Where in the world are YOU?

It's been a long week, peeps. The Husband had a business trip, followed by a little ski vacation with his brothers. I begrudge him neither - that man continuously bends over backwards to let me go play with my girls. He lives to ski, and I am thrilled he gets to do it.

However, it will leave us home this weekend without him.

Which is hard.

The weekdays without him? We are used to that. We're pros, actually. But the weekends? The weekends are all about him. We rally around him, bask in his laughter, and make the most of our family time together. Friends are told no, phones are turned off, and emails are left unanswered. To say that we all live for the weekends would be a huge understatement.

If the weather were better this weekend, I might not feel so forlorn. But old man winter has reared his ugly head once again, and I find myself a wee bit melancholy.

So do me a solid, will you? Drop me a comment, tell me where in the world you are. Just your city and state. Or country. Or planet, if that's the case. I promise to not stalk you, send you anthrax, or demand you become my new BFF. I just thought it might be a fun little project this weekend for the kids and I to graph out the readers of this little old blawg. See where everyone is and map it out statistically.

Play along, won't you? Even if you hate to comment, indulge me this once? Pretty please?

How to be the hostess with the mostess

I have made no secret amongst my family and friends how much I love having visitors. Maybe it's the excitement of showing off my city to visitors who've never been here. Or reconnecting with loved ones that we haven't seen in a while.

Quite possibly it's the week-long manic cleaning fest I engage in when I know guests are coming.

Whatever the reason, it's something we all look forward to.

And because I am bored awesome, I am going to share some of my hosting secrets with you.

I know. Try to contain your excitement.

In our current home, we are fortunate enough to have two extra bedrooms that we use as guest rooms. We've not always been so lucky (I'm talking to you, tiny townhouse in San Diego! And you, two-bedroom apartment in Boston!) but we are thrilled to be able to offer guests their own bedroom and bathroom now.

When we've not had lodgings to spare, we've kicked children out of their rooms, scoured every surface in bleach, and put guests in there. A key for happy visitors is not having to share a bunk bed with your three-year-old who is having night terrors. Privacy is a must. If you simply can't spare the space, offer to sleep on the hideaway in the living room, and put the guests in YOUR room.

Remember, they've come a long way and likely spent a pretty penny to get there. Make them feel welcome and comfortable.

Extra towels are a MUST. I always stock the guest bathroom with fresh towels, and put a stack of extras at the foot of the bed. I can't think of anything that grosses me out more than using a towel after someone else - be it my own husband, children, or otherwise. Towels cost only a few dollars at Wal-Mart or Target. Plus? When your guests leave, you have new towels to add to your own rotation, as well.

One trick I learned on my first visit to Casa de Gabi was the guest basket. I loved having one of my own at her place, and have never let a guest sleep in my home without one since.

The contents vary by visitor and my anticipation of their likes/needs, but the gist is the same. Magazines, snacks, water bottles, and spare toiletry items. You know never what you'll forget at home on a trip, and it's nice to have it on hand.

I also call each visitor a few days before their arrival and ask if there are any drinks/foods/snacks that they'd like me to pick up. My mother-in-law's drink of choice is far different from my own, and I know it makes her happy to find it waiting oh-so-cold in the fridge. If there are kids coming, what do they like for breakfast? What passes for a morning meal around here may not work for someone else's kids. Everyone is most comfortable when familiar foods abound.

Another thing I like to do is have a stack of recently-read books on the nightstand. I am not necessarily a book saver - if I've read it and liked it, I am happy to pass it on to the next person.

Plus? Maybe your guests are speed readers and have plowed through their 18 books on the plane or in the car. (No, Daniel, I'm not talking to you. I realize you're barely literate). But it's always a nice treat to have a new book to read or put on your list to be read next.

Lastly, be prepared with fun ideas in various price ranges for sight-seeing. Your guests have not likely prepared an itinerary of every local spot they want to hit. They are relying on you to know the best restaurants and sights to see in YOUR city. Have ideas ready so you're not spending half a day trying to decide what to do.

So, now I just have to ask, who is going to come visit next? Your room is all ready...

It's too early in the morning to buy a gun

This morning, it being a holiday and all, I was ecstatic to sleep in.

At a quarter to eight, I felt my bed jiggling and heard the whispers.

"Is she awake yet?"

"No. Not yet."

"Is she alive?"

"Yeah, she's breathing. Just not awake."

"Dangit!"

I cracked a wary eyelid to find my boys' faces a mere three inches from mine, studying my every move, searching for any signs of life.

"She's awake!" they shouted in unison. I reached blindly for my glasses, looked at the clock, and wearily dropped my head back onto the pillow. I groaned and wondered silently if it was legal to sell kids on Craig's List.

"Mom, can we go to the store? Dad said I could spend my money on a new airsoft gun and I have the money. Can we go now? Let's go to the store. Pleasecanwegotothestorerightnow?"

Apparently, the Husband had given him permission to buy yet another massive piece of deadly machinery.

I acquiesced, trusting that the Husband knew what he was doing. I threw on my sweatpants (breaking my hard and fast rule of never going out undressed) and drove to the sporting goods store. Tragically, weapons of this magitude require an 18-year-old to purchase them, so I was forced out of the car and into the store against my will. The boys practically ran through the store to the gun section, and before I could catch up to them, were running back to the register, gun in hand.

Once home, it took some serious work to get it out of the package. Both brains nearly exploded with glee when it finally came loose from the plastic. The aim was tested and ammunition loaded. I think they would have gladly fired a few test shots at my leather sofa had I not been there to intervene.

The backyard is a much better alternative, don't you think?

Apparently, acting as a chauffeur for their weapons acquisition is enough to make me "like seriously the best mom ever!"

I think, however, I share Hannah's sentiment on the matter:

{Yawn} Can I go back to bed now?

To my real valentine

A Recipe for Happiness

Take one tow-headed little boy:

And one farmer-tanned little girl:

Wait about 20 years, then mix in some awkward dancing, hand-holding, and head-over-heels falling:

Combine it with a ring, a nervous proposal, and lots of kissing:

Mix gently with an early morning wedding, newlywed bliss, grad school, and several cross-country moves:

Let it simmer, bubble, boil, and cook for almost 17 years, and you will have this:

Thanks, baby.

Thanks for loving me in spite of the very hideous perm years. And the pink gravy I made in our first apartment. And the pregnancy rage.

Thanks for helping me see what you see when you look my way.

Thanks for three beautiful children who are, as it happens, turning out to be quite a lot of fun.

Thanks for getting on planes very early in the morning, multiple times per week, and working into the wee hours so that I don't have to.

Thanks for not complaining when I am less productive than I should be.

Thanks for holding my hand, letting me cry, and hugging me tight this past year. I would never have made it without you.

Thanks for loving me anyway.

I totally get it now

A few weeks back when I delighted you all with the smutty details from the dream, many of you wrote in and said your night-time fantasy man was Hugh Jackman.

I wrinkled my nose and judged you to be insane.

All I could conjure when that name was said was this less-than-stellar image:

Gross, right?

But then my friends Mindy, Beckie, and Shilo staged an intervention and tried to convince me otherwise. Mindy suggested several You Tube videos of Hugh hosting the Tony Awards.

Beckie dropped off the movie "Australia" and demanded I watch it.

Shilo told me (for the millionth time) that I was just plain crazy.

And lo and behold, what do you think I discovered?

Oh, yes. I get it now. He has quickly moved to the top of a very short list of men I wish to be given in my next life. He can sing, dance, and break a wild stallion in the outback. He grows a fierce man beard and is tall enough that I think it would work out between us. In fact, I think we make quite the handsome couple, don't you?

Hello, Drover...

Yes. Apart from my hideously awkward Kidman-esque skin tone, I think we are quite striking together.

But, alas, there is also my other boyfriend. The first boyfriend. The one I will love from now until the end of time. And the one that belongs to me. So don't even think about it.

Don't worry, Darcy. You will always have a special place in my heart. Even while I'm off in the outback with my newest boy toy.

What's that, James? You had something to say?

I know, Pookie. Don't be angry. You know they can't help it. I'm just too attractive to resist.

Oh...coconut cake, the beach and a very hot man all in one place? It's the ultimate trifecta.

However will I choose?

On humor and cannibals

The other day I had a very memorable conversation with Chase. It went a little something like this:

Me: Ha ha hee hee ha ha ho!

Him: Hey, Mom, what's so funny?

Me: I'm just reading a really funny blog post.

Him: Is it about man-eating sharks or cannibals filled with bacteria?

Me: Umm, no.

Him: Oh. [Shoulders shrug in disappointment]

Although, had I been reading a post about either of those topics, I'm sure it would have been hilarious.

Something about an apple? Not falling too far from...what was it exactly?

A few days ago, while driving in the car to church, the boys were bickering and competing with each other over highly controllable things like height and shoe size. Fed up with it, the Husband settled the debate for them with the following statement:

"Relax, boys. Your life is not a competition. But if it was? You'd both be losing to me anyway."

THAT, my friends, is exactly why I married him.

Lucky Thirteen

[My all-time favorite picture of you. I can't ever get enough of it. Photo courtesy of Heidi Ballou]

Dear McKay,

Well, I finally did it. Finally found the time to sit down and get this letter up for you. I had no idea you had been checking the blog all day Friday for it. I feel terribly guilty that it wasn't here waiting, but what can I say? I was up at 5:30 to get your birthday breakfast ready. Then I was making your cake from scratch, and brining and baking your birthday brisket (all per your request).

The funny thing is just how well you understand. Of all my children, you are definitely the most forgiving. Like that picture above? The one with the dog we had for a total of two days before having to give it back due to horrific allergies? You smiled and shrugged it off, though I know it broke your heart. Your brother? He asked if it would be possible to keep the dog and send ME away.

But not you. You accepted the bad news and made the most of the time you and the dog had left.

You are still like that today. When things don't go your way, you never pout or get angry. You never slam doors or yell in frustration. You simply adjust your way of thinking and move on to something new. Your disappointment is never carried around on your sleeve.

Oh, but I envy you that trait.

I think it will serve you well in your life. I think it will make you a fair and just companion. You are quick to forgive and so easy to love. (And I know you did not get that from me.)

When retelling the story of your birth last Friday night, I looked at you in awe and wondered how it was that 13 years have gone by since then. It seems like only yesterday. I can still feel your warm body in my arms, as they handed me this wrapped, red bundle of baby. I recall with vivid clarity, watching with teary eyes as Daddy held you for the first time - you, just minutes old. It was that precise moment that we became a family.

Oh, but you made parenting so easy. Your happy laughter filled our tiny apartment. Your smile made the winter seem like spring. You brought us a new level of joy that we had never known before.

I am particularly loving your new independence in the kitchen. Many a gourmet meal has been served lately - and all of them prepared by you! I flatter myself that your interest in cooking is not due to my lack of abilities, but as a result of your own drive to learn new skills.

Yeah. That's it, right?

Either way, it's been so fun to see you try new things. You never seem daunted by difficult recipes or techniques. You were born fearless, and it extends into every part of your life.

I love you, kid. I cherish your obedient nature. I see you trying so hard to do your best - in school, at church, and at home - and I sit here and wonder what I ever did to deserve you. You have the heart of a giant. You love everyone around you, and make it impossible for them not to love you back. You work hard and expect the absolute best from yourself.

I hope this year is your best yet. You. are. amazing.

Love,

Mama

Love notes

Last week, I found baby girl furiously scribbling a note to one of her classmates. She was writing and re-writing, crumbling up little post-it notes, wanting to get the wording just right.

When I peeked over her shoulder, this was the note causing her so much grief:

Apparently, a boy in her class had demanded a note from her stating whether or not she would be willing to kiss him.

What do you think it would take to get that note copied and distributed to every boy within a 50-mile radius in, say, seven years or so?

I'm thinking the Husband would gladly spend thousands to make it happen.

P.S. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your sweet words on my little headshot project. You can see the new one over there on the right. You all rock. Way to make a sista feel good about herself.

Narcissism, sick days, and headshots

McKay is home sick today with "The Flu."

You know the one - it causes you deep stomach pain, nausea, and anxiety from nine o'clock at night until about one minute after school starts the next morning?

Poor baby.

I was ditching him to go meet friends for lunch at Bread Co. (because, clearly, I care so much) and he managed to summon all his remaining strength to lift his head off the pillow and, in a weak voice, ask me to bring him back a giant cinnamon roll.

Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. A cinnamon roll cures the flu.

Whatever. He works hard all the time and never misses school. I'll cut him some slack.

But as punishment (along with sharing a bite or two of said giant cinnamon roll) he was tasked with playing photographer for me today. Because my hair looked really cute. And I never have any pictures of me. And what if I died today and they all had nothing to remember me by? And what would my friend Beckie blow up to poster size and paste on the ceiling to haunt the Husband and his new 20-year-old wife with?

Okay. Maybe not that last one.

But I am really sick of looking at the same picture over there on the sidebar from, like, four or five years ago.

Girlfriend has got herself some new wrinkles! They must be seen!

Anyway, your job (along with sending me your most heartfelt compliments on my new pictures) is to tell me which one you like the best for my new headshot. If I was on top of things, and not so busy criticizing staring at myself, I would have numbered them for you. Oh well. Tell me anyway, will you?

Which me is the best me I can be?

Gracias.

Crazy being the operative word here

Over the weekend, the Husband and I went to dinner and a movie. Because we are both trying to stay away from the siren song that is heroin sugar, we opted for Crazy Bowls and Wraps.

I know. We live big around here. What can I say?

We've been to other locations, but this particular franchise was a new visit for us. Seeing as how I am so boring diversified, I opted to get the same salad that I always get. When my salad was brought to our table, I noticed that the usual dressing on the side was missing.

I looked up at our server and asked if she could bring me some dressing. She looked at me like I had just asked for a large bucket of deep fried baby and said, "Um, we don't have any salad dressing."

I looked back at the Husband and then back to our server. "You don't have any dressing? Like at all?"

"No. We don't serve our salads with dressing."

Exsqueeze me? Are you on the same planet I'm on? Eating salad without dressing is like eating rocks or nails. For fun.

That is the whole point of eating a salad. So you can put some dressing on it.

When I told her that the last time I ordered this salad at another location, it came with a very tasty dressing, served on the side, she simply rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen.

She returned and, with a smile stolen straight from Satan's lips, placed a dish of what I am sure was mayonnaise topped with pepper in front of me. "Here. Try this dressing. It's really good."

Fearing it was actually mayonnaise, pepper, and spit, I left it on the table. Along with most of my very dry, very boring, very unsatisfactory salad.

Tell me I'm not alone in this. Salad MUST have some sort of dressing, right? It doesn't have to swim in it, but a little bit of moisture? A little bit of sauce?

Don't worry, though. I totally made up for it at the movies with a large bucket of popcorn and some Reeses Pieces.

And, of course, a jumbo diet coke.

P.S. The movie was amazing. I would highly recommend it.

Snow day, baby

Sleeping late, cuddling under warm blankets.
Fire roaring, mugs of hot cocoa in hand.
Empty schedule.
Novels waiting to be read. Movies waiting to be watched.
Heaven.

Revenge is a dish best served covered in chocolate frosting

When Hannah was about two, she got into a little bit of trouble.

I found her one afternoon, standing at the open door of the fridge, eating fistfuls of cake.

From a seven-layer, made-from-scratch, five-hours-worth-of-my-life cake.

[Okay, maybe it was only a two-layer cake. I exaggerate.]

But it took a really long time to make, and was resting comfortably in the fridge for the Husband's birthday celebration that night.

That is, until baby girl got to it:

[Not the actual photo. I am sure I was too busy yelling and squawking to actually pull out the camera and document the crime. But you get the general idea - a happy, guilty, adorable chocolate face.]

So, last weekend, when my three children worked together to make a cake, I laughed really hard when we all discovered that someone had done this:

[No, it wasn't me. ]

It was someone who's name rhymes with Bosh. Also known as the Flusband.

I think it's one of those full-circle moments that make parenting worthwhile, don't you?

My new favorite thing: Book flowers

While browsing one of my favorite furniture stores this weekend, I stumbled upon something so lovely and adorable that I instantly tried to purchase one or twelve. Tragically, they were not for sale, and I was told they were merely decorations.

(Why? Why put something on the showroom floor that you have no intention of selling? Mental.)

Behold the lovely, adorable, and not-for-sale book flowers:



No, I didn't steal them (though I was sorely tempted). I studied one for so long that the sales woman finally took pity on me and told me how to make one of my very own.

And because I love you, I am going to show you, too -- in nine easy steps (or five if you're less indecisive and crazy than me).

[Had I been in less of a hurry, I would have gone to the thrift store and bought a really old, yellowed book. I think it would look even better antiqued. And how cool to be made from a book that I love, like something Austin perhaps? But alas, impatience is my middle name.]

[Also, make sure and roll them all in the same direction.]

Pretty cool, eh? Took me all of 15 minutes to do one book. Do not be surprised if my entire house is filled with them by, oh, tomorrow.

Happy crafting. Send me any links or snapshots of your own book flowers. It'll be like a decorating party!

Inquiring minds want to know

Totally random, but there are some questions that have been rattling around this empty head of mine all week, and I am looking to the wise internet for answers.

You know, instead of putting my soft-core p@rn dreams out there for you to interpret. (Really, internet? Hugh Jackman? Really? I just don't get it. But then again all I can picture him as is the wolf man from Xmen. Never saw Australia. Maybe that would help?)

ANYhoo, onto the pressing questions of the day.

Why is it, no matter how hard I try, can I never divide my bread dough evenly? Is there a special tool out there that would ensure my loaves are the same size? I realize the discrepancy is small, but for this OCD brain, it hurts just a little every time I look at it. I have to stop myself from slicing the bottom of the smaller loaf off when it comes out of the oven.

Yes, I am diseased. No, I do not care.

Anyone have any answers for this one? A scale? A dough measurer thingie? I need something.

And then I can work on peace in the middle east.

Second, WHY can I put shirts like this in the washer with bleach and the colored writing on them comes out fine?

And shirts like this in the washer with bleach come out with all the letters bleach-ified? Why does bleach NOT affect some things and totally destroy others?

Inquiring minds want to know.

(These letters used to be dark blue. Now they are a manly shade of pink. Which totally makes my self-conscious middle school boy happy, I'm sure. And yet the rest of the lettering remains unharmed. What the eff?)

And last, but not least, why are there not seat belts on school buses? Do not tell me it is because the 60 children on the bus are actually safer without them. I've seen those buses barrel down the streets, and those kids are standing, kneeling, jumping, twisted around, and sitting every which way but forward. I am literally sick at the what ifs should the unthinkable happen.

Something tells me it has a lot to do with the thing they call money, and that bothers me a whole lot. After all, look at the precious cargo being hauled around every day:

That angel face is at least worth the cost of a seat belt. Don't you think?

Give me your best answers so I can sleep at night and dream about Ben Affleck the Husband in peace, will you?