Confessions of an Ugly Mom

My Husband's Character Flaw

2011-12-08T16:59:00.004-05:00

Generally speaking, he's a good man, that husband of mine. He works hard, does all the laundry, mostly eats what I cook with minimal complaints, and is, frankly, a better mom than me.

But for all that, he has a major character flaw. A personality defect. A problem.

My husband is an enabler: he lets me do whatever I want. Now that would be just fine if what I wanted to do was scrub toilets, read to the children, change sheets and brush my hair. But you already know that's not in my DNA. My DNA is descends from a man who cut off his thumb with a table saw.

As it turns out I'm pretty handy with a table saw, but the sewing machine is another matter all together. Despite my mother's best efforts, my sewing machine has forever altered my finger prints. And at the end of of every curtain, every pillow, every cushion, every slip cover, I make Matt swear to me that he'll never let me sew again. Ever.

But he always does.

And sometimes he even aids and abets, like when he helped me cart these crappy old thrift store chairs home. And sand them.

Hello. Remember me? From, like, 13 months ago?

I have an identical twin.

Though I knew better -- and more importantly Matt knew better -- I had grand plans for these chairs: sanding, staining, fabric. I immersed myself in tutorials and contemplated what to do for over a year. I learned how to slipcover from Marian at Miss Mustard Seed; how to reupholster around wooden arms from Amy at Design Intervention; and how to make double welt cording when all you have is a zipper foot from Kelly at Much To Do With Nothing.

And then after more than a year of intense study, it was November, a.k.a. the month before The Month. You may recall that, for us, Christmas decorating often involves just the basics -- drywall, ceilings, paint, that sort of thing. We house a lot of extra bodies at Christmas and we need places to put them.

This year we are happy to report that no additional walls will be added or removed, but we did need a few more seats for those extra bottoms. So with the Christmas countdown on and no drywall in sight, I announced to Matt that it was time to reupholster the chairs. And then I waited.

Cricket cricket. The sound of enabling.

And so I spent the weekend cussing at my sewing machine and driving up the cost of Band-Aid stock. I lost a battle with a staple, and with it an eraser-size hunk of my thumb. By Sunday afternoon I was dehydrated, afraid water would shoot out of my fingers and warp my hardwood floor if I drank anything. By the wee hours of Monday morning, I had hot-glued all my fingers together, thusly fixing the water problem.

By sunrise on Monday, I had one of the chairs I'd been envisioning for over a year. Well, not really, because I originally envisioned them in a dark brown flowered fabric. But still. And I also had one old crappy one.

Crap.

Did Matt face his problem and keep me away from the old crappy one? No, no he did not.

Ignore the big red arrows pointing out the

Future Recessed Lights and general untidiness of the place.

And then he let me make a tree skirt.

Seriously, a tree skirt? That's not even useful.
Did he think I wouldn't notice?

And then a stocking. And then three more.

What is wrong this this man?

Clearly he has a problem.

**Edited per Stephanie: I'm following the trend in blogland: it's all dropcloth from Lowes. I recommend the 10 oz for such projects.**

A Miracle in Walmart

2011-11-17T15:11:00.002-05:00

Skinny people, this post is not for you. Turn away. I may even talk smack about you; I haven’t decided yet.

For everyone else: Thanks to a Walmart sighting of Beth whereupon she literally crashed into my cart in full-run from the bacon section to cheese cooler, I am a changed woman.

Because you learn a thing or two about a person when you see what’s in their Walmart cart. Like, for example, Ball Park makes fat free hot dogs with 50 calories. Not that Beth had them in her cart or Walmart had them in its fridge, but that’s beside the point. Stay focused, people.

In Walmart I actually told Beth I don’t like hot dogs, but that was a lie. (Sorry, Beth.) I’m not sure it actually counts as a bold-faced lie, though, because I didn’t realize I was lying at the time. It wasn’t until the next day when I made a special trip to see if Weis had these 50-calorie dogs when it dawned on me that I actually like hot dogs and only force myself to believe I don’t.

I mean really, who can eat just one hot dog? Anyone? (Skinny people should not be reading at this point, let alone answering.) Anyone else? And of course your two hot dogs need two buns, am I right? So we’re talking at least 16 Weight Watchers Points for two dogs, and that doesn’t even count the chips, dip, squirt cheese in a can and Diet Coke. Or pre- and post-hot dog snack. I’ve only got 20-some Weight Watcher Points in a day -- hot dog math is a little tricky. So I'm forced to eat a salad while watching my three boys eat hot dogs for dinner, which means I spend the rest of the night scavaging for food to make up for the injustice of living with skinny people who can eat as many hot dogs as they darn well please. And lying to Beth in Walmart.

Now, I realize that the Weight Watchers higher-ups would probably prefer that I stop telling people I’m affiliated in any way with their program. Or that I worked for them for three years. (HA! Take THAT!) But you should know that for me, being on Weight Watchers now simply means that I pay them every month to ignore what they say, so it should not reflect negatively on the program or the lovely Jennifer Hudson. Who clearly knows about these hot dogs.

So back to these Miracle Dogs. Their 50 calories translate into 1 Point for us Weight Watcherers. You don’t need your calculator ap to see how these hot dogs have opened a whole new world to me. Not only do they free up a bunch of Points for the aforementioned non-hot dog necessities, but also they lead me to make better food decisions overall. Just like that commercial where the girl chooses the whole grain bar instead of the donut for breakfast, and then all day long eats tofu, granola and twigs instead of Philly cheese steaks, ice cream and Snickers.

So I had two of these dogs for lunch today, minus buns but heaped with sauerkraut and Dijon mustard for 2 Points. Which means you’re better off reading this from afar than sitting smack dab next to me right now. I half expected them to explode into a ball of fire or evaporate into a pile of dust in the microwave, because let’s be honest here, who knows what’s in a hot dog that only has 50 calories. But they didn’t. And they tasted like any other cheap non-beef dog. Even better, so far today I’ve had two Miracle Dogs, yogurt and berries instead of pizza, Milky Ways and Kit Kats. SCORE!

So here’s to Beth, who didn’t have those hot dogs in her Walmart cart that day. And to Walmart for not carrying them. And to Weis that did.* And to all the other non-skinny people in the world who can’t stop at one bunless dog.

Now, if we can just get Ball Park to make 1 Point candy bars.

Because while nothing tastes as good as being thin feels**, it’s hard to remember that when you’re in the middle of making a Halloween candy “snow” angel. (Fondly thinking of Anna, who should not even still be reading.)

*Apparently Weis did NOT have Beth's dogs, which she informs me have only 35 calories and are made of turkey. (35 calories!!!) What I found has 50 calories and is made of various parts of various things. I should have paid better attention, but I was distracted trying to snoop in her cart.

**Weight Watchers would probably like me to disclose that they no longer pay me to say that.

My Washington Monument Rappelling Brother

2011-09-30T19:48:00.004-04:00

Sorry if you've seen enough of this on Facebook, but I want to document it here for our family.

Because you see, that's my baby brother, Erik Sohn, at the top of the Washington Monument. And I'm a little proud of him.

HOW COOL IS THAT!!!!

Erik is a forensic architectural engineer, which means, in a nutshell, he's called in to see if/how badly/why structures have failed. He's a member of his company's small "difficult access team," an elite group certified in both engineering and climbing. He e-mails me "just another day at the office" pictures of him dangling off of things, to which I reply with pictures of me sitting in front of a computer. He's impressed with me as well, I'm sure.

He's the lead rappeller at the Washington, DC office, so he was called in after the east coast earthquake in August to inspect the Washington Monument. He was one of the engineers who worked on the internal cracks prior to Hurricane Irene. That was all very cool indeed but not big national news.

So when he told me about rappelling on the outside of the Washington Monument, I knew it would be an exciting time for him and our family, but I underestimated 1) just how excited I would be, and 2) how much of a news story it would become.

By Tuesday, I was watching the live feed of the monument on CNN and finding Erik's name all over the Internet following an AP interview. Here's an except from a story written by Ben Nuckols with the Associated Press. Erik was quoted on Monday, the day before they external work began:

"On Tuesday morning, Megerle emerged from a hatch just a few feet from the tip of the monument. He worked there for about 3 hours, then returned after a break and was briefly joined by another team member, Erik Sohn....

"...Sohn told The Associated Press Monday that the job was a dream assignment among engineers with his skill set.

"This is definitely a job that everyone would like to get. We have a relatively small group that's certified to our level," said the 33-year-old from Chantilly, Va. "It's such an iconic structure. Everyone wants to be on a monument like this."

Full Associated Press Story

Dude, did I really just see my brother quoted on CNN, ABC, MSNBC and everywhere else?

Most of Tuesday, Dave Megerle was alone on the monument setting up the system that would support the rappellers. Then I saw this:

Dave Megerle, a member of Wiss, Janney, Elstner, Associates (WJE) "Difficult Access Team," right, and an unidentified co-worker, test their equipment at the top of the Washington Monument, on the National Mall, in Washington, Tuesday, Sept. 27, 2011, preparing for people to rappel down the sides to survey the extent of damage sustained to the monument from the Aug. 23 earthquake.

(AP Photo/Jacquelyn Martin)

Source

He's not "unidentified" to me ... I'd recognize that Sohn Nose anywhere!!!

Did that ever change things! Seeing him perched on the hatch and watching video of him preparing the site got me whipped into a frenzy. On Facebook, SILs Sara and Chrysta (hubby's family) suggested I should go, but ... you know ... I had work, Mason had school, 3 hour drive and where would I park, blah blah blah. I went to bed thinking it would have been fun, but.

At 6:00 the next morning I popped up out of bed knowing I couldn't miss it. I ran into Mason's room and asked if he wanted to go on an adventure with me. Of course, he did! After dropping Chase off at school, we hopped in the car and headed for DC without any plan at all.

Mom directed us by phone to a Metro station that would take us to the Washington Monument without having to switch trains. If I'm being honest, I was almost as nervous about taking Mason on the Metro as I was Erik being 555 feet up. This was my first time on public transportation without someone who knew what they were doing. After looking completely pathetic, a very nice Metro guard helped me purchase fare and even let us use the locked employee restroom. Who said Metro workers aren't nice?

Surviving public transportation

When we first arrived at the National Mall at 11:00, it didn't look like many people were there. Just a few photographers with big-time lenses. But as we got closer, we began to see not only photographers, but cameramen as well.

Just another day at the Washington Monument

Dan Gach was already out on the pyramid on the south side when we got there.

Meet Dan. He's on the south (left) side of the pyramid.

We could see a second person emerging on the east side, facing the National Mall. There are two men and two women rappellers, so we knew we just had to find the other guy. But being 555 feet up -- and wrapped in gear and wearing hard hats -- we couldn't tell, so we asked a cameraman if he could see if it was a man or a woman. He said it was a woman, so we kept walking toward the north side. But I guess being interested in that made us interesting to them, and the cameraman's reporter appeared out of nowhere.

Let me just say right here that it never occurred to me that there would be TV reporters. Cameramen with huge zoom lenses, yes; reporters, no. If I had thought for a second I would be on TV, I would have done my hair, put on makeup, not worn a shirt with my bra hanging out, and been more diligent about losing those 50 pounds. Spontaneity does not look pretty on TV. And I would also have thought of something intelligent to say. But in the end, none of that was enough to keep me from talking about my super cool brother.

And Mason was a rock star! Again, we never talked about the media, so he agreed to be interviewed on his own and off he went. He must get his steady nerve from his uncle.

Channel 9, CBS Washington, DC Affiliate
http://www.wusa9.com/news/dcnews/article/169075/187/Fairfax-Engineer-Rappels-Down-Washington-Monument

After the interview, we worked our way around the monument looking for Erik again. A third rappeller had emerged from a window on the north side. Again I asked a lone photographer if it was a man or woman. Before he answered, someone else said it was a woman. So we kept walking, knowing Erik must be coming out the west side. The guy who answered asked if we were looking for someone, and I said yes, a man. He said he looking for "Erik," which made me look at him funny, which made him look at me funny.

He pulled out his credentials and introduced himself as Ben Nuckols from the AP, and said he interviewed Erik Monday and was waiting for him to emerge today. I told him I'd read his fine work.

Can I just say how much I liked Ben? He was very unassuming and unpushy. The three of us spent quite a bit of time together staring at the windows on the west wall waiting for Erik -- always the last rappeller out and the last one down. I honestly don't remember all I said to Ben, but I know I talked about being excited for Erik and proud of him; that no, I didn't think he was nervous; and, no, it didn't surprise me that he would do something like this, given his personality. And we all just stood there looking up, waiting.

When Erik finally climbed out of the window though, I thought I was going to puke. So much for exciting. All of the sudden it wasn't a picture or somebody else. It was my brother, 555 feet above me, reaching for ropes. I turned to Ben, who was also looking up, and I remember saying exactly what I later read he wrote. Even though I spent a lot of time talking about other stuff, I guess this is where he felt the story was. I probably would have written it the same way.

Full Associated Press Story on ABC

Camera on his window

Climbing out

Ta da!!!

Ben said that if he had any clue this was going to be such a big story, he would spent more time talking with Erik and given him his contact information. I said I'd pass it on.

Mason and I eventually parked ourselves on the south-west corner so we could watch Erik's profile. Every now and then, Ben would pop by and give me updates on what he'd learned, like the fact that Erik would be coming down through the window for lunch, then going back up and rappelling all the way down at the end of the day.

Eventually, SIL Chrysta and her three boys met us at the foot of the monument. Erik had made it to the tippy top and I assumed we'd be able to watch him come down soon.

At the tippy top.

I swear it's me leaning, not the monument.

I have it on good authority that the monument is sound. ;)

Can you hear me now?

There are four guys in this shot.

Two additional had come out to check the equipment.

The arm is coming out of the hatch Erik was sitting in the day before.

A wave while he's waiting.

One of the highlights for me, for sure!

We wanted to see him come down, but it was hot and humid and Mason was wilting from thirst. He never complained, but he was visibly withering and we were all getting hungry. Plus, Erik's wife, Schalyn, was to meet us in an hour, so we decided to grab a quick lunch from a hot dog vender -- of which there were exactly zero, so we dropped a collective $100 on food, drinks and icecream at a museum cafe.

And don't you know, Erik called while we were at the museum. I hadn't told him we were coming because it was news to me as well, but Schalyn let him know we were here when he came down for lunch. We wrapped things up at the museum superfast and headed back to the monument, some quicker than others. Chrysta was carrying Keaton with Hudson and Cannon in tow, so Mason and I pretty much left them in our dust as Erik was saying, "Where are you, wave to me, I'm waving to you." Sorry about that, Chrysta!

We all met up and it was lots of fun to see Erik and for the kids to ask him all sorts of questions. He said with a smile, "It's just like every other building, but not like any other building." So true.

Erik, Schalyn, Charlyanna and a shy Schaffer

Mason, excited to be with his uncle

The upside of spontaneity.

Then off he went again, up the elevator and out the window. This time I was less nervous and more excited, maybe 30/70. By the end of the day, I was over my anxiety and just plain-old excited. And the kids, six between us, were so good and had a great day.

Charlyanna smiling at Hudson

Learning to be Spiderman

Schaffer. Spiderman like Daddy.

He's up there.

The kids having a ball together.

Despite all the running around and cement, we had just one casualty.

Poor Keaton bonked his head.

In the afternoon, the west side of the monument was just glowing. So beautiful. And at the end of the day, we got to watch him rappell all the way down just as the sun was setting. I'll never forget it.

Safe and sound.

Of course, if you stayed for more than a couple minutes, the media thought you must be someone. Thus our second TV interview at the end of the day.

Schalyn's first TV interview

Channel 5, Washington, DC FOX Affiliate

http://www.myfoxdc.com/dpp/news/local/engineers-to-rappel-down-washington-monument-092811

Day Two, complete.

So that was that. We hugged goodbye and Mason and I headed to the Metro with Chyrsta and her boys. When we got to the gates, the next train to our destination was leaving in 3 minutes and I wanted to be on it. Being the country bumpkin that I am, I was not thrilled to be on the DC Metro after dark -- particularly the parking lot, where we were parked in the very last, farthest away spot -- and I was not interested in pushing it any later. So we barely waved goodbye to Chrysta and her gang before running down the steps. Sorry again, Chrysta! Yes, I am the biggest goober in the world, but we don't have a Metro in these parts. ;) So please accept this as my formal adieu and thanks for not letting me miss this day!

And Mason, thanks for the adventure!

Someday Chase is going to be really mad at me.

UPDATE:

Just found a new interview of Erik from this morning, which is fun:

http://www.mcclatchydc.com/2011/09/30/125802/rappellers-on-washington-monument.html?storylink=addthis

The rappellers were interviewed this morning by NBC and ABC, so maybe one of the networks will air it on a slow news day.

Tastes Like Love

2011-09-23T13:13:00.003-04:00

You may not know it from my blog, but I actually have two children. You mostly hear about Chase because he's the kind of kid that oozes blog material from his pores: gooners, scars, ill-timed observations, scary food. Etcetera and so forth.

And then there's Mason, Chase's polar opposite: responsible, compassionate, rule-follower. He's the kind of kid that makes parents look like they know what they're doing. Maybe that's why he was over nine pounds at birth -- he was stuffed with extra loving kindness and thoughtfulness.

So blogging about Mason would involve a lot of "Mason was awesome again today" posts, which is true but frankly rather out-of-sync with the blog I tend to write.

But today. Today, Mason gets his own post.

Some of you know my job has been overwhelming lately. I have a huge legislative event I'm running on Monday that fell on my lap and was a last-minute mad dash. It'll be great (please, please, please), but the last month has been a big wad of nights I never made it to bed paired with days where the only thing I ate before dinner was a pot of coffee. I've tried to be very focused on the boys when they are home -- soccer, waving at the bus, dinner, homework, chit-chat. But Mason knows about my craziness. Some nights, after he's brushed his teeth, he'll sneak back down and rub my shoulders for a couple minutes as I sit at my computer.

So this morning at 7 AM, a wee four hours after I crawled into bed, the lights flicked on and Mason was standing there with my breakfast in bed. Now I'd be lying if I said it didn't take a few minutes for me to get beyond that feeling in your eyeballs when they're just so tired that it hurts to keep them open. But it was well worth it, because my sweet, compassionate, kind, loving Mason got his 10-year-old self up, took a shower and made me breakfast before school.

Pausing here to regain my composure. I just love this kid to pieces.

He created a nice cereal blend, featuring a "kamikaze" mix of Multi-grain Cheerios with a hint of Raisin Bran Crunch and a touch of skim milk; my favorite blueberry yogurt; and a super-tall glass of hand-stirred chocolate milk.

Then he asked me what I wanted in my coffee. I thanked him profusely but said I'd take care of that after I ate my breakfast. That's when he told me he and dad already made coffee. It's important to note here that my husband has never ever before in his entire life made or consumed coffee. Not once. Well, once if you count today.

On cue, Matt popped in with my mug of coffee and a funny grin on his face. When I asked for his recipe, he shrugged and said 8 cups of water and two scoops of coffee.

I normally take my coffee with a hefty heap of milk, creamer and Torani syrup, but I drank that coffee black(ish) and it was delicious. Every drop.

It tasted just like love.

So here's to you, Mason. Your very own post. You're my dream and I love you bigger than forever.

All could get was a "school picture smile," so I said, repeat after me: "Mom's a dork."

And he smiled his Mason smile.

Speedy, that's me ... {Board and batten, finally}

2011-09-15T10:59:00.000-04:00

Last night I received an e-mail from Cassity at Remodelaholic saying my living room was going to be featured on her blog today. I realized I never took or posted pictures of the room with the FINALLY hung board and batten. Which meant taking pictures. Of my house. Which made me panic.

I got up from my computer and stared at my living room littered with seven socks (where's #8???) , Legos, Nerf darts, back packs, a pair of Cars underwear and a sleeping bag. And a bunch of other stuff.

I'm pretty sure I read the word "beautiful" in Cassity's e-mail.

I squinted at the mess and tried to remember the room without the crap. Unsuccessfully. So I looked it up on my blog, and there it was. I got goosebumps. Could I do it again? Because if I could, I'd be able to take a picture of it with the board and batten actually hanging on the half-white walls.

And so I did. The room is arranged differently now and I'm not sure I actually like it this way. But at least it's proof that after 8 months I finally got around to hanging it. And I don't want to jinx myself, but the basement's B&B should be finished by the end of the weekend, which will finally be THE END of our two-and-a-half year, three-floor DIY renovation. (I just jinxed myself, I can feel it.)

Anyway, here it is...

The TV died on it's own, with the help of my evil eye and thoughts of ill-will.

The frame around the boys' pictures needs to be painted.

I wasn't ready to commit when I hung it so it's just primed and barely secured.

I'm thinking it will be done by the time I replace them with wedding photos.

Big Enough To Come Back

2011-09-09T15:38:00.012-04:00

As I'm sitting here, I can look out my office window and see the gorgeous blue sky. That's significant for two reasons.

One:

My new unobstructed view.

And two:

Tropical Storm Lee.

My local friends and family are living it, so this post is for my out-of-town friends and family who have been concerned about news reports from Central Pennsylvania. We have had no personal damage, except for one minor thing we hope remains so. But many, many families are not as lucky -- including friends and family.

We collected 11.5 inches of water in our rain gauge from Tuesday night into Thursday morning. In addition, we collected 5 inches the weekend prior, which is approaching 17 inches of rain in the span of a few days. I have a hard time wrapping my brain around that number, but I've come to understand it's a lot.

Tropical Storm Lee formed a line of storms and squeezed itself up the Susquehanna Valley. Instead of moving west to east, radar showed a line of yellow, red and purple that moved south to north from Tuesday evening through Thursday morning. It was unbelievable. I tried to find an image of the radar, but this image of rain totals will have to do.

We're in the gray section.

What followed was flash flooding that caused widespread damage, followed by a corresponding rise of creeks and the Susquehanna River. I'll focus on the Harrisburg-Hershey-Palmyra-Lebanon corridor, since it's familiar to friends and family. But I'm sure blogs throughout the region -- and likely up and down the east coast -- are posting similar stories.

Major disclaimer: Most of these photos are not mine, I grabbed them off of Facebook, TV-station websites, etc. I started trying to collect info to give credit, but most were reposts or credit was given to folks like "floodedoutinhershey0143." My mom and husband are the last Facebook holdouts so I couldn't give them links. If I had a major blog, I'd be more concerned. But since it's just a handful of of us, just know I am not claiming responsibility for most of these photos. And if by some crazy twist of fate you are reading this and it's your photo, please let me know and I'll gratefully give you credit.

My first clue that this was something huge was a call from Matt Wednesday morning. I had been home for two conference calls and was going to head to Harrisburg afterward. Matt called during his commute in the middle of my second call and asked me to stay home for my safety and in case the boys got out early. What? From rain?

But roads were already closing. This was taken on 322 W near the Walmart/Sam's Club in Harrisburg. It was before Matt went through because 322 E had not been closed yet. The water was to the top of the jersey barrier when Matt passed through.

As the morning went on, reports of road closures came in. Then school closures. The school closures were ominous. First was Chase's for kindergarten:

Wednesday, September 7, 2011 -

AM kindergarten students are being held at XXXX Elementary.

Parents may pick them up there.

All PM kindergarten is canceled.
All after school activities are canceled.
Further updates will be based on an assessment of conditions.

The phone alert message also indicated that the school would try to transport kindergarteners in day care to their respective facilities. They'd call to let us know if they were successful.

Chase was one of the successful transports, and the day care said they were in good shape up there. Still not realizing what we were dealing with, I decided I'd wait until Mason was dismissed to pick up both boys at the same time.

An hour later, all schools in the district were closed, and this was the message:

Wednesday, September 7, 2011 - UPDATE -

Police and the district bus company have advised the district that it is not safe to provide bus transportation at this time.

Due to the number of roads closed, it has been recommended that we keep students in our schools until it is safe to transport them. Local law enforcement recommends no travel at this time.

Parents may pick up their students at the schools if they choose to do so. XXXX parents should use the XXXX Drive entrance.

Student drivers and walkers must have parent permission to be released.

To pick up or not to pick up? There was a lot of fear and uncertainty by parents, but ultimately I decided to go immediately since I had a 1-mile straight shot that was pretty flat. Plus, Chase was further away with some concerning roads. Now or never, I thought.

To the school's credit, Mason's pickup was calm and orderly, so I headed out to get Chase. At that point Matt called to say he had finally made it back to town and was able to get to Chase, which ended up being a good thing because his truck barely made it; I wouldn't have tried it in the van. This is what I saw coming home:

On 422, near the McDonald's/Weis/Sheetz. Two cars were submerged.

A sinkhole opening on 422. This is actually one of our photos.

Then Matt got a text from his co-worker.

The Pizza Hut in Hummelstown (Hersheypark Drive) was underwater.

In fact, a good part of Hershey was underwater. Most Hershey middle and high school kids had been transported home, but elementary kids were held at school and parents were not permitted to get them. This is why:

Hersheypark Drive near the cloverleaf to 322/422.

Pizza Hut is in the middle, with Bob Evans off to the right

and McDonald's and Wendy's to the left.

Another angle of Hersheypark Drive.

Route 39 at the Swatara Creek.

Route 743 and 322. Not safe for buses.

Palmyra, Campbelltown and Lebanon were not much better off.

Palmyra Road and Miller Street in Campbelltown.

Route 422 between Palmyra and Annville.

Hersheypark was also underwater. Heartbreakingly, two bison were lost in the flash flood. One drowned during an attempted rescue; the second was euthanized so as not to suffer the same fate.

ZooAmerica at Hersheypark.

Entrance to Hersheypark.

Great Bear.

Comet and construction site for Skyrush.

Knoebel's Grove. I remember being in awe of the highwater marks from Agnes as a kid.

The are so many unbelievable and sad stories and pictures. What I've posted are just the main roads and attractions I thought you'd recognize, but the damage on side streets and in neighborhoods is unbelievable and devastating. You can see more pictures at http://www.abc27.com/ and http://www.pennlive.com/.

Harrisburg, our capital city, sits on the Susquehanna. Initial crest projections were at 30 feet, second only to Hurricane Agnes's 32+ in 1972. Thankfully, the Susquehanna is cresting around 26, fifth highest in recorded history -- still a major event. Some points along the Susquehanna crested higher than Agnes levels, and the Swatara Creek in Derry Township also set a new record. Six people have been confirmed dead.

Second Street ramp into Harrisburg.

Front Street in Wormleysburg looking over the Susquehanna to Harrisburg.

With the flash flooding largely drained and the rivers and creeks beginning to recede, the area is now focusing on cleanup -- homes, businesses and infrastructure. Many roads have buckled or washed away.

Route 322/Hersheypark Drive interchange.

And that little sinkhole in Matt's photo? It grew.

And grew.

Our town is known for its sinkholes. They have opened up all over town in neighborhoods and on streets, big ones and small ones. We have just one (hopefully) tiny one acting up on our front yard. The grass hasn't broken so we haven't seen what's lurking yet, but right now it's about the depth of a water bottle. The grass is very flexible/spongy there, so we're concerned there isn't much under the grass itself.

Our little sinkhole-to-be (hopefully not). The brown grass is from the fallen tree.

Bottle just visible in our hole.

We're hoping some dirt and grass seed will fix it. Because something like this would stink:

Not sure if this one is a result of Lee, but this isn't so uncommon in these parts.

The tree in our front yard actually was a result of Hurricane Irene, and we're thinking the sinking in front of where it stood had something to do with it. Of course, the downed tree led to some of this:

Fun!

Which led to this:

Not so much.

Which was preceded by this:

Not fun at all.

All in time for this:

First day of school.

So we're very lucky and in good shape, but other families are not as lucky. Many families have lost their homes or suffered great damage. Business owners have lost their livelihood. People are without water and electricity. Sewage and toxins are in the streets. Hearts are hurting. The community as a whole will be healing for quite some time.

Basementification

2011-03-28T21:22:00.002-04:00

How Basement Remodeling Can Improve Your Marriage, One Stud at a Time

Ladies, I've found it, the secret to a successful marriage: renovating. And if you really want to make it spicy, do it in the basement.

It won't happen overnight. You have to stick with it for months, at least nine of them, and make it a daily priority. Late nights, long weekends. It's all about commitment: nothing fuels the desire to be together like being together way too much, I always say.

It also works best if you wear the same outfit over and over and over, which of course, builds consistency and reliability in a marriage. Your husband knows what to expect, day after day after day. After day. Dependability. Men like that sort of thing.

They also like it when that sort of thing includes too-tight fleece pants that now fit like Spandex. Because let's face it, appearance is exceedingly important. Looking hot matters in a marriage, and nothing says hot like Flandex.

And since I'm all about bringin' sexy back these days, I thought I'd show you how sexy is done right:

You're welcome.

And for your efforts, you can expect a little sexy right back at you:

Is it just me, or does this say 4-Eva!

While I think we can all agree that looks are extremely important, let's not forget that good marriages are built on good communication. Thustly, a little basement chatter goes a long way in spicing things up. For example:

You: I hate hanging insulation.
Husband: I hate cutting insulation.
You: My arms itch.
Husband: My eyeballs itch.
You: My lungs itch.
Husband: This sucks.
You: Yeah.

Or

Husband: Can you hand me that screw driver?
You: Sure. SCREW YOU! {Snort.}
Husband. Good one. For the 600th time.

Or

You: Hurry up with those screws. My barrette cut my head and I'm bleeding on the drywall.
Husband: Since when do you do you hair?

There is a downside to all this marriage building, however, and it involves the kids. Starving for attention while you're down in their pre-sublevel hangout, they may become rather creative with underpants. On their heads. While putting on a dance show.

Don't worry, it's only temporary. And clean.

But it's all worth it in the end, when your boys have their {nearly finished} space and you love your guy more than ever.

From whence we came.

Biggest Loser: Blogger Edition Update
For those of you who care (Beth), Beth is kicking my trash in the sexy department. She reported an outstanding 2.3% loss, while I'm lagging behind at 2.2%. Plus her report was a week ago and she lost more this week, which I did not. But I am not giving up. Just giving up less, aparently. Onward.

Bringin' Sexy Back

2011-02-19T12:21:00.004-05:00

You read that right.

(A bit of Facebook Flair nostalgia)

A friend of mine and I have been chatting about being fat, and all the fun that comes along with it. Stuff like:

"I grew out of a pair of pants this week."
"Oh yeah, well I went up two sizes since Thanksgiving."
"Oh yeah, well my back boobs are bigger than my front boobs."

And so on and so forth.

So we decided to force ourselves to bring sexy back by having a friendly blog competition. Therefore, welcome to "Biggest Loser: Blogger Edition." In addition to deciding who is the Biggest Loser, we'll try lose weight, also too. (More nostalgia for my Ugly Moms, wink.)

I'll call this blogger friend of mine "Beth," because that's her name, and you can find her at Dirty Laundry. If you haven't ever read Beth's blog and you like funny, you will want to add her to your Reader. Seriously.

Here are the rules:
Rule #1: Eat less. Move more. Stop bitching and start doing. (Maybe I should quit right now.)

Rule #2: Contest will run from Monday through the last day of school in early-June.

Rule #3: We will weigh in every Monday and share the results privately with each other. Because none of you people give a hoot.

Rule #4: Once a month we'll report our progress on our blogs. We'll be comparing percents, not pounds, because frankly I've got an entire 4-year-old more to lose than her. Comparing pounds won't work. The Biggest Loser will be the gal who loses the highest percentage of their current weight. Which I have a lot of.

Rule #5: At the end of the competition, the Loserest Loser will have to post a picture of themselves on the Biggest Loser's blog. In their bathing suit. You've been warned, so if you find yourself looking at the the unthinkable, it's your own fault.

Rule #6: No, you may not join. I'm going to have a hard enough time beating one person; the odds of beating more than one guarantees a photo of me in my bathing suit in blogland. And nobody wants that.

Rule #7: Regarding #6, if you want to lose weight and play our game and post your progress and comment, please do. We'd love to see less of you each month! (Yes, I used to work for Weight Watchers, though I'm sort of thinking they're not particularly pleased about having me as a Lifetime Member/former staff spokes~~person~~model.) But I'm standing firm on #6. I'm really trying hard here to kick Beth's rumply rump and I don't need you beating me to it.

Rule #8: I don't really think Beth has a rumply rump. She's pretty darn cute and looks rather fine. But still, I'm taking her down. (I'm taking you down, Beth.)

I think that's it.

Bring it. Sexy, that is. Snort.

Maximize your joy

2011-02-05T15:48:00.014-05:00

So how's your pre-teen? Still up there? Good job, ladies. (Don't have a clue what I'm talking about? See my last post. From about 17 years ago.)

A lot has happened in what has felt like 17 years. It's hard to know where to jump back in. Plus I'm not thinking clearly with all the oil-based primer fumes I've been sniffing for the past 5 hours, because there's nothing like jumping into a new project the day after you finish nine months of basement, yes?

So, should I start with the basement or perhaps something else? I could talk about my birthday or my back boobs or how I almost passed out when I thought I was going to kill Grandma the night before Granddad's funeral. That's good times right there.

Or maybe I should start with Chase's professional hockey debut. Yes that, you say? (That's my family talking.) Alrighty then, hockey it is.

If you bump into Chase while you're out and about -- whether you know him or not -- he'll likely tell you he plays hockey for the Hershey Bears. He says it all serious-like. It's rather endearing.

And it's actually true. He's a Bite (ages 4-6) in the Junior Bears program and they've been practicing for months for their one big game -- two minutes on the ice at the Giant Center during a Hershey Bears game between periods.

(Side note: Do any of my "fans" see the similarity here ... I'm a hockey mom. And I wear lipstick, also too. Screee!)

So the big night finally arrived a couple weeks ago and we joined 10,878 of our closest friends for a sold-out game at the Giant Center. When the first period ended and it was Bite time, who burst forth first? That's right, Chaser. Out on the ice first. They played their two minutes and it was super cute, blah blah blah. I'll post the video below for your viewing pleasure.

But after the two minutes is when it got good: The announcer gave the countdown for the Bites to finish up because they needed to Zamboni the ice and all that good stuff. There was a lot going on and the little kiddos had their helmets on, so there was a little bit of meandering at first but eventually all the kids cleared the ice. Almost all.

Remaining on the ice were two White Shirts and Red Number 2, who picked himself up off the ice and skated in the opposite direction of the exodus. So Cocoa the Bear passed Red Number 2 the puck, as in "Here's your puck, now scram." But Red Number 2 didn't interpret Cocoa's pass that way. Red Number 2 interpreted it as "GAME ON!" So Red Number 2 and the two White Shirts drove to the goal with Cocoa's puck.

White Shirt A scored. Game over? Nope. Red Number 2 fished the puck out of the net for a break away to the opposite goal. At this point, I was sure Cocoa was going to tackle him, right there in front of a sold-out crowd at Giant Center on his big night. But Red Number 2 fell on his own accord before Cocoa had to take him out, and Cocoa swooped in and grabbed his puck back, thankyouverymuch. Then it really was over.

Any guesses on who Red Number 2 was? Yup, Chaser.

I watched it unfold from the stands in Chase's Fan Section, at first a little nervous but then amused as the crowd cheered the wayward Bites on. Matt, however, was down near the action, listening to the Giant Center staffers freak out about getting those kids off the ice. Later I asked him if he was getting nervous about Chase, and he said not at all. He was proud of the little guy, milking his moment for all it was worth.

First on, last off. That's just pure Chase: live every moment to the fullest.

One thing is for sure, he loved the big stage of the Giant Center. Stay tuned.

And for your viewing pleasure: "The Game"
Watch for Red Number 2

And for your super duper viewing pleasure: "The Incident"

And for your extra special viewing pleasure, this was Chase two years ago.

My First Tutorial

2010-12-06T17:30:00.004-05:00

It's been a long time since I've written, yesterday's downer notwithstanding. Has anyone missed me?

{awkward silence}

No? Well that's OK, I know there's a lot of good stuff out there to read, particularly this time of year with Christmas barrelling down on us. And there are lots of great tutorials right now, too, like how to make wreaths out of coffee filters or an entire tree out of burlap. Cool stuff.

But how many coffee filter wreaths does one person need? And frankly, I can't stand to touch burlap though it looks lovely. So I'm going to teach you something useful, something you can do this year and next year and the year after that, and it will never get old or be last year's trend. I'm going to teach you how to hang drywall on your ceiling.

Now I understand you probably don't have a need to hang drywall on your ceiling today. Except you, Sara. But that's OK, someday you might. And if you ever do, you'll be glad you learned how to do something besides make coffee filter wreaths. You can thank me then. Or now in advance. Either way is fine.

So since you have no immediate need for actual drywall on your ceiling, I'm going to make this a simulated tutorial so you can practice now with things you have around your house and file the tutorial away in your Favorites for future use. Here's what you need {and what they are simulating}:

1 8-foot ceiling (1 8-foot ceiling}
1 pre-teen, approximately 82 pounds* {1 4x12 sheet of drywall}
6 Dixie Cups {3 recessed lights and 3 matching drywall cutouts}
1 6-foot ladder (1 6-foot ladder}
List of your worst, most forbidden words, the ones that make your mom's ears bleed {bad words}

*If we were hanging the standard 4x8 sheets of drywall, you'd only need a 6-year old. But since your husband doesn't want extra ceiling joints, you'll need the pre-teen.

OK, got all that? You'll need some additional miscellaneous stuff, too, but it's more fun to be surprised in the middle of the project. So shall we begin?

STEP 1
Tape 3 of your Dixie Cups to your ceiling, bottom down. If you're feeling frisky, add more. What's a few more Dixie Cups?

STEP 2
Make your pre-teen lay on the floor and instruct him to pretend he has no bones in his body. Now randomly tape 3 Dixie Cups to your pre-teen, open side facing up. I could tell you about taking your east-west and north-south coordinates so your ceiling and pre-teen Dixie Cups all line up, but really it's going to take an act of God anyway, so we'll just skip that step.

STEP 3
Grab your boneless pre-teen by each hip and hoist him up over your head, making sure your arms are good and straight. Don't forget to flip him -- you don't want to look at his rear for the next 40 years.

STEP 4
Climb your 6-foot ladder until your pre-teen is smashed against the ceiling. At this point, your husband should be running around you to see if any of the Dixie Cups are matching up. They won't be, that's part of the fun.

STEP 5
After God intervenes (or you get a new pre-teen, re-tape your Dixie Cups and revisit Steps 3 and 4), politely ask your husband to shove a Dead Man under one of your pre-teen's feet and another under a knee. What? You only have one Dead Man? Well you needed two. But it really doesn't matter anyway, you've got lots of pre-teen to support no matter how many Dead Men you have. This tutorial isn't for sissies.

Dead men.

STEP 6

As your arms start to wobble, climb another step on your ladder and continue pinning your pre-teen to the ceiling with your head and one shoulder. Next time, don't wear barrettes. Use one or two of the words from your list, but not your favorite -- save that one for later.

STEP 7

Just when you think you're going to drop your pre-teen and fall off the ladder, have your husband ask if "you've got it" so he can go get the drywall screwdriver. Now it's time to use your very favorite word from your list.

STEP 8

Give your pre-teen one last shove as your husband runs around you screwing him to the ceiling. Did I mention you should have put Liquid Nails on the rafters first? Because you should have.

STEP 9

Let go of your pre-teen and climb down. If he falls off, you know you didn't do it right. If he sticks, give your husband a high-five.

STEP 10

Repeat Steps 1-9 fifteen more times.

Or you could make a coffee filter wreath.

And there you go! You can now install your very own ceiling using 4x12 sheets of drywall. Don't you feel AWESOME!!!!!

If you really want to make it realistic, have your 5-year-old hit ping-pong balls at you during Step 6, spill a cup of water in your laptop and jump on your brand-new bed until he breaks off two legs.

Thanks goodness for stud scraps.

Seventeen days until company arrives for Christmas ...

So close, yet ...*

2010-12-05T23:14:00.002-05:00

* This is pretty much a downer post, which is just sort of how things have been around here of late. But I have something wonderful for you next time: a tutorial you won't want to miss. Carry on.

We started hanging drywall this weekend.

So close. (That's the good news.)

Yet so far. (That's the bad news.)

Eighteen days until our Christmas company arrives.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We also had a hamster funeral and dog interment. (No, not Cooper.)

We figured if we were burying Brownie with full honors,

we really should get Timber out of the kitchen cabinet

and give him a proper burial as well.

RIP Brownie

Sometime in January 2010 - December 4, 2010

You too, Timber

June 6, 1999 - January 3, 2007

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And a Granddad Update

For those who are wondering...

Granddad pulled through the brain and hip surgeries like a champ. The problem was he didn't want any surgeries. And that was a big problem. Since the surgeries, he has essentially refused all medicine and therapies and is on a hunger strike.

Additional procedures and a feeding tube were ordered and that's when my family stepped back and gathered our wits about us. Granddad was very clear that he wants no more procedures or drugs, and has been explicitly clear about feeding tubes. It was time to honor his wishes and make sure his medical team did as well.

That has been easier said than done. And let me just say it wasn't easily said, either. It has been a terrible couple of weeks. The burden on my dad, an only child, has been great.

We met with the palliative care team at the hospital and initiated "comfort care," which meant that all procedures and drugs would be limited to pain relief and, in my Granddad's case, agitation medication as well since his dementia has decimated his social filters (meaning biting and scratching are rather common).

Most medical staff is trained to heal, to make people better at any cost. And in most cases, I'm grateful for that. But not so much with regard to an 89-year-old dementia patient with a broken hip and brain bleeding who has made it crystal clear that he wants nothing more than to be left alone, come what may. Consequently, it has been a daily struggle to enforce his wishes.

We've been trying to get him into a palliative care facility (which is sort of like hospice) so that he could be cared for by a team who understands and honors comfort care, but beds are limited. One bed recently came available in a sister facility to where he had been staying since he left the hospital, and we thought that was finally our answer. But he was refused the bed when they talked to his current caregivers and decided he would be too disruptive in a palliative care wing.

And so, day by day, we all do our best.

He made this metal impression of an Irish blessing years ago,

probably before I was born.

I have it sitting in front of some yellow roses.

"May the road rise to meet you,

the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft upon your fields and,

until we meet again ...

may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

I know He is.

Nine {Point} Five

2010-11-12T08:39:00.017-05:00

I wrote this post a while ago and held onto it for whatever reason. Today is the day to post it...

Perhaps you’ve been wondering about where I got my fancy handyman skillz. Perhaps not, but I’m going to pretend you have been because it’s been on my mind lately.

So since you’ve been wondering: it’s genetic.

Back in the day, long before my granddad turned crazy with dementia (you may remember him as one of my herded turtles), he was a carpenter/jack of all trades. His basement and work garage, which was bigger than his house, were filled with every tool you could ever imagine – and I don’t mean screwdrivers and levels. I mean drill presses and saws and stuff that hung from the ceiling. He carved spindles, repaired clocks and restored Model Ts. He crafted furniture and installed hardwood floors. He built his home.

He also had two thumbs, back in the day.

Now he has one-and-a-half thumbs, thanks to something like this:

In my basement.

It was rather shocking at first, that new half a thumb. I remember as a kid thinking there could be nothing worse than cutting off half of your thumb. I couldn't believe it had happened. Certainly I knew you could shoot your eye out or cross your eyes and have them stick that way; but accidentally cut off your thumb? No one warns you that could happen. Yet with my own two eyes I could see it was gone.

But it never seemed to bother him and he was really good at that optical illusion where you pretend to pull off the tip of your thumb, as I’m sure you can imagine. That was kind of cool. And he could still build lots of stuff. With nine-and-a-half fingers, he was still an excellent carpenter.

Though not a carpenter by trade, my dad inherited Granddad's handyman skills and DIY mind and passed them on to my brother and me. And we are all detail maniacs.

My brother, a forensic architectural engineer, channels his inner granddad by repelling high-rise buildings looking for structural defects. You may be interested to know that last summer he nearly ripped his thumb off on his harness and had to have it surgically put back together. Can you believe that? His thumb.

So as I’m working on these remodel projects -- using my big boy saw, holding pneumatic nailers and playing with electricity -- it’s always in the back of my mind that we inherited our skills via Dad from our crazy, half-thumbed granddad.

Wish me luck.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The end. So why post this today?

Granddad fell, broke his hip and banged his head this week. He has just been taken into the OR for brain surgery followed by hip surgery.

The brain injury itself was not fatal, though the brain surgery could be; without the brain surgery, hip surgery likely would be. Without the surgery combo, his disassembled hip would be too unstable for any independent mobility for the rest of his days, which could be great in number since he's rather healthy for an old, crazy guy. He was adamant he be left alone, not able to understand that being left alone now would mean really not being left alone later.

It's not an end-of-life issue; it's a quality of life issue. Being stuck in bed and the resulting consequences would be a horrible outcome for him and for Grandma, unimaginable for everyone able to comprehend that reality. But try to get that straight with a crazy old guy who can't hear or speak much but can spit fire.

And Grandma, bless her heart, she simply can't remember it's happened. The shock of it all never goes away. It's always a fresh wound. I can't describe how heartbreaking that is.

It's complicated with granddad these days. These years. I have a whole post on dementia I wrote long ago, maybe it's time to set that one free, too. My dad, their only child and guardian, is my hero. And my mom is a saint. I think there's a special place in Heaven for them.

So this has been overly sentimental and all that, but first and foremost this blog is my therapy and family journal. And this is what's on my mind and in my heart today. Remembering his basement stuffed with tools, how his well-worn bib overalls always smelled like motor oil and that he often had sawdust caught in the dozen hairs he loved to comb was good for me. I remember thinking he and my dad really could do anything. Consequently, sometimes I think I can do anything, too. I guess that's good.

And I remember those days when accidentally cutting off his thumb was a big deal.

Things you wish you knew before

2010-11-09T21:04:00.000-05:00

Today I walked the kids to the bus stop, chatting with several neighbors. On the way back, I waved to someone walking a dog wearing a coat.

Then I took Chase to day care, walking his egg-free lunch to the lunch ladies and then going up two flights of stairs to drop him off with his teachers. I said hello to several parents I passed. And the pastor.

I drove to a client's office, where I chatted for a bit with two nice men working on the historical restoration on the front of the building.

(I swear I'm getting to the point; be patient.)

Throughout the day I walked into the offices of the executive director, special assistant to the executive director and meetings director, multiple times, and talked with each of them at great length. I have known these people for 16 years.

I held the door for the UPS guy. I only just met him, but he seemed very nice.

At 4:47, I ran to the bathroom before heading home for the day. Whereupon I noticed that my zipper was down. All the way.

And I wore my orange underpants. 'Tis the season to be thankful, after all.

Sigh.

Seriously? This reminds me of the time I wore my pants inside out all day and no one told me. It falls into the category of "stuff stuck between your teeth" in terms of when it is appropriate and encouraged to tell someone something potentially awkward but enormously appreciated.

And don't say maybe they didn't notice.

Orange.

They noticed.

So please, for the love of all that is right in this world, if you see me with my pants on inside out or not properly secured, tell me. Whisper if you must, or even simply point. I swear I won't think you're weird for noticing my underwear or a tag on my rear. In return, I promise to tell you about the crumb on your lip or lipstick on your tooth or even if you need to brush all your teeth. And for sure I'll tell you if I can see your orange underwear.

Deal?

Renovation Realities: Finally, My Not Wrong Family Room

2010-11-08T09:09:00.004-05:00

It's taken me 19 months (give or take nine years) and DIY detours through just about every room in this house to finally get here...

Finally, already. Geesh.

I've been in my house nearly 12 years, and until about a month ago it never really felt like it was mine. I mean the dust, clutter, piles of laundry, Nerf darts, random Lego pieces and little green army men were all mine; but the feel of the space where I spent most of my time was all wrong. And I got it wrong really, really well.

Lots of wrong. Even photos of that recliner give me heartburn.

Goodbye to Wrong v. 2.0. (Not the kids, the 25-year-old sofa I slip covered.)

The problem was I didn't know what would feel right.

Not this.

So last year when we decided to finally finish the basement for the boys (big and small) to have a rumpus space, we grabbed it as our opportunity to figure out what made us happy. We decided to change this place from top to bottom, starting from scratch in some areas. Which totally makes sense when you're clueless about what you like.

Studs.

We tore down some walls, put up some new ones, ripped out the floor, repurposed some rooms and spent a year {mostly} laughing our way through learning how to frame, drywall, install hardwood floors and not get electrocuted too much.

I prefer this, actually.

And when we were all done with the renovations (and by "done" I mean "close enough"), we loved it all -- except the part that felt wrong to begin with, because my kitchen and family room were still filled with all my old not-right stuff.

Sigh.

I think I'm a blue girl, so why can't this be love?

Then I stumbled upon my inspiration fabric during my first-ever trip to the brand new Hobby Lobby in town, and it all came together in my mind. Well, not really, but I finally found something I knew I loved. And it had blue! I'm a blue girl after all.

I think I have me figured out. I'm a traditional girl at heart. Who knew.

We've already established that making decisions gives me hives and hot flashes, so it was a process filled with second guessing, third guessing and returns. But I finally made it to the other side by picking out a few new pieces and giving lots of love to other people's junk.

Not wrong. Yay!

My new table, the heart of it all for me, caused major stress and consternation. I had to have it custom made by the local Amish folks because my one requirement was a solid wood top -- no leaves -- and most companies just don't make big tables that way. (Note to most companies: make tables that way.) With as much stuff as my boys spill, I was done with gaps in the middle of my table. We all know that milk, when given the choice, never runs off the side -- it runs down through the gaps and makes a royal mess in the gears and whatnot. No leaves. Period.

So I fretted and drove everyone crazy, but I'm sure they will all agree it was worth it because I really do love my table. And can I just say that when we had our first spill, we all just sat there and watched the milk pool in the middle of the table. And it was wonderful.

I know, fake flowers are bad, but I don't care. They make me happy.

Perfect Mason. Amen.

We also picked out a new sofa and leather tilt-back chair/ottoman, which finally feel right.

The sofa table will eventually find a new home in the basement, but it stays for now.

And we're sending thoughts of ill will to that 12-year-old TV, but he's a tough one.

See that chair in the left corner? She's my problem chair, and she has a twin. I wanted something small for extra seating when we have our family in town and I found two matching chairs at a local thrift store. Matt helped me sand so I could stain the legs, and I'm going to reupholster it in that brown flowered fabric. I think. Or not. But possibly. Unless I don't.

What to do, what to do?

I finally worked blue into a room that feels like home. I painted the dresser and a side table Rain by Sherwin Williams and made some curtains and pillows that tie in the chocolate and blue-green. When I found my inspiration fabric, I wasn't sure where I would use it in the room. In the end, I made curtains with it, and they make me happy.

Hello, happy.

The dresser by the window was in rather sad shape. It was a roadside find and had substantial water damage on the bottom and miscellaneous trouble everywhere else. I also discovered a bit of history associated with it that made me seriously wonder if reclaiming it was the right thing to do. But then I decided that the owner would have trashed it if he didn't want someone to put a little love into it, so I decided to strip it down and give it a go. It was a lot of work to fix it up just to distress is again, but I like how it works in the room. And I probably wouldn't have had the guts to paint it blue if it hadn't been free.

Free is good. Even when it's bad.

Love, indeed.

I also love my hydrangeas. And they're not technically fake, just dead.

One thing I didn't change was the pictures of my boys as babies over my mantel. The other stuff will come and go, but these pictures make me smile every time I look at them.

I'm hoping you'll be too distracted by the babies to notice more fake flowers.

If you've noticed the Post-it notes on the walls, no, I'm not trying to start a new trend or incorporate more blue in the laziest way ever. They approximate the spacing between the future board and batten. I couldn't wait and painted the walls white, but the fireplace framing, crown moulding and batten won't go up for quite a while because we're in the middle of this mess in the basement:

Forty-four days left to get this wired, drywalled, mudded and painted before

eight Iowan in-laws arrive for the holidays. Stop laughing.

After all this time, it finally feels not wrong. And it feels like home.

Before and After

Before

After

Off to the basement...

***UPDATE***

It took me 8 months, but I finally got around to hanging the board and batten. Since Cassity from Remodelaholic was nice enough to feature me, I thought I'd better show it with the B&B. I've rearranged the room and I'm not sure I like it this way, but at least the hard work is done. (And the TV died. On it's own, I swear.) Now if I can just get those primed boards in my garage hung in the basement this weekend ... :)

3-Day for the Cure, Philadelphia 2010: Prologue

2010-10-26T08:03:00.009-04:00

This year's journey began 10 days prior via extended weather forecasts. With last year’s double nor’easters causing the cancellation of two days, I figured I’d better be paying attention this year, you know, since there was nothing I could do about it anyway. I might as well get myself all sorts of worked up about something that was completely out of my control. So I did.

And don’t you know it, 10 days out and every day in between, the forecasters said another nor’easter was on its way to the 3-Day. All I could do was hope there was a back-up plan in place this year. Thankfully there was: on Wednesday night we were informed that camp would be moved indoors to the Convention Center. It wasn't going to be the 3-Day experience I knew, but at least it as going to be a three day experience.

All the last minute details were falling into place, except the part involving us getting to Philly, which is problematic when that’s where you need to be but aren’t. Suddenly our well-designed "Philly Or Bust" Plan A and Plan B were derailed by scabies, vertigo and a shuttle bus that wouldn’t shuttle us. I’ll spare you the details of Plan C through Plan R and simply note that Final Plan Q involved inconveniencing as many people as possible.

So bright and early Thursday morning, Emma and 38-week pregnant SIL Alyssa came by to pick up Sara's son, Owen, and send us on our merry way.

Sara’s FIL, Pat, then drove us to Philly, a quick 2-hour ride in his brand new Swagger Wagon. To thank him for the ride, we took him to lunch at the first restaurant we found that looked decent, determined by the large number of cars in the parking lot.

I assumed the name and subsequent popularity had something to do with brick oven pizza. Not so much. It had more to do with the Commodores, if you know what I’m sayin’. There was framed underwear in the bathroom and the staff looked like Hooters girls without the owls. Sara and I had the relatively tame “Bad Boy” salad, and my mind has blocked out what Pat had to say to order his fish sandwich. It's exactly the kind of place you want to take your sister-in-law’s father-in-law. Not at all weird. Why didn’t we turn around and leave? I really don’t know. I think we were in a little bit of shock. But everyone took it in stride – I mean, the whole weekend was about boobs, so if ever there was a time to take your in-laws to Hooters, this was it.

That night we caught up with Ugly Mom Uncle Steve, Aunt Susie and Sara’s/Matt’s parents, Steve and Gracia, for a quick bite before retiring to our separate hotels. Sara and I wanted to get to bed early, so we were all tucked in before 10 PM knowing the alarm would go off at 4 AM. I fell asleep quickly and hard, waking up after a good night’s sleep … at 12:50. So I laid there for hours and hours until 12:55. And hours more until 1:05. Finally I decided to pull out my book light and read to settle my mind. As I reached for my book, Sara popped awake, also ready to go. It was 1:40.

This continued on until 3:50 when we finally couldn’t stand it another second and officially started Day 1.

3-Day for the Cure, Philadelphia 2010

2010-10-26T08:03:00.008-04:00

Day 1

Sometimes I get a little obsessive about things. It’s rather endearing, really. Ask anyone. On Day 1 was obsessed with not being late. In 2008 we were stuck forever in traffic on the way to Opening Ceremonies, on the very road our hotel was on. Consequently, we were late to Opening Ceremonies that year and ended up at the back of the pack and, therefore, at the back of the line of thousands of walkers. The thing about being the caboose is that you can’t control your pace even a tiny bit, other than to slow it down. And then when you finally get back to camp, you’re the last one in line to eat, potty and shower. It’s no fun to be last in line after walking 20 miles. So I wanted to get to Opening Ceremonies early to 1) not miss it and 2) be near the front. So if Walkers were told to arrive between 6 and 7 AM, I wanted to be closer to 6 than 7.

I’m proud to say mission accomplished. Exceedingly well. We got there at 5:20. You’re welcome, Sara and Debi (from team I LOVE YE who, as part of Plan Q, woke up at 4 AM to drive us to Opening Ceremonies.)

It's so early we're reflective.

After an hour and 40 minutes, we caught up with Uncle Steve and indeed found ourselves at the front for Opening Ceremonies. We were pleased as punch about the revised weather report: sunny skies all three days. A big shout-out to all who prayed early and often to make that happen.

Being there with Sara and Uncle Steve, as opposed to Yvonne and Team I LOVE YE, was very different. Not better nor worse, just very different. Rather than walking with someone I loved who was dying, I was walking with someone I loved who helped me through loving someone who was dying, as well as someone whose wife is beating the disease every single day. It somehow felt stronger, almost defiant. Celebratory. Until the Survivor’s Circle, a small group of women representing the Survivors walking among us, women with their own stories of hope and fear and fighting.

The first time I saw a Survivor’s Circle, in 2008, I was filled with hope. Now, holding Yvonne’s shoes through four more, my heart is always filled with such heavy sadness, which makes me sadder. I want to be happy for these amazing women. Maybe some day I’ll get there.

Arm-in-arm, we three Ugly Moms set off on our 60-mile journey near the head of the pack. We were cattle-shooted past all the loved ones cheering their Walkers on, including our three: Steve, Gracia and Susie. As the miles wore on, we counted steps until we’d see our Walker Stalkers again.

We didn't have to wait long. If you thought I thought the Cheering Stations in 2008 were awesome, you'd think I think 2010 was even awesomer. There were probably a million people, give or take, at the Cheering Stations, our three among them. I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to have familiar faces along the route. And let me just say that they embraced their pinkness.

Why, yes, that is my mother-in-law in a pink tutu.

Cheered on, we kept up our robust pace, blowing through the first couple of pit stops and feeling rather proud of ourselves by lunch at mile 10.

Speaking of our robust pace, let me just say that Uncle Steve the Ugly Mom can move. At one point on Day 1, Sara and I invented “Steve Duty,” whereupon your only responsibility was to make sure Uncle Steve didn’t get ahead of you. We also devised ways we could slow him down if he somehow snuck by, like getting him a baby harness, duct-taping his shoes together or tying him to trees.

Uncle Steve has run several marathons, hiked Mt. Washington four times and walks 18 holes of golf pretty much every day. So between Uncle Steve, marathoner/swimmer Sara, and me -- clearly a finely-tuned athlete (what?) -- we were feeling fine and frisky.

I do need to note a bit of disappointment, however: Traffic Lady Robin couldn’t make it this year.

My disappointment was great. I had plans to run up to her and throw myself into her arms, reminding her that...

...You're still Traffic Lady Robin and do you know I blogged about taking my picture with YOU at the mall in BIG LETTERS last year because you’re ROBIN and you asked ME to wear your SKIRT-SLASH-CAPE so it didn’t get stuck in your bike spokes but then we were sent to different crew locations the next morning and I was crushed not to wear your skirt-slash-cape but I still LOVE YOU! (Squeal!!! Clap. Clap. Clap.)

But she wasn’t there.

Which means we made it through 20 miles to the end of Day 1 with the love and support of bunches of other strangers.

Life along the route.

And thank you for that.

"Let's end the war in Uraq" -- Love it.

Why, yes, my Booblicious IS showing. Thanks for noticing.

Traffic 'Lady' Robin v. 2.0

Philly Do-Over. Bring it!

These people dressed as pigs for three days. Seriously.

Cheered on, we approached Fairmount Park where the city of Philadelphia should have been the backdrop for camp sporting big white tents and little pink tents. But there were just buses.

In 2008.

In 2010.

No real camp. Sniff.

I’m grateful for the backup plan, but, if I’m being honest, have to admit I was disappointed that we would not be experiencing the true outdoor camp part of camp. I think I was the only one, however.

No real camp also meant no Day 1 sign, so we improvised before we sent Uncle Steve on his way to a hotel with our Walker Stalkers while Sara and I climbed on a bus for a half-hour ride to camp at the Convention Center. That went well until I tried to stand up.

Improvised Day 1 sign.

Hey, Nicole, check out this self-portrait.

Real Day 1 sign.

And then we set up pseudo camp at the convention center.

Having finished around 250th out of 2,200 Walkers and two hours quicker than in 2008, we were first in line for all the important stuff: showers, dinner and mail. Did I mention mail? Because It. Was. Awesome. And by “it” I mean “you.” Envelopes kept coming and coming and coming -- from family, friends we know in real life, and friends we know in blog life. We laughed until we cried, and cried until we cried. We decorated our tent with some notes and shoved others in our fanny packs. Thank you, from the bottom of my swollen toes.

From my boys.

Tent bling.

I’ll take a quick detour here on the topic of mail, if I may. Some of you have made comments wondering how my mind works when I write some of stuff I write. I choose to take that as a complement. At any rate, you should know I was bred this way, this crazy mind of mine. Want proof? My mom wrote me a two-page story about Penelope the Purple Pickle who passionately prayed to be green but was propelled to her predestined purpose by powerfully pushing off her porcelain plate and plopping into a pan of pink pudding to provide a pink 3-Day person in perky pigtails with the power to parade on more pesky mile. That’s right, 80% of the words in my mom's wonderful story started with the letter “p,” and I know she was cracking herself up with her thesaurus. Now you know.

And then there was the Remembrance Tent. If you didn't read about my missing Yvonne's picture in the Remembrance Tent last year due to the weather, you might want to read it for perspective on this next part. When team I LOVE YE walked in DC the week before Philly this year, they texted me while I was out on my final training walk that Yvonne's picture was in the Remembrance Tent. It was a complete surprise to them, and it brought me to ugly sobbing on the middle of the sidewalk. I still can't exactly explain why I needed to see her picture in that tent last year, and why it was so heartbreaking not to. Maybe it was because she would be packed up in a box and put in storage somewhere, never serving as an inspiration for weary Walkers to carry on one more step, one more day. Maybe it was purely selfish and I just needed to see her there for me to take one more step, one more day. Whatever the reason, I was grateful knowing I would have another opportunity this year. And who knows, maybe lots of opportunities.

So after a year, I finally saw Yvonne honored in that tent. Her picture with Eric was hung among the other women who fought so hard to live. As I looked at all the beautiful faces, I couldn’t help but do the math on their birth and death days. Many of these women were younger than me. They were wives and moms and sisters and friends. Man, I hate really cancer.

Miss you, Yvonne. I’ll keep my promise.

From Debi to leave in the Remembrance Tent.

On the way to our pink tent for bed, we walked past the main stage, which had a large projection screen featuring images from the day. There, in about 10 feet of awesomeness, was a photo of a big dude with pink hair askew wearing an Iowa jacket. Wonder who that could be.

He's ours, Sara's and mine.

It was lights-out at 9:30 at Camp 3-Day, so we settled in for another good night’s sleep. We surely needed it after Thursday's sleep fiasco. No noisy mylar blankets to suffocate us, no shivering the tent apart, no damp dew in our hair -- we just knew it would be a great night of sleeping indoors with 3,000 of our new friends.

But here’s the thing about 3,000 new friends: they make a lot of breath. We were roasting. After a long night of tossing and turning, Sara and I finally popped up to figure out if it was time to get up, she with her watch and me with my book light. It was 1:40, our bewitching hour. Seriously? Again 1:40? So we laid there and laid there until we couldn’t take it any more and finally got up to start Day 2 at 4:40.

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Day 2
Same as the first, a little bit worse. Nah, I'm just kidding. Bright and early we hopped into line and onto the bus and found Uncle Steve waiting for us to start the next 21 miles. I have to say we were feeling pretty fine on Day 2, despite fact that I told Sara and Uncle Steve how terrible we'd feel. We didn't. Sadly, some people did.

But, thankfully, we Ugly Moms had no blisters and just a tad of stiffness that worked itself out within a few steps. OK, I may be lying a little, but really we felt pretty good.

Day 1 had been hilly in Philly and not in a good way. We were promised those hills were behind us for Day 2. Well, there may have been fewer mountains, but there were still plenty of big old hills. If I had a dollar for every time someone promised "it’s downhill the rest of the way,” I’d have my 2011 fundraising already done.

So I’m just going to acknowledge right here that the hills made me cranky on Day 2. (Sorry for calling you “Saradammit.” Twice.)

And while I’m feeling cranky … what’s up with those Stink Berries, Philly? I don't care how smart they make you, nothing justifies that smell. If you think I’m exaggerating about those vomit balls, Google it. You’ll find this: Female ginkgo trees stink “because the pulp contains butyric acid, a chemical found in various amounts within vomit, feces, Parmesan cheese, and rancid butter.” That’s something you want on the bottom of your shoes for 60 miles. Delicious.

Also delicious was all the yummy food we got along the way from Walker Stalkers. I’m talking candy and cookies and donuts and brownies and pizza. Yet did we want for something? Yes. Yes, we did. Snickers. So when we heard a Walker Stalker shouting “Snickers,” Uncle Steve and I took off running. Imagine our disappointment when we got “stickers” instead. Bummer.

On the upside, the 3-Day volunteer Crew rocks. How can you not walk another 3 miles to see what they've got in store for you at the next Pit Stop?

Nippleback. Snort.

Our Walker Stalkers and the Cheer Stations were even more unbelievable on Day 2. There were four Cheer Stations that day, and the plan was for Matt to bring Mason, Chase and Owen to Philly after Mason’s soccer game for the last Cheer Station. Since we were so speedy, there was a chance we would arrive before they did, so we dilly-dallied here and there to slow our pace a bit but we still got there 20 minutes before they did. We decided to wait for them, really wanting those hugs.

As we waited, we noted that the Cheer Station was next to a fire station and I joked that I wouldn’t be surprised if Chase showed up in his fireman’s outfit, since he wears it every single second of every single day. (Did you catch that fine use of foreshadowing?)

Yup. Chase showed up in full fireman dress. I love that kid. As well as Mason, Matt and Owen. We had some hugs but soon had to scurry on our way to tackle those last 5 miles.

Sara and her Owen.

Uncle Steve and his Susie.

My Mason.

At this point on Day 2 back in 2008, I was feeling pretty stinky. But this year we were still feeling pretty frisky. In fact, as we entered the final turn into Fairmount Park there was a group of Walker Stalkers playing music and telling us we rocked via bull horn. So of course we rocked more. Then we heard, "Please stop rocking.” Those funny Walker Stalkers. Anyway, that’s how good we felt.

We improvised the Day 2 sign before sending Uncle Steve to the hotel and climbing on another bus back to camp.

Improvised.

Not improvised, yet sadly lacking something Ugly.

Maybe I’ll take this opportunity to give a shout-out to the shower truck people. Previously, the shower trucks had private shower areas but the changing section was communal. We’ve all been through high school gym class so it’s not a new concept, generally speaking. However, in gym class you hadn’t just walked 40 miles. Perhaps you had played tether ball or learned a new square dance, and afterward you were still able to stand upright independently rather well, which is a plus when you're naked. Not so much after walking 40 miles, when you’re trying to balance on a blistered, aching foot while shoving your other damp leg into your underpants. Next to another woman doing the same thing. Let’s just say I wasn’t a fan of the communal changing area last go-round. Well, this year we had brand spanking new trucks, complete with private shower and dressing area. Woo! to the shower truck people.

You're welcome for a picture of "Woo Guy" instead of me in the new shower truck.

So we read more mail, ate more yummy food and got jiggy with it during the dance party. We boogied in the best possible way and it felt great. And we were pretty good if I do say so myself, but not as good as Granny. Granny had to be 80 and performed a rather inspired version of Single Ladies on stage. And then she continued on all night, bumping and gyrating through song after song, including Brick House. Which now I get. Seriously, I had no idea what that song was about. Sort of how I didn't realize Afternoon Delight wasn't about rocket ships until I was in college.

She's a Brick House. And I'll have the "Bad Boy" salad.

And then it was bed time. Seriously, we had to "sleep" again? Sigh. I texted with Matt until the Phillies lost at 11:00 and drifted off to sleep. And this time we actually slept, mostly, until Day 3 -- Hooray and High Five, Woo Guy!

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Day 3
On Day 3 we woke up at 5:00 to pack up our tents and stuff and then sat in line for an hour for the bus.

I'm Ugly. No, I'm Ugly.

It was much less nostalgic packing up camp in the convention center. No rolling hills or silhouette of Center City in the distance; just the smell of diesel and a nice long line. But at least things weren’t wet and nobody was frozen.

Indeed.

Once again we were at the head of the pack, this time walking through the zoo and Center City Philly – my favorite route by far. Even the animals got up nice and early to cheer us on.

Good morning, gorgeous.

Amen.

And of course the Walker Stalkers kept us going as well. Remember the Boobilicious Girls from 2008? Well they're back and Uglier than ever.

Boobilicious in 2008.

Boobilicious with a side of Ugly in 2010.

And then there were our Walker Stalkers.

No fairy wings or bra, but he did put the tutu on himself.

We got some hugs and kept on moving. Getting out in front definitely helps limit the aches and pains, I think. You can control your own pace somewhat, which means walking in your comfort zone and less time on your feet. It also means not walking past as many hobblers, and therefore not processing their visual pain and trying to figure out if you hurt just as much as they do. That’s both good and bad. Good because you feel better, bad because you miss out on some of the conversations that mutual exhaustion breeds. I had no girl in flip flips this year, but we did have this guy:

We kept passing him, Day 2 and Day 3, carrying his fanny pack. He was always smiling and always walking, but always alone. I wondered about his story. We all have a story, but why did his story leave him walking alone? I’ve thought about him a lot this week.

Day 3 passed and we kept feeling pretty good, all things considered. For me, I felt enormously better than at this point on 2008's Day 3, which had been particularly miserable. Maybe it’s because we were faster. Maybe it’s because my heart was not as heavy. Or maybe it’s because I discovered my optimal 3-Day training plan: eat more; train less. Perhaps, like my rump, the bottoms of my feet were more padded. Whatever the physics involved, I’m thankful for it because I was feeling pretty darn good.

Maybe not as good as her, but still pretty darn good.

So fun coming into Cheering Stations.

Sara and her mom.

Me and my boys.

After getting our love, we were on our way once again. We approached the corner where my I LOVE YE teammates and I cheered for Walkers in the rain last year on Day 3. As I tried to remember exactly where we stood, my eyes fell upon a flashback in real time. There, in front me, cheering on “our” corner was I LOVE YE teammate/sorority sister Karen. From Baltimore. No way. Seriously, it was one of the best hugs of my life. Within seconds, Debi was there, too. (To think we almost missed her!) They made plans to cheer here while Crewing in DC last weekend to surprise me, and it worked. At that point I wanted nothing more than to drag everyone into Starbucks to chit chat, but that was not to be. Even though it was just for a few minutes, their mission was accomplished and I was one happy girl. I love those two, I really do.

I LOVE YE. (Debi's on the left, Karen's on the right.)

And so we left for our last six miles. The last four miles to lunch were particularly rough. So close yet so far, and your body knows it and is not at all pleased.

When we finally made it to lunch, I totally fell apart in front of the potties when I picked up Yvonne’s shoes for the last 2 miles. Something about that moment took me back to Day 3 lunch in 2008, when we were all miserable and ragged. I remembered calling Matt and sobbing that I couldn’t possibly take another step, and huddling with everyone in a big ball of ouch. I remembered walking out of lunch and suddenly having all the energy in the world, thanks to Yvonne who was leading our pack.

Inspiring.

I remembered taking my turn walking Yvonne up a big hill, and her telling me I was her biggest fan but that I had to lose 20 pounds if she had to keep taking chemo. She kept up her part of the deal but I didn’t, and it all flooded back to me by the potties at lunch.

And then I dropped the turkey and cheese out of my sandwich into a pile of leaves.

In hindsight I think Yvonne threw my turkey and cheese into the leaves to stop my tears, because it certainly got my attention. At that moment, looking down at my turkey, I realized I still had my bread and now more room for yummy mayonnaise, and everything was going to be OK. She had a good sense of humor that way. And my mayonnaise sandwich was delicious.

A few more stretches and words of motivation by The Best Team Captain Ever and we headed out for the last 1.7 miles to the finish line.

One point seven miles to go. Not that anyone is counting.

Of course you do.

You can never have enough Boobilicious.

Last mile.

Entering the Navy Yard for Closing Ceremonies.

Seriously, this picture scares me. Scared for the boat, I mean.

As we neared the finish line, three wild children ran full speed at us. Sara scooped up Owen, and seeing that, Chase leapt to me. All 50 pounds of him. Thankfully Mason just gave me a hug.

Ice, our new BFF.

After hugs, kisses and ice, we left our family once again to walk the final 100 yards hand-in-hand to the finish line. The Ugly Moms had done what we could to Kick Cancer’s Trash. It’s never enough, but it’s something.

During the Victory Walk into Closing Ceremonies, you’re surrounded by Crew members and loved ones, and it’s always very emotional for me. All those faces. All those stories. All those loved ones.

Sara grabbed Uncle Steve’s hand and mine, and with Yvonne’s shoes on my shoulders, we finished what we started three days prior. We all packed in: Walkers in white on the outside; Crew in gray in the middle. Then the Survivors in the pink entered, and we each took off a shoe and held it high above our heads in tribute.

To wrap up the ceremony, the Survivor's Circle raised the victory flag and then danced with other Survivors on stage to Candy Coburn’s Pink Warrior. I stared at all those faces, willing myself to see Yvonne in her pink and brown Superman hat. I didn’t, and that same Survivor's Circle sadness swept over me. Next year, my goal is to celebrate with those women.

Pink Warriors.

Together we raised $5.7 million over those three days in Philly. You. Are. Awesome.

We arrived home at 10 that night to a wonderful sign from the neighbors. (Girls, I still haven't figured it out, so a big thanks to all of you.)

And then it was all over. While I still maintain that I felt pretty darn good after 60 miles, I did manage to fall out of the van and pee my pants in the driveway. I guess there’s always room for improvement.

Thanks again for your support! And special huge thanks to FIL Steve, who took most of these wonderful pictures.

How To Select A Training Partner

2010-10-11T07:33:00.006-04:00

When training for something like walking 20 miles 3 days in a row, it's important to pick your training partner wisely, especially if you don't particularly feel like training. Because if you do a bad job choosing, you are setting yourself up for ... spreadsheets. Not just any spreadsheets, but training spreadsheets. And spreadsheets don't lie.

In an ideal world, you should pick someone who particularly feels like training less than you do. Then, you can look like the cat's meow when she posts a training spreadsheet up on Google. For example:

Monday, scheduled day of rest:
She rested and so did you. Even.

Tuesday, scheduled 4-mile walk:
She didn't, neither did you. Even.

Wednesday, scheduled 30-minute cross-training:
She rested; you walked to the mailbox. You win.

And so on and so forth. You get the picture.

But if you pick poorly, like choosing your marathon-running-over-achieving SIL like I did ...

... your spreadsheet sings a different tune. It sounds more like this:

Monday, scheduled day of rest:
She rested and so did you. Even. So far so good.

Tuesday, scheduled 5-mile walk:
You: Nailed studs in your basement all night.
She: Ran 5. She wins.

Wednesday, scheduled 45-minute cross-training:
You: Walked to the bus stop; nailed more studs.
She: Swam for an hour; coached a soccer team of second grade girls; learned a second language. She wins.

Thursday, scheduled 6-mile walk:
You: cricket cricket
She: Walked 6; reoganized all book carts in the school district; invented a new sport; solved the math problem on Goodwill Hunting. She wins.

Friday, scheduled 45-minute cross-training:
You: Cleaned 14 hours for guests, including 15 loads of laundry and 5 beds.
She: Ran a marathon just to see if she still could; sewed 100 blankets for the church bazaar; cleaned the entire house as well as each house immediately to the right and the left; cooked organic. She wins.

Saturday, scheduled 17-mile walk:
You: Took guests to Hersheypark.
She: Walked 5; hiked 3; swam 100; biked 1,000; mowed entire neighborhood; made 7 new friends (and not the Facebook kind). She wins.

Sunday: scheduled 13-mile walk:
****ERROR: UNABLE TO CONNECT****
Grin. You win.

So choose wisely, my friends. Like my SIL did.

CSI: Pennsylvania

2010-10-08T08:06:00.000-04:00

It's 11:00. Do you know where your children are?

Yes.

Make that: "No."

I wonder if he'll smile like this for his mug shots.

I think we are in trouble.

More. About me.

2010-10-02T23:12:00.001-04:00

One of the bloggers that I love to read gave me a shout-out the other day. I believe I found Kathryn {Take My Breath Away} through a decor/project link party, but kept following because I felt like I would like to have her over for coffee. She's recently started pursuing her photography dream, and I've loved watching that unfold. Seriously, if Kathryn and Beth got together and opened a business selling their work, they'd be on to something big. At any rate, Kathryn received a Versatile Blogger Award and passed it on to some of the people she follows.

One of the "rules" of this award is to share seven things about yourself that people might not know. You know I can't resist an opportunity to write about myself. Why try to fight it?

And so, some of you may not know that:

1) If you ask me something and I just smile like a dumb blonde (blink blink), it's because I forgot my hearing aids. If you're going, "hearing aids?" feel free to read the post where I finally told my family and friends about my hearing loss last year. Hearing life, rather than trying to lip-read through it, has been a gift and relief. And the best part is that Cooper hasn't eaten my hearing aids yet.

2) I met my hubby the first weekend of my freshman year of college when I was just 18, and I've been head over heels ever since. That would imply he's been head over heels for me all this time as well. I guess that makes me a great catch. Now you know.

3) I am the most indecisive person I've ever met. Or you've ever met. Maybe not THE most indecisive. OK, yes, THE most indecisive. Most of the time. Or always. But generally usually. I try to embrace it. Not so much, really. I don't like it at all: that I can commit to.

4) I have decorator's anxiety, I think related to #3. I sort of feel like I'd better like it enough to like it forever, but I know I won't so why bother. So Kathryn, this in-progress sneak peak is for you ... I took the leap:

5) While decorating gives me hives, I'm rather fond of the construction side of things. Though it's taking us forever, I love having another project, being in the basement nailing studs for a couple hours, night after night. (What?) I love measuring 7 and 5/8ths or 54 with no 8ths, cutting my mark with the big boy saw, and remeasuring my cut at exactly 7 and 5/8ths or 54 with no 8ths. And I can't wait to get my hands on that electrical wire. There's a 3-way switch with my name on it, and this time no blue sparks. Dude, don't get me started on the drywall. That's when the vision really takes shape. I love me some drywall. And installing the floor is the icing on the cake, plank by sweet plank. The stinky part is that decorating looms right after the floor, which takes me back to #4. And so, Amy, it's slow moving with 3-Day training as its competition, but this sneak peek is for you:

6) I invented the Purple Donkephant political movement. (If you need a refresher or are new to the movement, I think Purple: It's the New Blue and Red is enlightening reading.) It's sort of like the Tea Party, only we were first and better. More powerful, more nice, more inclusive. Except for Sarah Palin. And it was huge. I even designed Facebook Flair:

Back in the heyday of our movement in February 2009, the Flair I designed for Purple Donkephants was ranked 280,763 in downloads (read about the glory days here), having burst on the scene at 477,794. Think about that for a moment: if you would have hit "Next" 26,544 times while browsing "Most Popular" flair on Facebook, you would find a Purple Donkephant. Only a quarter of a million Flairs were more popular than ours, with 250 downloads nationwide. I bring this up not to brag, but rather because I've been thinking about the need to reorganize the Purple Donkephants again.

7) I love words. Words make me happy. Sometimes I get up at night and rewrite old posts because a new sentence popped into my head that I love too much to ignore. The flip side is that I am completely incapable of writing a short blog post, particularly when they're about me, and you absolutely don't want me to send you an email. Or hear me tell a story, unless you've just peed, have a snack and no one is expecting you any time soon. Words, I just love them.

Just seven? Bummer.

I'll pass this award on to bloggers I know in real life: my SILs and friends who are original members of the Ugly Mom's Club (and one other who isn't but just flat-out makes me laugh out loud -- Beth, I'm looking at you):

Beth {Dirty Laundry}
SIL Sara {Cornfed Kilgores}
SIL's friend Elizabeth {My Back Door}
SIL's friend JoAnna {Sometimes up ... Sometimes down}
SIL's SIL Anna {Chi-town Rawlins}
SIL's SIL Alyssa {The Sage's}
SIL's SIL Chrysta {Keepin' up with Pooh'z Crew}
SIL's SIL's friend Nicole {Hypoxic (and Loving It)}
SIL's SIL Christy {Jet-Setting With The Kilgore Crew}
SIL's SIL's friend Shell {Carolina Houselife}

A "Versatile Blogger" brings everything to the table - a little of this and a little of that."

Now, here are the rules for the Versatile Blogger Award:

Thank and link back to the person who gave you the award (Thank you, Kathryn)
Share 7 things about yourself
Pass the award on to (up to) 15 other bloggers who you have recently discovered and think are fabulous
Contact the bloggers you chose and let them know about the award.

We just got a little Uglier

2010-09-30T22:28:00.000-04:00

We have a new Ugly Mom on Team Ugly Moms Kickin' Cancer's Trash:

Her name is Uncle Steve (Matt and Sara's), proof that being an Ugly Mom is all about embracing who you are and not so much about how you look. Uncle Steve's hobbies include not being female, living life to the fullest and kickin' cancer's trash in honor of his fabulous wife, Susie.

We three Ugly Moms will be heading to Philly in two weeks. TWO WEEKS. Holy cow, that's crazy and frankly a wake-up call: Hello, Deb. Wake up. You've got two more weeks to toughen up because I've got 60 miles to try to rip the skin off the bottoms your feet. Love, Philly. So this weekend I've got 35 miles calling my name, my final callous-building weekend before the big event. I'm starting to get all tingly inside.

It's time to start gathering my pinkness together: bras and fairy wings and pom poms and pink hair.

And something new just arrived today from SIL Chrysta. (Thank you, Chrysta!) Something very cool: "Team Ugly Moms Kickin' Cancer's Trash" in big, hot pink vinyl lettering! Woot woot! How cool is that! Now, I'm going out on a limb here and assuming it's for our vehicle, not my body. If I'm wrong, we'll pretend I didn't go out on that limb, but I'll need a local volunteer to help me get it smooth over my bumpy parts.

And it's also time to unveil our official Team UMKCT 3-Day gear.
Front (on a pink t-shirt):

Back:

Sara picked up our shirts and jackets today so hopefully 1) I didn't make any typos and b) I can actually zip up my un-stretchy jacket. Unfortunately my rump is not in proportion to my boobs, so long-distance sizing is always tricky. I've asked Sara to strap on a few pillows and try my jacket on; if she can't zip it I'll crash diet between now and Oct 15. OK, that won't happen, but I will refrain from making another pan of granola bars to replace the ones I made for the new neighbor but ate mostly myself.

And it was also time to get Yvonne's 3-Day shoes from Scott. I actually had anxiety last night after getting them, breaking out in a sheet-soaking sweat when I dreamed I lost them. Good Lord in Heaven, please don't let me loose them. Sara, you are assigned Deb Duty at the 3-Day, responsible for my actions, just so you know.

And as a reminder, if you want to send some inspiration so we don't have to tackle each other off the steps of the Sweep Van, the deadline to send us a note at Camp 3-Day is October 5.

3-Day for the Cure PO
ATTN: Deb Blanchard (and/or Sara Kilgore and/or Steve Kraabel)
P.O. Box 609
Montgomeryville, PA 18936

Finally, I just want to say Thank You to everyone for your support of Sara and me, and now Uncle Steve.

Boys. I don't get it.

2010-09-22T21:55:00.006-04:00

There’s something about boys that is completely foreign to me: everything.

Clothing and personal hygiene
Brush your teeth, clean your parts, change your underwear ... nag nag nag. Seriously, if I didn’t police them at the door for breath and clothing odor, they would wear the same clothes every day, all week, for the entire school year and brush their teeth only when their tooth hair was visible. On occasion I let them out the door with pre-worn clothes to avoid the drama, knowing there are other, more important battles over homework and personal safety that I need to win. So when you see Chase wearing a t-shirt and shorts with grass stains in February, you can be relatively certain he’s been wearing them every day since September.

Dress up
Chase is going to be a fireman when he grows up. Actually, he is a fireman now, having detailed conversations with anyone who will listen about the fires and other emergencies he’s tended to recently.

He takes emergency calls on his lime green calculator, which he carries with him everywhere. You just never know when there’s going to be an emergency and you’ll need your calculator. He has worn his fireman’s outfit – complete with boots and an oxygen tank – everyday for three weeks, including when we’re out and about to Mason’s soccer games, school, Kohl’s, Subway, the grocery and, of course, Walmart. In fact, last week a Walmart greeter asked, “Working again today?” Chase gave a smile and a nod. (I love you Walmart.)

But dressing up doesn’t stop at age five for boys. Oh, no. Mason is pushing 10 and still dresses up for battle (which I love, incidentally). I don't have a photo of it, but Beth does. She caught her 9-year-old with nearly the same get-up as Mason, except Mason's is a little more camouflagey and his goggles are orange. I just don’t see as many almost-10-year-old girls hiding in the bushes in their fairy tutus or running down the street pretending to be a pony. Girls just want to grow up. Boys never want to.

Fishy stuff
And then there’s that life-long love affair with fish. Slimy, smelly fish and their painful friends.

That’s just icky.

But does it stop here? Oh no, it doesn’t. Last week Matt took a week’s vacation to go fishing in Ontario, Canada. In the cold and rain.

It was raining so hard and the cameraman was so cold that this is the best photo he could get. And he loved every minute of it. To top it off, he nabbed fifty bucks for catching the largest fish of the trip. It may have been his finest moment.

Nicknames
Mason’s soccer team has a Bagel and an Animal. In 30 years, the names of his buddies in his fantasy football league will be Fatty and The Beergoggler. I simply cannot imagine my girlfriends calling me PuffyButt. To my face, I mean.

It goes on and on. Rigging up a pulley system to haul an 80-pound Jeep up the slide; "Can You Do This?!?!" Contests; shoes covered in stinkbug guts; tackling someone over a Lego -- life with three dudes is never dull.

Boys. You gotta love ‘em. Even if you don’t get ‘em.

You do the math {please}

2010-09-09T08:52:00.004-04:00

You'll need a pencil for this. It's a math problem, a 3-Day math problem.

Ready? You don't need to write this part down, just pay close attention...

Take the SEVENTEEN miles I walked on Monday

{divided by}

the FIVE hours it took me to walk it

{square rooted and then added to}

the number of hours I limped afterward, which was TWENTY-EIGHT

{minus}

the THIRTY-TWO times I collectively listened to "Take it Off" and "Teenage Dream" on my Shuffle, but will deny.

Got that number? OK, then

{add it to}

the NUMBER OF TIMES I will walk 15 miles or more in the next 5 weeks (just keep this number to yourself, please, because I don't want to think about it) and

{multiply it by}

THIRTY-SIX, the number of days until Sara and I walk 60 miles in the SGK 3-Day for the Cure to raise money for breast cancer research and community programming and then

{find its cotangent}.

Now, take THAT NUMBER and

{subtract it from}

ITSELF. Then

{add}

ONE.

Now you need your pencil because this is your number. This is the number of notes I'm hoping you'll send SIL Sara and me so we get mail at the 3-Day for the Cure Post Office.

Last time I forgot to tell anyone about the post office and I was the only one without a letter from home. Except for the one Matt and the boys shoved in my sleeping bag.

But that was OK because I got THE BEST voice mails. Seriously, 13 of them. When I got back home, I replayed my voice mail over and over and typed up a transcript of every single word left on my voice mail. It meant that much to me. Still does.

I swear to you I sobbed each night as I listened to those messages before I climbed into my pink tent and shivered till morning.

But we're not allowed to use our cell phones during the actual walking part. And, since there is no electricity at camp, we have to conserve batteries to make sure we can use our phones to find our families after Closing Ceremonies on Sunday. Phone time is wonderful but painfully limited.

But paper. Paper we can shove in our fanny packs and open along the route when we're feeling particularly sucky. Like at mile 37 on Day 2. And mile 42 on Day 3. And most miles in between and after. I figure we can read them to each other when one of us wants to give up and get on the bus, instead of tackling each other off the bus steps.

So do you still have your pencil? Here's the address to the 3-Day camp of pink tents:

3-Day for the Cure PO
ATTN: Deb Blanchard (and/or Sara Kilgore)
P.O. Box 609
Montgomeryville, PA 18936

They specifically say "envelopes only, please -- no boxes or large packages," so sadly I guess that means you can't send me a life-size cutout of yourself or a box of wine. Bummer.

The letter must be POSTMAKRED BY OCTOBER 5th to ensure delivery by our first night of camp on October 15.

And finally, the hugest THANK YOU to everyone who has supported Sara and me with donations this year. We will be thinking of you each mile.

So long, farewell

2010-08-23T16:25:00.012-04:00

It's OK. I'm OK. We're all OK.

Except my pony. My pony is in a baggie.

Which is very weird. It doesn't feel anything like how I remember it feeling when it was growing on my head.

I started getting panicky the closer I got to the salon. But I put on my big girl underpants and did it anyway because it was Thursday and I had told you fine folks I was gonna. Which is why I did, by the way -- I thought it would keep me from chickening out. It was a good plan on my part because I seriously considered chickening out, particularly when I thought I was going to pass out in the waiting area (and other bad things that I'm not going to share).

We put the elastic in at 10 inches, which is where I thought we decided to cut it, but you'll note that she actually cut it at 12. The sound of cutting through a whole ponytail is sickening. (Or maybe that's just me??)

At any rate, where she cut it ultimately worked out for the best because donated hair has to be a minimum of 8 inches for Pantene's Beautiful Lengths (wigs for women instead of kids). I had emailed Pantene a while back to find out what happens when the length of the pony to the tip is 8 inches but the layers aren't. They replied that all layers under 8 inches are discarded and sent to Locks of Love, which sells it off to defray costs. That creeped me out a little. OK, a lot. I have no idea how used hair entrepreneurs use scraps, but I got to thinking they'd use my hair to stuff pink carnival prize bears or glue it onto the heads of dolls made in China whereupon little girls would cut it again and color it with magic markers. So I kept growing it until I thought very little would become scrap. Cut at 12 inches, pretty much the whole thing is usable for wigs so that's a good thing.

Remarkably, I haven't cried at all. I can't say I like it, but I'm at peace with it though I will admit I feel very exposed. My boys tell me they liked it better long. I guess boys will be boys. Matt, however, knows better. He tells me he loves it every time he sees me. (I'm sure he doesn't but he's a good, good man.)

Mason took these of me today. I see I have strange bumps on each side, so I still have some work to do in the style department.

I bought my first flat iron but I've been wearing it curly most of the time. I have this strange thing going on (ever since having the boys) where the back of my hair is curly and the front is straight. So I'm just kind of going with it. Please try to ignore the extra noses and chins caused by the flash.

So that's it.

Thanks for your sweet words of encouragement last week. I'm pretty sure that's why my hair is in a baggie but I haven't cried.

~ ~ ~

Interestingly, Matt has not commented on the confusion surrounding my last post.

Snip snip

2010-08-15T19:49:00.019-04:00

I think I'm going to pass out.

I'm donating my hair on Thursday. (Sweaty palms, hyperventilating) I've been growing my hair since October 2007 when Yvonne started chemo and we decided to train for the 2008 3-Day. Many a time since then (like every day) I've thought it was the stupidest idea ever due to my extreme aversion to getting my hair cut. I don't know what I was thinking to even start this donation thing -- maybe it was a sign of solidarity between she and me, but I'm not even sure she even remembered in the end. Yet I was always worried about what she would think if I chickened out. Even now, especially now. So here we are.

I put hot curlers in it today, which shortens it a bit, just so you fine folks would know what it would have looked if I'd ever bother to style it.

(boys...)

Which I don't. Mostly I wear it damp and stringy, parted in the middle, flat to my head. It's just such a pain. Which is why I'm ready for it to bless someone else's head.

OK, that's a lie. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

I know this because I had a nightmare last night. A hair nightmare involving The Dorothy Hammill. (Mom, I'm looking at you.) But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that I forgot to collect the hair! I was so obsessed with the actual cut that all my hair got swept into the corner. I tried to pick it up, hair by hair, but it was no use. I woke up sick to my stomach -- The Dorothy Hammill and nothing to donate. Good Lord, what had I done? I tried to sit up only to be tethered to the bed by Matt sleeping on my pony tail. But still I was uncertain and upset. Matt had to calm me down and convince me that I still had another chance to get it right.

I get that my chaetocutophobia is totally, completely ridiculous. I even had to make that word up because apparently I'm the only person this ridiculous in the entire English language. Yet the fact remains that while I really don't want it this long anymore, the act of going from long to not freaks. me. out.

Yes, I know it's "only hair" (no, it's not), but for me it's also my entire gender identity. I swear that as of 3:00 PM on Thursday I will look like my brother. And it's also my security blanket. Clearly, longer hair hides my rump better than short hair does. Or at least my back boobs. Also too, I'll probably cease being blonde as I will have cut off all the hair that for years has been lightened by the sun and will be left with the mousy, non-descript stuff. I mean seriously, you can't really think I'm a candidate for the commitment of lightening it chemically.

So as fair warning for the local folk: I'll be sobbing like a lunatic Thursday afternoon and for an undetermined amount of time thereafter.

But it's time. So I will. On Thursday.

Barf.

The Griswold Version

2010-08-12T22:36:00.014-04:00

Everyone knows vacation is not about what happens when you actually get to Walley World; it's about the journey to Walley World. For us, the true meaning of vacation is 2,366 miles in a van.

Matt has this thing about our vacation journal, a chronicle of the actual traveling part of each trip. It contains fun quotes (like Chase's infamous 2009 "This is crap!"), acceptable (or not) places to potty, and areas to be avoided completely (like the entire state of Ohio). I forgot to bring the journal this year, which caused the first uprising of the trip, followed shortly thereafter by a lively discussion about ice -- all within the first mile.

So I used the back of some drive-thru envelopes to journal our journey. Let's see ...

7:00 AM: Depart an hour behind schedule, thus delaying our estimated arrival time from midnight to 1 AM. Yay.

7:03 AM: First stop. (*cough* for ice)

7:10 AM: First demands for snack, followed shortly thereafter by the first demands for drink. Ten minutes down; 17 hours and 50 minutes to go. Time flies when you're having fun, don't you think?

8:30 AM: A quote: "Chase, please blow your nose. If I have to listen to you sniff all day, I'm going to loose it." ~ Matt

8:30:30 AM: He lost it.

9:04 AM: A quote: "Moooooooom. Mom. Mom! MOM!" ~ Mason, holding two handfuls of blood as his body bled out through his nose, courtesy of the thin mountain air.

9:07 AM: A quote: "Chase, now why is your head bleeding?" ~ Me (cause TBD)

9:08 AM: Child Protective Services pulls up along side the van to interview the kids and give us the stink eye.

10:07 AM: A quote: "Hey, hey, HEY! 170 miles in 3 hours. Write that down. ~ Matt

"Why?" ~ Me, disoriented

"Something to do."

"Right. Or I could still be napping."

11:10 AM: A quote: "What kind of mother do you think I am?!" ~ Me (Don't answer that.) I recall wondering as I wrote that if it was illegal to tie one of the kids to the roof rack, like Aunt Edna. Except alive, of course -- what kind of mother do you think I am?

1:00 PM (and every minute thereafter for five hours): A quote: "Shut up!" ~ Multiple sources; Variants: "No, you shut up!" and "Everyone shut up!" and "Dad, you shut up!" and "If I hear one more shut up, you’re really going to wish you had just shut up!"

7:06 PM: A note: "Ready to eat one of the children to separate them."

Midnight: A life or death decision: Give Mason more water and guarantee yet another potty break during the final 60 miles; or take our chances that he would not actually explode into a ball of dust like he claimed. Turns out he was mistaken.

1:00 AM: Hello, Walley World!!!

We had a great time at Walley World. But of course we can't stay at Walley World forever. I think it has something to do with quantum physics and the speed of the earth's rotation, but I've found that if you drive to Iowa, eventually you have to drive back from Iowa. Bummer.

The return trip was much the same, though we had to break it into two days since I hurt my neck and was unable to help with driving. Which meant I had to spend two days reading books and napping in my Swagger Wagon. Boo hoo.

Day 1 went pretty smoothly; Day 2 pretty much didn’t.

Nana bought Chase a truck that revs its engine and honks, which we made him pack away for the ride home so he wouldn't make it rev and honk for 18 hours. Funny thing about irony: the truck shifted in its packed-away spot so that it honked and revved all by itself for the last 300 miles. Because Matt refused to stop.

By 3:00 PM, with just two hours to go, Chase lost it. The kid snapped. He was no longer entertained by guessing what color Skittle was in Matt's mouth or reminiscing about all the fun things we did on vacation. Because, apparently, we didn't do any fun things on vacation:

"EVERYTHING WAS STUPID! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS MINIGOLF! MINIGOLF WAS THE STUPIDEST THING WE NEVER DID! Now, GIVE ME SOME FOOOOOOOD!"

Aaaah well, I guess you can't please all of the people all of the time. Even at Walley World.

* Unedited/unrated version available on DVD this Christmas. Perfect for a stocking stuffer.

** And I apologize to anyone in Ohio, but I think we watched them pave your entire state.

Renovation Realities: The Kitchen

2010-07-24T18:11:00.005-04:00

Alrighty then. I'd better finish up this "reveal" stuff because I had this in front of my house on Thursday:

Jealous? Of the wood, I mean.

Now that we've mostly completed the 1st and 2nd floor changes, it's time to get moving on the whole reason we started this remodel in the first place: the basement. This is where we'll really make the magic happen, going from this:

... to this:

awkward silence

I don't have a clue what the second "this" is going to look like. Matt thinks it is going to have sports murals; I'm thinking not. So far we have agreed on the studs and the dude on the forklift. (And it'll probably have sports murals.)

Which brings us back to the renovations in the kitchen/family room.

The thing about our house is that I can't attribute the "Befores" to the previous owners. We are the previous owners. There was nothing terribly wrong with the kitchen, it just wasn't my style. The problem was I didn't know what my style was, so I simply went with what I was used to. (I still don't know what my style is.)

When we built the house 11 years ago, we moved the washer/dryer out of the kitchen plans but then lacked the vision and funds to do anything else with the space except hang a phone. And how about that chair? All I can say is we grew up in the 80s where bigger was better. You think our chair is bad, you should have seen our hair.

Eventually we tore out the entire wall of cabinets around the fridge and replaced them with new ones. We have this little problem with finishing our DIY projects, which means, of course, the base cabinet and counter to the left are not attached to anything but gravity. Whatever. It is still a huge improvement so long as you don't lean on it. We left plenty of room for the big fridge we dreamed of, which made our teeny tiny fridge look even teeny tinier. And there was the issue of the holey vinyl. That's not a ball of dirt next to the fridge, that's actually a hole. And he had friends.

We finally installed the floor, which I love and improved things greatly.

Hating the old appliances after all that work, we willed the trio of appliances to die. Just before Christmas the dishwasher started leaking and I rushed to Lowe's before BIL Jerry could come and fix it. But the other two remained solid. I even tried setting the stove on fire with no luck.

And then the most wonderful thing happened: we came home from work one day and the fridge was leaking! I did a lot of research on the topic of stainless steel appliances and I discovered an interesting fact: stainless steel fridges and stoves are only sold in pairs; therefore if you want a new fridge you must also get a new stove. Yes, Matt was surprised as well, but I assure you they are only sold in pairs.

Apparently that rule does not apply to microwaves.

And so the kitchen is mostly complete. Of course, there's always something, right? With the maple floors, hickory cabinets and oak table, there is a lot of same-ish wood. So I just ordered a deliciously dark wood kitchen table from the local Amish folks, which we will hopefully have in 6-8 weeks. Actually, it will be about the color of Cooper, who refused to move for his photo.

So that's it, all the Phase I/Pre-Basement remodeling. I admit I'm not very good at the decorating part, but I do love to demolish things and build stuff so I'm pretty excited to get moving on the basement. We've got our annual crew of 8 coming to stay with us at Christmas again this year, so we've got to be done by mid-December. That's totally realistic, right?

Marshmallow Safety

2010-07-19T18:36:00.004-04:00

The boys went camping with my parents last weekend. Anticipation was running high in the weeks and days leading up to the trip, and from what I hear, it lived up to the hype. Hiking, movies, kayaking, fishing, playgrounds, walks, swimming ... all crammed into less than 48 hours. Makes me tired just typing it, but as I've overhead Mason telling friends and teachers, "they're not 'normal' grandparents."

Amen to that.

But even abnormal grandparents have to deal with the realities of camp life. Like marshmallow injuries.

Chaser (always Chaser) was roasting his marshmallow, doing what we all do: roast it, look at it, roast it, look at it. How else are we going to know when it's perfect for the S'more? On the third cycle, just as my dad was warning him about his ooey gooey blob becoming unstable, the marshmallow oozed off the stick and landed on his sandaled foot. Chase took off running toward my mom, who was not in-the-know about the unstable blob. Mason was close behind yelling about the marshmallow and dad followed with water, but it was dark and no one could immediately see the blob was still there, still burning his little foot.

After lots of TLC and some first aid, the situation was under control and festivities resumed with Movie Night II. All was right with the world. Afterall, what's camping without a little excitement, like the time I sliced my mom's eyeball with Dressy Betsy's shoe buckle and she spent the evening in the ER? Or the time I fell off the picnic table? Or the time Mason fell out of the camper? I think I lost a toenail on a rock once, too. Ahh, good times, that camping.

When I picked up the boys Sunday evening, Chase was grinning ear-to-ear, limping like he'd lost a leg, excited to show me his bandage.

He's got about a 1-inch blister that popped when the water dislodged the marshmallow. I thought it was surrounded by dirt, which is also how it also looks in this picture, but it is actually surrounded by burns and more blisters. Ouch.

He hasn't minded it at all today. That's just how he rolls. In fact he's enjoying the gauze and tape, and just beelined out the door to proudly show Sarah.

And so, on Chase's behalf, I share this Golden Rule of Marshmallow Safety:
Always put the marshmallow on your graham cracker, not your foot.

Or better yet, skip the marshmallow and just eat a couple chocolate bars.

Renovation Realities: Hardwood Floor Installation

2010-07-15T19:51:00.005-04:00

I got to thinking I should show you the hardwood floor installation before the kitchen, so I apologize for the bait-and-switch.

The Hardwood Floor Installation

We kicked off the project by tearing out our original wood in the hallway and foyer, which had been installed by Matt, my dad, my granddad and my brother. Four people, four days, one hallway. Think about that for a moment: the man you love spending four days in a hallway with your brother, your dad and your granddad. And then be ever grateful he stayed married to you.

And then tear it all out 11 years later in 10 minutes.

Then we tore out the carpet and vinyl. Just looking at pictures of the subfloor hurts my teeth. Like cutting aluminum foil with scissors or touching chalk. So it was with walking on subfloors in socks or scooching out a chair. Shiver.

The first row took f-o-r-e-v-e-r. But the final row depends on the first, so forever is just the right amount of time for a first row. Is it pathetic to decorate your first seven rows at the end of Day 1?

Mid-way through the process, my in-laws drove 1,000 miles to stay with us for a week. With the kitchen and family room a disaster, my office had the only seating in the house. For six of us.

Due to the fury it still ignites in my soul, I won't do more than mention that the Bane of My Existence did his business on the new floor three separate times during installation, ruining several boards, but you can read about it if you like. (Bad chocolate lab for sale, cheap.)

I wouldn't be entirely truthful if I didn't fess up that we had a little help...

This was truly one of the best days of my life. On this day, the wood we installed in the hallway and office, which started at the front of the house with the infamous First Row, met up with the kitchen and dining room and actually formed a straight line from one side of the house to the other. There were doubters among us that we amateurs could make it happen (we amateurs included), but voila! Beginners' luck.

One of the most tedious steps was "racking," which became my job since Matt had little patience for it. To rack the room, you lay out the rows before you install them so that you can mix in wood from different boxes (necessary because each box varies significantly in color) and make sure each piece ends a proper distance from all other pieces around it -- at least 6 inches. Harder than it seems. Sometimes a few rows would take hours; some nights I'd stay up all night so we could hit the ground running when we started after work the next day. Racking was definitely my least favorite part. It was much more fun to cut and whack.

My mind has blocked out how long we actually spent on our hands and knees installing this floor, but my blog indicates it took us about a month of late nights and weekends. Sometimes I still can't believe we actually did it -- except that it's still not exactly finished, so that's how I know it was us as opposed to someone who knows what they're doing.

I have to say installing the floor was truly a blessing in my life. I got to spend lots of quality time with Matt, just he and me reconnecting while the kids roamed the neighborhood parentless. Thank goodness for great neighbors.

Up next: the kitchen and family room. This time I pinky swear.

And if you missed it, here's the demo/renovation so far: Renovation Realities

I'm linking this post to

Fanny and Me

2010-07-08T15:42:00.013-04:00

Fanny and Me, October 2008 after 40 miles

Today I took Fanny for her first training session of the year. I figured we were in a cool snap, having dipped to 95 from 102, so it was as good a day as any to slip on my favorite accessory and take a spin around town.

For a while I thought Fanny was lost forever, a victim of our renovation reorganization, and I was distraught. You recall what I went through to get her in the first place, plus she wasn't cheap but I am. So you can imagine my utter joy when she popped out from behind a pile of crap recently.

I was so happy to see her. It's a rare assessory that can carry a galon of water. Plus, you know, nothing says "Sexy" like a plump, sweaty chick wearing a fanny pack stuffed with a galon of water. And I totally rocked it today. Two stomachs and all. Wendy even honked at me. That's how good I looked.

The good news is that this shabby gal has not completely forgotten how to walk, thankyouverymuch. Granted, it was only seven miles, but seven miles with a heat index of 178 must be like 60 miles in October. Yes? And I do feel like I could have gone further had I not run out of water and felt a little lightheaded. During a lucid moment I decided I owed it to my neighbors not to pass out out in their grass and headed home. Other than that I felt pretty darn good, which was an unexpected treat.

Also a treat for all involved: I have not forgotten how to sing. Out loud, to my iPOD. With earbuds while walking. Today's Outdoor Concert Series featured classic Madonna and David Archuletta with a touch of Kiss.

And in an exciting turn of events, I finally found the one song that eluded me during my 2008 training, the one I wanted more than anything. Remember what it was?

"Hungry Eyes" from Dirty Dancing?
Nope, got it.

"Disco Inferno"?
Got that, too.

OK, I'll remind you: "Waiting for a Star to Fall" by Boy Meets Girl!! Screeee! Dude, it should be Boy Meets Girl and The Other Girl because I totally could be in their band. I'm just sayin'. At any rate, I've been trying to post it here via Playlist for your listening enjoyment but my firewall is not playing nice. So you can just imagine me singing it.

Or better yet, imagine pretending to sing it to your 11th grade crush in your Chevy Chevette. Sing it, girl! See, there you go. You love it, too.

"Baby, yeah." You're welcome.

~ Update ~
I turned off my Vipre and got the Playlist code to bring a little joy to my waaaaaaay too pregnant SIL, Anna. And if I got a virus, it was totally worth it. Enjoy, and don't forget to pretend you're in your Chevette.

Renovation Realities Continues: The Dining Room

2010-07-04T18:31:00.013-04:00

HAPPY 4th!

While visiting family recently, I promised to send a link to our blog so they could see all the renovations we made after stealing their ideas during our previous visit. (I never said I was original or creative; just destructive and an Electricity Dominatrix.) I seriously l*o*v*e their home. A lot. (And yes, we stole more ideas during this visit.)

When I went to e-mail the link to Carey, I realized I never finished posting pictures of the renovations. Being blonde is tough like that -- I get distracted easily. Plus, you know, I lost a turkey burger.

I've already posted a bit about the overall renovation as well as the powder room, foyer and office reveals. So now it's time for the dining room, kitchen and family room, which in all honestly are much less exciting since they didn't involve tearing down walls, electrocution or very much cussing -- except for The Floor. But I'm going to post about them anyway for the sake of completeness so feel free to tune away.

The Dining Room

What I like most about the dining room -- well, two things, actually -- are 1) the way the hardwood now flows between the office and dining room and 2) my french doors, which are great when we need to expand the dining room during the holidays.

I dug up on old photo of our dining room after we moved in 11 years ago, so I guess this is the "real" before.

Then I have this photo from the demolition phase. I actually prefer the Demo Decor to the folksy-country -- no dusting, decluttering or cleaning of any kind. I miss those days of chaos, but all good things must come to an end.

While I liked the previous color just fine, I like this one more. Which is why I stole it from Carey. To go with the light maple floors I also stole from Carey. I still need to hang something -- anything -- on the walls, which is pretty much the case throughout my entire house. Holey walls give me anxiety.

I have to say I love my table. It closes up nice and small, which is a requirement for my itty bitty dining room, yet extends to seat 12 easily. Mostly I love my table because I paid 50 bucks for it. It was totally worth sanding off a couple fingers to refinish it because to me the color is delicious. Delicious and 50 bucks -- yum. Then I scored eight chairs at auction with Wendy and my neighbor gals for $80 and refinished them to match. I don't have any before pictures of the table and chairs, but their original snaggly-ness still lives in the extension leaves I have yet to refinish.

The dresser to the right is also on my List Of Stuff To Refinish, which has gotten rather long and impressive over the last week. I'll tell you about it later.

So that's it. Next: The kitchen.

I'm linking this post to Metamorphosis Monday at Between Naps on the Front Porch.

Crying Fowl

2010-06-24T23:14:00.007-04:00

Today I lost a turkey burger.

Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? First, how do you lose a turkey burger? Second, where do you lose a turkey burger? Really, I'm asking, because I have no idea.

I am positive there were two because I had to cut open a frozen two-pack and pry them apart with a knife. The knife is accounted for. Five hours later, the turkey burger is not.

I looked in all the logical places you might find a missing turkey burger, like the trash or the baggie with the non-missing one. But there is nothing logical about losing a turkey burger. As far as I can remember I didn't leave the kitchen. But what if I did? What if I put a load of laundry and the turkey burger in the dryer? What if I tucked it into my sheets, packed it away with the winter clothes or organized it with Chase's toys? Did I mail it to somebody? Seriously, where is my turkey burger?

Someday I may find that turkey burger, which is bad enough in and of itself, but the fact that I actually misplaced a turkey burger is particularly disturbing. Why? Because I am one branch down on the dementia family tree, and it has sprouts on both sides. I mean really, isn't losing a turkey burger something that only crazy people do?

I know Wendy is going to tell me to pray to some saint. Being Lutheran I'm not so sure the saints are tuned into my channel. But that's neither here nor there because it's too humiliating to pray for a turkey burger. Even if they're not listening.

I apologize in advance if you get my turkey burger in the mail. Please leave a comment so we can have some closure. And I'd also appreciate it if you'd visit me in the looney bin and bring food; I'll have probably lost mine.

Mother's Day: A Tribute to Myself

2010-05-07T10:58:00.016-04:00

On this most inspirational holiday, I would like to take a moment to remind my kids how lucky they are to have me.

I Cook

Last week I set a record: I set off the fire alarm three times during one meal. And I had an actual fire. I mean really, how many kids can say that about their moms?

After the second alarm, Tony yelled through the yards that my cookies were done. Funny guy, that Tony; but I was actually making his mom's recipe for spaghetti sauce, which I was making to take to my brother's the next day. Don't you love it when your guests offer to bring dinner then show up with 3-alarm food?

I was also baking homemade pizza for dinner that night, which I actually set on fire (see above). Usually I just burn it. But if you look long and hard enough, even my burned food screams MOM OF THE YEAR! Case in point: last time I burned pizza Matt found the word "Love" spelled out in the burned cheese on the crust. For real. That's just the kind of great mom I am.

These were the muffins I made that morning, before the fire and triple alarm. It's hard to see, but they turned out to be muffin cups, completely hollow, and bouncy like rubber. Food that's fun. I would just like to say it's not my fault I can't cook with eggs. Someone up in Heaven with a keen sense of humor thought it would be a riot to give an allergy kid to the World's Worst Cook. So here we are.

I Clean

At least once a month. Except during the spring and summer, and parts of the fall. And January, because it's my birthday month. Who wants to clean during their birthday month?

I Do Laundry

They almost always have clean underwear. And I mean every single morning. Except that one time when I made Mason wear a pair of Matt's. But just for a few minutes; after I regained my composure we found the least offending used pair and called it good.

I Keep My Kids Safe

Very rarely do they both have busted lips at the same time. But just this one time they were both smashed in the face with baseballs within 5 minutes of each other. In our back yard. All in the family. Chase was #1; Mason #2, as noted:

I'm Cool

You may be jealous to know that I drive the 2004 version of The Swagger Wagon. It sports two pieces of bling: one for boobies; one for the Phillies. Ask me nice and I'll give you a ride to Walmart in it while we jam to some Def Leppard.

So there you have it, my personal Mother's Day tribute to myself. I humbly accept that tribute, and thank all the little people who make it possible for me to do what I do every single day. Most days. When I get around to it.

365 Days

2010-04-29T23:58:00.002-04:00

It's been a year since I hugged Yvonne goodbye for the very last time. I am still so grateful to my little boy for insisting I go that day. He will never, ever understand what a gift that was.

You know what I think about often? That when she took her last breath, she was writing in Eric's wedding card. Someday, twenty or so years from now when he's all grown up and has found someone to love forever, he will get a card from his mom on his wedding day with her last words of wisdom: "Live life to the fullest and never go to bed upset."

I took the day off today to sort of give myself some breathing room. I thought about going to her grave since I think that's something she would have liked, the ritual of it all. But you know how I feel about cemeteries; it didn't feel right for me.

Instead I spent most of the day in an antique mall picking out a gift for Wendy, whose birthday is also today. I purposely chose today to shop for her gift because is was a tangible reminder that God works through the people we hold dear in our lives to help us through our most difficult days. There were times during the last two years of Yvonne's fight that I was just so overwhelmed with sadness and anger that I felt like I was being sucked into a black hole. Some days I was so consumed with watching cancer force her body to betray her that I couldn't see the joy that was all around me, my thankfully healthy and loving family.

But Wendy and my neighborhood girlfriends, my family, and the wonderful friends I've made through blogging never let go of me. The days that seemed impossible -- realizing that she really was dying, not some day but this week; putting away my hairbrush after our Pat Benatar concert in the hospital, knowing it would be our last; the day the prayer I spoke out loud to her changed from pleas for healing to peace in letting go; buying that wedding card -- someone always held my hand and walked me though it. Because He promises never to leave us.

So today I left my hearing aids at home as another tangible reminder of the gift she gave in helping me come to peace with them, and spent a couple hours in my old, quiet world shopping for a dear friend's gift. I smiled and nodded as people said things I couldn't hear while I looked for something beautiful.

When I got home, I took care of a few details for Yvonne's Fun Walk, which is next week, and then put on my pink visor, pink "I Sing Out Loud" t-shirt (thankyouverymuch, Sara), pink jacket and new pink iPOD earbuds and headed out for my first training walk for this year's 3-Day. And I totally sang out loud.

When the boys came home, I had cooked their favorite "boney chicken" dinner without burning it much and earned additional Mom of the Year points by giving them each a bag of glow-in-the-dark Silly Banz. Score. She was always reminding me to score more, to love my boys with everything I've got.

In a few minutes I will crawl in bed with the man who loves me always and no matter what. He'll hold me tight and this 365th day will be over.

I miss you, Yvonne. I still get sad and angry that you can't talk to me when I talk to you. But mostly I'm grateful for your friendship. I'll always have that.

Listen to me, for real this time

2010-04-16T21:02:00.007-04:00

If you've never paid attention to anything I've written in the last three-and-a-half years -- and really, who could blame you -- today is the day you should. Grab a pen and pay attention.

I was one of two parent chaperones on Chase's Bible Bug field trip to Chocolate World today, and I learned something very important: more important than the integral role of singing cows; more important than what you should do with your nib; more important than how to conch.

Today I learned about Lunchables. And it scared me.

Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, do not send your children on a field trip with a Lunchable. Write that down.

This is not a lesson about nutritional value. I watched some Other Kid eat an entire gallon-size bag of Doritos and pretzels, followed by an entire sandwich-size bag of Caramel Kisses and Swedish Fish, washed down with a large Gatorade. I've read about the evils of fat and calories in a Lunchable, but a Lunchable's got nothing on the Other Kid's mom.

No, this is not a lesson about obese children. This is a lesson about sanitation. Germs and dirt. Miscellaneous yucky stuff.

I have never purchased a Lunchable myself, because I'm cheap that way. While it is my understanding that there are different varieties, all of these poor Lunchable Kids had the same kind: subs. Subs that you put together yourself. And you're 4.

Lunchables don't come with plates and tongs, people. But they do come with an itty bitty sub roll, some wet meat and a few hunks of cheese. Separately. That children must 1) open and 2) assemble. With their hands.

And let me just say that their hands were certainly not the worst part. We cleaned them up a bit, such that a child can leave a bathroom and make it back to his table without touching anything. At any rate, their own hands were the least of their worries. The most of their worries was the table. Which was also their plate for their wet meat. And the road for the sub roll. And the soccer field for their cheese.

Let's not forget we're talking about Chocolate World folks, which has, what, a trillion visitors an hour? And all those visitors put stuff on those tables. Stuff way worse than a Lunchable. I've know what I've put on those tables through the years, and no way would I want my wet meat touching it.

And what's up with having to assemble your Lunchable drink, also too? Really? Fine for adults; not so much for Bible Bugs. Everyone was pink, sticky and covered in Kool-aid dust because, let's face it, it's more fun to make the drink than actually drink it -- chaperones be damned.

Here's the bottom line: not one child with pre-assembled food and a baggie slid their meat across the table. More importantly, every kid with a Lunchable slid their meat across the table. So when sending your child on a field trip, please leave the Lunchable at Walmart. Dump something, anything*, into a baggie. Assemble if necessary. And that includes the drink, thankyouverymuch.

*Except peanut butter if prohibited by your day care. :-)

How to Train Your Cooper

2010-04-03T09:09:00.006-04:00

So we walked out of the theatre and Matt says to me, "Toothless reminds me of Cooper." Well, let's see:

Toothless eats fish; Cooper smells like he eats fish.
Toothless terrorizes Hiccup; Cooper terrorizes me.
Toothless can destroy things by shooting stuff out of his body: Cooper can destroy things by shooting stuff out of his body.

Oh my. Cooper is a Night Fury.

With a little white farful* on his head.

Hiccup, you have no idea what you are in for. Sure, Toothless may be handsome with his big lime green eyes, and his dark, shiny coat. And you might think you've got him trained to respond to your stink eye. But don't be fooled -- he's still a dragon, just like Cooper.

Which reminds me, Cooper is eating soap again. Do we all remember what happens with Cooper eats soap? Bad things, that's what.

It's not like the soap is conveniently located. He's got to pluck it off the ledge, which involves leaving behind big muddy paw prints on my still-wet shower and white bath mats -- because we all know that soap is yummiest when it's still gooey. Cooper, dude, I bought you 50 bucks worth of naturally-shed buck antler, so what's with the Dove? Maybe I need to start keeping the antler in the shower.

And my washcloth, which I hang at the highest point in the shower. Really, Cooper? He used to eat my washcloths, now he just plucks them down and rolls around on them. Every. Flipping. Day. And I'm sorry, no one can convince me it's anything other than a message from him to me. When I kicked him out of bed the other night -- after he was all snuggly with Matt -- he immediately walked into the shower and looked up. But the joke was on him -- it ws still in the hallway from that morning.

Good luck, Hiccup. It's not easy to train your dragon.

* According to my mom, "farful" is a noun meaning "fuzzy," like you would get on your shirt, or in Cooper's case, on the top of your head. I didn't know it wasn't a real word until college. She also told us we would get rickets if we didn't eat our vegetables. Moms.

Why I'm [happy to be] Ugly

2010-03-28T19:34:00.015-04:00

I think it's time we have a lesson about Ugly, because it appears to be causing some stress and consternation. Not mine, but I've noticed that others feel compelled to talk me out of my Ugly stupor.

Here's the deal: I'm not wallowing in self-pity over my hideousness. Truly. I think I'm rather average, if I'm being honest. In my natural state I can be a little scary; but if I make an effort with a blop of makeup, a little duct tape and sparkly things, I blend in just fine with the rest of America. Average. With an overly generous rear, but still.

Here's why I'm Ugly: I'm not all that motivated to make the aforementioned effort and so I don't worry that much about it. And it's kind of nice not having that pressure.

Ugly is a state of mind. Granted, it can affect your state of appearance as well, but it's mostly not about that.

When I get up in the morning, most mornings, the thought of primping wet hair into an actual style is just more than I can handle. Twice a week I meet with clients and therefore go through the whole razzle dazzle routine, but the rest of the week I've got better things to do. So either I wash and air dry my crazy hair (which ultimately resembles not washing), or I simply spray a little "Dirty Secret" in my roots and I'm all, "hello, hot stuff." And since I have no eyes without makeup, and because I often fall into bed without washing it off, I just leave yesterday's make-up where it's happy and call it good.

I hate to shave and I rarely do it. Want proof? I am using my grandmother's razors, which I inherited when we moved her into her assisted living facility, along with some antique furniture, sterling flatware and a can of pig brains. (I swear.) That was five years ago and I still have four razors left, unused. Knowing my grandma, she probably had them since the 80s. So I'm using my grandma's leftover 30-year-old single-blade white disposable Bic razors -- and only for special occasions -- because the thought of spending money to shave (hate it) is beyond my comprehension. I'll probably have these same razors until the hair on my legs stops growing.

I size UP on my granny panties because I hate the thought of wedgies. They stick out of the top of these newfangled low-rise jeans, but that's the price of comfort.

I've been wearing* this bra since before I created an entire new human being who is now old enough to play ice hockey. (*Wearing, yea, that's funny.)

I once unwittingly wore my pants inside out for an ENTIRE day. I'd been to the bus stop twice, socialized with neighbors, been out and about. There was a big white tag sticking out of my rump but no one noticed -- probably because I was also wearing slippers and sporting bed head.

I am that person at Walmart who looks like they rolled out of bed, drove their kid to the bus stop and kept on going until they hit the checkout line. Because that's exactly what happened. They may not technically be PJs, but I sure as heck did sleep in them. Time flies by in a day and I've got stuff to do besides rummaging around for matching outfits and messing with my hair.

I'm also not particularly domestic. I hate to clean and my house is not organized. I never make my bed, except over Christmas when my in-laws are here. (And thank goodness that secret is out so I can stop.) I'm a horrible cook. In fact, just this week I set off the fire alarm and hadn't even put anything in or on the stove yet! Matt was actually clapping as the boys ran to open the doors.

But here's the thing, what makes me Ugly: I'm good with it. All of it. I can still rock the karaoke bar on Girls Weekend with some inspired Def Leppard, sporting blue eyeliner, smooth Bic legs and matching 80s hair. But mostly I don't. And I'd love to have you over for coffee, but call first and do be sure to stay in the kitchen where I've had time to tidy up. You might be wise to bring your own scones. And my house doesn't look like a magazine because I'm just not wired that way; but I can hang drywall, install hardwood floor and wire a 3-way-switch.

Is there anything ugly (lower case) that does get me down? Yes, certainly. I've let my body degrade into abysmal shape. Every now again, like now -- hello, me at the gym 4 days this week! -- I get motivated to see what I can do about it. But even if I do succeed on that front, I'll always be [happy to be] Ugly.

And never alone, because as it turns out I'm not the only Ugly Mom out there.

Her ... According to Me

2010-03-22T11:47:00.006-04:00

I think I've figured out why I haven't read Yvonne's article yet, and if I'm being honest, it's rather selfish.

I've known about this article for a week, so there's been a great sense of anticipation from all of us. I sobbed when Scott told me about it last week. And when I saw it on the table last night, I thought I really wanted to read it. But when I sat down with it, I realized that wasn't true.

I know what I would say, and how I would say it, and I'm sure this person who didn't know her didn't do it like I would have. I'm fairly certain I'll be disappointed in someone else's interpretation of what others said about her...which quotes he used; how he framed them. I just don't think it will live up to my expectations, even if it's a very nice article and everyone else thinks so. Which I hope they do. Which I'm sure they do.

Last night I said it was those words making me cry, and I still think that's true. I just don't think that's why I haven't read it.

It is laying here on my desk and strangely I have comfort in that. But I have no desire to read it.

I'm sure I will, someday. When curiosity trumps whatever power trip I'm on.

"In her honor"

2010-03-21T22:48:00.010-04:00

That's one of the headlines on the front page of the Harrisburg Patriot-News Sports section today. It's about Yvonne, focusing on her career as a basketball player at Susquehanna and her grace battling breast cancer.

The most amazing part is that none of her friends or family had anything to do with the genesis of this article. The reporter who primarily covers college basketball was instructed by his editor to write a person of interest story. He called all the local colleges and universities looking for someone to write about. After all those calls, he decided to write her story.

It's three pages.

I keep opening it and looking at the pictures. I really want to read the article, but when I glance at the words I keep seeing "integrity" and "grace and dignity" and "never once complained" and it is breaking my heart. Three pages of words just like that.

I just can't believe she's gone. But as we have reached the one-year mark since I was forced to finally let go of hope during her last month, my soul is most certainly believing it. I find myself crying all the time, at nothing but for something.

I admit I've been dreading the beginning of my training for the 3-Day. This time I know what to expect, and, frankly, what I expect sucks. But as I stare at this article, I'm almost looking forward to it. If nothing else, training will provide lots of quiet time to just be with my memories. Maybe I can find the pre-cancer ones again. I'd like that, though I can honestly say I treasure the post-cancer ones, too, because I loved that time with her. I just wish they weren't mingled so tightly with her suffering. Maybe I can find some peace along the 600 mile journey to Philadelphia.

~ ~ ~

I haven't helped with dinner, house, children, etc. for 72 hours, having just returned from a 3-day Girls' Weekend at the beach. The paper was sitting on the kitchen table for me when I got home. After hugs, kisses and the dispensing of souvenirs, I disappeared into my office to be alone with the paper and my thoughts. I've been in here for 3 hours, all by myself, no interruptions.

Ah, Matt. I love that man.

Here's the link to the article:
http://blog.pennlive.com/patriotnewssports/2010/03/yvonne_young_esworthy_a_woman.html

"You're beautiful, Mommy"

2010-03-16T23:57:00.011-04:00

Awwww, Chase, thank you. That is so sweet of you to say. And why do you think I'm beautiful?

"Because you're smooooooooth."

I choooooooose not to be insulted.

Now you might think it's rude to ask someone why they think you're beautiful. And you'd be right, it is. But this is 4-year-old Chase we're talking about and he's trained me into this behavior. Think Big Shirts/Small Men. (A mohawk. Really?) The kid is honest, if nothing else, which I find wildly entertaining ... in hindsight. Way in hindsight.

At any rate, he's on a "You're beautiful" kick right now and I always ask him why. He has not let me down.

Thankfully, beauty is not just skin-deep, because I also qualify for being:
"Soft"

And when skin-deep does matter, I've got:
"Shiny"

On special occasions, I'm:
"Clean"

Once I had beautiful hair, because it was:
"Big"

He's also on an "I love you, Mom" kick. I never ask him why. I just say, "I love you too, Chaser."

~ ~ ~ ~

Since Shell asked, I'm happy to share... My beauty secret for "smooth" is Dairy Queen. I figure if I keep the skin plumped from the inside out, I'll just keep stretching the wrinkles out. That's also how I achieve "soft." Two beauty goals; one product.

And dudes, I'm committed to Ugly and rather comfy with it. No presure. No expectations. If I feel like dusting off the cobwebs and spending a couple hours to paint and tuck and work a little magic, then more power to me I guess. But that's too much work for everyday. Kind of like fancy china vs. everyday Pfaltzgraff, though I prefer being a paper plate.

All I wanted was a shower

2010-03-13T18:06:00.045-05:00

Instead, I got my bits Nerf-gunned to bits. Does that happen to other people?

That's how my life's been lately. I have had a very difficult couple of weeks, sort of a perfect storm in the chaos of my self-absorbed drama. Work deadlines, Yvonne's memorial 5K deadlines, tax deadlines, radon remediation that didn't remediate ... and a Trojan. And not the fun kind. I'm talking about the kind that destroys your computer's soul despite the fact that you've got several antivirus, antimalware and firewall programs updating hourly.

After two weeks of temperamental outbursts and unpluggedness, she was completely reformatted on Thursday. It's hard to reformat your computer's whole life.

So for the last two weeks, I've been relying on a client's computer and Matt's work laptop to piece my deadlines together, neither of which allows for blogging. So even though I wrote the posts "It's never too early for tequila" and "There's no 'B' in electricity," they may never see the light of day as they are trapped in a Word file on Matt's laptop desktop.

And though I probably should have been most stressed about meeting client deadlines, since they support my food habit, and getting my tax stuff organized, since that keeps me out of jail, I've been more stressed about my final designs for posters and brochures for the first annual Yvonne's Fun Walk/Fun Run to Fight Breast Cancer on May 8. I've been working with Scott (Yvonne's hubby) and Debi (printer Debi) to organize this event. Talk about STRESS, holy cow. Designing stuff to honor your girlfriend's memory on behalf of her family and BFFs is a rather daunting task. Particularly without a computer. Thankfully, they're done. (Details for the 5K are at the bottom of the post. Or you can sponsor me for the 3-Day. :-) I'll just add that if you find a typo (you know who you are), you'd be wise to keep it to yourself.)

Where was I? Oh yes, stress. Stress and tequila. Stress and margaritas and taxes ohmygoodness.

Getting on with it, today I finished reloading the last of the programs I need in order to resume Life As I Knew It and hammered the taxes out. Dude, I hate taxes. Though I'm sort of lying about that because I like numbers and rules. Nevertheless, I got them done after a full day of extreme focus and sheer will. Amen. And then all I wanted was a shower.

So as I'm standing in the bathroom, naked for what I assumed would be a private moment whilst waiting for the shower to get all warm and lovely, the bedroom door bursts open and suddenly I'm staring down the double barrel of a Nerf shot gun held not by a 9- or 4-year-old boy, but a 38-year-old boy. Thankfully no darts were actually fired at my lady parts, just "bpew! bpew!" bullet sounds accompanied by 4-year-old fits of giggles around the corner. In a flash the snipers were gone, locking Bane [of My Existence] in with me because he was getting in their way. So the rest of my relaxing shower was spent experiencing the house-pounding thuds of bodies into walls via Nerf warfare and the pathetic whimpers of a dog sticking his head into my water to see if I'd changed my mind about setting him free to join the Army.

So much for relaxing. At least there's tequila.

And for the love of Pete, please stop forwarding videos and other viral stuff. I don't like cats, even if they can sing. Also too, if I need a good laugh I'll watch Sarah Palin on Fox News. Wink.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Yvonne's Fun Walk/Fun Run to Fight Breast Cancer
If you're going to be in Harrisburg on the Saturday of Mother's Day weekend and want to walk a 5K to support the Breast Cancer Research Foundation in honor of Yvonne, we'd love to have you.

(Neighborhood gals, please disregard.Yvonne's event is the same day as the "Run for the Children 5K" and "Fun Run" benefitting the "Maggie Leach Scholarship" that helps local families participate in camps and sports. I hope you support Maggie's memorial event.)

Brochure:

Handout:

Poster:

Ugly Moms Kickin' Cancer's Trash Updated

2010-02-08T21:53:00.069-05:00

We're off and walking!
**Updated at the bottom to answer questions about fundraising requirements**

Crewing in last year's Breast Cancer 3-Day was wonderful, but it just didn't feel right. Yvonne was gone and I know that will never feel right. But I also felt like I was somehow not holding up my end of the deal between she and me, the part where I promised to keep fighting.

I know walking doesn't cure cancer; money cures cancer. So if I'm going to hold up my end of our deal and fight properly, I'd better do it with a fanny pack full of donations.

And so, last October I asked SIL Sara to walk with me in Philly in 2010. I made the tough decision to start a new team, rather than continue with Team "I LOVE YE." Team I LOVE YE continues to grow and be strong, so I decided to try to get more people involved by starting a new team with my SILs and our friends through the blogging community... and Team Ugly Moms Kickin' Cancer's Trash was born. It may not happen this year due to various family circumstances, but I hope our new team will continue to grow through the years and across the country -- there are fifteen 3-Day cities after all.

Here's a lovely picture of us from Christmas sporting our UMKCT unity. It stinks that she's so skinny. And standing next to me. I tried to fatten her up for two weeks but she went and ran a marathon and burned it all off. Whaddayagonnado?

My side pony: it's getting donated when the thought doesn't make me pass out -- it's been two years, you'd think I'd get used to the idea. Someday some wig is going to have a rockin' side pony.

Sara came up with a great idea to kick off her fundraising efforts, and I'm going to steal it. In honor of Valentine's Day, I'm going to try a "Show Me Some Love" campaign. I'll be starting my e-mail and snail mail campaign shortly, but if the idea of sending me some Cancer Kickin' Valentine's Love makes you feel all warm and bubbly, then I'll feel all warm and bubbly right back.

She's also trying to get donations from every state. That's a cool idea.

The big, black box at the top right of my page takes you directly to my donation form, or you can click here to go to my donation/team page. Or if you want to read about The 3-Day, my experience walking it in 2008 or crewing it in 2009, check out the links at the top of my page. It's quite a journey.

I'll be starting my training soon. In 2008 I walked about 600 miles prior to the 60 miles we walked in three days in Philly. Highlights of training included getting bit by a Weimaraner; walking 18 miles in a hurricane whilst being laughed at by garbage men; buying my very own fanny pack and getting to talk about it; and singing my heart out, out loud to an iPOD, throughout my little town. If you live in town, I'll sing extra loud if you clap for me or let me cross the street.

So that's it. Fanny pack on.

**Updated**
My very first donation was from a BLOGGER ... Get Your Martha On! I am giddy with warm and bubbly!

Fundraising Requirements/Sign-Up Deadlines
I've had some questions about fundraising requirements, so I'll answer them here instead of in the comments.

I am not aware of a deadline to sign up. Instead, signing up should be based on your need to train and fundraise, because both are time consuming. A lot of walkers like to fundraise early so they can hit their minimum and then focus solely on training without the stress of still asking for money. I'm less scared of my minimum and asking for money this time -- after hugging Yvonne goodbye one last time -- but raising thousands of dollars is intimidating, particularly when you have to back it up with your credit card (see below).
Every person who walks must raise a minimum of $2,300 -- EACH -- themselves, regardless of what anyone else on their team does.
The team goal is set by the team captain (The Queen of Ugly Herself ... that's me, people) and must represent at least the minimum from each person. If the captain selects a higher team goal, there is no penalty for not meeting the higher team goal so long as each person hits their individual minimum.
At this point, UMKCT's team goal must be at least $4,600, but since I raised that much myself last time THANKS TO YOU WONDERFUL AMAZING AND GENEROUS PEOPLE, I decided $6,000 was reasonable for the two of us. That said, Sara and I overlap many of our potential donors this time around because my family is also her family (and more directly hers, actually), so we're going into this with the understanding that could affect our fundraising efforts. I'm still thinking $6,000 is reasonable.
We cannot share donations. That is, if Sara meets her minimum and I don't, she can't give me some of her donations. I need to keep going till I hit $2,300 myself. That said, if one of us meets a minimum, we can ask our potential donors to give to our teammate instead until she meets her minimum.
If you do not meet your minimum prior to the event, you have two options:

You can give your credit card to make up the difference and still walk. I believe you still have 30 days after the event to try to meet your minimum before your card is actually charged.
You can opt not to walk. Your donations still go to Susan G. Komen, which is wonderful, but you miss out on the experience, which would be stinky.

In 2008, my team of 8 raised $26,000 of the $8.1 million raised by Philly walkers. I LOVE THAT. So yes, every donation makes a HUGE difference.
Does anyone know where the SpellChecker is on this new version of Blogger?!?!

FAIL (With a Big Fat "A" For Effort)

2010-02-02T17:51:00.009-05:00

So there you have it. No brownies for dinner tonight.

It's a rather uneventful story, really. He dove into the meringue cookies like a champ, eating two, followed by a brownie. Having no reaction after 20 minutes or so, his allergist felt pretty good about the likelihood of not having a anaphylactic reaction -- and that's a good thing.

So we went out into the waiting room and started waiting. I built a rockin' Lego house, my first ever. Frankly, it was pretty darn good, with windows and a full roof. Watched some Ice Age. Apparently you don't need a birth certificate when you're a dinosaur mom. After an hour I could almost smell the quiche baking. Then the first itch itched. A fluke? Coincidence? Then the next. And the next until we had a bodyful of hives. Nothing like the picture from the last post, just little itchy mosquito bites here and there. Challenge over.

After checking him inside and out, she was confident it was limited to hives so he gave him some Benadryl and sent us out for more waiting. We played some Foosball and I sat on a teeny tiny chair -- with arms -- that 2/3 of my rear rejected. That was probably the most painful part of the day. Waited some more.

Unspectacular failure meant were able to go home after about 3 hours, start to finish -- we didn't have to wait around all day for What If. But three hours at a hospital was plenty, and I can't say enough about how absolutely wonderful Chase was. I'm talking Rock Star. And he really, really liked the cookies (essentially chocolate chips suspended in sugar) and the brownies, so he's disappointed they will not be a part of his diet for a little while longer. He asked why his body wasn't ready yet; I said I didn't know, but we'll let it get bigger and try again in a year or so. He was fine with that.

So we're back where we were 12 hours ago, but with some answers. Though there is no guarantee, she believes that at this point in his life, the egg will likely cause only skin-related issues and that peanut is the anaphylactic culprit. That's all good info to have, some clarity. We won't feed him egg; but if he accidentally ingests it and gets hives we know we can treat it with Benadryl and sit tight. Save the HappyPen for the Big P.

I really can't even say I'm disappointed at this point. We certainly know how to live egg-free and it's no biggie. I mean, sure I wish eggs weren't a concern at all, but hives aren't life threatening and it's nice to be down to just one food that is. I might even go wild and let Mason eat Ranch dressing without washing his hands and face afterwards. Living crazy.

Apparently I was more stressed than I thought about today -- I was nauseous all morning and have had a wicked headache since we left. I made Chase watch TV snuggled in bed with me this afternoon so I could keep an eye on him with one eye shut. My body is just done. But I better be able to stay away for Lost tonight, darnit.

Once again my neighborhood girlies rallied around me and Chaser in a big, big way. You've heard me talk about Karen, Wendy and Leigh Anne before, but now they actually read my blog and know what I'm saying about them. I love these girls. I really, really do. And thanks for all your prayers as well -- they kept him safe and me sane.

One final thought: Being in the pediatric specialty clinic of a big hospital makes you grateful for egg and peanut allergies.

The Countdown Begins

2010-01-26T22:10:00.022-05:00

Four years.

It's been four years since we were first terrorized by eggs and peanuts, cupcakes and noodles, candy and subs.

It's been a long journey with EpiPens, the ER and scary nights. But we've come a long way.

We'll find out exactly how far seven days from now. Next Tuesday morning he will eat a meringue cookie for an oral egg challenge. And then we'll spend the day at the hospital, just in case.

Just in case.

A couple weeks ago, Chase had his annual skin test. That test, along with this blood work and history, indicated that we could move forward with an oral egg challenge. None of his tests were definitive one way or the other -- they may never be -- but they were within an an acceptable range.

Which brings us to seven days from now. Always our goal has been to avoid eggs and peanuts like the plague and hope his little body can outgrow its sensitivity to eggs. (Avoiding the ER is a huge motivator, also too.) Statistically, the odds are in his favor with the egg. Peanut, not so much.

So while we've been moving toward this goal for four years, being at peace upon reaching it has been difficult. Moving too fast? Waiting for what? What if he reacts? What if he doesn't?

I could wait another six months and repeat the blood work and skin tests. Maybe they would be more definitive; probably not. Then what? One thing is certain, choosing the waiting option would mean putting him through another blood test in six months.

And by “him” I mean “me.” Did I mention that I passed out the last time he had his blood drawn? No? Well, I did. When his blood stopped flowing and they started moving the needle all around, I noticed I was hot. Very hot. Next thing I knew, someone was saying, “I know it’s scary to see Mommy like this, but she’s fine.” Pulling my head off my lap and knocking ice packs to the ground, I parted my damp hair like a curtain to find the boys sitting on a gurney across the room, holding a giant yellow Pooh between them. I'm not sure how Chase got from my lap to the gurney, without his needle. I hope I didn't drop him. At any rate, I know he’ll need more rounds of blood tests for peanut regardless, but if we could get a bit of a reprieve, I'd like that. I think Chase would agree.

I know my belonephobia is not a good enough reason to risk a reaction. But his allergist said she would proceed with the food challenge if she were in my shoes, knowing what she knows. Of course there is risk, but that's why we'll be in a hospital.

Ultimately we've decided that the risk is minimal compared to the potential rewards. We explained to Chase that his skin and blood think his body is ready to try some eggy cookies; his body isn't sure, but it thinks so. He knows his body could be wrong. He knows we might have to use his "HappyPen." He knows his HappyPen is sharp and that it's scary not to be able to breathe. But he also knows we'll be at the hospital with his doctors where he will be safe, even if his body is wrong, and he is ready. He's a mature little thing in this regard.

So the countdown begins. It would be Heaven to not be afraid of noodles and cupcakes. But it would be Hell to watch him have a reaction that I caused.

Never easy.

Renovations continued ... My my little corner of the world

2010-01-24T16:53:00.022-05:00

New Office

All the renovation TV shows about demolition -- all the kicking and shoving and swinging huge heavy hammer things -- they are lying. Dudes, there are wires, pipes and duct work in there. I just don't understand how anyone could go nuts on a wall.

So we didn't. We used plenty of brute strength, but we did it very, very carefully. It was HARD and it was sloooooooow.

But eventually we managed to demo the foyer, powder room and the living room wall so we had a clean slate. Almost a clean slate. We also had to tear out the hardwood, carpet and vinyl. And can I just say removing the hardwood -- which took about 10 minutes -- was a dream compared to the carpet and vinyl. All. those. nails. Ugh.

I already showed you the framing from the foyer, and it's all the same so I won't bore you with that again. I can't believe I don't have one single picture of us hanging drywall, but it's hard to get a good shot of yourself hanging drywall. So, without further adieu, here's my new office:

Basically the only thing to look at right now is my desk. I mean, it is an office and I work from home, afterall. And we're still not finished with the renovation phase -- plenty of trim yet to fill and paint. Oh well.

Before, the living room (aka toy room) had two windows in it.

After, one of the windows became part of the foyer to accommodate the new French doors, which would have fallen right smack in the middle of a window. As you can see, no decorating has occurred yet -- that's the same picture that used to hang over a loveseat between the windows. Now that I think about it, we never even took it down for demo, framing or drywalling. I guess that makes us lazy renovators.

By bringing the wall to this side of the window, we created a little nook, which right now is filled with mismatched old things -- my grandma's chair I reupholstered, Wendy's grandma's end table I refinished and a lamp that we knocked over one too may times during renovations (but still works, bless its little heart.)

Someday this nook is going to be full of bookshelves. And thanks to Shanty2Chic's link to Ana's Knock-Off Wood, I think "someday" just got a little sooner (read that: affordable). Ana posted complete plans to make this. Matt hasn't told me I can't, so I'm gonna. Someday. Because we're starting the basement soon. Sigh.

One of the best things about my new office is that I am part of the world again, not stuffed away in a bedroom facing a corner like I was for 8 years (cue Dirty Dancing soundtrack):

Happiness.

And there's more windows behind me. I am in love with all the French doors. Heaven.

So that's it, my new office. Next time I'll show you the dining room...if you're still up for more.

I'm sharing this renovation on Metamorphosis Monday at Between Naps on the Front Porch and Jen's First Big Project of the Year Party at Sanctuary Arts.

An Ode to Food

2010-01-21T13:43:00.014-05:00

Food. Food. Food.

I love you, food.
I think about you morning, noon and night.
And every second in between.
Twice.

I love the way you smell.
I love the way you taste.
I love the way you look on a big, honking plate.
Or in a display case at Chocolate World.
You look fabulous at Chocolate World.
Just thought you should know that.

I love when you’re moody, icy cold or red hot.
And at room temperature.
Unless you’re meat or cheese.

I love you the next morning, cold from the fridge.
Forgotten by everyone.
Except me.
I remember you.

I don’t like cooking you so much.
No relationship is perfect.

But.

Why do you hate me so?
All I do is love you, but you treat me so bad.
So so so bad.

You give me dimples and rumples and puckers.
Extra chins, hip boinks and small sunken eyes.
And boobs on my back.

You wage war with my pants and turn my bra into a weapon.
No wonder I don’t wear one.
It’s just not safe.

If I had a tattoo of a clover leaf, you’d make it a clover field.
Or a long, skinny dagger.

You make me look pregnant.
In my butt.
That’s just not right.

You set the outer regions of my body in motion.
Even when I am still.
Rippling with the breeze.
That's just yucky.

But still I love you.
Always I will love you.
And hate you.

I just don’t think we can be friends anymore.
To me
Now
You are just a Point.
Tademarked by WeightWatchers.

I hope you are happy.
It didn't have to be this way.

The Post Formerly Known as "Shut. Up."

2010-01-18T23:04:00.034-05:00

Gosh, what to write about next? More about my flab, my wonky ears, my D-list mothering techniques, my slippery slide into dementia? (Crud, did I forget to post that one?)

Yes, I do realize I’m my own soap opera, full of self-absorbed drama. As Deb’s World Turns. The Bold and Ugly. The Young and The Allergic. Is it any surprise that Mason is named after a character in Santa Barbara? It’s true, though what makes it OK in my mind is that no one really remembers Santa Barbara so it's like it never happened.

Along those lines, I had myself worked up yesterday regarding All My Ill-Behaved Children. I had a post typed out and ready to publish until Matt said, "You're not really going to post that, are you?"

It was called "Shut. Up." And yes, I was really going to post it.

I've had a whole day to think about it and maybe I'll just post the highlights. They are as follows:

Blah blah blah ... after church ...blah blah blah ... and she said, “So, I said to (name withheld), if Chase were your first born, he’d be an only child. Ha ha ha.”

Ha ha ha, Shut. Up.

Just moments before, I had received a similarly-themed comment while I was waiting in the hallway for Chase to pee during communion.

Now don't get me wrong, the pastor is very inviting to Chase and there are many who encourage us to keep on keeping on, but at least one person (not the same one) approaches me every week to point out how difficult Chase is.

(Oh heck, I'm just gonna post the rest of "Shut. Up.")

For the record, I think Chase did pretty darn well today. After spending an hour in Sunday school, he spent most of church sitting on my lap looking at a fire engine and race car that Mason drew on a communion card, eating Breathsavers. He occasionally sat on the floor with his head on the pew, every now and then turned around to check out those behind him and once had to pee; but mostly he was right where he was supposed to be. He paraded in front of a churchful of people for the Children’s Sermon without touching anything. He sang (his own song, but still) when everyone else sang. He offered up our offering. He was patient while everyone else had bread and drink while he had none.

So what was so offensive to your sensibilities today? He didn’t loudly and repeatedly ask “Is it over?” He didn’t give himself a forehead gooner on the corner of the pew. He didn’t hang on the baptismal font. He didn’t throw a paper airplane, touch the bells, have a temper tantrum in the aisle or poke anyone in the butt. Not today he didn’t.

Here’s the thing, he is four. Yes, he was bored, but what kid isn’t bored in church? Church is boring sometimes, particularly when you're four, but still we come to church. Your church, so get over it.

Maybe the offended didn’t get the memo, but our pastor encourages us to bring our little ones to church -- yes, even Chase, especially Chase -- even if they are a little noisy. And we are obviously making progress because he was waaaay better today than he was a year ago. But I can’t think of a recent Sunday when someone hasn’t had something to say to me, and it is usually along the lines of “Ahhh, we also had one that was sooo good and one that, well, wasn’t.”

Maybe they are trying to make me feel better. Maybe they are trying to strike up a conversation. Maybe they are just insensitive clods. But frankly, I’m tired of it. Yes, he can be a pain in the butt, though he is also -- even more so -- endearing. Yes, he is a noisy child who literally bounces off things all day long, as my Christmas guests can confirm; though no, he does not need drugs as he can behave and focus on things for a good long while if it strikes his fancy to do so. And yes, it is hard to rein in a child who lives every second to its fullest for an hour of church. But we're doing our best and I’m thinking this is a child if ever there was one who will need to be aware of God’s presence in his life. And you people are not helping.

So, before I say something you wish I wouldn’t, Shut. Up.

(This concludes "Shut. Up.")

I've cooled down since yesterday and realize that my reaction may have had more to do more with who said it this week than what they actually said. Or maybe it was what they said -- that just seems to be something you say yourself, not say to other people, as in "These pants make me fat" vs. "Those pants make you look fat." It doesn't bother me when people say things like "Hey, we've been there, but keep with it because it does get better," although honestly, it has gotten better so how about some props? (And, also honestly, there are people who do give the props.)

At any rate, I'm really not looking for a tussle in church and I'm sure I'll just continue to smile. But if you read about me in the police log regarding a 11:30 Sunday morning disturbance of the peace, you'll know why.