The Sad Truth

Pintrest and the darn default categories have made me realize I have turned into something:  someone with no style.  In the "My Style" category, I realized that t-shirts and pajama pants probably aren't re-pin worthy.  Then I realized that the only clothes I have purchased for myself since the arrival of Baby Brook-Brook are a pair of check shorts and navy v-neck tee to go with them.  Oh, and I scored a Big Sam shirt from Camp Carter.  I'm pretty sure that shouldn't count.

I am one of those moms.  You know, the ones who have children that are dressed remarkably cute and sassy and then you look at the mom and wonder what the whuck?  Doesn't she realize?  Then think to yourself, she could be so cute if only she would ______.  Yep.  That's me.  I will even openly admit that the large majority of my clothes are hand-me-downs from my mom.  My mom.  Yes, she has style, but still.

Here's the thing:  I only half-way care.  My mother (the one with the style) will be horrified when she reads this because she so desperately wants me to care more, but alas, I'm stuck at the half-way point.  Why half-way?  I like to look cute, but the reality is:

1. I have a NEED to be comfortable.  Need.  It hasn't changed since that shabby, sloppy royal blue jogging suit I wore in 7th grade until my mom said I couldn't wear it out anymore.  It also counts for shoes.  I like heels on other people--I do.  But I need my toes to be comfy.  
2. Clothes shopping is depressing.  I don't like my size and therefore purchasing clothes in that dreaded number is just further reminder.
3. I am cheap.  I love a good bargain.  Turns out that grown-up clothes that look nice are pricey.  
4. I hate to iron.  The last time I ironed was 3 years ago.  I'm fairly certain that wasn't an exaggeration.
5. I'm doing well to get out of the house looking presentable.  This means my jewelry hasn't been unpacked since we moved.  In April 2010.  

 These new shoes might be the prime example of my half-way cute, comfortable style:

Hrm.  Now I just seem fat and lazy.  Oh, and sloppy.  Oh well.  I only half-way care.

I'll Kick You in the Cookie Nuts

We spent the weekend with Manny, Ben and Baby Fin.  Phrase of the weekend?  "Cookie Nuts."  What are cookie nuts, you might ask?  For some reason, this is what Ell calls fortune cookies, which he has eaten because he found the leftovers after Chinese take-out.  Because he has the memory of an elephant, he occasionally asks for cookie nuts.  Because the four of us are parents of sketchy high moral fiber, this is hysterical to us .. .

Carrying on with this theme, Saturday afternoon was spent like this:

If you are wondering if we set up a kiddy pool right there in the front yard, the answer is yes.  If you are wondering if we just went with swim diapers and just disregarded the need for swim trunks, the answer is yes.  We're classy that way.  Throw in a few mixed drinks while lounging in the camp chairs, it really rounds out the scene.

Typically when we see Manny, Ben and Baby Fin, it is with family swarming.  They visit here and we see them at my parents' house or out to dinner with the whole family.  Summary:  lots of people.  When we see them in Austin, it is typically when there us a large organized event--a birthday party, a funeral, etch.  This weekend was one of NO AGENDA.  It was ahhh-mazing.  We managed to make it to a local Farmer's Market to purchase the fixins for dinner. . . . and. . . well, that was the sum total of our adventures, unless you count Ell's numerous requests to "go to walk" in the wagon.

Fantastic break.  We stopped at the outlet mall on the way home to visit the Crocs store and the Disney Store Outlet.  That is a whole other post, so I can't spoil it or I'd have to kick you in the cookie-nuts.

Intoxicating Baby Scalp

Seriously?  Is there any better smell that the head of a tiny baby?  I say no.  I find myself sniffing Brooklyn's head over and over, letting it fill up my senses, eyes closed in bliss.  I want to bottle it up, saved for days when she's over-hair sprayed, yelling "I hate you," or the tween years when she's greaserrific and not into washing her hair.

Brooklyn participated in a rite of passage two weekends ago--she visited the Ranch.  Site of girls' weekends full of margaritas, game playing, relaxation and porch sitting.  It was the first time in 14 years that we have taken a child with us for a girls' weekend.  I have to say, it went surprisingly well.  Being a monumental moment, it was captured via iPhone pictures, for isn't that how all big moments are captured?

Breakfast sudoku time with Kathy.  Ranch staple of sitting at the banquette.

Chilling on the floor, pulling her head up to check out mommy.

Turns out that Big Sam loves baby heads, too.

Just one more sniff!

Sunset on the Beer Blind.  Don't worry, no beer was consumed by small people.

As always, leaving the Ranch was difficult, but made more enticing by going back to my sweet toddler boy.  He insisted on sending me a video when he was with Glammy & Poppy.  And as is typical in toddler-world, I came back to my sweet boy saying "Gwammy" instead of "Mammy" and asking "why" incessantly instead of the continual "what for?"

Bathroom Etiquette

One might assume with the title of this post that I might be launching into a tirade about the bathroom etiquette of one of my boys.  You, dear reader, would be wrong.

This post is dedicated to the stupendously oblivious women using the public restroom in the office building.  Grown women.  Grown professional women.  In said bathroom, there are 4 stalls.  In my world, a public bathroom serves one purpose.  Just one. . . mayyyybe two--to use the restroom and maybe to collect myself in the face of emotional upset.  Period.  In stark contrast, these women believe the following are acceptable public restroom behaviors:

1.  Phone calls while on the toilet.  Without shame.

2.  Business phone calls on the bench outside of the stalls.  Overheard yesterday, "This is XXX from Chesapeake Energy, calling about your gas lease. . ."  Really?  Really?  Even if you don't have an office, wouldn't your car be a better choice for conducting business when compared to a public restroom?

3.  Making doody and not flushing the toilet.  Urinating and using mass quantities of paper towels to stuff in the toilet.  I'm not saying these things have happened once or twice.  I'm saying this is a daily occurrence.  Remember, this is an office building--no children allowed.

4.  Pooping, making doody, with the stall door OPEN.  In. Public.  Again, not one time, but many.  There have been at least three separate occasions this has happened in the past two weeks, based only on the encounters had between my co-workers and me.

Even typing this out, I am completely dumbfounded.  I don't understand.  How?  However in the world away from your own home is this acceptable?

Drug Store, Oh How I Love Thee

You know what I love?  Yes, yes, my kids.  But this post isn't about that.  No, this post is about one of my long-time loves.

The drug store.  Oh, the drug store!  Walgreen's, CVS. . . you name it, and I love it.  The miles of make-ups, shampoos, conditioners, face wash, nail polish (I can't even remember the last time I painted my own nails, but still)--sigh.

Then there's the abundance of magazines, greeting cards and candy--candy!

Office supplies, oh how I love office supplies.  The joy of searching out the right pen, delightful markers and Sharpies--Sharpies!

I can spend much time perusing the band-aids, supplements, the cleaning supplies.

I think my passion is rooted in my early experiences of the Saginaw Pharmacy.  Privately owned, delightfully cluttered with cosmetics, high-end stuffed animals (oxymoron?), and the alluring candy at the check-out, I was thrilled to stop with Nanny on our way home from "town."  I've searched for a picture of that by-gone establishment, but alas, who thinks to take a picture of a pharmacy?

(Things I don't love about the drug store include waiting endlessly in the pharmacy drive-thru line. . . for upwards of 10 minutes without moving an inch.  Then to actually have to drag my lazy arse out of the car and go inside, only to find that my prescription isn't there.  Gah.  How is it the drug companies are getting rich, many people can't afford to buy their prescriptions, but the pharmacies are chronically understaffed?)

I exhibited remarkable reserve tonight when I went to CVS and managed to return after purchasing only my prescription.  NO impulse buys, even though the two bottles of hydrogen peroxide for $1.99 was mighty tempting.

My Accent, Y'all!

My sister posted an accent Vlog and I'm totally fascinated by people's accents, so I thought I'd give it a go. . . well, with lots of reservations. I'm not a big fan of: a) hearing my voice on playback, b) the amount of chins in this video, c) the shape of my eyebrows, and d) my hair--it looks a hot mess. BUT I'm being brave and posting it anyway because it was authentic and totally caught a genuine moment of my twisted sense of humor and I didn't think it would work to try and re-create that. Disclaimers OVER.

Steal this idea for your own. Here's the deets:

 The instructions are to say these words: Aunt, Route, Wash, Oil, Theater, Iron, Salmon, Caramel, Fire, Water, Sure, Data, Ruin, Crayon, Toilet, New Orleans, Pecan, Both, Again, Probably, Spitting image, Alabama, Lawyer, Coupon, Mayonnaise, Syrup, Pajamas, Caught

 And answer these questions:

•  What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house? 
•  What is the bug that when you touch it, it curls into a ball? 
•  What is the bubbly carbonated drink called? 
•  What do you call gym shoes? 
•  What do you say to address a group of people? 
•  What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs? 
•  What do you call your grandparents? (I added, what do you call your parents?) 
•  What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?

Luck. For-a-lifetime

Luck. I have not felt all that lucky over the past few weeks, but I know on a whole, that my life is overwhelmingly rich and blessed with good luck. One of the ways I'm lucky is amazing, for-a-lifetime friends. Twelve years ago I tried to pay it forward with a new student at Texas Tech University, as I had been a fish out of water just a year before and knew just how hard it would be. I probably went a bit overboard in the don't-worry phone call to that new student. Really. I talked her ear off and I think she listened out of politeness. Somehow, what I said left an impression. When I met that girl in person just a few days later, I thought she was far too chic and beautiful to be my friend. I still sometimes think that, but I no longer doubt that friendship. I could list a thousand memories between Stephanie and me--all of them life-shaping and significant. Designated driving, broken hearts, cross-country trips, adopting animals, getting married, first jobs, poverty, delivery room moments, vacations, sick kiddos, baptisms. . . the list could go on and on--you name it and we've shared it. We called each other Laverne and Shirley for a long time because of the snafus we frequently found ourselves in. It took a long time for me to trust that this friendship was solid. I remember so clearly during a phone conversation in the summer of 2000 (on the weekend, of course, because that's when we had free cell phone minutes) that Steph called me out for the first time on my stuff. As I was exiting the conversation she said, "How is it when we talk, I've told you everything about me and I leave not knowing anything new about you?" That stopped me in my tracks. No one else had noticed. Or if they had noticed, it hadn't been brought to my attention. What had started as bonding over beers was turning into a real forever friendship. I would go so far as to say it was a lifeline. The truly amazing thing is that this is not the only friendship of this nature for which I have been lucky to enjoy. Tonight, this long-time friend, my life-line, came to my rescue again. The stress of the recent days finally caught up with me and I cracked under the pressure on the phone with Steph. Instead of an "I'm so sorry approach" she said I'm going to call you later so that I can come and see you later. I pushed the offer away. No need. I'll be fine. A couple hours later, the text came through, "putting the kids to bed then I'm coming to kidnap you." Again, I said that I would be fine. Her response? "I know that. Ice cream or drinks?" That's how I know that sometimes my friend knows what I need more than I do. That I know it's not always about asking, but taking the help that is offered at just the right time. That friendship is equal parts giving and also being open to accept the return of that friendship. Why is that so hard? I would do anything for her. . . How is it so difficult to believe she wouldn't do the same? I suppose somewhere deep down she's still that same chic, beautiful grad student and I wonder how we ended up in this for-a-lifetime friendship. I'm not sure of how it happened, but I feel incredibly lucky that it did.

Oh. THAT Phase.

I knew it was coming, I just thought maybe we had until closer to three. The phase? The one where my child speaks the plain ol' unvarnished truth. (The scene: Breakfast room table. Breakfast with Ell-man and Mommy. Brooklyn in small rocker next to the table.) Elliott: Mommy have bih-oof. Mommy: Heh? Elliott: Mommy's big-oof. Mommy: ???? Elliott: Mommy have big teef (while pointing to his own teeth) Mommy: (smothering dejected laughter) You're right, Ell. Mommy does have big teeth. It's true. Bugs Bunny and I evidently have the same ancestors. I'm not sure where this particular trait originated, as my parents have normal-sized teeth. You, dear reader, are probably thinking that I'm speaking in hyperbole, but alas, I speak only the truth.

See? I've read some studies that show people with big teeth are perceived to be in good health, or something along those lines, and if that's the case people should perceive me to the epitome of health and to live forever.