The next great Hemingway?

While walking past their bedroom the other night, I overheard Chase tell McKay the following:

"Old fashioned things are so much better. They're not made of cheap junk, and they last a lot longer. I just can't waste my time on plastic anymore."

Amen, brother. Amen.

Our weekend, in photos

This weekend we did a lot of stuff.

Some of us played basketball, and did not go easy on our opponent just because they're ten and have shorter arms:

Some of us created science experiments out of sand and water:

One of us sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with his fellow fifth graders during the seventh inning stretch of Saturday night's Cardinals game.

It is rumored that one child in particular may have sang, "Root, root, root for the Red Sox" instead of, "the Cardinals," though that child officially denies this rumor:
Some of us had foot races in the backyard, and did not want to let our little brother win:
(hmm...wonder where he gets that from?)

One of us pitched (at least according to him), "THE BEST GAME OF HIS LIFE!" And as you can see, this person takes baseball very seriously:

There will be no mercy on the mound when you're staring down this fellow. He means business.
Some of us thought it would be fun to stand on our brothers and see how long they could hold us up:

The answer? About four seconds. One brother will cave under the pressure and the pyramid will come toppling down.

The only damper on the weekend? One of us spent it (and the majority of last week) scratching her mad case of poison ivy:

Oh yes, and that is the improved version. Trust me when I tell you, it was much worse a few days ago, and covers a good portion of my entire body (I decided to spare you the rest of me, especially the nekkid parts. You're welcome).

Yeah, so remember the near-electrocution yard work day last week? Apparently, of those 1,934 weeds I pulled, a good portion of them were poison ivy.

And poison ivy? Not so much fun, as it turns out.

Still, though, a pretty good weekend for us.

At least, for those of us not scratching and smelling of Calamine lotion anyway.

The only way I'll carry that NRA card

Question--
What do you get when your boys discover their father's old BB gun at Opa's office?

Answer: You get two very excited boys, begging and pleading to have it. They will be absolutely sure that life, as they know it, cannot go on without the BB gun.

Question--
What do you get when Opa, reluctantly frighteningly proudly, decides to pass that gun onto the next generation and gives it to them?

Answer: Your own private backyard shooting range, that's what.

Oh, if only Mr. Crazy Scouting Man, Sir! could see us now with our dangerous weapon constitutionally-protected firearm. I'm pretty sure he'd have us signed up for the NRA.

I have decided we will only join if Charlton Heston will personally come to the house , stand on the kitchen table and say, "RAMSES, LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

I'm betting it's not likely to happen, what with him, you know, being slightly not alive and all.

But, still. Stranger things have happened, right?

And don't tell me you wouldn't want to see it. You know you love that line, too.

Happy birthday, little blue-eyed boy

Dear Chase,

Today at exactly 8:23 this morning, you turned nine. You were very insistent that you were not nine until the clock hit those magic numbers, which signaled your entrance into the world all those years ago. No amount of convincing by your brother could entice you to admit that you were nine, even one minute too soon.

I didn't have the heart to tell you that you were born on west coast time. I let you be nine, two whole hours early.

I know, don't be mad.

We celebrated your birthday early this year, as Dad was going to be out of town today. You, ever the middle child, didn't mind one bit. You were thrilled to be getting presents early. Presents, which included a live pet from me.

Yes, I finally made good on that hasty-made promise of letting you one day own something that's alive. I hope you like your little hermit crab. And I fervently hope that it never gets lost in your room or dies, as other pets have done traumatically in the past.


Chase, you are filled with more creative energy than I have ever seen. Your mind is always working, always thinking. I like to watch you when you are drifting off to that place inside your head, where your dreams are made. You squint your eyes, and I can tell that worlds are being created by your imagination. There is no limit to what you will do, of this I am sure.

You constantly amuse me. We have been asking you for weeks what you want for your birthday, and the two things you have said are a pet and a typewriter. You got both, and it cracks me up to see you at the desk in your room, plunking away on that ancient piece of machinery, courtesy of Oma and e-Bay. You take your writing quite seriously, and it will not surprise me at all when you one day churn out that bestseller.

I love that you like old things. I think it's a rare child that can look past the glaring siren song of cheaply-made plastic crap from China and seek out things with substance. Things that still work, even after probably spending 30 dusty years in someone's basement.

You are my hero, and I love your individuality. I love you for not caring what anyone thinks of you. I love you for dreaming big. I love you for your passion, even when it leads you lecture me for my giant carbon footprint.

I love you, kid. And I owe the good Lord for sending such a tender soul to be in my care. I don't know what I ever did to deserve you. May I one day be worthy of such trust.

Love,

Mama

A love letter

To my darling Husband, my most precious other half:

I have good news for you, my dear. News that will be music to your frugal soul.

Remember that slightly not-cheap paring knife that I lost a few days ago? Well, guess what. I found it! It is lost no more.

I know. I am extremely relieved, too.

Where was it, you say? You'll laugh yourself silly at this, darling, really you will. And you'll never guess where it was. It was in the pan of leftover quiche in the fridge. I must have used it to cut the quiche, and not noticed it there when I put the pan in the fridge that night after dinner.

I know, right? What a chuckle we'll have over this one.

My only regret, dearest one, is that we were not able to find the knife sooner.

Like, say, right about the time you were digging through the trash to look for it. Oh, what an adventure we could have saved you then, had we known.

But, all's well that ends well, or so they always say. And now you may rest well tonight, lovey, knowing the knife is back where she belongs.

Ever Yours,

Your darling wife, Christie

P.S. Please do not use it on me. I really thought it was in the trash. Honest, I did.

The genius of the lone trucker

About ten years ago, when McKay was a baby, we were living in Minneapolis while the Husband finished up grad school.

We grew to love Minnesota, in spite of the fact that there are only about eight days a year where you can go outside. And in spite of the fact that they willingly elected Jessie "the Body" for their governor (blame the Husband. I'm pretty sure he voted for him).

Slowly, over time, we even began to understand what the natives were saying when they asked us if we "wanted a baig for that" at the grocery store.

But one the funniest experiences of my life came while we were living there. I was running some errands downtown, and had baby McKay, buckled in his car seat, in the back of the car.

I pulled up to a stoplight, and movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Next to me at the light, was a big 18-wheeler truck, driven by a man who looked a little something like this:


Only not quite so handsome.

He was frantically waving at me, so I smiled, nodded my head, and turned toward the light, hoping that the light would soon turn green.

In spite of my attempt to ignore him, he was practically jumping up and down in his seat. I looked over once again, praying that my life was not about to end at the hands of this apparently-crazy trucker.

He was motioning for me to roll down my window, which I did, in spite of the mental security that thin little piece of glass afforded me.

He smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and said: "Hey lady, you always know where you're going, and he always knows where you've been!"

I nodded politely, smiled, and sped off just as the light turned green, hoping to be spared from any more trucker wisdom which made absolutely no sense at all. Shaking my head and laughing, I started thinking about what he had said.

And by the next block, it hit me. He was referring to McKay in the rear-facing car seat, knowing where we've been. And me, facing forward, knowing where we're going.

Probably the most clever thing I've ever heard from a tattooed, toothless trucker in my life.

I only wish I could find him so I could tell him that I got it.

If you see him, be sure to tell him for me, good one, buddy. Good one.

Killing myself, one extension cord at a time

Today, I...

• Played tennis for two hours (even though I really suck at it)
• Did six loads of laundry
• Cleaned four bathrooms
• Vacuumed two floors
• Pulled 1,934 weeds from my backyard
• Cursed weeds with eight different swear words (oh yes, I know that many)
  
• Screamed when I discovered a large spider on my bosom
• Killed large spider after knocking it off my bosom
• Looked down my cleavage and examined my bosom for any other lingering spiders
• Smiled sheepishly when the old lady next door caught me doing it
  
• Happily discovered I have strawberry plants growing in my backyard
  
• Moved three evergreen bushes to a different flower bed because I felt like it
  
• Trimmed all the hedges in my yard
  
• Accidentally severed the Husband's extension cord while trimming the hedges
• Buried extension cord in the trash so that the Husband will never see it
  
• Wondered aloud if you can die of electrocution when severing live wires
  
• Starting searching for landscapers to prevent future death by electrocution
• Read and commented on a few blogs
• Wrote my own (albeit pathetic) blog post, and
  
• Decided to be content with re-heating Thai food leftovers for dinner

Today, I did not:

• Shower (yet, but I will)
  
• Read novels
• See movies
• Cook dinner, or
  
• Eat 14 cookies (unlike yesterday)

I am thinking it has been a productive day thus far. Especially considering that it's a Monday.

Thanks, special new friend. I owe you one.

Dear Anonymous Stranger,

Thank you for the extra special treat you left by my car yesterday.

Imagine my delight, if you will, at discovering your thoughtful little present just moments after loading my groceries into the back of the car, as I was sitting down contentedly in the driver's seat.

It is unfortunate that I did not discover it before I actually put my foot on the brake. For had I found your ball of already-chewed delight sooner, it would have enabled me to enjoy it only on the bottom of my shoe. Instead, it was added special fun to scrape the pink sticky mess off the brake pedal AND my shoe.

You know, this piece of sanitary deliciousness THAT CAME FROM YOUR MOUTH. WHERE YOUR SPIT LIVES.

I can appreciate that it was especially tiring for you that day, what with having to use all three of your brain cells to walk and chew at the same time. And I know the extra energy that it would have taken to walk ten feet and toss your treasure in a garbage can was really more than society could have asked of you.

What with you being, you know, a selfish pig and all.

So, please. From the bottom of my heart, accept my honest and sincere thanks.

It's been a long time since I've cleaned up anything quite so sticky, seeing as how my kids are in school all day now. And honestly, it was a thrill to get some more practice at it.

Yours,

Christie
____________________

P.S. In spite of the apparent sarcasm, I am ever mindful of the horrific events that took place seven years ago today. You can read my experience with that day again here. God bless America.

"Mawage is what bwings us togevah, today."

I was reading one of my favorite blogs today, and was very excited to hear that Nicole is getting married. She was asking her readers for marriage advice, and it got me thinking.

What would I say to this goofy-looking girl, knowing what I know now, after almost 15 years of marriage?


I'd say a lot, that's what. Least of which would be to stop perming her hair already. Oh, and grow those bangs out a little while she's at it. I'm pretty sure there should never be a one-inch space between your eyebrows and your bangs. Oy.

So I thought it would be fun to write a letter to myself with a few of the tidbits that have helped me along the way:
__________________________________

Dear Me,

You are about to get married to a tall, skinny boy from the other side of town. He loves you all right, but he has no idea yet just how much he needs you, and you him.

You may think you want babies right away, but don't rush yourself. Enjoy this time when it's just the two of you. THE BABIES WILL COME. And once they do, they will never leave. And they will smell sometimes. And pee on you (and yet you will still love them). Stop wishing this time away, because in a blink, it will be gone, and you will find yourself a mother of three, with a road map of stretch marks to prove it.

In spite of what everyone will tell you, it is okay to go to bed mad at each other. Sometimes it's better, as hurtful words are not said, and cooler heads always prevail in the morning.

You are not really that great of a cook. I'm sorry to break that to you. You can bake like nobody's business, but cooking meat is not really your thing. And when you're making gravy one night in your first apartment? Don't add the paprika. Trust me on this one. The gravy will turn pink, and will be thoroughly disgusting. Your sweet husband will eat it anyway, but you will have just given him something to tease you about. Forever.

Do not be critical of your spouse, and expect the same in return from him. Never badmouth him to your friends. Instead, brag about all his good qualities. It will help you to constantly see the good in him, of which there is a lot.

Learn to pick your battles. I can promise you that after almost 15 years, he will still sling his suit over the back of a chair at the end of a long day. YOU WILL NOT FIX THIS. Stop trying. Just get over it, and be glad he is willing to work so hard for you and your family. Focus instead on ways you can make it easier for him to do his demanding job.

You must also accept that you will be ignored on Saturday afternoons from late August through November, as he will ALWAYS want to watch his favorite team play football. It is nothing personal. It is just a strange part of this man that you will never understand. Instead, get a hobby or a good book and enjoy your alone time.

Lastly, remember this: Men are like puppies; a little praise and a treat goes a long way in training them to do what you want.

With love,

You, age 34.
_______________________________

What's your best marital advice, internets? Do share.

Perfect, ordinary simplicity

Today I wake up to the happy chatter of my kids, already at the breakfast table. The alarm has failed to go off, but the Husband is in town this morning, and has cheerfully gotten them started.

I come downstairs, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I kiss each baby on top of their head, smelling the strawberry shampoo. I cannot help but notice Hannah's 'creative' outfit combination. I decide to save that battle for another day. I briefly wonder if her teacher will think I picked it. I decide to not care if she does.

I shuffle over in my slippers and give the Husband a sheepish hug. He smiles, dimples creasing and blue eyes sparkling, and for the millionth time in my life, I fall in love with him all over again.

I take the morning poll of who is buying lunch and who is bringing. I laugh when two of the three get excited for chicken patty on a bun, which sounds thoroughly disgusting to me.

At once, they realize today is Friday, and squeal with glee because this means they get to have music with "Eddie," a man who is probably way too cool to be an elementary school teacher. I wonder if he knows just how much the entire studentbody worships him.

I remind them to pack snacks, and laugh at Chase who always wants to bring candy. I clean up the breakfast dishes and do Hannah's hair. She chatters away, filling me in for the umpteenth time on everyone and everything that happens in the first grade. I say a prayer of hope she talks to me like this forever.

I stand at the door and wave when the bus goes by. It still makes me smile that they want me to wave, but do not want me at the bus stop. Stretching their independence, but still wanting to know I'm there. I close the door and go start sorting the laundry. I think about the fresh peaches in the fridge and decide to surprise them all with a pie this afternoon.

I hop on the treadmill and run to a couple old episodes of "The Office," and laugh hysterically because they are all new to me.

I sit and sweat, drinking the cold, crisp water from the fridge. I feel strong. I feel content.

I find that my heart is full and tears threaten to spill over, as I think of the perfect, ordinary simplicity that is my happy life. I know that this is the place I am meant to be.

I feel blessed.

Because I need to know I'm bringing at least one of them up right

[Hannah, in the left front corner. First day photo courtesy of her fabulous teacher]

Today, the Princess came home from school and said the words that set my heart all a flutter:

"I don't know why, but I love to keep my school supplies neat and organized. It really helps me to feel so happy inside."

I am now 100 percent convinced we got the right baby at the hospital.

She had me worried for a few years there, what with her unbridled love of all things pink and High School Musical, but now I am sure.

She is so mine it's scary.

Labor Day, Christie style

This year, I decided to celebrate Labor Day by rewarding myself for having given birth three times. Yes, I realize it was a long time ago. No, that doesn't make it any less painful.

That's what we celebrate Labor Day for, right?

I mean honestly, do you think Mother's Day makes up for the fact that I voluntarily split my heinie in half? And did it three times, one of those without an epidural? No, it doesn't. Which is why, this past Labor day, I was found in Branson doing this:

With them:
Instead of them:

I'm pretty sure the mother of the year plaque won't bear my name this year. Oh well. It was totally worth it.

This weekend, there was a lot of:

Laughing
Eating
You Tube searching
Flashing grill wearing
Shopping
Boating
Journey worshipping
Tennis playing

There was not a lot of:

Sleeping
Cooking
Cleaning (unless your name is Butch and you are the maid. Then there was definitely a lot of cleaning that took place).

A most excellent way to spend a holiday. Thanks, girls. It was a great weekend. Let's do it again soon.

Like tomorrow. Anyone?

Oh, and Katie? This one's for you: "They never take them off!"

Here I come, chocolate in hand, to one lucky winner

Well, interpeeps, I am mighty impressed.

Some of you really like to watch movies (like me). Some of you? Not so much into the remembering of the lines. Why is that?

The Husband thinks I'm a freak. He can't remember what happened last week, let alone in a movie. And it boggles his mind that I always remember the obscure lines from a movie I saw years ago.

Yes, it's a disease.

No, I don't care.

So, here are the answers of the next 11 movies I expect to see in your Netflix que:

1. As Good As It Gets
Who doesn't love Jack Nicholson as Melvin Udall in this movie? He's just so insane that you find you actually relate to him. Admit it. You love him.

2. When Harry Met Sally
My other favorite line in that movie is "I'll have what she's having," but the scene at the end on New Years Eve is the best. Who knew we'd one day find Billy Crystal slightly attractive? Maybe that's what makes this movie so perfect.

3. Braveheart
Although, the line is also in "Shawshank Redemption," another of my favorites, I did write the quiz with a chiseled Mel Gibson wearing blue face paint in mind. An excellent, inspiring (albeit a teensy bit violent) movie.

4. Love Actually
One of my all-time favorite movies, and I just adore this line said by the often underestimated Alan Rickman. Snape character aside, I sure wouldn't complain if he got crumbs in the bed, you know what I mean? For his full deliciousness, re-watch him in "Sense and Sensibility." You will love him forever after his tender portrayal of Colonel Brandon.

5. Usual Suspects
Brilliant movie, total twist at the end. You will NEVER see it coming. Love it.

6. Pride & Prejudice
One cannot help but love Elizabeth for saying out loud that, yeah, a guy with money is pretty attractive, even if he's a little bit of a jerk. Hands-down, a lifetime favorite for me.

7. The Departed
NOBODY knew this one. It's a great movie, one most especially appreciated if you ever lived in Boston. A little heavy on the F-bombs, but still worth a watch. Another surprise ending you don't see coming.

8. Bridget Jones Diary
Ah, the ever delicious Colin Firth. I like you, too. Just as you are. Please call me, okay? And when you come, bring your Mr. Darcy costume. So, we can, uh, be sure of its quality, uh, workmanship. Yeah, that's it.

9. Steel Magnolias
Some of the best movie lines EVER come from this movie. I could do a post on just this movie alone. A classic, in its own right, for sure. It is one that must be passed down through the generations, just like a favorite old quilt or a set of dishes. I can't wait to share it with my little Hannah someday.

10. Terms of Endearment
Nobody guessed this one, either. This is probably my ALL-TIME-FAVORITE Jack Nicholson moment ever. I like it so much that I had to find the clip for you to watch. It's a little long, so if you are impatient (cough*Daniel*cough), then skip to about 5:19 and watch until 7:00 or so, you will see why I included it here. So very Jack. So unexpected from his character, yet also so befitting. It's my favorite part in the whole movie. Oh, and when you do watch this movie, you will need about eight boxes of Kleenex. I'm just sayin'.



Bonus: Good Will Hunting
A great movie, and an even greater line for the movie to end on. Makes me cry every.single.time. I love it.

Oh, and the random winner of the prize? I put all the numbers in a hat and had my kids pick one out. They picked:

Comment number 24..................GABI

Lucky for you, I already have your address. I will put myself in a box (with chocolate, of course) and be there overnight via FedEx. Please have a large stack of movies waiting.

Thanks for playing!

"Son of a @*%, he stole my line!"

I must tell you something about myself that you probably already know.

I love movies.

I love bad movies. I love good movies. I love old movies. I love new movies. (I don't, however, love horror movies). But a recent conversation with the Husband brought to mind just how much I love a good movie line. To me, there is nothing better than a well-written line. It's what takes a movie from ordinary to great. It's a singular sentence, delivered with precise timing and rhythm, that, out of nowhere, immediately resonates with your soul.

Do you know that feeling?

Maybe it makes you laugh. Maybe it makes you cry. Maybe it's just plain weird. And sometimes, it can be just so utterly brilliant that you know you must find a way to work it into casual everyday conversation, even though you'll never come off sounding as cool as Jack Nicholson did. But still, these lines stay with you long after a show is done. Sometimes a single line is greater than the sum of an entire movie.

So in honor of this, I thought I'd share my top ten favorite movie lines, and see if you could guess any of them. Though I could make this list about 200 long, I'll start with ten, and a bonus thrown in for fun.

NO CHEATING. Get your mouse off that google search right now. Just see if you know any of these off the top of your head. For anyone who takes an honest crack at it, I will randomly draw a winner. The prize will most definitely involve chocolate of some sort. Or maybe my favorite movie.

Or maybe you get to have me on your couch eating chocolate. Watching my favorite movie.

You never know.

In any event, here they are (and in no particular order):

ONE:
"Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."

TWO:
"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

THREE:
"Every man dies. Not every man really lives."

FOUR:
"Invite him out for a drink, and then after about twenty minutes, casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies."

FIVE:
"The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world he didn't exist."

SIX:
"It has been coming on so gradually that I hardly know when it began. But I believe it must date from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley."

SEVEN:
"I'm the guy who does his job. You must be the other guy."

EIGHT:
"No, I like you very much. Just as you are."

NINE:
"Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair."

TEN:
"I love you, too, kid."

BONUS:
"Sean, if the professor calls about that job, just tell him, sorry, I have to go see about a girl."

Good luck! Contest ends Thursday at 6 p.m. central time.

Trying unsuccessfully to make sense of the world in which I live

While perusing a high quality periodical this week (which is a whole other post in and of itself), I came across something startling. It took me by surprise, and I'll be honest, was more than a little disturbing.

What frightened me were two different full-page advertisements. The first one was for this charming product:


Monkey Cuddles, they call it. A miniature baby monkey wearing a diaper, holding a half-peeled banana to his cheek, and sporting a saucy little bow on top of his head. And all of this adorable cuteness can fit right in the palm of your hand.

Oh, the google searches I'm going to get this week for that paragraph alone.

But really. I must know.

WHO BUYS THESE?

I am guessing old ladies in housecoats and slippers, who shuffle happily between their shelves full of Marie Osmond dolls, and the yellow pictures of grandchildren from 1968 still on the walls. These are probably the same suckers victims who willingly send all their life savings to Mr. Liu Yan and his many relatives who have billions of dollars trapped in overseas banks. (Oh, Liu. All the horror, and yet you somehow manage to still send eight emails to me every day. You're such a trooper).

That demographic I kind of get. I will never BE that person, but I can begrudge the old ladies their little treasures. Whatever.

But this one I will never understand. Here we have disturbing advertised product number two:


Yes, a skeleton wearing blue jeans and a leather vest, riding a Harley that is decorated with other skeleton heads, and proudly sporting a pirate flag on the back of the bike.

Please help me understand. WHAT DEMOGRAPHIC IS BUYING THIS?

I could be wrong, but I just don't picture a tough, tattooed, chiseled biker taking the time to order himself a porcelain figurine. What would he do with it? Do you think he would put it in his curio cabinet that's full to the brim with miniature tchotchkies, and then proudly display it at his next Hells-on-Wheels meeting, where he and his crew eat homemade tea cakes that he tenderly serves on lace doilies?

Yeah. Not likely to happen.

And I'm not imagining granny in her housecoat wants the biker skeleton, either.

I really hope somewhere in this world is a factory full of unsold figurines. Because that would mean nobody bought this crap, and my life, as I know it, would still make sense to me.

Unfortunately, I am sure there are many a parcel in the mail today with these very things in them.

I think I must be missing the tchotchkie gene. Because I just don't get it.

[My apologies to any readers who actually own these items. Please unsubscribe from my blog. We clearly have nothing in common. You are definitely in the wrong place if monkey and skeleton figurines are your thing. No hard feelings, okay?]

What happens when dad says yes

A conversation:

THEM: "Mom, can we go out and play in the backyard?"

ME: "Umm, no. Hello, it's raining?"

THE HUSBAND: "Why can't they go out? Let them do it. Don't say no. It won't hurt anything."

THEM: "Yay!"

ME: Groan. Mumble. Curse silently.

Thirty minutes pass, and there is a knock at the back door. I open it to find this little cheery sight:


And that, my dear husband, is EXACTLY why I said no.

Any questions?

If that's not love, what is?

"Do you love me?

Do I what?
Do you love me?

For twenty-five years I've lived with him,
Fought him, starved with him,
Twenty-five years my bed is his,
If that's not love, what is?

Then do you love me?
I suppose I do.
And I suppose I love you, too.
It doesn't change a thing, but even so,
after twenty-five years,
it's nice to know."

You know that song from Fiddler on the Roof where Tevye asks Golde if she loves him? And she rattles off a list of chores she has done for 25 years that proves her love?

I think I finally know just what they mean.

See, my husband is not the flower-sending kind. Don't get me wrong. I have gotten them. Just not on a regular, everyday basis like I think I should.

My husband is not the foot massage giving kind of guy. I think my ugly, knobby feet might actually disgust him. He's more the type to try massaging OTHER parts, if you know what I mean.

And my husband definitely is not the "Surprise! I bought you a sparkly new diamond ring for no reason!" kind of guy (unlike some lucky girls - hi, Emily!)

But I do know that he loves me.

How do I know? Because he builds me things like this, of his own accord and design, knowing just how much I need it in my life:

A giant, wall-sized bulletin board, covered in a pretty red-checked fabric. Divided into three sections, topped with crisp white wooden letters, clearly, and oh-so-neatly, denoting each kids' spot.

He knows the piles of papers that come home from the school need to have a home. And he knows that their current home (which is piled up on my desk) makes me crazy. So, he spent a whole Saturday last weekend putting this together for little ol' moi.

In addition to that, he gave up his lifelong dream of having a man cave downstairs and put wainscoting on the walls in the basement, knowing full well he'd never get to hang that rifle, Danish flag, and beer keg lid on walls as pretty as these.

So does he love me? I suppose he does.

Although, if he ever wanted to send flowers or big, sparkly diamond rings in addition to the house stuff, I wouldn't necessarily refuse them. You know, because I'm just so nice like that.

Thanks, baby.

After almost 15 years together, I suppose I love you, too.

God bless refined sugar

Several weeks ago, a reader named Tracy (hi, Tracy! Got a blog yet?) sent me her favorite brownie recipe. And because I like you, internets (and am constantly striving to fatten you up), I am going to share it with you.

Plus, we made and ate two pans of these in one week, so surely it is not fair that I get fatter while you do not.

Here now is what I have dubbed 'Tracy in Iowa's Sell-Your-Soul-to-Satan-For-One Brownies.' May your thighs have mercy on your soul.

Mix up a batch of your favorite fudge brownies. From a box, because surely no one makes brownies from scratch anymore, right?

Bake according to the directions, and allow to cool. When cool, spread with your favorite cream cheese frosting. Mine is the kind in a can because I'm just so lazy homespun like that.

Be sure to lick the knife clean when you are done. This is CRITICAL to the success of the recipe.

Then take 1 cup peanut butter and 2 cups chocolate chips. Melt in the microwave until smooth and creamy (took me less than a minute). Add 3 cups Rice Krispies to chocolate mixture and spread over the cream cheese frosting layer.

I know, right?


Then pop the entire pan into the fridge to speed up the setting process. Heaven forbid one should have to actually wait for them to be ready on their own. THAT would be a sin.

Then hide them from the kids, and be sure to eat at least four. Preferably six. If you eat half the pan, I promise to hold your hand through your next Weight Watchers meeting. If you don't, then I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.

Thanks, Tracy. Send me any more you've got because, clearly, this getting fatter thing seems to be working for me (at least in my neck, anyway).

What? You still here? Get thyself to the kitchen and start baking. Now!

Gracias, mine interpeeps

How much do I love the internet today?

So, so much.

You sure do know how to make a girl feel good. Even you lurkers that decided to come out and play. I thank you. From the bottom of my very short-haired heart. I think next time I'm feeling bad about myself, I will whine about it here, and wait for you all to make me feel pretty again. Seriously, thank you. Your kind words meant a lot to me. I am just blown away by all of it.

Now onto other non-hair related things (you mean the world doesn't revolve around my hair? Shocking, but true).

Yesterday was the first day of school. A buzz of energy, the kids got all ready in about six minutes, and then sat around waiting until it was time to go. When the time finally arrived, there was some moaning as they lugged their school supplies to the bus stop, which I was absolutely no help with. I mean, someone had to be snapping pictures, right? Who else will document these milestones?

Once at the bus stop, I forced them to endure the gratuitous, cheesy smile pose that moms everywhere are snapping this time of year. Backpacks on, freshly scrubbed faces, new clothes. Note to self: Must get more creative for next year. I'm thinking headstands on backpacks, human pyramid, flame-thrower in the background. Something.

McKay had a lot more anxiety and nervousness about this year, which surprised me. Poor kid could hardly eat anything for breakfast because his stomach was all in knots. Lucky for him, I ate enough for the two of us. Just trying to keep the universe balanced and all that (or so I'm trying to tell my thighs).


Hannah was definitely the most excited, "Aboutstartingfirstgrade! Ohmygoodness!! I'minfirstgradenow!! I can'tbelieveI'mfinallysogrownup!! I'minfirstgrade!!!" And that's exactly how it sounded all morning, I kid you not.
Chase was hardly nervous at all - telling his usual round of jokes, searching the ground for frogs, and asking how soon it was until lunchtime.

But in the end, only my baby girl looked back.


But only for a second, and then she was gone. Leaving me, my checkbook, my novels, and daytime movies all alone.

Whatever shall I do?

"Shelby was right, it DOES look like a brown football helmet"

All right, because you asked for it. Here is my new, unplanned hair. I still don't like it, but have at least managed to stop crying whenever I look into a mirror.

Pros of having short hair:

• Not spending 25 minutes with a blow dryer every morning.
• Not having to sweep up large piles of hair in the bathroom every day.
• Less money spent on shampoo and product means more money that can be spent on shoes.
• I could pose as a man and do undercover work, should I ever so desire.
• On hot and humid days, my neck isn't nearly as sweaty.
• No more ponytail headache.
• Much more interesting bed head in the morning.

Cons of having short hair:

• It's short.
• It's really, really short.
• It accentuates my fat neck (just ask the stylist from hell).
• I don't know how to style it very well.
• I am tempted to really tramp up the cosmetics in an effort to draw attention away from my hair, thus giving me a new look - drag queen in a bad wig.
• Hannah still telling me how ugly it looks.
• Having EVERYONE notice and comment on it is really embarrassing.
• Every other commercial on t.v. is for hair products, demonstrated by models with long, flowing locks. Who mock my pain on purpose, I know it.
• And I can do absolutely nothing about it.

P.S. Know the name of the movie where the title comes from? If you do, we are meant to be BFFs. If you don't, find out and rent it today.

Apparently I just don't speak hairdresser

Yesterday I made a mistake of colossal proportions. Ignoring the begging, pleading, and whining of the Husband, I proceeded, with my stubborn mind made up.

Girls, I am telling you now. Listen to your husbands. Sometimes, they just might be right.

I had decided that the time had come for me to cut my hair. And not just trim a little off the ends, but really cut. my. hair. It has been varying degrees of long for about the last six years.

And humidity and long hair? They don't get along so well.

I was tired of it and ready for a change, but also not wanting to go too short. So, for the last several weeks, I have been perusing websites, magazines, and people-watching in search of my new hair. One lucky day, I found it. It belonged to a girl who was innocently walking around the City Museum with her kids. Unbeknownst to her, I was stalking her hair, snapping away with my telephoto lens like a paparazzi. I had pictures of every angle of this hair, lest there be any confusion when I went in.

I need to pause in the telling of the hair story to tell you that I have not found my hair "person" here in St. Louis yet. I have gone in a few times for trims, but never really felt like I had found my stylist. Just haven't found that special someone. And if you're anything like me, this is a relationship that MUST be just right. It requires almost as much thought and prayer as choosing your spouse.

You know it's true.

So, armed with my arsenal of pictures, I made an appointment. The day arrived, and I excitedly headed in, ready to meet the new me.

Well.

The stylist I had blindly chosen did not agree with my hairdo of choice. She flat out refused to give it to me. Then, in a move I'll never fully comprehend, told me I was too old to be able to pull it off. Oh, and that it would accentuate my fat neck.

Excuse me?

There are a lot of parts of me that I will agree are fat and jiggly, but up until that moment, I was fairly confident my neck wasn't one of them. I should have gotten up and ran from her chair right then.

But the coward that I am, I stayed right there. And with a few thousand flicks of her scissors, she gave me her version of the haircut, which in no way, shape, or form resembled the one I was looking for. I left the salon in tears. My hair was not only A LOT shorter than I wanted, but I looked like I had a giant poofy bell taking up space around my head, ringing as I walked. It was HORRIBLE.

Calling and sobbing to the Husband did very little good, as he had advised against cutting it in the first place. To his credit, there were no "I told you so's," but we all know how well the men deal with the tears. They really don't know HOW to deal with them.

So, I frantically ran to my friend Mindy's house, tears streaming, and hair-bell ringing. Thankfully, Mindy is someone you can count on to be brutally honest, but in a kind, loving way. And with a hug and a diet coke, she handed me the phone and the number of a male stylist, the likes of which I should have seen in the first place.

A few hours later, lots of laughs in the second salon at my botched job, and my hair is as fixed as it can be. It is, unfortunately, really, really short. So short, in fact, that I am not in a mental place where I can even take pictures of it yet. In a few days I might be ready, but not today. I'm still working on coming down off this ledge.

Which would probably be easier to do if Hannah would stop telling me just how ugly it is, you know, every eight minutes or so.

By the way, she's for sale. Cheap. And she comes with a lifetime supply of polly pockets. Any takers?

The only bright rainbow in this cloudy hair storm? At least I found my new hair person. If only I'd found him a few hours earlier.

Picking the collective brain of the internet

After a weekend spent ignoring my family reading, I finished a few days ago. [And I will only say that I liked it, was mildly disappointed in the anticlimactic ending, and would rather have had a little more written detail about the you-know-what that was going on ALL OF THE TIME, apparently. Stupid young adult audience. Spoils it for the rest of us.]

Anyway, I am left with just one question.

Now what do I read?

I have been on a reading frenzy ever since our catastrophic vacation. I have sped my way through all of Philipa Gregory's Henry VIII books (and loved each and every one of them. I may even be a little in love with crazy Henry now. I know. Don't tell my boyfriend Edward. And certainly don't tell the Husband).

I have devoured this, this, this, and this in the last few weeks alone, among others.

But I find myself at a loss. Browsing my favorite online bookstores is not netting me any inspiration. What should I read next? Where can I focus my near-obsessive personality?

Certainly not my husband and children. Oh, no. Not them. They wouldn't know what to do with themselves.

So, I look to you, dear interpeeps, to help me in my time of need.

What are your favorite reads? What have you read lately that you loved and could not put down?

Please tell me another book or series that I can become addicted to. Give me some more reason to ignore my laundry, dirty bathrooms, and children [as if blogging weren't enough, right?]

Right. You know what I'm talking about.

The last week of summer

I am starting to think that I just might miss these little friends when they go back to school in nine days, 16 hours, and four minutes.



But who's counting, anyway?