Back from the dead with an introduction

Hi.

Remember me?

Well, I'm back from the dead and in tip-top shape, thanks to antibiotics, codeine cough syrup, and sleep. I appreciate all your many well-wishes while I was away. Unfortunately, you didn't listen to me when I said not to blog. I do not think my Bloglines will ever be caught up.

There was someone who forgot to send well-wishes and good thoughts my way, however. And that someone knows who he is.

My brother, Dan.

Have you not met Dan? Well, that's a shame. Let me introduce you.

Dan was born the third child in our family, right after me. Which makes him at least second best for sure. Unfortunately, he is now, and will always be, our mother's favorite. This is a fact that my elder brother and I cannot not possibly forgive him for.

Dan was always an annoyingly happy child. Very comfortable with whatever life threw at him. Even if it included the inability to tan or gain muscle:

He was a cheerful worker. Happily doing his chores with a stupid grin on his stupid face. It's no wonder that Mom liked him the best.

Oh, and you know the kid that could spend an hour eating an ice cream cone? Yeah, that was him. We'd all gobble ours up in about fourteen seconds flat. And then we'd have to sit there for another 40 minutes, greedily watching Dan, as he ever-so-delicately ate his ice cream.

One. lousy. miniature. bite. at. a. time.

You'd have tied him up in the basement, too. I know you would have.

His pre-teen years were the only years in which he rebelled. [And Dan, don't be pretending you didn't look at Jared H.'s girly magazines with the rest of your buddies. I know the truth. Perhaps that is the reason for your sour expression in this joyful family photo. Guilt, maybe?]

I sure hope so. Pervert.

(Notice my guilt-free, shining countenance.)

And in his free time growing up, Dan did a lot of this:

Sadly, he has still not outgrown it.

But, he was able to clean up his act in time to serve a mission for our church to Brazil. This was a great time of growth and learning for Daniel. I think he probably found teaching people equivalent (or above) his intellect to be quite a challenge.

Here is an example of an intellectually superior investigator:

Yes, Daniel converted many farm animals to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

And his growth and knowledge has certainly continued after his mission as well. He is now married (to a beautiful woman who is WAY too good for him) and has three adorable children (so cute, in fact, that we all think they're the mailman's).

He continues to strive daily for the spiritual enlightenment that comes from studying the scriptures. As you can see, Dan is always extremely diligent in this area:

In addition to his dedicated spirituality, Dan is actively involved in a rigid exercise program. Here, you see him leading his weekly men's group in Hula Dancing.

Or auditioning for the Village People. We're not sure which.

All in all, Dan is a very generous, wonderful, giving friend. He always has the nicest things to say to me, his favorite sister. Especially on my blog. I do so look forward to his thoughtful comments, for I know that each comment is crafted with love and care, and said in the hopes of raising my fragile, yet growing, self-esteem.

Smell ya later, loser.

death by sinus infection

i. am. sick.

cannot even use proper capitalization, for fear of clogged sinuses exploding.

must get well.

will try to be back tomorrow. have big post planned wherein mocking of brother will take center stage.

here's hoping.

don't do any good blogging without me.

A Top Ten List for the Husband

For many months now, I have been spouse-less during the week. The Husband has been on the road every week, racking up those frequent flier miles, and getting stranded at airports all across the country.

But come Monday morning this week, the strangest thing happened. I woke up and he was home. That six a.m. flight? Did not have him on it.

I almost didn't know what to do with myself. It was very confusing.

So, in case any of you ever find yourselves in this position, I thought I'd present you with my Top Ten List of Clues that Your Husband is at Home. Lest you get confused and call the police on the strange man eating out of your refrigerator in his sweatpants.

Number Ten:

You know your husband is home when quite suddenly, your car has to share the garage. And she's not very good at sharing. She likes to park right in the center where children cannot bang her doors on anything or get scratched.

Nine: The usually manageable loads of laundry look like this:

Eight: Your bathroom is filled with the musky scent of this (and hopefully not because you have been wearing it):

Seven: Suits needing dry cleaning will miraculously appear out of nowhere and clutter up your bedroom furniture. You will smile for a minute and wonder sarcastically just who will be taking that suit to the cleaners.

But only for a minute.

You know you'll make him do it.

Six: When the alarm goes off at this unholy time in the morning, there will actually be someone in your bed saying OUT LOUD in their grown-up, manly voice, "Time for us to get up."

That can be very unnerving, for usually the snooze button is hit several times before that happens.

Five: You will be eating this for dinner instead of feeding the kids macaroni and cheese, and munching on the Lucky Charms straight out of the box.

Four: Keys and wallets will be left out on counters and tables. They will not belong to you, and you are pretty certain they do not belong to your ten-year-old.

Three: The brownies you made in the morning will mysteriously have large chunks missing. The children WILL be innocent, of this you are sure.

Two: Sparklers, ice cream, and caramel topping will be combined with your pan of brownies to satisfy sweet tooths and pyromaniacal needs.

And the number one clue that your husband is home:

The covers neatly tucked into the foot of your bed will look like this in the morning. And you know with a certainty that you did not sleep on that side of the bed last night.

Still, it's nice to see this face once in a while in the mornings.

Even if he eats all the brownies and plays with fire in the kitchen.

A word of advice

Let's just say you are in your mudroom, putting in a new load of laundry. You have just finished working out, and are still wearing your exercise clothes. You notice they would fit nicely in the load you are putting in the washer. You then realize that you have nothing else to put on at the moment, but figure you can make a mad dash upstairs. After all, your daughter is in the basement happily singing along to Disney's latest brainwashing tool High School Musical, and your boys are at school. Plus, you were just about to jump in the shower anyway.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, listen to the voice in your head that tells you this is a good thing to do.

It's not.

For as your jiggly, white, naked body is sprinting up the stairs, the doorbell will ring. And you will notice the goofy smile of the UPS man, peeking through the glass on the side of your front door.

And he has just seen you in all your naked glory.

I mean this advice generally, of course. It's not as though anything like this has ever happened to me in real life.

Definitely not today.

And definitely not, say, about an hour ago.

Blaming Grandpa

This morning, at the unholy hour of five-thirty a.m., the phone next to my bed rings. It startles me from a deep and peaceful sleep. My heart jumps, knowing if the phone rings that early, the news can only be bad.

I stumble for the phone to see who is calling.

Without my contacts or glasses, I am essentially blind, and the most I can make out is our last name.

In a panic, I answer the phone, praying that the Husband (who is traveling as usual this week) is not in some dire situation requiring either bail money or an E.R. visit.

The squeaky, giggling voice of my oldest son says, "APRIL FOOL'S, MOM!"

Then I hear him fall down in a fit of hysterical laughter.

He had used my cell phone to call our house.

At five-freaking-thirty in the morning.

I lay my head back on the pillow, exasperated, and try to find a reason not to take him out of this world (after all, I did bring him into it, or so the saying goes). Unable to go back to sleep, and struggling for patience, I head downstairs and begin the breakfast preparations for my early risers.

It turns out that I was not the only victim of McKay's pranks. He had switched everyone's coats and backpacks around in the mudroom lockers. He filled a squirt bottle with water and secretly squirted his sister in the back of the head. He left crazy notes. He slipped contraband items into his brother's school backpack.

He was a troll. And all before the sun was even up.

Watching him run around pulling all these stunts, I realized something. He is a miniature version of his Grandpa.
My Dad is the king of April Fool's Day. All through my childhood, he was the master prankster. Every year, you never knew what to expect. He knew just how to catch you by surprise and do something you could not have imagined.

Like the time he nailed all my shoes to the floor.

Yes, to the carpet. In our house.

Or when he woke me up in the middle of the night and told me I had missed the bus and was late for school, but waited until I was showered and getting ready to mention his little joke.

And his pranks were not merely reserved for April Fool's Day. Ice cold water was routinely dumped over the top of the shower curtain. Waking up to colored milk was a disturbingly-common occurrence in my youth. And I will never forget the time my Mom put hair dye in my Dad's hair and shut off all the water in the house so he would be unable to wash it out.

Let's just say that I learned at a very early age to never be surprised at anything.

And so I will humor the little boy in this house. I will smile, and laugh, and tell him that he got me good. But he should know this:

REVENGE WILL BE MINE.

That five-thirty wake-up call will one day return to haunt him, probably about the time he turns 16, and longs to sleep until noon.

And if he gets mad?

Well, I'll just tell him to blame it all on Grandpa.

Adopting sisters just for the weekend

We are back.

Sigh. There is just nothing like a weekend in New York (or Yew Nork, as my kids like to call it). It is truly my favorite city in the entire world. Had a great time with my sisters-and-mother-in-law. Made some great memories. Ate some truly sinful food. Slept very little.

Some of the highlights were:

• Cold lemon chicken and a black and white polka dot dinner at Gabi's.
• Gabi's choreographed (and costumed) dance number during dinner.
• Heidi's lost luggage saga (never trust anyone named Doogan at the Delta Luggage Counter. He is lying when he says he will wait all night for your lost suitcase).
• Shopping for hours at H&M.
• Giving Marta the "what no one will tell you" speech about child birth at 2 a.m. (and hoping she's now not too terrified to deliver baby Bruce).
• Never getting more than four hours of sleep at a time.
• The Dali Lama cab driver waxing philosophical on gay men and people that need medication in the city (like himself, maybe? Nah).
• Burgers at the Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridian.
• H&M some more.
• Books of Wonder and the Cupcake Bakery inside.
• Talking Oma into returning the $500 worth of exfoliation skin care products she didn't need from Bloomies.
• Laughing at the giant bra Gabi did buy at Bloomies.
• Pashminas on the street.
• Oma's crinkling cookie wrappers during the middle of A Chorus Line.
• More H&M (because clearly, if you don't buy everything in the store the first and second time, then a third trip is in order).
• Sweet potato fries with maple syrup dipping sauce.
• Dinner at Carnegie Deli at 10 p.m., where the sandwiches were the size of our heads.
• Getting dessert after eating sandwiches the size of our heads at 10 p.m.
• Running for the train at Penn Station and hoping Oma doesn't have a heart attack.
• Laughing until we cried.
• Crying until we laughed.
• Having fun, being together, and returning home safe and happy to our families (although some were still without luggage).

Thanks for the memories, girls. It was great to pretend to have sisters for a few days. Let's do it again soon.

Oh, and nothing says 'welcome home, mom' like a child vomiting in the car on the way home from the airport. Remember my last trip to New York when I came home to a vomiting child?

Seriously.

Why can't they throw up on the husband's watch? WHY?!

My brush with fame and a weekend away

So you know the little thing in New York called Broadway?

And have some of you ever heard of the little play they call, "Grease?"

[Only like my favorite show EVER.]

Well, thanks to a Garden Swap that I participated in, I got a little package in the mail from an actual, real-live star on Broadway.

I feel very famous now.

And very special.

Miss Natalie Hill, currently starring in Grease on Broadway, was my swap partner. How I got so lucky, I will never know. She sent me the coolest package in the mail, and it was full of beautiful treasures.

A springtime mix CD with happy-go-lucky songs that I love, a book (that I have not read yet, Miss N., but am very excited to), a gorgeous card, and an egg plant [a real plant that will grow in an egg shell. It's very cool.] Hannah wanted to adopt the egg as her own, but I am only allowing her to look at it occasionally, lest I find a pile of dirt and broken egg shells in her doll house and her baffled look that says, "What, I didn't do it?"

So this will become my closest brush with fame (unless you count that time I saw Air Force One and got stuck waiting on the runway until it landed and de-planed the First Lady. Which I don't count as anything but annoying).

I love everything, Natalie. Thank you so much!

In other news, my blogging may be sporadic for a few days. I'm headed out to spend some time with my sistas-in-law, Gabi, Marta, Oma, and Heidi (who does not yet blog but is still beautiful and funny anyway). We'll be in the Big Apple for a few days without our husbands or kidlets. I wish we were seeing Natalie on stage, but we'll be catching this show instead. Looks to be a great weekend.

Now I just have to finish the laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, lists for the Husband, and packing.

See you next week, interpeeps.

Don't have too much fun without me.

Vacation Survival Guide

Oh, the pains of crawling out from under a sugar hangover this morning. Why must the Reeses Peanut Butter eggs tempt me so?

And why must I see the need to eat my weight in them, year after year?

But the headache and sugar withdrawals were miraculously cured the minute that I saw this beautiful sight lumbering down the street, carrying my children:

So our little mini-spring break vacation.

What to say?

Well, we took the kids up to Chicago Wednesday night. Left behind the five-day rainstorms that had plagued our town, hoping for sunshine and blue skies.

Which we got.

Until the six inches of snow blew in. And suddenly we found ourselves pining for the wet rains of St. Louis. My life is absolute living proof that the grass IS NOT GREENER. Punch anyone in the kidneys who tries to tell you that it is. It's not.

We did have a great time, but I learned a few things on this trip. Thought I'd share my them with you, my interpeeps, in case you ever find yourself trapped in a tiny hotel room with three children over spring break.

Stie's Spring Break Survival Guide: What Not to Do Edition

When passing through a town with this sign, know immediately that you do not now, nor will you ever, belong here. Accept the fact that everyone you know would immediately laugh at your return address because they know you.

And you are anything but normal.

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When staying at a hotel with your children, never assume there is going to be a pool. Sometimes at big, fancy, downtown hotels, they don't have pools.

But they do have gyms, and you will gladly remember your sudden, extreme need to exercise for the chance of a few minutes to yourself. Even if that means you actually will have to, you know, exercise.

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Hotel beds are perfect for doing things that are not allowed at home. Like jumping or simultaneously falling flat on your face to see who gets there first.


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The Children's Museum at Navy Pier is the absolute coolest museum ever. Plan on opening and closing the place down, with only a brief intermission for lunch. Your kids will not want to leave thanks to the endless hours of learning, entertainment, and play.

And the best part? There are benches and chairs everywhere so you can sit and watch the learning, entertainment, and play. Without having to learn, entertain, or play.


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Standing in front of a fun house mirror will give you insecurities all day that you really might look like this:

Or worse, this:

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Sharpay is fully to blame for the slightly awkward, very diva-like pose that your daughter will strike every time a camera is near. When asked about it, she will proudly say that she looks like Sharpay, but sings like Gabriella.

WhatEVER.

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And when returning eagerly to your non-snowy state, try not to drown yourself in a bowl of cereal when you look outside to see snow falling in droves on Easter morning.


Monday WILL come, and they WILL return to school.

And you might just find that you miss them a little.

Recovering from a facelift and time with the children

Do you like my new face lift? Do you?

I love it.

Credit goes to Jo Lynne at DCR Designs. She's just begun her new bloggy design business and you should really go check out some of her work. On top of her very funny, well-written everyday blog, she has a beauty product review blog, Chic Critique, and now this. As you can see, girlfriend knows how to work the html so it has nice, pretty shapes to it. I am so excited about my new look. I just love it. And I just love her.

In other news, we just got home from a little spring break vacay with the kids. Pictures and details coming [hopefully] soon.

Providing I do not get lost in the gorging of the Easter candy tomorrow.

Which is entirely possible since the Easter Bunny always brings Cryptonite Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs.

I'm just saying.

The day it all began

Fourteen years ago today, as the early morning sun came up over the Wasatch mountains, the Husband and I were married.

We were young, dumb, and oh-so-in love. He was 21, and I had just turned 20. We had a whirlwind courtship that surprised no one around us. It just felt right. It was meant to be.

As I look back on the last 14 years, I am struck by depth of my heart that he still holds today. If I had known just how lucky I was on that spring day, I would have shaken that 20-year-old girl with a bad perm and told her that this was the first day of the rest of her life. I would have told her that everything she knew about herself to that point would grow and change over the next few years. I would have warned her that she would move somewhere beyond the life she had known, and that it would challenge her to do things she had never done or even dreamed of.

For him. This skinny, shy boy that came along quite by accident.

Him, the boy she loved with all of her inexperienced heart.

But we can't go back and tell ourselves to appreciate it, can we? All we can do is look back and smile at the memories and moments that now make up our history together. And laugh at him because he can't remember half of them.

Like the pans and pans of peanut butter bars I made in the cinder block one-bedroom apartment, and how we wondered why both of us were gaining so much weight.

And the quiet drives up the canyon in the white VW Fox, where we planned and dreamed of our future together.

Or the roller blades we thought would be so practical in Minnesota, and how we only used them twice.

But the memories that most fill my mind are the ones we have made as parents, and as a family. I could not have known what an amazing father you would be. You have made our babies your entire world. You gave up golf, a hobby you loved, because you couldn't bear to spend a whole Saturday away from us.

You are a man who walks in the door, never needing to unwind after a hard day at work. You want us. You've missed us. You are not only ready to just be with your family, but you crave it. We know that we are your whole world, and our children are better for it. Your first thought after a long business trip is of me, and providing me with a break from the kids. It's you half the time who suggests a girl's night out. You, who happily takes off work so I can get away for a few days with my girlfriends.

Your unselfish nature is but the tip of the iceberg.


I love that you would do anything for me, if it made me feel pretty. I want new clothes? Go for it. Make-up and makeovers? Whatever I want. Shopping sprees? You deserve it, baby, you say. I know how lucky I am.

I just want you to know that I know it.

I don't always show my gratitude. I know it's hard to hear me complain when you're in another state, working 90-hour weeks for nightmare clients, and I'm whining about trivial, everyday stuff. Problems you'd love to have right at that moment. But to your credit, you take a deep breath, and tell me how sorry you are that I'm feeling that way, and ask what you can do to help.


You never complain or look disgusted when you walk in the door and I've got yesterday's matted ponytail and a pair of sweats on. You smile, hug me, and make me feel as though I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.

You are always supportive of how I spend my time, even when it's going to daytime movies by myself, reading novels, or spending time blogging. I wonder if the tables were turned, could I be as big a person as you are? Could I work so hard knowing this person was being less productive than they could be?

Whatever I do, whatever I say, I am grateful. I am grateful that you support me staying at home. I am grateful that you never question how I spend my time. I am grateful that you love our kids. I am grateful that you love me, in spite of my many flaws. I am so grateful that you were able to look past the fuzzy hair, terrible clothes, and neurotic insecurities 14 years ago and take me as your wife, your partner. I cannot imagine my life without you.

Chiche though it may sound, you really do complete me.


I love you more today than I could have imagined on that early spring morning. Here's to many more years of adventure, laughs, and growth.

I love you,

Your little Stie

But he had no legs with which to kick the bucket

Remember the worst birthday gift ever given by another child? The one that came in the mail and said "LIVE TADPOLE" on the box?

Well, our little pet, Sir Croaks-A-Lot has finally croaked.

And not the kind of croaking that says he was a healthy, full-grown frog ready to live free in the wild.

He literally croaked.

Chase made the discovery late last night and spent over an hour in tears. He cried, and sobbed, and wondered what he did wrong. I assured him over and over that he was the best pet owner that ever lived, and told him it was just Sir Croaks-A-Lot's time.

Truth be told, that stupid tadpole never did anything that he was supposed to do. The paperwork that came with him said he would lose his tail within two to four weeks, and that he would happily eat his food every day.

Well, three months later he still had a tail and no legs.

And I think he ate very little, though Chase fed him every day.

Whatever the cause, we are mourning that smelly, green friend.

Chase woke up early today and constructed a headstone to mark the grave:
Sir Croaks-A-Lot will spend his final days resting in an Anne Klein watch box, buried in a place of prominence in our backyard. I am praying a squirrel doesn't decide to dig it up in a week or two. I don't think they could handle the horrors.
Chase delivered a rousing eulogy in which he spoke of Sir Croaks-A-Lot's many virtues. Apparently, he was a really good listener and always tried hard to swim his best.

After Chase's tear-filled words, he picked a single yellow flower from the neighbor's yard and gently laid it on the headstone.

I prayed they weren't looking.

One last final wave to the little pet that failed to thrive:

We followed the funeral with a light luncheon at the bar in our kitchen. Chase chose to honor Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory by eating leftover green pancakes that I thoughtfully made this morning for St. Patrick's Day, I mean, Sir Croaks-A-Lot.

He was somber, but still managed to get through. He really seemed to enjoy his pancake peanut butter sandwich.

I really seemed to enjoy knowing there were no live animals in my house anymore.
Not willing to miss an opportunity for a special treat, McKay suggested we make frog cookies in Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory.

Is it possible to think he just wanted cookies? Nah. Couldn't be.

Chase put on his brave face and managed to decorate and eat quite a few little frogs.

[We promise never to do this in your honor if any of you die.]

And now, behold the only pets we will ever have again:
Plastic ones. They don't eat, stink, pee, poo.

Or, most importantly, die.

RIP, little stinky green thing.

If only I had something to write about

I have reached the end of my creative brain cells. Sad, isn't it?

I am at a blogging standstill.

I got nuthin'.

Seriously. I can't even spell anymore.

I suppose I could write and tell you all about the two-hour bike ride to the park that I made my kids take yesterday.

I chose a path that was "too hilly" according to them and they kept getting off to walk their bikes up the hills that were apparently uphill both ways. Barefoot. In the snow.

That's their version anyway.

I could tell you about the behind-kicking workout I had this morning and how I don't think I'll walk for a week. But nobody (not even me) wants to hear about that.

So instead, I will leave you with a little weekend gratitude list:

I am thankful for an upcoming night out with the Husband sans kids tonight.

I am thankful for the Queen B and the fabulous book I won in a contest over at her blog. I never win anything; it made my whole day. You should go now and read her blog, if for no other reason, but to see pictures of her big, hairless cat. Makes me laugh just thinking about it. Plus, she still has her brain cells and is always very funny.

I am thankful for birds chirping right outside my window. Big, fat robins. What do these guys eat? Shouldn't they still be lean and scrawny from the winter? They're like guinea pigs with little stick legs - they're just huge.

I am thankful for spring break because it means I can sleep in every day and ignore the children and their pleas for Eggo waffles at the unholy crack of dawn.

I am thankful for a husband who is finally home for a day or two.

I am thankful for an upcoming mini-holiday with the Husband and kidlets (and hopefully an old friend. Come on, Em. You know you want to come and meet us!).

I am thankful for Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, even though they are the devil.

I am thankful for deodorant. Seriously, what would we do without it?

I am thankful for blogging.

I am thankful for blogging so I can look all busy and not have to help certain children find tiny lost Polly Pocket shoes. "Oh, sorry. Mommy is working on the computer right now. Come back later if you still need help."

I am thankful for boring Saturdays where we're all so healthy and fulfilled that we have nothing better to do than play in the basement while listening to soundtracks from action movies. Sometimes no news in life is good news.

What about you? What are you thankful for on this Saturday?

And if you see my brain, send it home. Tell it I'm sorry. Tell it I might really need to use it one of these days, and I promise to let it have the remote and drink some of my diet coke. But I won't give it my side of the bed. There are some things that must remain sacred.

A letter from a hopeful customer

Dear Quaker Rice Cakes,

Last night after an exhausting day spent mothering, nurturing, feeding, and driving my three children to school, scouts, ballet, and home again, I was tired and hungry.

I am trying (somewhat eagerly) to lose a few pounds. I recently picked up some of your delicious-looking rice cake snacks at my local Sam's Club. I bought them in bulk (which was a gamble on my part), trusting them to provide me with a tasty low-calorie snack. I took a risk, knowing that if nobody in the house liked them, we would be stuck with a large case of rice cakes.

And we don't have a dog to feed uneaten snacks to.

So while foraging through my pantry like a hungry raccoon, I saw two viable options with which to curb my nighttime craving. One, was a stale, half-eaten package of Oreo cookies (not really a good choice, I know); and the other was one of your rice cake snack bags. Really wanting the Oreos, but yet not wanting to find myself yelling at the scale in the morning, I resisted temptation and went with your rice cakes. The turning point in this decision came when I noticed a pretty little green rectangle in the top left corner of the bag, shouting out to me that the entire bag contained only 60 calories.

So I dug in. And I found myself really enjoying the crispy, crunchy, slightly chocolately snack. I thought to myself, "Damn! I need to buy these again." And you must know that I rarely swear in my mind.

Usually it's out loud.

I got about halfway through the package and started reading the bag. You know, because sometimes when snacking, one likes to have something to read. And I noticed, to my shock and horror, that the back of the package claimed that I was not consuming 60 little, itty-bitty calories; but that I was actually eating 110 calories.

I almost fell off the couch, I was that disturbed.

But I composed myself, and double checked.

Then I did fall off the couch.

The back side of the package DOES in fact claim that one entire bag of the mini-rice cakes contains 110 calories.

And yes, I am aware that sometimes tricky companies like to make you think you're eating less by posting the calories for a serving size, and there are often multiple servings in a given bag. But not yours. Yours says, one package, 110 calories (on the back). And 1 bag, 60 calories (on the front).

So which is it?

I have a solution for you. Since you seem to be unsure as to which is the correct number of calories, I offer this negotiation. How about we just go with the 60 calories then? Let's round down this time, instead of rounding up.

Because this little-too-late discovery put me in a bit of a spot. I had already eaten at least half of the bag. But I was already so addicted to the crunchy sweetness that I found myself unable to put down my half-eaten treat. And so I finished the entire bag, all the while praying they were truly the lower number.

So please, dear friends at Quaker, let's call it 60 calories. Just for me. And my scale. Do this, and we can part friends. Do it not, and I will be unable to buy this product again. Which would cost your company at least like ten dollars a month.

And just think, with my new 60-calorie best friend at my side, I could live to be well over 100, which gives me at least 66 more years as your loyal customer, netting you a minimum of $8,000 over my lifetime.

I think it's worth it. And I know you'll agree.

Your hopeful new friend,

Christie

Blog hopping today

I'm not here today. I've got a little product review up over here. One of my favorite bloggers, Jo-Lynne, at Musings of Housewife, asked me to review my favorite beauty product, which of course relates to hair. Check out what I had to say, and be sure to nose around both her sites. You'll enjoy them and come to love her as I have.

Go. Now. You, too, Daniel. I think your hair could use some work. Maybe this product will help.

Road rage

You know the scenario and have probably seen and done it a million times.

You're driving along - maybe in a hurry because you're running late - and somebody cuts you off. The frustration turns to sheer rage, and you futilely yell through your closed window at the person who just cut you off. Or maybe the highly unskilled driver drove in such a way that almost caused an accident, which was saved only by your excellent defensive driving skills, and you laid on your horn to let them know of your disgust. I'd even go out on a limb and wager that almost all of you have even raised that ubiquitous middle finger a time or two.

I'm ashamed to say I have.

Generally speaking, I am a rational driver. My "mild" OCD tendencies almost always have me heading out the door with time to spare, ensuring that my drives are smooth and even. The purchase of a car that came equipped with wireless headphones and a DVD player has left me with an immense amount of peace and quiet time from the children.

In short, my car rides are usually not rage-filled ones.

After leaving the race track of the California freeways behind me, I find myself quite at home here in the sleepy Midwest, where no one even goes the actual speed limit - they go below it. I try to not get annoyed when I'm stuck behind one of the locals, especially when I see that it's an elderly silver-haired poodle, nervously peeking up over the steering wheel.

The other day, I happened to witness the typical road-rage driver. A vehicle pulled out in front of a woman, and she laid on the horn, immediately accelerating to within inches of the bumper of the offending car. She raised her middle finger and furiously shouted expletives. She followed so closely behind this other car that I was bracing myself for the accident that was sure to happen.

And a few miles later, when she turned off onto another route, she made sure to let the other driver know she still had not forgiven them for causing her to hit that light exactly 1.2 seconds later than she otherwise would have.

Closer examination of the offending car revealed a sweet little elderly man in a black houndstooth fedora, driving with his wife by his side. [I don't know what it is about the fedora on an old man. LOVE. IT. Can't even stand how much I love it. Ahhh. I digress.]

But here was the cutest little couple - probably somebody's grandparents, for crying out loud - driving to the doctor's office, or the grocery store. Sheesh, they're just old. Let's cut them some slack.

I have been unable to shake the incident from my mind. I'm disturbed on several levels. What is it about feeling safe behind a pane of glass that allows our ugly selves to come out?

Just imagine being at the grocery store and someone cuts you off with their cart. You immediately start yelling, you flip them off, and you push your cart to within inches of their heels, all while yelling at them for being so stupid.

Can you imagine the horror?

Why then do we see that as a viable option when we're behind the wheel?

Have you ever honked and yelled at someone in your car, only to realize afterwards that you actually know them?

What possesses us to get so angry? What bravery we don when no one can talk back or even apologize.

I would just love to have everyone take a deep breath, realize we all have places to get to, and stop being so damn mad all the time. It's just pathetic. We're all human beings. In a society. What have we to be so upset about?

Discuss.

Here's to being unkind and intervening

One of my new pretend internet friends, Lisa at Take 90 West, did a little post last week in which she posted pictures of herself from years gone by. It was inspiring and beautiful. I thought I'd attempt to do the same.

What I have come to realize is that I was actually a beautiful child, but lacked some serious guidance when it came to my teen years. Mine was the mother who felt it would be unkind to intervene and tell me that the baby blue eye shadow caked on like frosting did not work for me.

She should have been unkind and intervened.

But she didn't, and I spent some seriously ugly days thinking I was extremely hot. I give you the 70s and 80s as they should not have been:

But first, this is the only beautiful picture of me taken between 1973 and 2005. It must be included to show the marked decline which happened from this point on:

Unfortunately, I didn't stay that adorable. Here is my pathetic, frighteningly curly homage to Dorthy Hamill. Sleeping in the pink foamie curlers overnight with short hair will produce this cross between a poodle and Luke Skywalker. I like to think that people were too busy gaping at my extra large jack-o-lantern teeth to notice my polyester red and green floral dress.

That thing looks like a grocery bag that I poked my head through, and put a rubber band around the neck to keep it in place. For all I know, it could have been:

My hair eventually grew out, but my bangs did not. Please stop and admire the high lace collar and red gathered jumper, both of which were homemade by my mother. She had mad sewing skillz and used to make me things all the time. I think she might have thought twice about it if she knew that I was doing handstands with my friends on the chain link fence in those very dresses, shouting with glee every time a truck driver honked at us and our panties on display.

She should have sewn me pants instead.


Here is what I like to call my demure look. It rocked the 4th grade. As you can tell, I was still sleeping in the pink curlers, but I got to have my bangs parted down the center and feathered this year. I was wearing another homemade dress, this one covered in strawberries. I like the lopsided strawberry that is apparently growing out of one side of my head.

It is no wonder that this was the year I got chocolates from a boy on Valentines Day.

[Also no wonder that it was the only year that happened.]

This is the year that things started to go very wrong for me. I strutted my stuff - toting a large alligator-skinned tenor saxophone case around the halls of the junior high school, while wearing tapered aquamarine jeans and acid washed jackets. I spent my babysitting money buying Aquanet by the gallon. It took me an hour and a half every morning to cover any holes in my helmet-like hair. I believe I subconsciously did this to keep insects from finding a way in. I have no doubt this hair would have made for an excellent and cozy nest.

And you thought it couldn't get worse than the last one? Well, it does, my friends. This was the year that I decided to spike my bangs up in a cascading waterfall of tangles, held high by a sticky wad of hairspray. I worked hard to get them as high as possible on one side, with a gradual slope so precise that it could have kept any geometry class busy for hours. I was also a big fan of Sun-In (see, Lisa, you're not the only one!) and did not seem to mind that my hair was divided by an equator of blond frizz.

This was also one of the many painful years I spent in a cast as a result of needing many surgeries on my right arm. Here is a shot of me at the hospital just minutes before going under the knife. As you can see, one must be properly sprayed, moussed, and spritzed before undergoing surgery. You know, in case any cute boys happen to be in the operating room while I'm under anesthesia. That would be, like, totally embarrassing for them to see my hair flat.

High school was not much kinder to me when it came to matters of my hair. I was far too busy to do any homework because I was out getting a new perm every eight minutes or so during this period of time. What I did not know then was that I actually had naturally curly hair hiding under all those chemicals that only became fuzzier and more poodle-like with each round of treatments.


Here I am making the most of my manly button down shirt, while my bangs keep an eye out for any upcoming danger. I like to think that those bangs were like a lookout tower on top of my head. You know, in case I might have crashed into anything. Like a flat iron or de-perming solution.

And last, but not least, my senior year. Here I stand, on the cusp of adulthood, completely unaware that shoulder pads have no earthly place in a t-shirt, and eyebrows are for waxing.

Someone really ought to have told me.

My morning master

I have an obsessive love/hate relationship with a small, thin electronic device.

It is not a cell phone.

It is not a laptop.

It is not even a Game Boy Advance, although I hope that would surprise you if it was.

It is my bathroom scale.

Every morning, without fail, I cannot begin my day without paying a visit to what sometimes becomes the dictator of my mood. Even if I know that certain amounts of cookie dough will most likely prevent me from seeing a good number, I still have to stand on it. I cannot go a day without weighing myself.

Surprisingly, sometimes the number is even good.

But lately, the morning number has not been all that reliable. I have been doing some intensive weight training for the past two months. And I know, without fail, that when I stand on the scale the day after doing the weights, I am going to be up. I know that it is due to my muscles retaining water as they recover. I know this.

And yet I still hope for different.

And usually a day or two later, the numbers return to more friendly ones.

So my question for you is this: Do any of you interpeeps weigh yourselves daily?

Are there lucky women out there who don't even have a clue what they weigh?

And if you see a number you don't like, do you sometimes head down to make breakfast in a bad mood?

Or if you see a good number, are you the kindest, most cheerful, Christian version of yourself?

I don't know what it is about the scale that has such power over me. But I find myself unable to go a day without knowing. I'd like to just once not know.

But I can't do it. I have to know.

Please tell me if you weigh or do not weigh, and if it affects you. I must know if I am as weird as I think I am (Shut up, Daniel. Don't even say it).

P.S. Laura C - I made your Zojirushi bread recipe. It was THE BEST EVER. Just wanted to thank you for sharing with me what is now the only recipe we will ever make again.

I also hold that recipe responsible for the number I saw on the scale this morning. Stupid, evil, warm, gooey, toast with butter and jam.

Temptation

Can someone please tell me how I am to be expected to go to church today when at 9:53 a.m. it is already 67 degrees? I really would like to have a "sick" child today. Does anyone have a dog I can tend? Sick tadpole?

No?

Okay. Guess I'll go.

Dang eternal salvation.