:00.002-05:00

I think it's time to talk about the mole. I mean, the Mole, capitalized as the proper noun that it is. You know, the one on my face, just above my left eye. Don't pretend you haven't seen it. I'm stepping out of denial now and we don't have to play nice anymore.

Last week the Mole filed for its own Social Security Card and a Target Visa line of credit. Yesterday the Mole retained an attorney and requested an official trademark symbol. It's time to take this seriously. The Mole is getting out of control.

Most of the time I pretend it's not there. Some of the time I pretend it's not that big. One time, at least a dozen years ago, my cute little niece was drawing a portrait of me with her crayons. She drew lots of curly hair, two brown eyes, a nose, mouth, and a giant reddish blob above one of my eyes.

"What's that?" I remember asking.
"It's that thing on your face," she said.

I felt dumb then. I feel dumberer now. I didn't mean to let it get this far. In my heart of hearts, I thought we could be friends, Mole and I, but partnerships are historically difficult. It's time I go all Egyptian on this mole and revolt. Ultimately this will involve the help of a licensed dermatologist, but in the mean time I'm going to take immediate action to let Mole know that I'm serious. Today I'm going to de-friend it on facebook and stop following it on Twitter. And when it texts me later, I'm totally not going to respond.

Our Circus Can't Beat Up Anybody Else's Circus

2011-02-21T23:02:00.002-05:00

I did something stupid over the weekend. I went to see the circus. It was so underwhelming, I strongly urge the owners to rename it, "Mediocre Show on Earth."

The last time I saw the circus was in 1988. My grandfather treated my family to the show. He was old, in the beginnings of his decline. It was a Saturday afternoon. I wore a red dress. The show, as I recall, was spectacular. The clowns were so funny, the animals were so majestic, the contortionists were so bendy, the stunts were so life-threatening, and the trapeze absolutely blew my mind. In short, the experience was magical.

I wanted to revisit the circus many times since then, but was turned off because of alleged animal abuse. I boycotted the circus for as long as I could possibly stand it, right up until Saturday. I'm not sure why I decided to give in. After all, I was on a 23-year streak. I guess I sort of hoped that the allegations were either false or no longer an issue. Plus, who are we to say that elephants don't like wearing sequins? (See how easy it is to break down your moral fiber with only a little justification?)

If only I'd been warned that the real reason to boycott the circus is that it has taken a serious nose dive into the Snore Zone. For example, there were fewer clowns this time, and they were not even remotely funny. I know we're in a recession, but is funny that expensive? Did funny have to get cut out of the budget? I walk around being funny all day long for free! If it were up to me, I would have given the horribly annoying musical numbers the axe instead.

There were very few stunts in the show---no ladies doing handstands on top of galloping horses, no tiny Asian men folding themselves into 3 x 5 index cards, and no trapeze artists flying through the air by their teeth. The best we got was a man catapulted across the stage shortly after being lit on fire. It was semi-impressive if I hadn't SEEN IT EVERY NIGHT ON DAVID LETTERMAN IN 2006. Plus, they gave the guy a giant inflatable landing pad and a crew with fire extinguishers to greet him there. Where's the excitement in that?

I wanted to like the circus, I really did. I went in ready to give it my all. And I would have been satisfied if only it had maintained the 1988 status quo. But truthfully, I was hoping it had become bigger and better as most great American industries do, like our car manufacturing and healthcare system. Oh wait.

But seriously, I was semi-expecting that the circus of 2011 would be all thrilling and edgy. You know, I thought maybe they'd have one of the lions escape from the cage, jump into the crowd and eat a kid. Then, just before the crowd tramples each other on the way out of the building, the lion runs back to the cage, vomits the kid out whole and unscathed at the feet of the burly tamer to the jaw-dropping surprise of the audience. The lion takes a deep bow as the crowd erupts into applause. The lion tamer then lifts the kid---who is actually a pygmy circus performer disguised as a kid---onto his shoulders. And all of this, of course, is going on as trapeze artists are flying around the big top on fire, practicing contortion moves. Now THAT'S thrilling and edgy. That's the circus of 2011.

Hey, Circus, you can actually have that idea for free. You're welcome.

All Right, Let the Birthday Wishes Start Pouring In

2011-02-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

Today I turn 34. And I've been wondering lately, when is it that being young is no longer part of your identity? I've always felt young, being a younger sister and a young mother and such. But when does that start to slip away?

It's also Ryan's birthday today. Same day, same year. Wouldn't it be awful if one day, we thought we were going on the Oprah show to win a new car or dream vacation, but we were really going because Oprah was going to surprise us on national television with the shocking discovery that we are actually fraternal twins? Eeewwwwww. I hate Oprah.

In other news, this ailing blog turned 5 yesterday. Five entire years of blogging. I started blogging when I was 29, living in Utah, putting Ryan through school, and wondering if Max would ever be able to talk. Feels like a lifetime ago. Wow.

So, of course, there's lots of celebrating going on around here today. Except that we are on a spending freeze now, since we're headed to Paris next month. And we're on an eating freeze so that we can be skinny in Paris next month. Basically, we're sitting around on the couch eating lettuce today. It's going to be epic.

In a Bizarre Turn of Events

2011-02-16T10:41:00.003-05:00

Ryan bought us tickets to Paris yesterday. He stumbled upon a ridiculously low airfare, $82.60 each way, $165 round trip. It must have been some sort of error, that price, because it only lasted about 10 minutes. But we got them AND THEY CAN'T TAKE THEM BACK! We're still sort of paralyzed with wonder and confusion. We're taking the kids, plus our hilarious neighbor and her son, Christian's best friend. We leave in about a month.

I told Ryan this is my birthday present. When I told my dad about it, he said, "How are you going to top that next year?"

I thought about it. Next year for my birthday, Ryan can simply say, "Remember when I found us tickets to Paris for $83?" And I will bask in the awesomeness again. It will be present enough.

I laid in bed last night, unable to sleep, visions of baguettes dancing in my head. I began planning our wardrobes. I'm going to dress myself in black, with a parade of berets and red lipstick. I'm going to dress my children as mimes. I'm going to force Ryan to slick his hair down and don a thin mustache.

I hope some poor Delta employee didn't get fired for accidentally selling flights to Paris for $82.60, but if he did, I hope he knows how much it meant to me that he did it.

Life is so unpredictable.

Now we have to figure out what to do when we get there. Do you have any great suggestions? Tips? Must sees? Must eats? Great hotels or areas to stay? Fun activities for our motley crew of adults, teens, and tweens?

Various Reasons Why I Haven't Been Blogging

2011-02-15T15:16:00.000-05:00

I've been eating.
I've been accidentally falling into a coma at 9:00 every night.
I've been working on my novel.
I've been avoiding working on my novel.
I've been watching the Real Housewives of Anywhere.
I've been watching the reunion shows of the Real Housewives of Anywhere.
I've been having deep, meaningful conversations with my dog.
I've been attending a billion basketball games.
I've been doing a lot of push-ups.
I've been worrying about people I love.
I've been cursing at the weather man and his endless stream of depressing news.
I've been not scrubbing my toilets.
I've been cuddling up in my Snuggie.
I've been walking out to the mailbox.
I've been texting.
I've been watching the Food Network.
I've been eating a lot of sushi.
I've been going to Disneyland.
I've been inspecting my cuticles.
I've been wondering if I like blogging anymore.
I've been hanging out with my funny neighbors.
I've been considering a new couch.
I've been reading books.
I've been contemplating the meaning of life.
I've been browsing online marketplaces.
I've been looking up the lyrics to rap songs my son wants to download.
I've been working some, but not enough.
I've been dreaming of going places, warm places.
I've been drinking lots of water.

In other words, I've been biz-aaaaay. What have you been up to?

Love Is Sometimes Hard to Explain

2011-02-14T14:22:00.001-05:00

I gave him a swirly, romantic valentine card in spanish. Neither of us speak spanish.

He gave me a valentine card with a cow on the front. It was almost as good as the bunny card of 2007.

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

Of Failed Viaries and Holy Jeans

2011-02-11T10:22:00.001-05:00

I just failed at three attempts to make you a video. It's the thing to do these days, the video on the blog. I refuse to call it a vlog, however. I hate that word. I barely tolerate the word blog, but vlog? Nope. Can't do it. Maybe if I make one I will call it a viary or a vournal or, hey---a video! I like the word video. It's got a great 80s ring to it. Or perhaps I will call it a film, because I'm artistic like that.

On my video/film I was showing off my new glasses. They replaced my old pair with Transitions Lenses. At the time, I was very excited about Transitions Lenses, but they didn't really work for me. The actual transition of those glasses wasn't so much from clear to tinted lenses, as much as a transformation from decent looking glasses to extremely dorky glasses. Other people (my dear dad included) are rocking the Transitions Lenses, but sadly I could not. Life is much better now with good, old-fashioned plastic lenses that make me squint and get a piercing headache in sunlight.

Speaking of sunlight, I have some exciting news to share! Despite what the groundhog predicted, I can assure you that spring is just around the corner. Why? Because the other day as I was retrieving clothes from Max's drawers for him to wear to school, I grabbed a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. I put it back and grabbed another, and guess what? That pair had a hole in the knee as well. I traded it for a third pair and, again, found a hole in the knee. I was just about to growl, when I realized what this all meant. These are the pants that were purchased in early September and they are wearing out! Every year, just as I'm on the verge of replacing all the hole-y jeans, I realize that it's not worth it because the kids are ready to wear shorts. Glory, glory hallelujah! I might make it after all! As it stands, Max only has one more pairs of jeans without holes. I figure it should only be a few more weeks before the last pair gives up the threadbare ghost and ushers in a new season.

Thanks for checking in if you're still checking in. And happy almost-spring!

100 Things About Me

2011-01-23T23:46:00.001-05:00

I know this is so 2006, but I like this exercise.

I have brown eyes.
My oldest child is only an inch shorter than me right now.
I have the beginnings of a bad knee.
I was born at home.
I like to eat.
I get up every morning at 6:40.
I am currently trying to reconcile my lifelong rift with winter.
I'm a friendly person, but a bit of a loner.
I keep my fingernails short.
I am about to turn 34.
I enjoy the liberal daily use of good smelling lotion.
I like my dog, but sometimes fear that I don't show her enough love.
I'm the sixth of eight children.
I like to learn a little bit about a lot of things.
I hate it when my home phone rings; it's almost never someone I want to talk to.
I enjoy cooking most of the time.
I love singer/songwriters.
Almost every bit of advice or scolding I give to Christian is something I should use myself.
I love my house.
I used to leave my contacts in for months; now I take them out every night.
I'm in love with my husband.
I think I want to go to the circus for my birthday.
I am falling out of love with blogging.
I enjoy vacuuming.
I do not enjoy dusting.
I hate cleaning out the fridge.
Someday I'd like to learn more about the stock market.
I'm working on a novel. The process intimidates and terrifies me.
I crave summer like a drug.
I would have enjoyed math more in my youth if someone had explained that it's one of very few things in life that result in a "right answer."
I like texting.
I like old buildings.
I love doing laundry and folding laundry, but I hate putting it away.
I have decided to consciously stop wishing things were different about myself. What a waste.
I think David Gergen is the best political commentator ever.
I used to hate chewing gum until I realized that I could chew it for only a few minutes and then spit it out. Turns out, I'm in charge of my gum!
I enjoy walking outside more than any other form of exercise.
I am a huge fan of carbohydrates.
I like driving my car.
One of my pet peeves is people who stand right outside the entrance of buildings smoking.
Sometimes I feel like a good writer and sometimes I feel like a crappy writer.
I feel like I've become much more serious in the last few months and I don't like it.
I'd like to have more ambition, but I also want to feel content.
I no longer have a toenail fungus.
I am genuinely tired of reading about war: in fiction, in nonfiction, in real time.
I am more funny on paper than I am in real life.
I am not competitive with others.
I really try to be a good parent, and I think that most of the time I am.
I used to be afraid of semicolons; now I just don't like them.
I would never want to re-live my twenties.
I would never want to re-live my teens.
I am saddened when I hear of unhappy childhoods.
I believe in working hard, but also making lots of time for fun.
I love A Prairie Home Companion on NPR.
Even though I am a woman, there is a lot that I don't understand about women.
Give me sushi and I'll be happy.
I'm overwhelmed sometimes by how much I love my kids.
I am continually amazed by Ryan and his accomplishments.
I can waste an entire day with little to no effort at all.
I am a longtime user of Proactiv Solution, and a sucker for most infomercials.
In my opinion, traveling is not only fun, but absolutely necessary. Every place I've ever visited has changed me and my view of the world.
I want to travel more. Lots more.
I think bridges are jaw-dropping structures.
I worry about my dad's health sometimes. I want him to live a long, long time.
I don't worry about my mom's health so much. She was a health nut before health nuts were cool.
One of my favorite quotes to ponder came from Mad Men: "Nobody knows what's wrong with themselves, but everybody else can see it right away."
I'm trying to figure out what everybody else can see right away about me.
I love my brothers and sisters.
I like to sleep with a foot sticking out of the covers.
I am not afraid of or opposed to killing spiders.
I have nice handwriting.
I have bad hearing.
I think it's important to listen to intelligent people who disagree with you.
I used to love David Letterman until he was revealed to be a dirty old man.
I love the energy in restaurants.
I use a lot of brown sugar in my cooking.
I don't understand people who are difficult and abrasive.
Sometimes I want another child, but most of the time I don't.
The older I get, the more I believe that faith is an intensely personal process.
The other day I remembered something really mean I did when I was 12.
I fear that I will never get used to the east coast greet-with-a-kiss-on-the-cheek thing. Awkward.
I really enjoy and appreciate fast food sometimes.
I don't have much interest in super fancy restaurants.
I don't think I have enough confidence in myself.
I am mildly obsessed with This American Life.
I prefer showers to baths.
I truly enjoy an un-rushed trip to Target.
Sometimes, if I really think about it, the momentum of technology can really freak me out.
I haven't made burritos for a long time.
I feel sad that Ryan's parents are dead.
I love the last mushy bite of an ice cream cone.
I am in love with the beach.
I wish I would have known my grandparents
I have music playing all the time. (Just like my mom.)
I am short.
I am nervous to be the parent of a teenager.
I check my email all the time.
I don't keep a regular journal.
I am tired.
I like grapes.

Beware of Betty

2011-01-18T20:22:00.000-05:00

Last night I had a terrible nightmare. Betty White (who was somehow Ryan's grandmother in the dream) was not only a celebrated star of the small and silver screens, but also a deranged serial killer. And somehow I was the only one who figured it out while she and I were alone in the basement.

I know the terror is hard for you to imagine, what with the pleasant smile she sports, the tufts of golden white hair on her head, and the soft velour track suit, but it was bone chilling terror I experienced. Moments before I was hacked into pieces by Betty White, I drifted out of the dream. I realized that I was safe in my bed, but the reality of the dream was so strong that I spent several minutes under my covers considering a few important questions as my heart rate returned to normal:

Is Betty White really a serial killer?
Is Betty White really my grandmother-in-law?
Does Anderson Cooper know about any of this?
I'm safe now, but is it possible that Betty White is standing at the foot of my bed with an axe?

All day long I've been a little off balance. I mean, if you can't trust Betty White, who can you trust?

Would You?

2011-01-04T16:22:00.001-05:00

In late December, I was getting bummed about the very practical assortment of Christmas gifts I'd acquired for Ryan: boots, a coat, a beard trimmer, a travel case for bathroom supplies.

"You're going to have a boring Christmas," I warned him. "Very practical."

"Oh goodie," he replied.

A few days later, I got an email from Groupon announcing the daily deal. It was very non-practical. I pursed my lips. I stroked my chin. I considered the possibility. I imagined the surprise. I clicked "Buy Now!"

On Christmas morning, after the boots, coat, beard trimmer, and travel case had been opened, I handed Ryan a final box to unwrap. Inside he found one of the kids toys---an action figure in a flight suit taped to another small package containing a toy plane.

"I don't get it," he said.

"Keep going," I said, pointing to the rolled papers tied with ribbon.

"Should I be concerned that this action figure is missing a foot?" he asked.

I guess I hadn't inspected it closely before I taped it to the plane.

"Pay no attention to that," I said.

He opened the papers to open the true surprise: a gift certificate for a skydive, the very antithesis of boots, coats, beard trimmers, and travel cases. What happened next explains a lot about Ryan, me, and everyone else we know. First, he spent a couple of hours researching the company, customer/victim reviews, and most importantly, the mortality rates of skydiving. He was relieved to find that after some major changes to regulations in the 90's, very few people die anymore from skydiving. It's around one in every 550,000.

But still, he reminded me, there has to be that one.

I should mention that there were two gift certificates, one for him and one for me. I attempted to get my neighbor friend to buy one for her husband for Christmas. I would spend half as much and we could send them up together. She immediately killed the idea. Her husband isn't into flinging himself from flying planes, she explained. Sure, I replied, but are you into flinging him from a flying plane? She stuck to her guns. I figured I couldn't send Ryan up alone, so I bought another dive for me.

I didn't study the statistics, read customer reviews, or research the company. I do get butterflies and a mild case of diarrhea every time I think about the actual activity, but I'm more or less committed to participating. I buy into the belief that if other people, including many senior citizens, get a kick out of it and live through it, why not me?

At this point, Ryan is about 60% committed to the idea, but is reserving his final decision until later. I think the action figure with the missing foot is haunting him a little.

Since the time he opened the gift, he's asked everybody he knows if they'd do it, and we're both surprised at the findings. Most people say no, thank you very much. More women say yes. My dad says he might have in a younger day. My friend says she would if she had better knees. Christian says he wouldn't, not in a million years, and by the way, we'd better not die if we decide to do it.

Now I'm wondering where you stand on the issue. Would you jump? Have you jumped? Tell me all about it. I want to know. I think.

Emotional Growth: As Seen On TV

2011-01-02T23:32:00.001-05:00

Something is happening to me. It's the kind of thing I expected to happen around the time of Christian's high school graduation or maybe when I decrease the time between my hair appointments to keep up the blondification of the increasing gray hairs. As it is, I am only 33 years old with only one silver eyelash---a persistent one I have to keep plucking out---and two little boys who still get excited about Legos. But still, something is happening to me.

Maybe I brought it on prematurely with the purchase of the Clapper, a product I've fallen in love with since its arrival at my doorstep last month. We have a wonderful working relationship, the Clapper and I. I stand in applause and it lights up my life, and then we do it again in reverse. As much as I love the Clapper, maybe it's the cause of the something that's happening to me.

The something is a haunting, a mild ache in my chest, a tendency to be sentimental, reflective, and quick to produce tears. It happens at inopportune times, like at Max's second grade class program a few weeks ago. The class was strung across the room singing a cheery song about being America's kids, America's future. I cried because it was true. It was very inconvenient. Most everybody else was chuckling at all the nose-picking and fidgeting of America's future. But I was crying. I was also crying because of the old wrinkled granny in the audience who was shaking her head and lamenting about the number of Mexican kids in the class. She didn't think they should be part of America's future. That made me cry too.

In the name of full disclosure as I ponder this mystery, I should also admit that I have recently been outfitted with a Snuggie. I did it to myself. In fact, I outfitted the entire family in them for Christmas. We don them while watching movies together or reading books. Today I found Max in his tan church pants, no shirt, and his child-size blue Snuggie worn backward, robe-style. He resembled a young, blond Moses. He parted the couch pillows and settled into a cartoon. He's America's future, you know. I'm wearing my Snuggie as I type this, and I am comfortable declaring my affection for it. The Snuggies are wonderful. Ridiculous? Yes. The cause of my sentimental streak? Perhaps.

Maybe the combination of the Clapper and the Snuggie is the reason why, at plenty o'clock one morning I was alone by the Christmas tree, watching a movie about a family. There were funny parts that made me laugh and sad parts that opened floodgates of emotion. And instead of policing the emotion and rationing its release, I surrendered to it. I let the tears and heavy sighs have a free-for-all with me. I bathed in all of the wonderful sadness. If I'd had a spoon nearby, I would have eaten it. I was wrapped in an overwhelming feeling of content. My soul reached from the inside out, tugged at my ear and whispered, "Just FEEL!"

The feeling thing is a big part of the something going on with me. It's not just feeling emotions at classroom programs and midnight movie viewings, though. It's a new version of feeling, an emotional upgrade of sorts to my internal software. The emotions are accompanied by a new understanding that I have no need to transform them, explain them, or resolve them as I used to believe. I don't have to find ways to turn sad into happy, scared into secure, lonely into loved. Everything is what it is. Feel it, embrace it, and let it go.

Is all this written in the fine print of the Clapper user manual? I'm not sure. I throw away users manuals.

If it's true that these As Seen On TV products propel the aging process and its accompanying maturity, I'm conflicted. I'm enjoying my new outlook on life, not to mention the comfort and convenience of on-demand ambient lighting and soft fleece. But are there other, less-enlightening side effects headed my way? Hot flashes? Hip replacements? Bingo nights? Only time will tell.

In the mean time, however, I'm going to put off ordering the Perfect Brownie Pan or the Microwave Pasta Boat. I can only handle so much wisdom at once.

A Year of Magic

2010-12-31T11:08:00.000-05:00

I took this photo on my walk this morning using a retro camera app for added effect. But it's not the retro camera app that is so cool about this picture. Look closer. See the little black blob at the top of the tree? It's a bald eagle. A real, live American Bald Eagle---white head, golden beak, majestic stance.

I have to admit, it was pretty magical to come upon it. We were awestruck. It sat perfectly still as we walked along below it. I'm going to take it as a good sign, today being New Year's Eve and all. In many ways 2010 was a nice year, but in so many others, it kicked my trash as well as the trash of so many of my loved ones. I'm ready for a new year. I have high hopes for 2011, for myself and for my loved ones. I'm ready for a little bit of magic, some delightful miracles, and some unexpected wonders.

Are you ready, too?

'Twas the Monday Before Christmas...

2010-12-20T22:42:00.002-05:00

And all through the house,
There was crap that needed to be put away.
The kids were in bed
And there was a giant pile of laundry
To be folded.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Mama (in her ratty sweats)
Tore open the window
And dumped all the laundry outside.
Problem solved.

Playing Mind Games With My Christmas Tree

2010-12-19T22:32:00.003-05:00

I'm stalking my Christmas tree. I can't leave it alone. I spend almost all my time right near it, inching my way on the couch to be within arm's/branch's reach. Sometimes I switch to the chair on the other side of it; the view is nice from there too. I wonder if the tree wants me to back off and find some other friends. I wonder if it thinks I should have spent more time fluffing its artificial branches when I set it up. I wonder if it feels naked in the back where there aren't any ornaments. I wonder if it wants to be friends on facebook. I wonder why it never writes clever messages to me on Twitter. I wonder if it knows that I'm considering a real tree next year. Heyyyyy. That would be a game changer, wouldn't it?

Wait, it would say, I don't understand. You can't leave me alone, for crying out loud! And now you're talking about replacing me?

I bet that would make my tree less critical of my overbearing codependence. Who's calling the shots now, tree, huh?

10 Things I've Never Told You Before

2010-12-17T17:14:00.000-05:00

I'm afraid of mountain men.
I bite the insides of my cheeks.
I sometimes sleep without a pillow.
I am suspicious of Giada de Laurentiis, though I can't explain why.
Every day, doing my hair feels like an enormous gamble.
I love driving my car.
I like wearing hats. (See number 5.)
I used to have the book How the Grinch Stole Christmas memorized.
I don't like sporting events because the end is not pre-determined, which I think is why most people like sporting events.
When people talk baby talk without a baby (or dog) present, it makes me feel violent. I hate baby talk.

Christmas Came Early

2010-12-15T15:25:00.002-05:00

Confession: I bought myself a Christmas gift.
(I almost got it for free, so that's okay, right?)
It is the Clapper.
Actually, it's the Clapper Plus (with a remote control!).
I couldn't wait for Christmas.
(Because I'm a parent now and nobody can tell me what to do.)
Tore it open, right there in the kitchen.
I am beyond excited about it.
Because now I don't have to climb over my living room couch to turn the lamps on.
Go ahead, make fun.
Someday you'll realize,
As I did,
That it's actually a marvelous invention.

Updates, updates, updates

2010-12-13T10:50:00.000-05:00

Let's play catch-up, shall we? It's a really fun game in which I write down all the stuff I've been doing so that I remember it in ten years. You can read it if you want. Or, you can look at this random picture of my kids.

So much of our daily life is explained in this one simple picture. (Sigh.)

Now, for the updates:

We ate Thanksgiving dinner alone at a nice-ish buffet at Longwood Gardens. It was meh. A few days later, we had Thanksgiving Do Over that I cooked myself. It was much better. I highly recommend doing over holidays that aren't quite right.

A week after Thanksgiving, we flew out to Utah for a quick holiday visit and had a great, fun-filled, exhausting time. Here's a shot of my family party. Believe it or not, there are several family members not in the photo.

Then, that night, we had Ryan's family party. Jesse and his band, Herod the Fink, performed and rocked the house with their awesome Christmas tunes. (Have you bought the CD yet?)

We came home to Lucy, who yipped and pawed at my leg for 45 entire minutes and made me promise to never, ever leave her again.

Another update: I've been keeping (somewhat) busy with freelance work, thanks to a couple of great ad agencies in town who have been funneling work my way. My new motto is, "No project is too small!" However, I'm starting a big new project this week and, hopefully, an even bigger project in January. Thanks again for all the well-wishing and networking, my friends.

And yet another update: Last week, I pulled out my withering, neglected novel-in-progress. Even though it's a computer document, a giant puff of dust shot out of my computer screen when I opened it. I cringed, but I pushed up my sleeves and started writing again. It felt good.

Guess what? Another update: Ryan spent a few days last week in DC working on a very exciting project. I can't give you all the details, but he is now one degree of separation from President Obama, which means he is only TWO DEGREES OF SEPARATION FROM OPRAH! He doesn't like to admit it, but he's sort of a big deal.

Would you like one more update? Christian tried out and made his middle school basketball team last week. Yahoo! Later today I plan to purchase a season's worth of non-toxic, non-comedogenic paint (in school colors, of course) to paint my face and belly for all of the home games. You know, because I'm a cool mom.

We're all caught up now. Have a wonderful Monday.

Reading Time

2010-12-08T22:37:00.000-05:00

Scene: In the kitchen, dutifully making dinner, I call to Max in the family room to get a book to read for homework. Several minutes later, he still hasn't appeared with the book.

Me: Max! For the tenth time, go get a book to read!

Max: I did!

Me: Which one did you choose?

Max: The Crap in the Bathtub!

Me: Which one?!

Max: The Crap in the Bathtub!

Me: Max, read the title again.

Max: What do you mean? It says, The Crap in the Bathtub!

Me: No it doesn't. Read it again. Carefully.

Max: Ohhhhhh. The Carp in the Bathtub.

The Best Five Dollars You'll Spend This Season

2010-12-07T15:26:00.002-05:00

Today is my brother Jesse's birthday. (Happy birthday, Jesse!) He's in a band called Herod the Fink. And his band is a Christmas band. (How cool is that?) It's all original music about Christmas and the ideas and feelings---silly and serious---that fill our hearts this time of year. The album is so good. It's my personal Christmas soundtrack this year. Here is my favorite song; it's called Back to 337, which is also the name of the album. (If you're reading on Google Reader, you'll have to come on over to my actual site to get the link.)

People, you can download the entire album for only five piddley dollars. You should skip that combo meal and buy this album instead. It will enrich your entire season, I promise.

And one more cool thing? Jesse and his band mate Jason are putting on free concerts this season. Their dates are filling up, but if you live in Utah, you should look into having them come and rock your Christmas party. We had them rock Ryan's family party on Saturday night and it was the highlight of my trip. Find out more information on their website.

Happy birthday, Jess, and Merry Christmas to everyone else!

Guess Which One

2010-11-29T08:56:00.000-05:00

One of these boys has been drafting a Christmas list all weekend. It includes---but is certainly not limited to---the following items:

Porsche 911 all-black racing car
The best Pokémon card in the world
Infinity real dollars
A remote control helicopter with a camera
A catapult
Spy cameras
A real butler
A real guard
A massaging chair
A real cheeseburger restaurant

I like all the emphasis on "real" in this list. Because this list is truly based in reality.

Okay, time's up. Did you figure out who's list it is?

One Thankful Memory

2010-11-24T15:45:00.001-05:00

Rather than flood you with a list of all my grateful minutiae (one of which is actually the word minutiae, I love to say it), I want to share a thankful memory. It came to me over the weekend and it keeps driving around my thoughts, tripping my tear ducts and making me appear to well up in emotion at completely random moments. Like during toilet paper commercials.

The memory is of my sister Leslie's little red Honda. It was old and inconsistent and sort of the anti-luxury vehicle, but I loved that car. It was cool in its own hatchback way. It didn't have a formal clutch but you did have to shift it from first to second, which I adored. I once referred to it as a semi-automatic and got an unintended big laugh. The car eventually earned the name DAMMIT!, for such was it called. (It had a knack for dying. In intersections.)

But the thing about the red Honda, the thing I'm thankful for, is the memory of seeing it pull up to my middle school at the end of the school day, my big sister Leslie behind the wheel. She picked me up and drove me away, sparing me a two mile walk and time to ruminate over another miserable day. She was a teenager with a boyfriend and girlfriends all of her own regular teenage minutiae (so thankful for that word!) and yet, she showed up again and again and again. Just to be nice. It was a little thing that meant a lot.

Did I ever thank you, Leslie? Thank you. To borrow a phrase from my 14-year-old self, Seriously, like, for reals.

This memory bubbled to the surface after discussing a blog post I came across last week. (If you were the one who shared it with me, thank you!) It gave me a lot to think about. If you have a minute, check it out.

And while we're on the subject, I'm also thankful for you, kindly blog readers. You are nice to me again and again and again. It's a little thing that means a lot. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving and eat right up to the delicate border between Blissfully Full and Mournfully Overstuffed. You deserve it.

Ten Minutes of Random

2010-11-18T21:03:00.000-05:00

Been a while since I went random on you.
I kind of stopped the random thing as soon as I sensed it was trendy.
Trendy-ness confounds me.
I am equally drawn to it and repelled by it.
Like that weird, thick space between two magnets with the same charge.
Remember when the movie Titanic came out?
That was really trendy.
I didn't see it for about three years.
Because I'm principled like that.
What was I proving and to whom?
Dunno.
Anyway, here I am, back and spouting random thoughts.
Like this one: I had an enormous zit on my lip yesterday.
It was Titanic in scope.
I tried to ignore it.
Ignoring it is recommended by Seventeen magazine.
As well as four out of five dentists.
I ignored it until 2:00 p.m.
Then I performed home surgery on it.
My eyes were watering, it hurt so bad.
It was like giving birth through a tiny pore on the edge of my lip.
I wished for an epidural.
Or a lipidural.
I also wished for lyposuction.
Because you might as well wish for a couple of things at once.
Just in case there are some 2-for-1 wishing specials.
Wish update: not granted.
None of the above.
In other news, I can't get enough of Food Network.
Especially this time of year.
I've watched approximately 144 Thanksgiving meals prepared in the last two weeks.
It fulfills me in a way that is difficult to describe.
I'm afraid, though, that when Thanksgiving rolls around, I'll only be in the mood for tacos.
But I don't care.
I'm going to watch more Food Network.
Because I'm risky like that.
One last thought.
I've been sipping a 5-hour energy drink all day.
How does the math work on that?

The Family That Saves Together

2010-11-16T23:16:00.001-05:00

Since losing most of my job a couple of weeks ago, we've been fully engaged in Operation Tight Belt around here. I have to tell you, it's pretty amazing how much money we've been able to save by doing just a few simple things, such as:

turning off lights
lowering the thermostat a bit
wearing clothes more than once
eating at home
letting the dog clean the dishes
charging the neighbor kids to use our bathroom
panhandling
shoplifting
extortion
blackmail
knocking over convenience stores

I'm happy to say that we've really grown together as a family, and you simply can't put a price on that.

(Seriously, though, things are okay here. A great big thank you to everyone who has reached out with support and networking. I am blessed with the world's best friends and family. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Good things are to come.)

Common Mistake

2010-11-15T22:33:00.001-05:00

Max: I thought up another joke for when I'm a Canadian.

Me: I think you mean comedian.

Max: Gahhh! I keep getting those confused.

Cathedrals? You Want Cathedrals?

2010-11-12T18:16:00.003-05:00

Ryan asked me why I took a trip to Europe and all I've been sharing are pictures of cars, mustards, and luggage. It's all about the story, I told him. Those are the stories that came out first.

But if you want a story about cathedrals, I can give you one.

We saw a lot of cathedrals. We saw cathedrals that were buried underground, under the city, under a new modern world.

We saw other cathedrals that were grand and foreboding and bustling with tourists.

There were some that were famous because of people who worshipped there (namely, a young Pope John Paul II).

There were some that looked like castles.

And some that were solitary, quiet and chill.

There was plenty of hauntingly beautiful stained glass.

And plenty of beautifully haunting sculpture and art.

There were cathedrals to lose yourself in.

And there were some to set you straight. (Well, at least your watch.)

Here is the thing about cathedrals---I can't help but think about the building of them. I can barely imagine the blueprints, the finding and preparing of materials, the back-breaking labor to create them. I look at the arches and steeples, practically on their tippy toes as they reach for heaven, and the thought crosses my mind that they might be trying too hard. (Bless their hearts.) I want to say Hey, Cathedral, you're coming on a bit too strong. Take it down a notch. You don't have to kill yourself, throwing up every ornate idea that ever crossed your mind. God is just as into minimalism. (I think.)

Then I realize that I have judged, something God himself advises against, and I feel sort of bad.

The truth is, cathedrals don't do it for me. In all honesty, the most spiritual moment I felt inside any one of these buildings was when I looked at this.

The picture doesn't do it justice, but I promise it was spectacular. Yes, the window itself was jaw-dropping, but it was all the fuzzy reflections on the wall that stopped me, stirred something inside. The colors were brilliant and ethereal, real yet not real in the very same moment. In retrospect, maybe that's what I missed. Maybe that's the whole entire point. Maybe the purpose of a cathedral is not about building something beautiful for God, but about building something that lets us see God's beauty reflected back. I can imagine God sighing and saying, Thanks for the pretty window, but let me show you what I can do.

I don't know. That kind of makes God seem like a one-upper, but maybe you get what I mean.

The Things We Carried

2010-11-11T17:56:00.001-05:00

Please tell me you've seen Joe Versus The Volcano. It's a fine piece of cinema and the most adorable example of the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan chemistry we all used to know and love. If you've seen it, you'll understand why I had to take a photo of this trunk in the window of Louis Vuitton in Vienna. Joe was going to jump in a volcano, and therefore needed good luggage. In fact, (SPOILER ALERT FOR A MOVIE FROM 1990!) the luggage eventually saves Joe's life.

Our luggage, on the other hand, nearly killed us on our trip. You know how people say you should pack light when you travel, especially overseas? It turns out that they were not only serious about that, but completely accurate. Lugging around your stuff, even stuff you love, sucks like a Hoover. When I packed a couple of extra shirts in my bag, they weighed only a fraction of an ounce. By the time I'd transferred them on and off two airplanes, two trains, two taxis and one bus, they weighed 23 pounds. Each.

Before he packed his bags, Ryan downloaded travel guru Rick Steve's recommended packing list. It basically said to bring two shirts, one jacket, a pair of pants and a toothbrush. Oh, and some clean underwear if you're into that sort of thing. Ryan puzzled over the list for a few minutes, then tossed it over his shoulder and said, "That guy's an idiot."

Oh, Rick Steves. We repent and grovel and request thy forgiveness.

Ryan realized pretty quickly of his mistake and tried to warn me, since I was joining him later, but the thing about life is that you really can't avoid some of the big mistakes just because people wiser and more experienced than you tell you in exact, step-by-step detail how to avoid them.

Dear Self of Early October, CURSE YOU AND YOUR AMPLE VARIETY OF WELL COORDINATED OUTFITS! Auf Wiedersehen, Mid-October Self.

To add insult to injury (or backache to arm ache), I picked up some fragile souvenirs that were made out of ceramic and (apparently) lead. That tube of mustard I blogged about? It weighs 108 pounds. The bags just kept getting heavier and heavier. And with every heave and ho, we smacked our foreheads with more and more resentment.

The next time around, we will be so wise. We will print out a new Rick Steves packing list and we will hold it lovingly in our arms. We will study it and honor it and follow it with the exactness. And when we are tempted to put that extra t-shirt into our tiny suitcase, the one that is begging to be worn overseas and immortalized in vacation photos, we will say to that extra t-shirt, "Go jump in a volcano."

Mustard as a Souvenir

2010-11-10T13:35:00.002-05:00

Not only do I prefer their cars, but I prefer Europe's cutting edge mustards, too. I picked up a few varieties as a souvenir. I've been putting mustard on pizza, pretzels, fingertips---and on Sunday, I used some in the most amazing butternut squash sauce for our pasta.

(I like how the one that looks like a tube of toothpaste, don't you?) I know I should be pacing myself, but I've got the fever. Mustard fever. And the only cure for it is more mustard.

P.S. Want the pasta sauce recipe?

Butternut Sauce

1 butternut squash, cut into two-inch cubes (I bought the pre-cut ones at Costco)

1 can chicken broth

3 cloves of minced garlic

olive oil

3 tablespoons of grated parmesan cheese

3 tablespoons of brown or dijon mustard

4 tablespoons brown sugar

salt

pepper

Directions

Put squash in an oven-safe pot or crock pot and drizzle it with olive oil, then add salt and pepper. Dump all the other ingredients in and stir together, then roast in a 250-degree oven (or the low setting on the crock pot) for at least 4 hours, or until the squash is completely mushy and the house smells good. Use a hand blender (zhuzher) or regular blender to blend it all together, making it creamy in texture. Serve over pasta (or add another can or two of chicken broth and eat it as a soup).

Czech It Out

2010-11-09T11:10:00.001-05:00

In our household, it's all about the cars. My boys are in and out of obsession with car makes, models, and other interesting specs like speed, horsepower, and how many houses one could purchase to equal the cost of one. Luxury sports cars are an especially popular subject, and given the option, I'm sure our boys would choose homelessness if given the chance to have a fine set of wheels in exchange.

If I had to guess, this sweet little Maserati is the probably the equivalent of a nice three-bedroom house with a two-car garage, plus a town home or two. We spotted it in Prague and had to take some souvenir photos of it for the boys. They were almost as giddy about it as they were about the giant tube of mentos we brought them.

A Day Alone, Plus the Most Romantic Thing Ever Said to Me

2010-11-08T17:30:00.000-05:00

In Warsaw, I spent most of one day by myself while Ryan taught. It was fun and quiet, like solitude can be. I felt so adventurous flying solo with only a couple of poorly pronounced Polish words in my pocket. I wandered in and out of shops, walked up and down the streets, and even took my lone self to lunch at a tiny café where I ordered a mile-high chicken sandwich and a tiny bottle of "Coke Light."

The sandwich was so grand, I took out my camera and documented it because there was no one across the table from me to appreciate its ginormousness. I deconstructed it with a knife and a fork, eating it in awkward pieces and wishing I had ordered the spaghetti instead.

After lunch, I wandered more. I people-watched and listened to my iPod. It was strange to have the soundtrack of my regular, suburban life playing in my ears in this foreign place. I almost turned it off, but then decided to keep it on in hopes that the next time I heard those songs they would remind me of Warsaw.

There was only one real task on my agenda and that was to find the street vendor with the oil paintings. We'd picked out a favorite two days before and tried to give the man a low-ball offer, being the savvy travelers that we are. (Smirk.) He counter-offered, but only for a little less. Our counter-counter-offer was to walk away and tell him we'd think about it. He let us walk away, which led me to believe that we'd reached the lowest price.

I left my art buying until the end of the afternoon. I found the little side street where he set up shop and reminded him of our last negotiated price. He smiled as he put the painting in an old Hugo Boss plastic bag and exchanged it for my money, tipping his hat as I walked away to meet up with Ryan.

The statue in the square was our meeting place, but it was crowded with a bunch of teenagers, so I found a spot nearby where I could wait and watch for Ryan. He spotted me before I found him. He gave a nod and then grinned as I walked toward him.

"What?" I asked, smiling back.
"I would pick you out of a crowd," he said and pulled me close.

The Remedy is the Experience

2010-11-04T16:34:00.002-04:00

Want to know the remedy for seeing too many gorgeous, ornate structures in Vienna? Visit the Hundertwassen Museum and home of modern artist Freidensreich Hundertwassen. Quirky, funky, abstract, and completely sincere, I loved wandering in his little world for a while. Even the floors aren't straight, but hilly wandering paths of brick. So cool.

His art and design made me think of someone else I know. One time my Max was looking out over the New York City skyline and sighed. "Why do all the lines have to be straight?" he wondered.

In the museum there is a quote by the artist: "The straight line is godless."

Seems like the hard questions are always answered in art.

(P.S. In personal news, I lost a big part of my job this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me in my new job search! Thank ya kindly.)

So American

2010-11-03T09:54:00.002-04:00

When we were abroad (we love that line around our house, especially said in a snooty, self-absorbed, aristocratic tone), we frequently felt stupid.

Miscommunications because of our mono-lingual state were aplenty. There was the time our friend Tim thought he was ordering one ice cream cone, but was actually ordering one teeny tiny scoop of ice cream. Or the time Ryan was yelled at by the grocery checker because he needed to purchase a plastic bag for his items and had to figure it out via charades. Or the many occasions our friend Kristin apologized, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English," when what she meant was, "I'm sorry, I only speak English."

Communication in Europe was simplified by the fact that 83% of everyone we came in contact with knew English. And, yes, you can argue that English is the language of business and commerce and the future and that's why everybody learns it, etcetera, etcetera. BUT. It is extremely humbling to walk around in a foreign land, looking for rough translations of recognizable words, and trusting that if you can't figure them out, a random teenage passerby can likely help you out. You can't help but realize that while he spent his youth learning a small handful of languages, you spent your youth trying to save the princess at the end of Mario Brothers. I'll say it now and I'll say it again, it is invaluable to spend some time as a minority.

Never in my life have I wanted to learn or speak another language. My two years of French in middle school consisted of the same five worksheets and the same five episodes of French in Action, the french equivalent of Sesame Street. I passed both years with flying colors and without even the ability to order soup du jour at a restaurant. And I was completely okay with that.

However, as I wandered around Warsaw, Vienna, and Prague, I was overwhelmed with the urge to know another language. I wanted to be able to communicate, to tell the man that he dropped his paper, to overhear what the girls at the tram station were complaining about, to ask the old woman in the square where to find the best loaf of bread.

Since I didn't know another language, I felt myself offering the far lesser next best thing, a bad French and/or Italian accent. In a crowd, I'd find myself uttering, "Eskoosee, eskoosee," or sometimes, "par-doan, par-doan." Other times, we'd be wandering a cobble stoned street and I'd unknowingly be mouthing "shockolot" over and over again.

Forget the fact that we visited neither France nor Italy. There is no reasonable explanation for this.

Like Kenny Rogers, For Example

2010-11-02T15:40:00.000-04:00

Ryan: Do you like my beard?

Me: I really like your beard.

Ryan: I'm thinking about keeping it, but I'm not sure exactly how to maintain it.

Me: You need a beard mentor.

Ryan: I do. I really do.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

2010-11-01T09:42:00.002-04:00

In Vienna, at an evening concert, during a cello solo, I figured out my entire life. I sat in the beautiful, nearly-full hall and let the music wash over me. Earlier in the concert, I had been a little transfixed on the giant chandelier in the middle of the room. I had a great view of it from our spot on the front row of the cheap seat section. During some of the especially boisterous songs, the chandelier swayed a little and turned. I realized that it must be the sound waves moving it and I was self-pleased to have noticed such a clever detail.

I guess the sound waves were moving me too, because my thoughts started turning and turning, and as the cellist performed, I began to see everything with stunning clarity. Everything that has been bothering me about myself, my world, my circle of family and loved ones, was unraveled and untangled from my thoughts, released from my heartache, and completely solved. The ones that have no solution, and therefore don't require my personal worry regime, were released to fly away. Everything was going to be fine, I realized. Within myself. Without myself.

The cellist continued. He looked as if he were performing open heart surgery on his instrument, he was so thorough and delicate and ambitious. And my heart, the one that has felt torn and heavy for months, finally seemed to be weightless and whole again. It was amazing.

And then.

There was a sound. A crackle.

Then quiet.

Then another crackle.

It came from behind. I looked over my shoulder to see a blondish, twenty-something woman digging in her giant handbag. Craaaackle. Crackle. CRACKLY-CRACKLY-CRACKLE-CRACK! I had to wonder---did she not know that we were sitting in a concert? And furthermore, that I was in the middle of figuring out my entire life?

It was the sound of stiff paper bags that I figured were holding individual Viennese pastries or brownies or other delicious sustenance. Now, I'm sympathetic to the spontaneous need for a snack, especially when it involves Viennese pastries, so I decided to forgive and forget.

But then.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle CRACKLE crack cracklecracklecracklecrackle.

I looked over my shoulder again. I watched her remove a handful of little paper bags from her purse. And what she started pulling out from them was not an assortment of petit fours, or even a delicious frankfurter, but a bunch of cheap, wooden toys to play with and show off to her friend, crackly, crackly, crackling all the while. I was aghast, which is the Viennese translation of the American English word "pissed."

In the meantime, the brilliant cellist at the opposite end of the hall, played and played while tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. And the handbag hedonist kept crackling her stupid paper bags. It was like dueling banjos, except for the lack of banjos.

I decided to pull out the Glare. Yeah, that's right, the Glare. Some of you probably didn't even know that I have a Glare, but that is because I use it with great discretion, only in moments of true need. (Because I am generally a non-confrontational pansy.) However, I summoned the Glare, affixed it to my face, and peered into the black soul of the woman with the cheap toys who was ruining the song, the concert, and also my entire life.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle. Crackle CRACKLE crackly crackly crack.

Within twenty seconds, the Glare had done its work. She looked up, her eyes met mine, and she read my face. She looked down and within a quick crackle or two she was silent.

The Glare had done its work. I put it away as the cellist crescendoed into the final measures of the song. I tried to settle back into my Zen-like state. I tried to review all the beautiful truths I had discovered. I tried to remember all that I had moments before figured out.

But I couldn't. Everything was a tangle again. The song ended, the crowd erupted into applause, and the chandelier turned and swayed. My mind was still searching as one truth bobbed up to the surface, perfectly clear and brilliant. It was: This is what you get for buying the cheap seats.

I Interrupt This Blogging Slump...

2010-10-15T09:58:00.001-04:00

...with happy photos. Many happy photos.

Like this one. This is Ollie and I'm in love with him. And don't accuse me of just falling for his looks; the boy has a great personality, too.

Here we are loaded in a minivan headed to New York City. That's James and DeDe along with my boys. James says it looks like I'm trying to show off my wedding ring in this picture.

We had an amazing few days together. We toured Washington DC, New York, as well as the mushroom capitol of the world. We spent most of our many hours of driving time playing "Hot Seat," asking each other deeply personal questions.

Here's the boys club. Aren't they cute?

Let me now interrupt this blog post to point out a disturbing trend I've noticed. It seems that my last born offspring is slowly, inexplicably, morphing into Richard Nixon. What the?

If you have information regarding this problem, please let me know. I'm officially concerned.

Anyway, back to the trip. We had a great time and looked forward to it for so long, I'm completely sulky now that it's over.

It's impossible to tell but I promise it's true, minutes after this photo was taken, Ryan did an AMAZING toddler impression. It was an oscar-worthy performance. Even Ollie liked it.

Here's one last shot of me and my brother. I'd like you to know that I didn't pin him down, sit on him, or threaten to beat him up once during his visit. And likewise, he didn't call me a fat cow. We've really grown since we were nine and six.

It was so much fun being together. However, I've been thinking about it and I've determined that it was NOT long enough, and I demand a do-over!

Who's with me?

Hollywood Flashy Crap

2010-10-11T09:28:00.002-04:00

I talked with Ryan via Skype yesterday. He was filling me in on all the Polish 411. The old town in Warsaw is amazing, he said. So far the food hasn't been spectacular, but the views, city, and people make up for it.

Later in the conversation, I asked him how people dress. I would like to blend in when I'm there and look less western, since the news channels can't shut up about the elevated terror threats in Europe directed at Americans.

"They dress pretty nice," he said, "but very toned down. Black, brown, gray. That stuff."

"Okay," I said, making mental wardrobe notes.

"I wouldn't wear all of your Hollywood flashy crap, like you're headed to a magazine shoot."

Ahem?

He said that for my safety, right?

Maybe Leroy at the post office was speaking for the Universe when he told me, "There's no need to vogue."

(My non-vogue passport photo.)

Abstract Thoughts at Almost Midnight

2010-10-10T23:15:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing about me and Life.
I work really hard on my relationship with Life.
I pay attention to it,
Make it cookies with toasted coconut,
Listen to its self-centered stories,
Send it "just because" cards in the mail,
Invite it over for dinner.
OK, I admit it: I am sort of a suck-up to Life.
I totally dig Life.
Even though it mumbles sometimes and walks too fast.
(Wait up, Life! I got short legs!)
Every now and then I think I understand Life.
Life smiles at me and tells me a funny joke about mustard,
And for five minutes I'm blissful.
I'm like, Life and I are so tight.
We totally get each other.
And then out of nowhere,
Life dumps its Diet Coke in my lap,
Grabs my ankles,
And drops me on my head.
And I'm like, Whoa! What just happened?
What the hell was that for?
Then Life just shrugs and walks away.
And I hold my head in my Diet Coke lap,
Wondering how many batches of cookies it will take
To get Life to like me again.

Dear Mom: The Morning Routine

2010-10-05T14:57:00.000-04:00

I'm going to multi-task here. In an effort to both keep up with blogging and tell my mom everything she's going to need to know while I'm gone, I'm going to write her some letters here on the ol' blogaroo. And in the event that she gets lost here while trying to find the mailbox and can't fulfill her duties, all the information will be written out and one of you dear readers can fill in for her.

Dear Mom,

The first thing you should know is that there is something wrong with Christian. Like, seriously messed up. For reasons that can't be explained, the kid gets up every morning around 6:00, sometimes earlier, without the aid of any encouragement on my part. Sometimes he uses an alarm clock, sometimes he lets his circadian rhythm naturally launch him out of his bed and into the shower. After he showers, he gets ready, makes his bed, picks up his bathroom and bedroom, and then heads downstairs to spend some time on homework or catching up on ESPN or mastering another level on one of his video games. I'd like to say that I've influenced this bizarre, responsible behavior, but I think you probably still have vivid memories of my morning lethargy, not to mention the hazardous conditions of my bedroom.

You'll make him feel most at home if you, as I do, stumble out of bed around 6:50 or 7:00, wander downstairs with eyes half-closed, wish him good morning, and ask him if he'd like anything for breakfast. Most of the time he declines, but I make him a couple of pieces of toast (with peanut butter and honey) anyway and then spend the next ten minutes begging him to eat them. He heads out to catch the bus at 7:15, lugging his overstuffed backpack. Feel free to eat the rest of his uneaten toast.

I refer to the hour of 6:50 to 7:50 as the Honeymoon phase of the morning. It goes so swimmingly, so effortlessly, you might be lulled into thinking that cartoon bluebirds are going to swoop in and begin dressing you in handmade (wingmade?) clothes from the tablecloth.

This will not happen.

Max usually has to be nudged/threatened awake, sometime around 7:40. He'll want his fuzzy red robe to put on and you'll have to resist giggling at the way he looks like a little old man in it. You can ask him what he wants for breakfast, but I don't recommend it. He'll take a full 20 minutes to contemplate it, and you just don't have that kind of time. He likes toast or yogurt or a Toad in the Road.

Max should be dressed and fed and freshly tooth-brushed by about 8:15, give or take a few minutes. He needs his homework in his backpack, as well as a snack of the toasted goldfish cracker variety. You'll want to grab a jacket and head out the door with him to join our friendly neighbors at the bus stop/mailbox for a wonderful morning chat before the bus comes to pick the kids up.

At this point, you can walk down a couple of doors to Estelle's house to join her for a morning walk on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We used to walk every morning, but Estelle has recently ditched me on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays in favor or a senior citizens water aerobics class at the local gym. I'm not sure what that means on a personal level that someone would choose pool time with the seriously bathing-suit-challenged over a brisk walk with moi, but I plan to ponder it on my lengthy flight.

Back at the house, it's just you and the dog. You should make sure that she has food (one scoop per day) and water. Do not give in to the urge to feed her whatever the kids didn't eat for breakfast, no matter how forlornly she looks at you, wincing, and trying to pretend like she has a hard life. Her life consists of napping, snuggling, eating, more napping, and low-impact resting. We should all be so lucky. That's why we get to eat peanut butter and bacon and she doesn't. There has to be some balance in the world, for crying out loud.

Feel free to indulge yourself in reading or TV, but avoid the fourth hour of the Today Show at all costs. Kathie Lee is...scary. You can dabble in dish-doing if the mood strikes, but if I were you, I'd probably sprawl out on the couch and ponder life with a bag of potato chips.

This takes care of the morning. Any questions?

Didja hear the one about the lady who flew to Poland by herself?

2010-09-27T22:54:00.000-04:00

That's right. I'm flying to Poland by myself. Ryan will already be in Poland, which will make him unavailable to fly with me. I'm not really worried about flying by myself. I've done it before. However, I do get occasional butterflies when I remember that I will have to switch planes in Paris and find baggage claim in Warsaw, when I speak neither French nor Polish. Oy vey! (I do speak a little yiddish. Will that do me any good?)

Ryan will already be in Warsaw, teaching a course at Warsaw University to Polish grad students with one of his colleagues. I will join him at the end of his teaching and then we're going to tour Warsaw, Vienna, and Prague. It's going to be an adventure, for sure, not to mention for my mom, too, who is flying out to stay with our kids when I leave. She assures me that she has no worries about managing the kids, but she is terrified of getting lost on the way to our mailbox. She comes from the land of wide, straight roads, and, well, we don't.

I've asked the neighbors to watch out for her, to offer directions and even escort her if necessary. The fact that there is a GPS in the car seems to bring her no comfort. The fact that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west provides no relief. The fact that I'm going to provide her with a list of addresses of any and every place she could possibly need or want to go offers her no solace. However, the bulk case of signal flares I ordered in the event of her getting lost is giving some peace of mind. I have also advised her to wear reflective neon clothing and to leave a small trail of breadcrumbs everywhere she goes.

I know it's not always wise to blog about upcoming travel. However, I am confident that I have taken all necessary security precautions. The house will be protected by our alarm company, our terrifying guard dog, and our short-tempered Samoan bodyguard, Mewannacutchoo.

Everything's going to be fine.

Dear Blog, It's not you. It's me.

2010-09-26T23:23:00.000-04:00

Not sure why the words aren't coming so easily these days. Well, actually, that's not true. I'm pretty sure I know exactly why. My mind and heart have been caught up in some matters that aren't blogable and I've never been very good at blogging-as-usual when my heart and mind are elsewhere. It turns out that my mind and heart are key players in this writing thingie I do. (I shouldn't have typed that out; they're going to come begging for a raise.)

Anyhoodle, I'm going to try harder to get both of them on board to keep up here. Because I miss this. I miss you.

In other news, did I tell you that I'm headed out of town next month? In fact, I'm headed out of state, country, time zone, and foods I'm familiar with. I'm going to cross an ocean, people. And--get this--I'm flying alone. Eeek!

But all of that is a story for another day. It's late now and I'm going to retire. But I promise I'll be back. You'll be here, won't you?

Ten Thoughts for a Tuesday and an Unrelated Photo

2010-09-21T15:35:00.000-04:00

Bad economy! Go to your room!
I am in a funk. Funny how being in a funk does not make me feel funky.
J.D. and D.D. arrive in eight days. That makes me feel funky.
The forecast has been spectacular.
I like doing laundry, which I realize means something is wrong with me.
If a genie granted me three wishes, one of them would be to have a British accent. (I cannot reveal the other two because they would blow your freaking mind.)
I found some amazing knives the other day at TJ Maxx, and cut my finger within 12 hours of the purchase. I am not used to amazing knives.
I keep ordering weird, unknown movies on Netflix, expecting to be delighted. Turns out, some weird, unknown movies are unknown for a reason.
The other day we saw a Chevy Citation on the road. I used to drive one. It was blue.
I love my sisters. I love other people too, of course, but I'm dedicating this thought to the two of them.

Christian just got home from school. I forced him to take a picture with me.

A Ringing Endorsement

2010-09-16T17:40:00.001-04:00

These are my friends Annie and Dan.

They are ready to be parents.

Guess what kind of parents they will be?

The best kind.

The kind that will read story books every night before bed.

The kind that will keep track of teeth brushing, fingernail clipping, and vegetable intake.

The kind that will say no when you should say no, and yes when you should say yes.

The kind that will surround their kids with loving cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

The kind that will make sure their kids never stay up or out too late (unless there's a really good reason).

The kind that will make birthdays and holidays and even normal days special.

The kind that will check for monsters under the bed and witches in the closet every night, if needed.

The kind that will wipe noses, clean up puke, and pull all-nighters when the occasion calls.

The kind that will give their kids tedious chores that they won't appreciate until adulthood.

The kind that will continue to buy Legos even after they step on a few strays

left in the middle of the floor.

The kind that will gladly attend parent teacher conference and back to school night
and PTA meeting and soccer practice and piano recitals and fund raiser meetings

and even a few blood-curdling tween concerts.

The kind that will be good examples of hard work and a strong marriage.

The kind that will answer all the tough questions as best they can,

and admit when they don't know any more.

The kind that will smile and laugh at lame-o first grade jokes.

The kind that will give pep talks, hugs, and unsolicited advice,
no matter how many times the eyes roll.

The kind that any kid would be exceptionally lucky to have.

The kind our world needs more of.

Annie and Dan are adoptive parents, waiting for a miracle.

I am their friend who is happy to share their story.

You know, because.

Because maybe you know someone.

Or maybe you know of someone.

Or maybe you will know someone.

Someone who isn't able to care for a child.

Someone who is looking for a solution to a heart-wrenching problem.

And maybe you will think, Hey! I think I know who could help.

And maybe you will remember Annie and Dan.

They even have a website with more of their information.

Check it out.

Spread the word, if you like.

Hug your kids.

And keep my friends in the back of your mind.

This Story Is Way Shorter Than It Looks

2010-09-15T22:58:00.000-04:00

I'm suffering from a chronic case of writer's block
I think I need a strong antibiotic
And perhaps some sort of -ectomy
I've sat down to write many, many times
Then frozen completely
Several hours later when I finally thaw
I can't write
Because at that point I need a snack
Because I'm hypoglycemic
Speaking of hypoglycemia
Most people roll their eyes at the hypoglycemic population
(I'm looking at you, Ryan)
But that's just because they are jealous
That those of us who are hypoglycemic
Have to eat at regular intervals
Or else we get really mean
And lightheaded
And headache-y
And petty
And sometimes dead
I cannot be held accountable for things I say or do
When my blood sugar is low
I have a note from the doctor
No I don't
I just fibbed there
But you can't blame me
Because I haven't eaten for three and a half hours
Let's switch gears now
A funny thing happened today
Ryan's been waiting for some test results in the mail
Not results for blood sugar levels
Results from the licensing exam
He studied all summer long for that damned exam
It was one of the black rainclouds that hung over our summer
(There were others, too)
He took the exam at the end of the summer
And had to get a 70 percent to pass
It's a ridiculously difficult test
Most of which has nothing to do with his work at all
But a man's got to do what a man's got to do
And my man had to study for and pass this test
He found out last week that he passed
(Holy Mother of Yahooeeee!)
But he didn't know his score
Until today
I got the mail and texted him that it arrived
I asked him if he wanted me to open it
He didn't reply right away
So I was forced to open it
(My blood sugar was low at the time)
I saw his score and was confused
It said 720
I thought maybe a decimal was missing
Like, it was supposed to be 72.0
And I thought to myself
Wow, he barely passed
That's going to bother him
He's going to ruminate about this for months
When he finally texted me back
(After I'd had a cookie to prevent death)
I asked him if he wanted to know his score
He said yes
I told him that he got a 72
Or at least what I figured was a 72
I told him the decimal was missing
It just said 720
But it was supposed to be 72.0
Because I had it all figured out, of course
He called me at that point
He was laughing
He said 720 is the scaled score
Which made sense, now that he mentioned it
Since it said "Scaled Score: 720" on the paper
I asked him what that meant, then
What's your score? I said
He said, Well, 500 is 70 percent
Oh
Which means 720 is way more than 70 percent
Right-o
Even more than 72.0 percent
You betcha
Like ninety-something percent
Yowza
He's not exactly sure how many percent
Because as it turns out
That is a really tough math problem to figure out
And this wasn't a math exam
It was a licensing exam
Which he passed, by the way
With a buttload of flying colors
And I couldn't figure out what percentage it was either
Because I'm hypoglycemic

The Very Complex Creative Process

2010-09-09T17:18:00.000-04:00

Stage 1: A good idea is born. No, make that a great idea.
Stage 2: Your soul is filled with purpose, your veins with adrenaline. You're the king of the world! No, better than that--you're an artist!
Stage 3: You compose the entire piece in your head and...it's brilliant.
Stage 4: Pen (or computer, or paintbrush, or guitar) in hand, you begin the real work, the nuts and bolts of putting your brilliant idea into a tangible form!
Stage 5: You stop for a snack.
Stage 6: You check out what's on TV.
Stage 7: You get back to work and redo the entire beginning.
Stage 8: You stop for another snack.
Stage 9: Potty break.
Stage 10: You get back to work and erase at least one-third of what you've done.
Stage 11: Panic.
Stage 12: Confusion.
Stage 13: Blank staring.
Stage 14: You force yourself back to work and squeeze out a painful sentence/line/stroke/chord.
Stage 15: You stop fooling yourself and admit--out loud--that you are an idiot.
Stage 16: You wallow in the miserable realization that you will never, ever, ever have a good idea again in your life.
Stage 17: You imagine yourself as an old, toothless homeless person talking to anyone who will listen about all the brilliant ideas that escaped you.
Stage 18: Massive chocolate and/or potato chip intake.
Stage 19: You give yourself a half-hearted pep talk and decide to try again.
Stage 20: Before trying again, you wander every room in the house and lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling.
Stage 21: You re-read The Little Engine That Could.
Stage 22: You weep uncontrollably.
Stage 23: You force yourself back to your work.
Stage 24: You're really serious. No more playing around. You're going to soldier on. You're ready to get back on the creative horse, no matter how many times it bucks you off.
Stage 25: You get back to work...right after you take a very important self-portrait.

A Change of Plans

2010-09-08T16:58:00.000-04:00

Max was in a melancholy mood the other night. He explained that after a lot of thought, he was going to stop saving up for a Lamborghini. It wasn't a realistic dream. He had eight dollars in his wallet and he figured it was going to take every nickel from every petsitting job from now until adulthood to have enough for his beloved car. And even though he was sure he could do it, he realized that he would probably want to purchase other stuff along the way, like video games and candy.

Goodbye, Lamborghini. Easy come, easy go.

He consoled himself by googling images of Mustangs and Camaros. His plan now, he explained, was to purchase one of each. The two-seater Camaro for himself and the four-seater Mustang for the wife and kids. I nodded approvingly.

There was a lot of life planning going on beneath all that blond hair. When I told Ryan about it, he thought it was sad. When I told the neighbor about it, she thought it was hilarious. When I think about it, I'm somewhere in between.

Do you remember the plans you made as a child?

Mandatory Photos for the Grandparents

2010-09-02T17:16:00.000-04:00

First day of seventh grade.

First day of second grade.

Stuff I Didn't Know About Adulthood Until I Got Here

2010-09-01T11:39:00.003-04:00

Most things are complicated.
Most people are complicated.
Sooner or later, you have to learn to be assertive.
You really only need a few good friends.
The amount of thanks you gave your mother for cooking is directly related to the amount of thanks you'll get from your own kids.
Being right is less important and valuable than you ever thought it would be.
Grownups get mad at kids for making messes, but nobody makes bigger messes than grownups.
Taxes suck.
There are too many occasions where there is very little you can do to help.
Just when you think you've got it all figured out, everything changes.
Nothing is black and white.
You will continue to be haunted by everything you swore you'd never do as a parent.
People can change, but you can't change them.
Sometimes life is absolutely terrifying.
The most valuable skill you will ever develop is listening, followed closely by shutting up.
You're going to feel ambivalent about a lot of things.
No matter how old you get, there are still times when all you want is your mommy.
You are the only one who's going to eat that last little bit of cereal in the box.
Sometimes you have to be your own cheerleader.
Emotions are transient. Let them come and go.
You'll probably regret voting for at least half of the people you vote for.
Worry is a robber.
You are going to change a lot of toilet paper rolls, diapers, and trash can liners.
Swearing, when saved for special occasions, can really make you feel better.
It's completely, 100% okay and normal to doubt.
It's virtually impossible to leave the house without spending at least $40.
Gossip always gets you back.
You really don't need all that stuff.
Buying stuff really does seem to make you feel better sometimes.
Even if you didn't lose the remote control, you're going to be the one to find it.
Watching the news is only occasionally beneficial.
The IKEA instructions include everything but the argument with your significant other.
Sometimes you don't know you're experiencing PMS until you feel the urge to throw things at people's heads.
No good has ever come from the word "upgrade" especially as it relates to software.
Every time you turn around, some organization will be asking for your money.
You will continually surprise yourself at your ability to waste time.
There is freedom in accepting that life is uncertain and unfair.
It's good to say no sometimes.
You can act brave without feeling brave.
Loving someone will reveal just as much about yourself as it will about them.
Your metabolism is a jerk.
You might as well say "I love you" every time you feel like it.
No matter what you do, individual socks are going to randomly disappear.

What have you learned in adulthood that you didn't know before?

Stuff I won't be doing on September 21st

2010-08-30T23:47:00.001-04:00

Mosquitos are biting me tonight to make me feel better about summer ending. The forecast feels bad for me too, promising highs in the mid-nineties all week long. The school district must have been feeling my pain because they cancelled school Friday and Monday. My friend Estelle assures me that summer lasts through September 21st, but we both know that I won't be sitting poolside on September 21st. I'll be sitting deskside. And I'll be signing permission slips and lunch money checks and nagging children to finish up their homework and go to bed.

Boo.

Waaaa.

Stomp.

Harumph.

I won't be doing this on September 21.

Or watching my children frolic in the ocean.

I won't be watching B.B. King in an outdoor concert.

Or standing by as my offspring learns to wield a gun.

I won't be making s'mores in a giant fireplace in the Virginia mountains.

Or standing coquettishly by a gorgeous overlook.

Or following Max's sure-footed steps on a hiking trail.

I won't be hanging out at a fancy blogger party in New York with my girl Kami.

Or waiting patiently at the exit of amusement park rides.

Or snapping blurry photos of amazing moonlit beaches.

Not to mention sunlit beaches and gorgeous colorful cabanas.

I won't be loading my baby (and my baby daddy) onto a parachute and sending them 375 feet into the air.

Or escorting my other baby up into the sky, almost completely against his will.

And I definitely won't be eating at completely bizarro, delicious restaurants that have a glass case of extra special, two-headed taxidermified animals to enjoy while dining.

Well, I guess I could do that on September 21st.

I could definitely do that on September 21st.

It doesn't have to be summer to do that. The animals are stuffed--they're not going anywhere!

That place was crazy, dude. And the crab cakes were almost as life-changing as an Amish donut.

OK, I'm feeling better.

Maybe I will live through fall, winter, and spring after all.

Nose Job

2010-08-30T14:43:00.000-04:00

A real blog post is coming soon; but in the mean time, please check out this new random talent we discovered on Max. He can collapse his nostrils at will.

There's Just Something About Small Town America Festivals

2010-08-24T13:19:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday we attended a local peach festival. I went in search of peach pie, peach cobbler, peach ice cream, and peach slushies, but ended up with something far more delicious--these photographic gems.

How about some captions for these gems?

My Special "Secret" Deodorant

2010-08-22T10:00:00.001-04:00

You can't choose your miracles. It's a hard lesson to learn, but it's true. I have requested a long slew of miracles over the years (keep dying people alive, bring dead people back, fix a loved one's depression, transport difficult people in my life to another continent or planet, keep that check from bouncing, help me drop 30 pounds in three days, make my overcooked pork roast not taste disgusting at the dinner party, etc., etc.) before I realized it doesn't work that way. You just get what you get. It's like Random Miracle Generator.

Funny thing is, I wasn't even looking for a miracle at the time, but for some reason a heavenly phenomena is occurring in my bathroom. I don't know how or why, but I've got a stick of deodorant that won't run out. About four months ago, I noticed that it was nearing the end and made a mental note to replace it. Of course, I forgot to get a new stick the first two times I hit the grocery store---panicked that I was going to have to use some of Ryan's Old Spice "Swagger" stick in the interim---but finally remembered just in time. Or so I thought.

Every day since then, when I'm getting ready, I pull out my miracle stick, give it a twist and wonder if it's going to be the last. And every day, the stick keeps producing! It's uncanny. It's bizarre. It's unreal. It's astounding. It's bewildering. It's perplexing. And it cannot be explained by modern science.

So, what does one do with a heaven-touched stick of deodorant?

I've resisted blogging about it for fear that this is just a private miracle, a special surprise God pulled out of His pocket for me, and prefers that I not mention it to His other children because then everybody will want a miracle stick of deodorant and He only had just this one that he got for free at a booth at the Miracle Convention.

I've wondered about sharing my miracle with the world. HEY, ANYBODY WANT TO USE MY SPECIAL STICK OF DEODORANT?!

{Crickets chirping.}

But then I thought that some dummy, instead of using only one twist per armpit, would probably twist and twist without using it to see if it will ever run out, which will definitely make it run out because you can't test a miracle like that.

So, I decided that only I would use the miracle deodorant.

And then I wondered if there is some kind of new Miracle Upgrade Program, like maybe I can use this miracle for a while and then trade it in along with some good deeds to get something else. (In fact, there's a few miracles that have my eye.) But then I thought about how annoyed I am when I give my kids something I think is special, like a bag of potato chips, and they say something like, "I like potato chips, but what I really wanted was a brand new PS3 video game." So, I decided not to ask about miracle upgrades after all, because I don't want Heavenly Father to have to resist the urge (or not!) to smack me.

I was finally content to keep this all to myself.

But then I read on someone's bumper sticker that you should recognize miracles or you won't get them anymore. I found myself in a real conundrum at that thought, and even though I love the word conundrum, it's not somewhere I like to be.

So, I'm risking everything by telling you about it. And I'm asking you:

What do you think it means that I have a miracle stick of deodorant?

What do you think I should do with it?

Phantom Bug II: The Sequel

2010-08-16T21:51:00.004-04:00

It happened again.
We took another walk tonight.
A walk, no running, this time.
I had my mouth slightly agape.
I was breathing, you know.
With a slightly agape mouth.
But a bug doesn't need much room
as it turns out.
That's right.
A bug flew in.
Straight shot past the teeth.
It high-fived my dangly gagger
(otherwise known as a uvula.)
And landed in my throat.
I had no choice but to swallow.
This ain't my first rodeo, after all.
I swallowed and swallowed.
Hard.
(Do you know anyone as brave as me?)
And then dry heaved.
And spat.
Guess what?
Phantom Bug strikes again.
Seriously.
I can still feel him
perched at the top of my throat,
calling for help from his bug friends,
hanging on for dear life,
channeling the spirit of Jonah to inspire him.
He isn't there, of course.
I swallowed him.
He's now drown among my watermelon
and cheeseburger
and other non-bug things I eat.
Somehow it doesn't matter that I know this.
He is still there.
The Phantom Bug will always be there.
There was a thirty-something woman
who swallowed a mosquito? gnat? firefly?
I think she'll die.