tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49215387320031721552024-02-20T19:52:56.496-05:00Mom's FooleryFiguring out modern motherhood... trying to be a normal person in a world of soccer moms.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-86849534565937617952008-11-23T22:59:00.003-05:002008-11-23T23:10:08.092-05:00The Best Medicine<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Tommy suffered through two shots and a photo session yesterday. He was unpleasant today, to put it mildly. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">So, we played on Mom & Dad's [unmade] bed, tortured the cats, and engaged in other such foolery in the hopes of avoiding a total meltdown. Yes, foolery...</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />and Tylenol.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Then tonight, just as we were about to put his pajamas on, I said "I love you little baby."</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />And he laughed. Not the odd kind of hardy chuckle he's been offering from time to time [particularly to </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://momsfoolery.blogspot.com/2008/11/doggone-it.html">my parents' dog</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">]. This was a real little laugh, like he meant it. He continued laughing until he drifted to sleep.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />I do love him. More than anything.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-13890284501614918252008-11-22T22:38:00.001-05:002008-11-23T14:40:49.012-05:00NaBloPoMo FAIL<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Backdating this post, as I was so preoccupied with the [crying, fussy, un-photogenic for the first time in his seven month little life] baby and our photo session that blogging slipped my mind. Bad Blogger, indeed.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-56206007083122155722008-11-21T23:34:00.002-05:002008-11-21T23:42:59.218-05:00Thanksgiving Spirit<a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://jasonfortheloveofgod.blogspot.com/2008/11/maybe-im-amazed.html">This post</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> over at </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); font-style: italic;" href="http://jasonfortheloveofgod.blogspot.com/">Jason. For the love of God.</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>has been lingering in my head since yesterday [and in the inboxes of some people I thought would enjoy the sentiment as well]. Stephanie's an amazing woman, mother, and writer. Her blog is one of the things I'm thankful for on days like today, where it feels like it's all I can do to get through the day.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-79428833070494237852008-11-20T23:50:00.001-05:002008-11-21T12:32:38.200-05:00Easy As...<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">There's a pie contest this Saturday.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I fully intend to lose.</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Edited to Add: <br /><br />Me: I'm entering a pie contest.</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Oldest Sister, T: You're kidding. Who's recipe, Mrs. Smith's?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-74634670618023633212008-11-19T22:56:00.004-05:002008-11-19T23:23:26.967-05:00Picture Perfect?<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Braving the elements, the baby and I went to a nearby outlet center to forage for holiday portrait attire.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Alas, while we're still missing some essentials (most notably, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">clothes for the mommy</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">that do not liken her to a blue whale</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">), we were fairly successful:</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />1. To match a crazy stripe hooded one-piece gifted to the baby [after I openly oogled it], a crazy stripe scarf [for Mike] and gloves [for me]. I'm hoping the crazy stripe theme will be subtle enough to be charming. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />2. Fleece-lined OshKosh corduroy overalls for $3.99. I was too cheap to buy a red corduroy button down at the Gymboree outlet for $12.99, but if I can find nothing else, Tom and I may be taking yet another trip to the outlets on Friday.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />3. A delicious hot dog and french fry lunch. Definitely essential.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Hopefully Tom will cooperate with the photographer and we'll have some lovely portraits of him to treasure forever. Or until he pukes on them.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-62215757143879552362008-11-18T22:23:00.005-05:002008-11-18T23:41:32.833-05:00The Gotcha Paradox<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mike and I are very different people. Like everyone else, we have our strengths and our weaknesses. He maintains a BigLaw paycheck, for which I am very grateful, what with my particular weakness being a supreme inability to do so.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I think part of the reason that my sense of self imploded at the old firm was that I couldn't handle feeling as if I was set up for failure time and time again; where meeting ninety-nine completely unrealistic requests with some measure of success means less than nothing when you've met the hundredth with mere sufficiency; where extinguishing a metaphorical fire is overlooked if you're thirty seconds late for a monumentally insignificant conference call. Where the word 'failure' manifested itself in my internal dialogue. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />This morning Mike called, exasperated. One partner, long ago cementing her status as a thorn in his side, trapped him in this Gotcha Paradox and he was... angry.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Angry. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />I never got there at Old Firm. Instead, I internalized every slight, real or not, intended or not. I validated every negative implication or imagination by dwelling on them, letting them dwell in me. In doing so, I gave those power. Toward the end, I couldn't look at some of my colleagues, those senior associates and partners who derived some pleasure in putting me in that situation, without wincing at my own incompetence. And so I gave them power.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />What I am coming to understand is that whether this was really happening or whether it was all in my mind doesn't really matter, because it's how I </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">felt</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">, and there's no escaping that once it's taken hold.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But my husband can face this monster day in and day out, the one that bested me in a matter of months, really. And then come home and make me brownies.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-89805915326740557022008-11-17T20:15:00.005-05:002008-11-17T20:40:20.700-05:00Holiday House<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Yesterday we managed to sneak away from the baby for a couple of hours to the <a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://www.holidayhouseny.com/">Holiday House</a>, an Upper East Side home transformed into a showcase of holiday visions (ranging from Thanksgiving and Christmas to Engagements and Anniversaries). Designers include Charles Pavarini III, Charlotte Moss, Harry Heissmann, and Barbara Ostrom, among several notable others. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />I could spend days at the Holiday House, absorbing all of the inspirations and details. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />We spent a few minutes chatting with Kathy Abbott, who designed the Sitting Room in a Kwanzaa theme. Hearing about how she implemented her vision, completely transforming the entire room [literally, from floor to ceiling] into a clean, comfortable space with the African celebration in mind was fascinating, especially because she had no familiarity with Kwanzaa before it was the holiday assigned to her space. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />The best part about the Holiday House? All proceeds from the event [showcased through December 7] benefit the Greater New York City Affiliate of Susan G. Komen for the Cure. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Visit </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://www.holidayhouseny.com/">HolidayHouseNY.com</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> for more information.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-462479666921201512008-11-16T22:59:00.002-05:002008-11-16T23:00:42.756-05:00Reckoning<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Visiting friends in the city this afternoon led me dangerously close to the old law firm. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />As we passed, I closed my eyes.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />I don't think I'm ready yet. To even see it.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-91739028023601960982008-11-15T20:58:00.005-05:002008-11-15T21:24:54.786-05:008. Avoid Eating Said Pad Thai<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Rosie's latest party invitation assigned me to bring Pad Thai, a delicacy I've never ingested.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Consequently, My Pad Thai Recipe:<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">1. Go to local Asian market. Locate Asian employee. Beg for assistance.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />2. Select excessively overpriced Pad Thai sauce and rice sticks [assume rice sticks = rice noodles].</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />3. Call husband. What do bean sprouts look like?</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />4. Go to everyday market. Locate bean sprouts, unsalted dry roasted [</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">not</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> cocktail] peanuts. [Also purchase fun-sized Crunch bars [for me] and Butterfingers [for husband].]</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />5. Overcook rice sticks. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />6. Improvise. Saute vegetable oil, garlic, chopped onion, lemon juice, said excessively overpriced Pad Thai sauce, shrimp, beaten eggs. Mix in overcooked rice sticks, bean sprouts, chopped peanuts. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />7. Attempt to beautify. Garnish with sliced lemons and a few raw bean sprouts. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-31061285459906331002008-11-14T19:15:00.008-05:002008-11-14T20:15:46.531-05:00Spaghetti Tuesdays, Part I<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Working for the family business was important to me. It was something I needed to do. After all, each of my siblings had spent time in that house on the corner of Prince Street, brimming with hand-written records and myriad cartographical treasures. I had to complete the circle. And the time had come.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I'd quit my BigLaw job [which is exactly what it was - a job - because it certainly wasn't any kind of career I'd imagined]. I wasn't yet pregnant. My father's staff had trimmed to himself and one assistant. The one assistant was my brother. I figured I wouldn't have much trouble fitting in. [I was right.]</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">So, over dinner at a seafood place where, week after week, Mike and I met with my parents for Sunday Dinner Specials [nevermind that the only menu item I could stomach was Chicken Parmesan], I announced that I'd be joining his little outfit, just as soon as I could pack up my desk and burn my monthly train ticket [tickets, really, because getting to work involved two trains and a subway].<br /><br />My father could rip up the business cards he liked to hand out about town because they had my name [chosen, of course, by his lovely, departed mother] under the fancy logo of a firm whose name he'd never correctly pronounced. I was now in the family business. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I don't think he was disappointed. Probably because he still had a box of my sister's business cards on his desk, and her name was in larger print anyway. He shrugged and got up to fetch a plate full of shrimp cocktail from the salad bar.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-19226101811842856122008-11-13T20:40:00.002-05:002008-11-13T21:07:35.740-05:00Sale Sighting: GAP, Banana Republic, Old Navy<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">At the Give & Get event, 30% off all your purchases at GAP, Banana Republic, and Old Navy this weekend!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">There are a bunch of links floating around via Google, but if you still need one, let me know.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-88236714154134113412008-11-12T10:00:00.001-05:002008-11-12T10:00:01.100-05:0018 Minutes<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">8:45 PM: Asleep enough for his crib? Nope.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">8:55 PM: Definitely asleep. Brace yourself, woman.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />8:57 PM: Stand up. Phew... still asleep.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />8:58 PM: Silently contemplate searching for long lost pacifier, missing since 5. Immediately abandon pursuit.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />8:585:30: Proceed through kitchen and dining room. Confront gate.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />8:58:45: Ease knee into gate, walk through, close [but DO. NOT. LATCH.] gate. Proceed to nursery.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />8:59 PM: Kiss on forehead, place in crib, cover with blanket. Project confidence; slightest hesitation will be detected and seized upon.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />9:00 PM: Curse bootleg trousers that "swoosh" at the ankles. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />9:01 PM: Creep through master bedroom in search of cotton sweatpants. Avoid traps: shoes, toys, laundry basket. Put on sweatpants. Ahh.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />9:02 PM: Re-enter nursery. Delight at the sight of baby sleeping soundly, as an angel. Heart breaks. Grab diaper pail of horrors.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />9:03 PM: Hasty retreat from nursery. Quick stop at kitchen garbage can. Land on couch; watch Biggest Loser; eat brownie; drink soda. Lament stomachache.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-27553164482961704692008-11-11T19:08:00.004-05:002008-11-11T19:37:09.640-05:00Veteran's Day<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">When I was a kid, Veteran's Day was about tagging along with my parents to a few memorial services around our county.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">When I was a kid, my brother and I used to make pretend that we owned a radio station. He would be the DJ, and I was the weather girl [my line in every 'show' was: You want the weather? Look out the window!]. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />It's different now.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Now, my brother is a Marine [veteran, bracketed because I get the distinct impression that once you're a Marine, you're always a Marine, active service or not]. He saw combat in Afghanistan, his boat being deployed there from Australia moments after the September 11 attacks.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />He's different now.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Now, my brother is racked with memories he can't talk about. Now, he struggles with alcohol [even though he would beg to differ]. Now, he wants his life back the way it was before the war, before the combat. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Life's different now.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Since he's been home, he's been married. And divorced. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />He's been to the funeral of his best friend [killed in combat days after he was finally sent home]. And held my newborn son.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />He's lived in California. And New York.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />He's worked for the family business. And not worked for the family business.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />He's been jovial. And depressed.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But mostly? He's been different.<br /><br />Veteran's Day now, for me, isn't about ceremonies and Taps and a day off from school anymore. It's about remembering that as frustrating, talented, infuriating, charming, awful and wonderful as my brother is, he's even more than that. <br /><br />He's a Veteran.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-56357479901777932172008-11-10T22:04:00.005-05:002008-11-10T22:19:27.483-05:00Doggone It<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I've got a happy baby. Perpetually cheerful, he's always willing to lend a smile to friends and strangers alike.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But it's hard to get this kid to laugh. And you never know what will strike his fancy [which is especially frustrating when you've been standing on your head in a clown suit for half an hour, and he decides that his father simply </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">walking into the room</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> is utterly hilarious].</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />We've got two cats, and Tom smiles at and 'talks' to them all day, and is even learning to gently pet them [instead of making a mad grab for their fur, causing them to hide under any available furniture].</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But my parents' dog? Apparently, is the funniest. thing. ever. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />It would be cute if anything I, his long-suffering mother, did could provoke even a chuckle.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-10871248693429724552008-11-09T22:35:00.004-05:002008-11-09T22:51:28.634-05:00These Friends of Mine<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">There are those things about our husbands that we overlook, for the sake of love.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Oh, my, there are </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">those things</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />1.) My husband, he who wears a snowmobile jacket over his suit to work in the winter, was in the marching band. And he's proud of it. And for the beginning of our relationship, I pretended I was totally cool with it. But, eventually, when the new wears off, and it's OK to tell each other what you really think? I told him I think marching bands are lame. [But because he was only in the drumline, I got over it.] [But not when he prances around the house doing the 'marching band walk' to get under my skin. That's when I cut my toenails in the living room. Because that gets under his skin.]</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />2.) When he was like 10, my husband was a semi-finalist in the Nintendo World Championship. Apparently, a freak aversion to Rad Racer tripped him up and he was ousted, with only a cap to show for his efforts. Still, he'll tell anyone all about it whenever he can tangentially relate it to a conversation. I bet he's even told people at work. And they let him show up there anyway. In fact, he's told this story in my presence so many times that I am loathe to hear it again. Of course, my friends [if you can call such people friends] bring it up whenever they can just to see me squirm.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />So, at the baby's baptism, what did he get? </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Two t-shirts, the first of which reads "I'm with the Marching Band," and the second, "Future Nintento Semi-Finalist." </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Fantastic.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />[Pictures forthcoming on, you know, one of those days where I have hours laying around to get things done.]</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-51251227345420744322008-11-08T18:36:00.004-05:002008-11-08T18:48:09.514-05:00Before and After<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">A lot of relationships are defined by "befores" and "afters." </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">And so it is with me and D, one of those people in this world that just gets me, in all my OMG-I-ate-too-many-brownies-I'm-going-to-throw-up glory. And I get her, and I understand how she can watch a Dr. Phil about morbidly obese people and sadly observe "These people have no self-control" while shoving Entenmann's cookies in her mouth.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">But was that before?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Before her fiance got cancer? Before I got pregnant?</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Those two events coalesced into an axis of estrangement that neither of us could really break through. My heart was breaking for her, and I just couldn't talk to her about the baby.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I know it was the wrong thing to do. Evil, even. But how could I be joyful about anything while she was in the midst of such pain?</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />So, I did what came easily. I avoided talking about myself, and eventually we both got so deeply involved in our stories that we drifted apart.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But now it's after. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Yesterday, we finally spilled our guts to each other and suddenly we're right back in law school IM'ing each other into laughing fits that get us dirty looks from our peers. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />It's a good thing.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-91185714520342248252008-11-07T23:25:00.002-05:002008-11-07T23:41:59.686-05:00The Sneaker Story<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">So, I mentioned earlier that I'd tell you guys the shoe story. Well, it's 11:28 PM and I've got to get this post up pretty quickly because 1.) I'm trying to keep up with <a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://nablopomo.ning.com/">NaBloPoMo</a> and 2.) seriously? It's 11:28 and someone's got to get the baby to bed and I don't think it's going to be the man singing along to Celebrity Don't Forget the Lyrics - En Vogue Edition and dancing around the living room, baby in hand.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />So, the backstory: SIL has, by far, the worst case of Keeping-Up-With-The-Joneses of anyone I will ever meet. Example: She moved 2 hours from where she and her husband lived to "beat" us to our chosen suburb - she'd never even been to this place before the day she bought a house here. I kid you not, my friends. This is what we're dealing with. <br /><br />The shoes:<br /><br />SIL1 had obsessively purchased Stride-Rite shoes for her son every X number of days since he could walk. Whatever, right? I figured she had an affinity for the brand (and style - because that little boy wore exactly the same color and style shoe for the first four years of his life) and left it at that. <br /><br />Then he got to kindergarten, and SIL convinced herself that her son was about to be tortured on the playground. The reason? His shoes.<br /><br />So SIL? Spent $105 on a new pair of shoes for her son. Who's in kindergarten. With completely unremarkable feet. $105! <br /><br />I know, I know: mind my own beeswax. And I do. I've never mentioned the shoe story to anyone, except, oh, <span style="font-style: italic;">the whole internets</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-3463339612786280682008-11-06T15:58:00.003-05:002008-11-06T16:03:33.647-05:00Compassion<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Please check out the </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/confessions/">Pioneer Woman's blog</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> this week - Marlboro Man and the girls are in the Dominican Republic with the aid group Compassion. What an experience.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">And, as a bonus while you're over there, get sucked into </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/category/black_heelstractor_wheels/the_night_i_met_marlboro_man">Black Heels</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> for a while.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-90496625890325407552008-11-05T17:12:00.003-05:002008-11-05T18:03:13.176-05:00Mommy Vice<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I've got a Mommy Vice.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">I don't much care about what brand of clothing the little one sports (I gravitate to the clearance rack of our local Carter's outlet), what kind of shoe he'll wear (look for a post on SIL's shoe meltdown sometime soon), the brand of his crib (he's quite happy and comfortable in </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://www.target.com/Da-Vinci-Roxanne-Crib-Antique/dp/B000IHQYJG/ref=in_de_display%20_children?ie=UTF8&pf_rd_r=1E6NC3B81G0425AZXGAF&pf_rd_p=445883401&pf_rd_i=B000TFJPPM&pf_rd_s=bottom-7&altString=Da%20Vinci%20Roxanne%20Crib%20%26%2345%3B%20Antique%20White&pf_rd_m=A1VC38T7YXB528&pf_rd_t=5201">this little number</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">), toys (unless they try to maim him, also a post for another day), my diaper bag, or the like.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />But, Heavens to Moses [is that the right phrase?], I love my stroller. From its hi-tech rubber-coated chrome-finish wheels to its cushioned, telescoping handle and all its parts in between, I can't use it enough.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />I don't know exactly when I morphed from regular person into stroller-psycho, but the crazy's taken over. Even now, post-stroller purchase and utterly content with our one and only baby-mobile, I still check out stroller message boards to hear about the latest and greatest innovations in child carts. And, I confess, I cannot help but glance at nearly every single stroller I pass, though, at this point, I've checked out so many strollers that one has to be either (a.) incredibly rare or (b.) really, truly awful to warrant a second look. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />Also? I get a little thrill when other moms check out Tom's ride. Not because I'm vain about it [OK, not </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">only</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> because I'm a little vain], but because every now and then, in the briefest moment at a Barnes and Noble/Target/TJ Maxx/whathaveyou, it happens. Just by the look in her eye, I'll know it. I've found a fellow stroller-phile. Then the baby will punt a toy across the room and we'll both move on with our day.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />So, what's your Mommy Vice?</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br /><br />And for the record, I push the </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://uppababy.com/products/product.php?id=79">UppaBaby Vista</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">, whose line is so awesome that it's not long until it takes over the world. Or, you know, the [reserving my commentary] Bugaboo.</span><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript">var dd1 = new YAHOO.util.DDProxy('viewport');</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-22112834942369685602008-11-04T14:29:00.001-05:002008-11-04T14:29:00.798-05:00Time To VoteHave you voted? I pulled a lever today!<br /><br />I can't say I'm completely, 100%, ZOMG IN LUUUUUV with one ticket or the other, and there are some issues very personal to my life and my situation that have been weighing heavily on my mind. In the end, I had to choose the person about whose leadership I would feel most confident. <br /><br />No matter the outcome, I'm glad I fulfilled my civic duty, and I hope that the integrity of each person's right to a [single] vote is upheld tonight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-47651657971698067012008-11-03T10:00:00.000-05:002008-11-03T10:00:03.556-05:00Who Could It Be, Now?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d01212350400000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 720px; height: 480px;" src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d01212350400000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Albert Einstein?<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d0a76df48900000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/" /></div><br /><br />The Quaker Oats man?<br /><br /><br /><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d1e003152000000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/" /><br /><br /><br /><br />No, gentle readers...<br /><br /><br />It's a boy who loves his Papa.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d0085ab47100000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 720px; height: 480px;" src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b8cf23b3127ccec5d0085ab47100000040O00QYuG7dmyYsge3nww/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D720/ry%3D480/" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I think the feeling is mutual.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-78376546821164977252008-11-02T10:00:00.001-05:002008-11-02T10:00:01.460-05:00Hallo-Weenies/Petty LarcenyI'll get you some pictures of the Apple Monster thoroughly enjoying his Halloween adventures with his grandfather as soon as I find a cord to hook up my mother's EasyShare to my computer, as I didn't realize I'd forgotten my DSLR on the kitchen island until it was too late.<br /><br />But for now, the events that transpired on my front yard Friday night:<br /><br />4 PM: Pay the 8th grader next door two Twix bars to break into a bedroom window because the house keys were sitting next to the camera in the kitchen.<br /><br />5 PM: Regret feeding the baby prunes; clean up resultant poop-splosion.<br /><br />5:30 PM: Put Jack the Pumpkin Head just outside on the entryway, leaving glass door locked, main front door open, so I can hear trick-or-treating happening while I nurse the baby in the next room. NOTE: Jack is teeming with full-sized candy bars.<br /><br />6 PM: Hear first trick-or-treaters, one of whom exclaims "Look at all the candy these people have!" Place sleeping infant in his crib, grab monitor, head to front door.<br /><br />6:01 PM: Mothers of young children notice me at the door, hurriedly rush off of my entryway, off of the yard, skip neighbor's houses, and run down the street.<br /><br />6:02 PM: To my horror, discover that Jack? Is now empty.<br /><br />6:03 PM: Whilst standing in the yard looking distraught, Dental Hygienist neighbor asks what's going on. Aghast, she takes off in her SUV to confront the offenders. <br /><br />6:04 PM: DenHyg reports that they do not speak English, or are pretending to not speak English.<br /><br />6:45 PM: Spotting the offenders making their way back up the street (the beauty of living on a cul-de-sac is revealed: they must return to the scene of the crime!), nonchalantly inquire as to whether they might know who took every candy out of Jack? "Oh, no, we took one per person," they offer. So they do speak English! "That's strange," I reply, "because you're the only trick-or-treaters so far tonight, and there's about 8 kids in your group, and I left out enough candy for more than 50 children." Return to the house.<br /><br />6:46 PM: Watch through the drapes as mothers put some candy back into Jack. Start to feel a little better about the situation.<br /><br />6:48 PM: Discover that about 10 "fun-size" candies were put back, in place of the 50+ full-size candies that were stolen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-9521792756871595552008-11-01T10:00:00.000-04:002008-11-01T10:00:00.922-04:00In ComparisonOn her birthday in 2004, my sister, four years my senior, forty times the lawyer I'll ever be, sent me the following, no doubt in response to a message of malaise from yours truly:<br /><br />"Going to law school sucks. Going to law school does not suck as bad as working for a law firm. Working for a law firm does not suck as bad as being a soldier in Iraq. Being a soldier in Iraq does not suck as bad as being a POW in a warcamp. Being a POW does not suck as bad as....well, I don't know. Anyway, you get the point. Sometimes I like to switch it up a little by throwing in something like "working in Wal-Mart" or "being Grandma when Mom won't leave her alone." It keeps it interesting." <br /><br />I big puffy pink heart her. You would too if you knew her. You might already; what do I know?<br /><br />Anyway, I thought perhaps some law student might find this one day and take some comfort in it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-30277032404161778752008-10-31T10:00:00.002-04:002008-10-31T10:00:01.554-04:00In Which Tommy Became An Apple MonsterA few weeks back, we took Tom apple picking for the first time at an orchard we've been frequenting since we met many many moons ago:<br /><br />The Orchard:<br><br><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/procgtaserv/47b8ce02b3127cce98548e54615000000046100QYuG7dmyYsh"><br><br><br />Oogling The Apple:<br><br><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/procgtaserv/47b8ce02b3127cce98548e68616c00000046100QYuG7dmyYsh"><br><br><br />A Taste Test:<br><br><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/procgtaserv/47b8ce02b3127cce98548e56615200000046100QYuG7dmyYsh"><br><br><br />The Money Shots:<br><br><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/procgtaserv/47b8ce02b3127cce98548e69e05d00000046100QYuG7dmyYsh"><br><br><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/procgtaserv/47b8ce02b3127cce98548e50615400000046100QYuG7dmyYsh"><br><br><br />Good times.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921538732003172155.post-73291241722474278252008-10-30T19:06:00.002-04:002008-10-30T19:08:34.752-04:00Hypocritcal OathDate: Today<br />Time: 16:29<br />Place: Ubiquitous Big Box Store<br />Event: Me, buying organic baby food for Tom, and EZ Mac for my husband.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1