The one in which I pretend it's really all about me

A little something minutely related to yours truly popped up in this particular magazine this month:

While your first guess will probably target this article as the one relating to me, you would be incorrect:

(although I will admit to having several undiscovered stages to my new and old rear end which I am striving very hard to discover, explain, and eradicate).

But what is most exciting to me is a little article featuring this family on page 130:

Remember when I went to Philly last November and battled a hurricane to take pictures of 11 families?

Just so happened that this darling family was one of them:

And this adorable picture is now immortalized forever in the annals of Parents magazine.

But what makes my little heart giddy with joy is this three-word blip, hiding in the far right-hand corner, almost invisible to the naked eye:

Congratulations, Tara on making the magazine. I thank you from the bottom of my photographer's heart that my name made it in there, too.

What's that? You can't find a copy of it in your store?

That's probably because I single-handedly bought all the copies west of the Mississippi.

Really, it may be my one and only shot at fame, fortune, and status. I've got to make the most of it. You know, in case other magazines start beating down the door, begging for my work. My raw, undeveloped talent. My very essence, my aura...

All right. Stopping now. That was fun.

One for the grandparents

Since my baby decided it was okay to grow up without my permission, I figured it was only fitting to commemorate that with a little photo shoot of her very own. She's turning eight next month, and cannot wait to get baptized.

It's funny to actually have a session with one of my own kids now. I used to have to beg, plead, and pay cash to get them to smile for me. Now, they don't seem to mind it quite so much. Pray that this attitude will continue so that years from now I will have more than just pictures of other people to look back on.

I'll tell you something though, it's sessions like this one that are why I wanted to become a photographer in the first place.

LOVE them. Love the girl in them even more.

Join me for a tear or two, won't you?

Sweet fancy moses.

What will I do on that fateful day when she wears another white dress?

Somebody freeze time for me. Please. I need to start stockpiling the Kleenex.

On advice of counsel

After reading so many of your comments on my last post (yes, even that really nasty, unkind anonymous one), I decided that a lot of you missed the point.

You know, kind of like if you were to say:

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Lincoln. But what did you WEAR that night to the theater?"

The point of the post was this: I WALKED IN ON SOME LADY SITTING ON THE TOILET.

It was wholly unrelated to the innocent adjective that I used to describe myself in what I felt was a harmless, self-deprecating, humorous manner.

As I have done many times before.

But for future clarification, I offer you this disclaimer, drafted by the brilliant legal team of Mee, Miselph, & Aye:

I, Christie, being of sound mind and cellulited body, do hereby declare that any references on this blog, either in the past, present, or future, relating to body size or image, do not in any way, shape, or form refer to anyone other than the author of this blog.

Those references include, but are not limited to, the following: chubby, fat, dimpled, roly-poly, bloated, weight-challenged, super thighzed, ample, chunky, plump, portly, stout, or hefty.

These terms of endearment are meant only to imply that the blog author is capable of laughing at her damn fine self whilst simultaneously stuffing her belly full of donuts.

All previously stated references to weight in this blog are attributable solely to the author's imagination and possibly deluded self-image. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

[Surprisingly enough, this blog is all about me. I did not intend to offend anyone and would apologize profusely if I could, but my fingers are too sticky from the aforementioned donuts.]

That is all. Have a nice day.

One more story of shame to add to my life's work

I had a lovely little lunch date with the Husband today. He happens to be in town this week, and I most decidedly took advantage of that rare treat.

We finished eating, and I got up to go use the, um, facilities.

After inquiring with our waiter, I was pointed towards the back of the restaurant. I pushed open the door to what I thought was a multi-stall restroom.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Some poor woman, pants down around her ankles, her big white cheeks planted on the single toilet in the room. She looked up at me and shrieked, "Oh sh#@! I thought I locked it!"

I ran as fast as I could to our table, told the Husband that we had to leave, LIKE. RIGHT. NOW. Good man that he is, he didn't question me. Just grabbed his coat and we vacated the premises faster than if we'd robbed the place.

As we booked it down the block and I told the Husband what had happened, he roared his head back in laughter.

Somehow, I didn't quite see the humor.

I mean, if I had known it was a single, of course I would have knocked. But we were in a restaurant, and I figured there would be more than one. There's always more than one. And since the door was not locked, and there was no knob, I pushed the door open and marched myself right in.

And so today, somewhere out there in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch probably feeling very, very embarrassed. And maybe just a teensy bit angry with the chubby girl who walked in on her while she sat on the toilet.

And also today in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch and vows NEVER to make an assumption in a restaurant again.

[Tell me I'm not the only one this has happened to. Lie to me, if you must. I need some commiserating.]

Sixteen

You still make me laugh, after all these years.

You know everything about me. And yet you love me anyway.

You gave me three perfectly fantastic children.

And you're as in love with them as I am.

You believe in accountability and don't accept excuses for anything in your life.

You live deliberately, not allowing yourself to waste a single moment.

You never question how I spend my days. Even when they're less productive than they could be.

You support the dreams I have, and help me to make them a reality.

You buy me that silly People magazine on your way through the airport. Because you know that I like it.

You let me sleep in, even though it irritates you.

You always tell me I'm beautiful. Even when I'm not.

You play my favorite song in the car. Just to see me smile.

You tolerate my cooking, in spite of how bad it is.

You let me have my way. Even when it's not my turn.

You hold my heart.

And you trusted me enough to give me yours in return. All those years and lifetimes ago.

Happy anniversary, baby. I love you.

The elephant in the room

Since we are celebrating spring break around here, I decided to pretend I'm a good mom and took my kids to the zoo yesterday. We had a lovely time, and I noticed some things when we stopped by the elephant exhibit.

Some things that I may or may not want to admit here.

Things I found that I have in common with the sweet, old girl they call Pearl.

Like I can totally relate to her dry, crackly skin in the wintertime. There isn't enough lotion in the world to moisturize me right now.

And the wrinkles in between the eyes just begging for Botox?

Yep. We've both got those.

Of course, I should mention the obvious: She and I both have similar, um, well, shapes when it comes to our rear ends.

Though I am afraid hers might be a tad bit slimmer than mine.

But the similarities go beyond just appearances. For instance, we both are a little bit clumsy and seem to fall down from time to time when taking a little walk through town:

We both like to show off when we know that people are watching, though we pretend shyly that we don't:

And, sadly, I am afraid that both of us will do tricks in exchange for the sweet treat of our choice.

Hers: A banana.
Mine: Everything in the chocolate family.

(We also both seem to be willing to eat food right off the ground.)

And when we find ourselves exhausted from all that walking, falling, and sweet treat eating, all we really want to do is lie down and take a nice, long nap.

But the most disturbing similarity of all, the missing genetic link between humans and elephants:

We both occasionally find that a teensy bit of pee slips out when we are doing the exercising.

Sorry, old girl. But you and I both know that it's the awful, honest truth.

Living the life of a diva

Said by Hannah in all seriousness this morning:

"I'm so surprised there aren't any paparazzi trying to take my picture."

Give it time, little rock star. Give it time.

Rocky Mountain Mama

Well, internet, we have arrived in beautiful Colorado. And can I just say how much I have missed the mountains? I grew up surrounded by mountains, and even though it's been a good 14 years since I've lived in their shadow, I will never get over the sheer majesty and beauty of them. Waking up this morning and looking out the window just brought a lump to my throat. I felt a little piece of my soul restored.

I am a mountain woman.

Though, I am definitely not to be confused with those crazy people zooming down the mountain at perilous speeds on two tiny, little wooden sticks, just begging for death.

A skier, I am not.

I tried it once and absolutely hated it. Might have had something to do with the fact that a slightly-less-than-patient Husband was my instructor. And after watching me fall, laugh hysterically at my own predicament, and be unable to get back up, he retired his ski teaching position for the betterment of our marriage.

I may give it a try another year with a proper instructor, but have decided to happily sit this round out.

Don't spend too much time feeling sorry for me though. I have the lovely staff of the Ritz Carlton at my disposal, a stack of very good books to read, a large, comfy bed for napping in, and a spa masseuse just waiting to pamper my chubby self.

We left the kids in the very capable hands of their Oma, and so far they have not worn her out completely or turned all Lord of the Flies on her.

The night she arrived, I had to laugh at the sight of this in my kitchen:

Technology, much?

Looks like it's going to be a fantastic weekend for everyone.

Some helpful hints for the zookeeper

Tomorrow morning I am getting on a plane with my People magazine and the Husband, and heading for a little ski getaway. The animals children will be left in the fine care of the Oma, and the kids are dying with excitement for her to get here.

To make Oma's life easier, I thought I would leave some helpful hints about each child, their quirks, and individual needs. You know, things that might help Oma when they have tied her to a chair, built a fire in the living room, and are madly dancing half-nekkid around her.

Or something like that.

Boy number one:

This one likes to be called Mack, Mackey, Dude, and Hey You, but will flip out if referred to as "Bub," (which apparently is a name from the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series that was adopted by Chase and makes McKay crazy with rage).

He will probably be the most agreeable of the bunch and easily gives in for others to get their way. He is flexible and cheerful by nature. He shrugs his shoulders and tries not to smile when attention is on him, which you will probably find utterly irresistible.

He seldom remembers to pick up after himself and will leave a trail of shoes, books, jackets, and musical instruments behind him. He will look around in disbelief at the mention of his discarded items, shocked that he could do such a thing.

His appetite for bread is voracious, but he can be staved off with fresh strawberries. He will not remember to brush his teeth unless reminded. He does, however, remember to wear the deodorant.

Thank goodness for us all.

In case of emergency: Send him outside with a basketball and he will only return periodically for water and fresh strawberries.

Boy number two:

This wily fellow is a clever one. He has been known to wake up the entire house at the crack of dawn and then be slightly annoyed when action is not happening at the dark, unholy hour of seven in the a.m. It will be hard to remain annoyed, however, when he flashes that big, toothy grin, flanked by his lone dimple. He is always happy, and has a tender-hearted soul.

He WILL track mud into the house obliviously, make no mistake about that. He will wander the forest in the backyard for hours, and do not be surprised when he unearths bones of some sort. He will study them and definitely have facts to share when he's done.

He is very kinesthetic. The boy CANNOT. SIT. STILL. When he's telling you a story (as he undoubtedly will 1,549 times per day) he will circle you as though he were a jungle cat and you were his prey. Feel free to read blogs, online shop, or give yourself a manicure during any of these stories. He will not notice and you will be happy for the distraction. After all, there are only so many times one can hear about hobbits, frogs, weapons, and war.

In case of emergency: Tell him there is a dinosaur buried in the sandbox and that he can sell the skeleton on e-Bay once he finds it. You will not see him for hours. Possibly days.

The Girl:

This little munchkin will probably want to be your tiny, talking shadow. Do not be surprised if she offers to style your hair, fix your make-up, and give you a pedicure. She will most likely critique your outfit in such a way that you will second-guess yourself for years to come.

She is happiest when she is baking or cleaning. She can scale the counter tops with the agility of a tree monkey to reach ingredients on the top shelf. She constantly likes to snack, but very seldom eats more than a few bites of any meal. She will pretend she is the boss of you, and no amount of convincing will tell her otherwise.

She is cuddly and will sit happily at your feet for hours listening to stories. She loves movies, and has a penchant for the romantic comedies. A word of warning though: She almost always cries at the end. Be prepared with a box of tissues.

In case of emergency: Tell her you want to have a tea party and she will scamper off to prepare one. This will buy you at least an hour's reprieve, but it will unfortunately require your presence eventually at the tea party.

So, Oma, any questions? If so, you can reach me in one of the following places:

My hotel bed, where I will be napping and eating room service pancakes
The spa, where I will be getting massages, manis, pedis, and facials
Shopping, where I will be spending all of the Husband's money

Good luck. You're going to need it!

Is three dollars all a soul is worth these days?

Note the spring-action, perfectly molded spots for holding spare change in this picture of someone else's lucky car

Last week, as I rounded the corner of the McDonald's drive-thru for my little dose of crack cocaine happiness in diet coke form, I reached my hand down to grab some change to pay for the drink. As my hand repeatedly grasped only air, I looked down in horror to find that my change was missing.

Only not just my quarters, nickels, and dimes.

MY ENTIRE CHANGE HOLDER WAS GONE.

I immediately called the Husband and accused politely asked if he knew anything about it. He scoffed and wondered why on earth I would think he would want to take my change holder.

I interrogated the children when they got home from school and all three proclaimed their innocence to the point that I believed them.

What the eff?

Essentially, what I am left to conclude is this: Someone risked prison and their eternal salvation to steal a change holder right out of my car, netting themselves MAYBE three bucks in coin.

Leaving behind my iPod, and several scratched and scuffed Barbie movies to take my three dollars in change. Not to mention the meal in old french fries and crumbs they could have scooped from the floor of the backseat.

The change thievery I can forgive. But for the love of all that is holy, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE MY CHANGE HOLDER? I loved that thing. Might have been my favorite part of the car, what with its neat and tidy organization. The separation of coin by type and size. The spring-loaded mechanism that kept everything right in a row.

Sigh.

I am now forced to root around the bottom of my purse for spare change like a regular person when the craving for that ice-cold brown deliciousness strikes.

It's just wrong, I tell you. Wrong.

Baby love

Had a session last week with probably my favorite thing on this planet we call earth: a newborn babe.

I love me the newborn slug. They are just like a little slice of heaven curled up on your chest. I could lose hours of my life cuddling a baby.

Have lost hours of my life, in fact.

And it's time spent that I never, ever regret.

Can't you just smell her yummy neck? Sigh...

Life is definitely sweet when one of these is around. Best wishes and congrats to the new mama!

Hello, March

Can you believe it's March already? Didn't we just celebrate Christmas like two minutes ago?

Honestly.

I swear, time just keeps going faster and faster.

Anyhoo, I am exhausted and wanted to pop on here before I head upstairs to take a much needed, seldom-taken, short Monday morning nap.

Don't judge. You know you'd do it, too, if you could.

Here's what we've got on tap this week:

• The return of Chase, who has been on a business trip to Philly with the Husband, and stories galore of his adventures and escapades with his favorite cousin.
• Not one, but two, gorgeous photo shoots to share with you.
• My new favorite thing: The Blurb Book. Six months down, only thirty more to go.
  
• Orthodontic appointments for the boys to begin the process of bracing their teeth (goodbye, money. I'll really miss you).
• Manic house cleaning to prep for Oma tending while I'm on a ski trip with the Husband next week. (Which really translates to: The Husband is on a ski trip; I'm on a sleep in/nap/pedicure/shopping trip)
• And last, but not least, Stie on a diet. It ain't gonna be pretty, folks.

Happy Monday, peeps.