Pieface Chronicles

No offense 21

2010-11-17T22:04:00.000-08:00

As I was leaning over the sticky Fedex/Kinko's counter trying to explain the color wheel to an over-paid clerk, I overheard the Red Baron introducing herself to a fellow patron behind me:

"Hi, my name is The Red Baron (for the record, she doesn't call herself that) and I am 4 years old. This is my little brother, The Little Man (also this name is a blogging alias and not his real name - aren't I tricky?) and he's two and a half. That's my mom over there, her name is Pieface but I call her Mama. She's 21."

21!!!! How funny is that?

The woman, quietly but audibly gasped and then said really slowly, "WOW. Really? Well isn't that something."

I let the awkwardness hang a little (because it's kinda fun) and then leaned over and asked my fellow Fedex patron, "Did she just say I was 21?"

The woman, bless her poor little heart, replied, "Yes, and you know - it's great to get all this baby stuff out of the way like that."

"That's so funny, because I'm not really 21."

In the nicest tone possible she replied, "Oh. Well. You sure look like it."

I know she meant to compliment me, but oddly this compliment left a sickly sweet after taste like day old cotton candy. I actually like being my age. No offense to 21, you and I had some great times, but I'm on the 31 train now and it's got a slurpee machine and everything. I really think it's mostly because of how I feel physically and how good I feel about myself right now. I'm even thinking of renaming this blog "Pieface is Awesome for the Following Reasons." (KIDDING - sort of).

As I've gotten older, I have come to appreciate my physique for what it is and not pine so much for what it's not ever going to be. My body is eons from perfect, but the fact that I have come to accept certain things about myself feels like an accomplishment and being tagged as younge devalued that accomplishment somehow.

In the past 31 years I have learned and accepted things like:

Words like "small," "petite," or "delicate" will never be used to describe me. And that's ok.
Words like "solid," "carnivore," "stout," and (thanks to my Canadian and Norwegian ancestors) "most likely to survive an arctic winter" are words that would more likely describe me. And that's ok.
I have no memory of ever being a size 6. And that's ok.
My feet were size 9 in grade 4 and I could share shoes with my mom. And that's ok.
I have finger toes, not because I can play the piano with my feet (I'm not THAT awesome), but because my thumbs and my big toes are the same length. And that's ok.
I am blond, but not in Marilyn or Gwyneth kind of way. And that's ok.
The DMV decided that my eyes are hazel. And that's ok.
My face is shaped like a pie. And I love pie, so it's ok.
One time a dentist described my mouth as small, but then we had only just met. And that's ok.
The orthodontist told my mother that I would never be a model if she didn't pay for an expensive elective surgery to correct my overbite (right in front of my 14 year-old self). My mother's eye's grew so wide you could see the small little red veins in the corners and responded in a loud voice "Let's hope to God that she amounts to more than just a model!" Which was MORE than ok (isn't my mom rad?).

Nothing really earth shattering but I still feel proud of myself. I'm just so happy to be in a time and place in my life where physically I can just say "Here I am. I like me." Not to say that I don't compare myself to others (I am female after all) but I'm finding that more and more often I admire better things about people. I'm drawn to their wit, or humor, their intelligence or perseverance, their skill or their energy - things that last beyond time and spanks. This has come with getting older and (I think) seeing people more for who they are.

So I told the lady:
"That's very sweet, but really - I prefer 31 over 21 any day of the week."

Her palpable relief that I was indeed in my 30 was hilarious and she said, "Oh yes, your 30s are the best - enjoy every minute of them. And 40 is even better."

Got it sister. Sounds great.

If I go to medical school, I get to skip the first day

2010-09-16T20:43:00.000-07:00

It was 04/14/10. A typical Wednesday evening; I was trying to make dinner and had sentenced the kids upstairs to their room while summoning my culinary muse (Martha Stewart with a dash of Cookie Monster). Sometimes (usually) my kids get a little rambunctious (foaming at the mouth monkeys) at that time of the afternoon while I'm calmly trying (loudly and failing) to get dinner made (waffles on the iron). Sometimes the needy distractions make me resort to gating them in their room. This was one of those nights. They were like adorable, frantic, little caged zoo animals and I briefly entertained slipping peanuts through the slats of the baby-gate. But I resisted and focused on the task at hand - Operation Dinner.

I was downstairs for approximately 4 seconds when I heard this shrill scream from my Little Man. And like any self-respecting mother, I decided to give it the 15 second test. The 15 second test is something I implement at least twice a day. I have seen my children get their fingers crunched in doors only to violently scream for a mere 15 seconds and then be distracted by something else.

Red Baron: AHHH!!! That kid bit me and broke the first 2 layers of skin on my face! SCHRIWLERIWNE!!! (13 seconds later) Is there any cheese?

So I waited. Fifteen seconds came and went and the screaming only got worse. I popped into high gear and bounded up the stairs to their room with the determined speed of "this better be good, I've got waffles on." At the top of the stairs sat a very judgmental Red Baron, with a knowing look in her eye, and a spastic red-faced Little Man, rolling around in agony.

Me: What's going on? What happened?

Red Baron: He's got a doll shoe up his nose and he can't get it out.

Me: ..... What.....?

RB: He's got a shoe up his nose and we can't get it out. (Turning to Little Man) I told you not to do that.

If I were to chart her concern at this very moment, I would say that she was about 10% concerned over his nasal peril, 40% disappointed that her doll shoe had sunk deep into his face and 40% annoyed he hadn't listened to her sage "don't-put-that-up-there" advice. I finally wrestled the Little Man into temporary stillness and realize he is practically elbow deep up his left nostril, still screaming. It's really difficult, but I can barely see the slightest trace of something. And it's WAY up there.

Me: Who's shoe is up there?

RB: Polly Pocket's.

DAMN THAT POLLY POCKET AND HER SLIMY LITTLE SHOES! I knew EXACTLY what shoe she's talking about - it was part of Polly's Dog Walking ensemble - a chartreuse high heeled pump (obviously). I myself heroically saved it from the vacuum several times and repeating the words "be careful with this or you'll lose it." But NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO MAMA, DO THEY!

I bring them both downstairs, Little Man still screaming and Red Baron acting smug. I try to extract said doll shoe with a bulb syringe, to no avail. I try to instruct him on blowing it out with a deep breath, but suddenly realized his 2 year-old mind doesn't see the difference between blowing out and breathing in, taking the offending shoe deeper into his cranium. I call the doctor's office, which is of course closed, and I leave a message with the call-back service.

Operator: What's the nature of your child's injury?

Me: He has a doll shoe up his nose and we can't get it out.

Operator: (Suppressing a rising chortle of laughter) Can you repeat that?

Me: He has a DOLL SHOE up his NOSE. And I can't get it out. It's really up there. (Screaming boy in the background).

Operator: Ok. (deep breath). Ummm... (serenity now, don't laugh). I'm sure they'll call you..... (I'm not going to keep this laugh down too much longer).... really soon.Goodbye.

The doctor did promptly call me back, also breathing in funny sequences after hearing the situation accompanied by continued screaming in the background that hadn't declined in volume or pitch I might add, and she said that we needed to take him to the ER because of potential breathing problems while Little Man slept.

I then asked,

"Are you sure? The ER? Really?"

Listen. It's not that I don't want him to breath. I really do like my kids breathing; in fact I prefer it. But the ER? Just seemed unnecessary. I pictured the Little Man's bulging nostril sitting next to the kid with a half-lodged fork in his arm, or someone on breathing tubes. Isn't going to the ER a little hasty? Dramatic? Embarrassing? What about the waffles?

"Yes," she assured me, even though I can feel her smile through the phone,"we just don't know how far it is up there and you should probably get him in pretty soon. It's not like it's a measly ear problem. If the shoe were in the ear you could totally wait until tomorrow's clinic hours."

I had not known of the hierarchy of such injuries. So I agreed and called the Husband Around Here to come home and assist me in these parental duties. Believe me, I really felt for Little Man. He was obviously really uncomfortable and pretty mad. But I also felt for myself too - having to trek everyone to ER, wait, pay and retell the story of the blasted Polly Pocket Shoe over and over again. Damn that Polly and her tiny little feet.

We get to the ER, and after retelling the story about 4 times (to the delight of everyone) we finally get on a gurney in the hallway with a real, live doctor.

Dr: This is going to be quick and easy. You'll be out of here in 5 mins. This is what we're going to do: you're going to form a tight seal around his mouth, while plugging the other nostril with your fingers, you will blow really hard. Like you're doing CPR.

I noted the proverbial "we" which really meant "me (aka Mama)" doing all the work here (I've heard that a time or two before). In coming to the ER, I expected some doctoring and that I would be off the hook. If I messed up, who would I sue?

Plus, for whatever reason, I just couldn't get my mind around what he was saying. It wasn't brain surgery (well.... maybe it kind of was, but anyway), I just could not compute what he was telling me. It might have been that my ears were still ringing from having a screaming kid on me for a while, but I just couldn't make sense of what he wanted me to do.

Me: .....What? I'm going to do what?

Dr: Form a tight seal.... have you taken a CPR class? (dumbing-it-down).

My brain wasn't registering any of this. CPR was for kids who aren't breathing.

Me: Yes.

Dr.: You're going to form a tight seal and blow really hard while plugging the other nostril and the object is going to come flying out. It's all connected up there (d'uh). If that doesn't work, we'll get the forceps. If those don't work, we'll operate.

What did I say about the ER being dramatic!! I'm so right!

Me: So.... I'm going to do it?

Dr.: Yes.

Me: Like. Right now?

Dr.: Yes. (Idiot).

By this time Little Man was finally calmed down and actually enjoying all this great attention. In fact, every time I told the staff what had happened, he would chime in at the very end with "Yah, is really up there!" It was adorable. But now Mama had to do the dirty work and get this dirty shoe nugget out of my kid's schnoz. I lean over, but had totally forgotten that I had gum in my mouth. I tried to hide it on the roof of my mouth out of embarrassment, but that resulted in a half-hearted effort. Nothing came out.

Dr.: Again!!

Surging with his can-do attitude, I spat my gum out the side of my mouth, catching it in my left hand, and blew in Little Man's mouth with ferocity. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flying wad of chartreuse digustingness land somewhere on the other side of the gurney.

It totally worked. I did it. Call me Mama, MD. Is it strange to say this flying, slimy hunk of plastic bounced it's way into my top 5 most proud motherhood moments?

I was beaming.

Dr.: Would you like to keep this? (Lifting up Polly's dirty little secret).

Me.: I don't know, do you think it would fit in his baby book?

Dr.: (You're a freak).

For the record, the doctor was really great and I was glad to know this non-invasive procedure for future reference. And I'm considering the total bill as the down payment towards my medical school tuition, should I ever choose to attend. But I'm totally going to skip the day they cover nose obstruction, since I'm already an expert.

*This posting is dedicated to Jenner. Thanks for asking.

A Man with a Passion for Fashion

2010-07-03T20:58:00.001-07:00

As I was getting my gas pumped at the gas station (I live in Oregon), the pumper-person* had this really big ring in his nose, a la bull. Let me be frank - he was very nice with great customer service; however the ring looked a little ....... ill-kept. And greasy. In all the wrong ways. As a pumper-person it's totally understandable to have grease on your fingers. Grease on your nose ring?

Yuck.

After the pumper-person assisted me, the Red Baron leans over and quietly says: "What was that?"

"What, honey?"

"That metal thing. Hangin' from his nose." (She looked alarmed - like this thing came hurtling out from inside his head while sneezing and got caught on his betweener nostril skin)

"Oh. That's decoration."

"...what....?"

"Yeah. He put it there and it's kind of like.... jewelry."

"Oh. (pause) Jewelry?"

"Yeah. Jewelry."

I've never thought of those kinds of rings as jewelry, but it was really the only way to describe why and what he was wearing. And I guess that to an extent, it's totally accurate. I just never mentally placed that kind of guy in the "flare for accessories" category. Until now, that is.

Photo courtesy of the National Education Network of the UK website. What are they teaching those kids over there?

*Pumper-person is WAY more descriptive than Gas Jockey. There is no one riding the gas - thus completely not a jockey. LONG LIVE THE PUMPER-PEOPLE!

House-keeping Items

2010-06-23T21:57:00.000-07:00

Have you ever walked into a room where everyone else was speaking another language but you? And when that room erupts into laughter, you wonder:

Are they talking about me?

Does someones breath smell?

Do they think my breath smells?

Does my breath smell?

Does anyone have some gum? Or a dinner mint?

If I start laughing along too, will they know I don't know what they're talking about and laugh harder at the irony that I'm laughing about my own *potentially* stinky breath and then when I laugh harder they all stop and just stare at me as I quietly back out into the carport?

I'll even take a teaspoon of Cinnamon at this point? Anyone?

See what I'm getting at? Speaking in a language that isolates others isn't ideal. So when there are comments posted to this blog in languages that I don't know, I get a little ..... anxious.

How could they possibly smell my breath? This is a flippin' computer!!!

So, since this is my blog and I'm the boss, we're speaking in English. That's just how it's going to be. I refuse to be isolated in my own blog. Please feel free to leave messages in English. However, messages in other languages will be deleted. I've felt the need to make this policy because of the volume of comments that are being posted in languages that I don't know. Some of you might argue that 3 comments does not a "volume" make, but I care about each little bit of my itty-bitty blog and this is how I'm going to take care of it. Because I'm nothing but responsible. And paranoid.

That is all.

Goodnight and good luck.

*For the record: I don't have a breath/stink problem, I merely used this purely hypothetical situation that would apply to many, if not most people, at some point in their lives to illustrate my angst. Not that having stinky breath is bad. It's not. And I'm sure Cinnamon does help. I mean, why wouldn't it. But I have no real facts or data to back that up. Because why would I, since I don't have a stinky breath problem.

I'm Just a Girl in the World

2010-06-14T01:03:00.000-07:00

It has become apparent that I am, and will continue to be, raising a girl (ie. the Red Baron) and I'm a little freaked out by this fact. Maybe "freaked out" isn't the right term. A more accurate description would be that I have stared right into the depths of female turmoil and shuddered to my very soul. Not to be mildly dramatic or anything (YES I SAID MILDLY!).

The Red Baron has discovered her reflection in the mirror within a social context. This is freaky psycho-analytical/social commentary stuff I'm getting into. Dust off you text books people!! This is about to get CRAZY in here!

This is how it went down:

While in the bathroom and she looked in the mirror and shockingly exclaimed "Oh no Mama!! My hair!! I look terrible! I can't look like that!" in this disgusted, frantic little voice with flailing hands trying to smooth the fuzzies out of her golden strawberry hair (which, for the record, looked perfectly fine). After much fussing, she parted her hair way over on the side and then looked back in the mirror and assured herself "Oh that's so much better! Look how beautiful I am now."

Ummmm.......

WHAT?!?!

Are we related? Please note the pictures below of me and my best friend, Da Bangs after rolling out of bed one morning. I don't really worry about fly-aways and certainly never thought I would spawn a child that would worry about them at 3 years old.

Look - I've known I would be raising a daughter since that precious ultrasound at 20 weeks gestation. She was the cutest little gummy-bear girl fetus I ever beheld. But I've only now realized that I was raising A GIRL and all the girly anxiety that goes with it. I vividly remember the insecurities and emotional stress that I endured in relation to my appearance and the ups and downs that go hand-in-hand with being a girl. Who am I kidding by speaking in the past tense? These insecurities roared their ugly heads yesterday when I started to sweat justthinking about going bathing suit shopping. Sometimes I feel like I barely made it through thegirly gauntlet on my own behalf - how am I supposed to show this little tyke how it's done when I can't seem to figure it out myself?

Back to the bathroom - in this little scene I was completely dumbfounded. It was practically an out-of-body experience. Everything got very quiet - like the weight of this pivotal teaching moment pressed down on us all - I needed to say or do something that would put beauty and appearances in context for the rest of her life. I swear even the berry flavored toothpaste grew eyes and was just starring at me. Waiting. For something.

Please don't get me wrong - I do try to and enjoy looking nice - but I've told myself that I was above emphasizing appearances. That they didn't matter to me - a practical non-issue. But this little bathroom episode has changed all that. Because the Red Baron spends approximately 98% of her waking hours with me, and if she's scrutinizing her looks, than it's because she's seen me do it. And I had promised myself that the traits I would hand down to my posterity would be hooked elbows and finger toes. But the Red Baron didn't get my finger-like toes - she got something bigger (reference - I have size 11 feet). Instead she inherited.......

MY FEMININE INSECURITY.

yikes.

Suddenly I realized - it's started. The worrying, the primping, the plucking, the picking, the stressing, the plumping, the pinching, the tweezing, the brushing, the trimming, the waxing (ouch), the shaving, the "do these pants make my butt look big?"-ing. All of it. It's begun. And she's 3.

"You know what?" I said, shakily, "I think you look just right, exactly how you are."

Would that be enough? Would that put the diva-talk away and in it's place a re-prioritizing of values? Would this make her want to be smarter instead of prettier? Would this inspire self-appreciation instead of self-degradation? My mind was racing with less than helpful thoughts like "Who do you think you are, showing someone how to be a girl? You're a terrible girlPIEFACE!" I held my breath.

"Oh. Ok. Let's go sing Jingle Bells."

And like that, it was over.

Obviously she gets her dramatics from her dad.

Happy Birthday To My #1 Fan

2010-05-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

May is a big month. Mother's Day, numerous birthdays (including a husband), memorial day, and anniversaries all land on this celebratory month and to be completely honest, I'm not very good at remembering them all. It's not that they aren't important, it's that my brain isn't what it once was (it could be argued that I've never been a great remember-er of significant days, even at my brainiest moments - but let's not argue during such a happy month, k?). It's a big month. Like the biggest month. Think of the biggest thing you can think of, and then name it May. (In case you were wondering, I thought of an elephant pregnant with triplets). (SIDE NOTE - elephants are pregnant for 22 months at a time and their babies weigh 250 lbs). (I don't think this huge elephant named May should be pregnant with quadruplets, because, I mean, like get real). But this year, May is even a little more special because along with all the other fanfare, I celebrate the birthday of my #1 fan.

I would be remiss to neglect this special occasion after all the things we've been through, me and my #1 fan. My life, my whole being would be so different had we never met. My heart is full thinking of all the things we've survived together - all the late nights, early mornings, good times and bad. "Through thick, and thin," or so the saying goes. With this in mind, I would like everyone to raise a glass to toast my friend, my rock, my constant companion:

To my Bangs!!

Happy Birthday Bangs! May you continue to be my favorite part of my face and the most surprising part of my morning.

May Heidi Klum continue to inspire us both and may we continue to avoid self-maintenance.

Long live the Bangs!!

So just keep in mind that if you're ever having a bad day - just go birth you some bangs. You won't regret it.

This is How We Dance in a Hazelnut Grove

2010-04-27T20:14:00.000-07:00

I challenged myself to post something under 100 words. But if pictures are worth a thousand words, than I have failed miserably because these say so much about my girl.

The Story of the Baloney Sandwich

2010-04-25T20:04:00.001-07:00

I have a bad taste in my mouth today. Mostly because I saw a kid be slightly mean to my best girl, and I didn't like it. Even the most minty fresh gum isn't going to rinse this nagging, day-old bread residue out of my saliva glands.

Can you even imagine someone being mean to this face (and yes, that is a tooth flosser in her hair, thank you for asking)? It wasn't a big deal and the funny thing is that it wasn't the actual insensitive act or bossing that bothered me so much. What really got my goat was the Red Baron's reaction to it. She was so submissive and repentant, when I really just wanted to see her hold her ground and counter a little bit. This wilting girl was not the Red Baron that I know. If I had been the one to demand and boss, she would have shrieked, flung her arms, pointed her toes and turned a deep shade of purple. No one tells the Red Baron what to do. Except little, itty, bitty 7 years olds, apparently. Those protective instincts just flared right up in me and left this ugly feeling that I imagine echos any loss of control.

Now, if it was this face:

being mean to this face:

I would only consider it sibling rivalry and no big deal. But it was an outsider. And that just irked me to no end. I worry about the Red Baron. A lot. Is she going to be able to defend herself when the time comes? Have I stifled her sense of self and made her just another sheep following the herd with all my "good listening" encouragement and being mama's little helper? Am I equipping her with the tools to deal with people who might not have her best interests at heart? Am I forgetting that she's only 3 years old and I need to let go of the "what ifs" and focus on the smaller, more immediate things like counting in sequence to 20 and getting her shoes on the correct feet? Lots of stuff rattling the old upstairs hamster wheel, I assure you.

Then tonight at dinner the Red Baron started playing her favorite game - "Tell me a story about when you were little." At first this game was really fun. It's great strolling down memory lane, reminiscing about a simpler time (the 80's) and how life used to be before email and twitter. But eventually I actually ran out of stories. I started to repeat myself, but the Red Baron would have none of it. She demands fresh material and with a wave of her tiny hand, will proclaim "Mama, you've already said this one. I want a different one."

So I was racking my brain for any loose tidbits I could stretch into a decent story for this demanding little dictator and my better half said "Tell the story about the baloney sandwich." This story was so buried in my deeper psyche that I just didn't respond to him in the hopes that he would just forget what he had just said and we could move on to another topic. This story is so etched in my being I can still feel, taste, touch and hear every sensory element of that day. But with his persistence ("Hey!? Can you not hear me? I think you should tell the baloney sandwich story!") I took a deep breath and dutifully told her the story of the baloney sandwich.

It was a sunny day in grade 8 and I had just gotten off the school bus and had quickly gotten some distance to the bottom of the short hill toward a path that led to my street. I heard the rush of the air compression brakes as the bus pulled away from the curb and continued down the hill towards where I was walking. I was safely on the sidewalk, but the bus would pick up speed and come right past me as it continued it's route. Now, it was full with Jr. High students and you could hear the general ruckus that accompanies a bus full of teenagers on their post-scholastic high. I could feel the bus coming closer and closer, and knew that soon it would pass me and leave that thick gush of air that gets in your face, crowding you eyes, nose and mouth with dust and exhaust fumes. But this time was different. Because along with dust and fumes, I heard this obnoxiously loud slapping noise. I knew I hadn't been shot, because supposedly you never hear the shot with your name on it. But such is not the case with mystery meats. This slapping sound was so loud, it startled and disoriented me at first and I looked around to see what had happened. I glanced to my right. There was nothing. I tried to glance toward my left, but couldn't because my view was obstructed by this sticky, soggy mass. I peeled it off only to find an open-faced baloney sandwich, filled with mayo, plastered to the side of my head and face. I looked up at the bus right in time to see about a thousand eyes looking back at me and hear a roaring explosion of laughter trail ahead of me, leaving me in it's wake. There I stood, alone in the world and smelling of week-old baloney. Maybe older.

The Red Baron thought this story was hilarious. Almost like a "why didn't I think of that" kind of moment. But it was good for me to stroll down this murky memory lane and remember that without harder times, we wouldn't have a chance to rise above and fulfill our whole potential. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, that sandwich helped me to see what I was really made of. Because even though it was tempting to never step foot on that bus ever again, I still did it. Even though it was tempting to change my name and get a face-transplant, I continued to answer to and don my Pieface. Probably no one remembers that story except for me. Though, part of me would love to listen to the person at my 20-year high school reunion that starts off the conversation with "Dude, remember when we threw that sweet sandwich at that unsuspecting girl? That was the best day of my life." And if my baloney sandwich is the crowning jewel to someones high school experience, I can't take that away from them. I am not cruel (even though I picture this person surfing questionable Internet dating sites while donning a Taco Bell vest).

I still won't go near baloney. Even I can tell you that the stuff is nasty, and none of it even entered my mouth. Thank heavens my ears don't have taste buds.

So I hope that the Red Baron never gets publicly hit with rotten sandwich meat, but since I know she will be at the receiving end of other people's insensitivity at some point (or many), I hope that she faces those hardships head on and stretches to see what she's truly made of. Perhaps one day she'll be recounting her smelliest, most degrading and humiliating stories to a Red Baron of her very own and realized that she too triumphed over some ugly situations.

And this makes me smile. Because I'm pretty sure she's going to be just fine.

I'm a Social Marketing Genius

2010-04-08T15:04:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant the first time around, a friend gave me a book called "How To Con Your Kid." Which excited me to no end. I had read/skimmed plenty of parenting books/magazines and was left confused and scared. Words like "family bed" and "attachment bonding" were dancing in my head, and I realized that what I needed was a book that would just tell me, straight up, how to get my kid to do what I want them to do. Case closed. I hoped that the loving, attachment and bonding would come naturally and it did. But getting a kid to do what I wanted? I was as clueless as the next blubbering pregnant woman.

I didn't really read that book until the Red Baron was about a year old, which is when the real dissension started to happen. Some call it "the terrible twos" and the reason, I think, is because that's the age when the kid starts to think they are smarter than their parents. This goes dormant, for some, at about school age and then comes back like plague of grass-hoppers at about 12 or 13. Unfortunately for me, the seeds of superior thoughts started at approximately 10 months old for the Red Baron. This became obvious when at about 11 months old I gave her her lunch, and she threw her arms in the air and said "You gotta be kidding me!" Like a servant scorned, I just stammered and give excuses "Honey... but you like cheese, remember?.... and the strawberries were in season - remember how you like strawberries?" Talk about handing over the reigns, right? I knew this had to end - I couldn't be stripped of my dignity as routinely as one would change their socks. Since I had kissed my waistline, hair, brain, punctuation, punctuality and privacy goodbye, my dignity was about all I had left. "Stand up!" I told myself, "Stand up and be a Mom!"

So I broke out the book and started to read.

But this book, though clever and creative, wasn't quite what I needed to take back the control and "con my kid." It told me to cut my kids hair while they slept (sounds like a disaster to me) or sing songs called "eat the peas" to the tune of "Let it be" by the Beatles. Again - very sweet, but they didn't know who I was dealing with. This girl has the pipes of a banshee and a will of iron. She wasn't going to eat the peas even if I juggled 20 of them in one hand while singing Handel's Messiah on a unicycle with my eyes closed. Eat your own dang peas.

Then one night, I was making pulled pork (the BEST stuff for tacos, burritos, sandwiches, you name it) and in trying to get the Red Baron to eat it I called it "meat candy." As soon as the word "candy" was out of my mouth, a Social Marketing Genius was born within me (of course it doesn't hurt that there's a cup of brown sugar in the recipe). You put the word "candy" in any menu name and your kid will eat it. The Red Baron wolfed down the pork, and was begging for more. "Meat candy please!" was like music to my ears and a band-aid to my wounded parenting ego. I'm going to try to sell them on "asparagus candy" tonight so keep your fingers crossed for me.

Then last month I got a gym membership and knew I would need to really sell the in-house daycare idea to The Little Man, who would be going in alone. I was a little worried there would be some fireworks, but I laid down the ground work and told him that after dropping The Red Baron off at preschool, he would be going to "Playschool" where he would meet friends, play with toys and have general fun and shenanigans. So we walked in, and he marched over to the admitting desk and said "Hey Friends! I'm here!" and didn't take a sideways glance at me ever after. It was almost magical.

So you can see why I think I might be onto a second career here, right? Social Marketing expert for toddlers? Sounds great to me. Anything to keep me off that unicycle.

The Red Baron from her command central.

For the Love of Target and All that is Holy

2010-03-28T21:04:00.000-07:00

Since it's the sabbath, I should really only write about holy things. And in this house, Target falls into that category.

Ok, no it doesn't. But kind of, it does.

I am an admittedly huge Target fan. There's just something about it that doesn't make me feel cheap even though I am about as cheap as they come. My husband sometimes feels bad that perhaps our children will never know what a full-priced, brand new item of clothing feels like. Poor little, neglect kids, right? I can't wait for the telethon for that cause to roll out (I hope it's hosted by Tori Spelling).

Anyway - I love Target (I feel extra exotic when I roll the middle R - Tarrrrrrget. Try it. You'll like it). I was first introduced to Target as a teenager (no Targets in Canada). We were in Southern California and my mom said "Let's go to Target (read Tar-jay with a french accent)." It sounded so classy; I was instantly excited. Then we went in. And honestly, I can't remember anything about that inaugural trip. My only explanation of the lack of detail on this historic occasion is that I was so overwhelmed with awesome that I blacked out. I'm just not entirely sure. All I know is that Target made an impact and I have been pretty brand loyal ever since.

I have been known to float around Target on my kid-free nights if I have nothing else to do, or no plans with other friends (ie Target is my friend). Maybe I should feel ashamed at my lack-luster use of free-time. But I'm 30 years old now, and I can own that I occasionally haunt Target when I should be out solving cold cases or crocheting leprosy bandages. It's liberating to be able to loiter in the book section, look at EVERY magazine I can get my hands on, check out music I've never heard of, try on all the hats, touch all the baby clothes, buy my laundry detergent and go home. Simple minds = simple needs.

But I had no idea the kind of impact my love of all things Target would have on my children, specifically The Red Baron. At a very young and tender age, she could spot a Target from a mile away. "Mama, I see the red ball!! Let's go to Target!" I'm not sure why at Target elicited an excited reaction for long shopping trips, while trips of the same length at other stores received screeching-fetal-positioned-dead-weight style reactions from the same kid. Is it the lighting? The staff uniforms (or lack-there-of)? I don't know. But I do know that The Red Baron is about as loyal to Target as I am. Recently, at preschool they were learning about maps and each was given the assignment to draw a map to somewhere they liked to go and the teachers wrote the descriptions at the bottom in big bold letters: "Sydney's map to Grandpa's house" or "Anders' map to the beach." Other popular destinations were the lake, the park, the zoo. The Red Baron's map simply read "The Red Baron's map to Target." Initially, I laughed at this - the apple not falling far from the tree, chip off the old block, (insert your favorite cliche here). But then I started to worry - obviously other three year olds aren't demonstrating this kind of intense saturated commercialization. Is this healthy? Has my love for Target somehow clouded her idea of what a good time really is? Shouldn't she be wanting to go to the park as well, and not to the accessories section or stationary aisle? I started over-analyzing my parenting, and re-evaluating my enthusiasm of Target. I had to get to the bottom of this, for both of our sakes. Because abandoning Target wasn't an option. Where would I go then? Walmart? (shudder).

Slowly the story of her love of Target unraveled in my mind. Back at Christmas time we were shopping for a gift to donate to charity. A tag was chosen from the angel tree was for a girl who happened to be the same age as the Red Baron. Due to our lack of foresight, the shopping trip we hoped would teach her about charity really only encouraged her to come completely unhinged after realizing that the toy she carefully chose for herself was actually going to a complete stranger. In a last stab at charity, we explained to her that if she got this doll for this mystery girl, we could write to Santa and let him know which doll The Red Baron would really like. It worked, and we left the store with a couple shreds of dignity. Well, a week later, Santa made a surprise visit to the preschool Christmas party, bringing with him the perfect present for each of the students and siblings in attendance. And to the amazement of the Red Baron, Santa handed her the exact doll she had picked out at the store. With her eyes wide open and her jaw to the ground, she turned to me and said, "Mama ... Santa shops at Target."

Ever since, I think her Target excitement stems from the possibility of running into Ole St. Nick. I think she feels like if she goes often enough, she's bound to catch sight of him and maybe put in a good word or two. You know, rub elbows with some one owning real authority. I can't really blamer her either and would probably do the same thing at the chance to meet Ellen Degeneres or Tina Fey.

So I don't need to worry about The Red Baron's over-excitement for Target and I am saved from having to darken the door of Walmart once again. And all is well in the world.

Some Shots Are Just Going to Fall

2010-03-21T20:58:00.000-07:00

Please note my ridiculously fast healing gums.

Hi. It's been a while. I'm tired of feeling badly about blog neglect. There's got to be a support group for me right? We could meet and exchange fake names and discuss why it's not OUR fault the blogs are being neglected, it's our camera's fault (it's still not working right) or the scanner won't start (really - by the time any of my techno problems are fixed I'll just have to donate them to a museum - my stuff will be right next to the atari game console and the football phone) or any number of other daily blogging dilemmas. I'll bring the city-punch (aka tap water).

The only thing more exhausting than the feeling of actively neglecting something is trying to chase the ever flowing fountain of things that spring in my mind to write about. You better believe that I have things to say. That those things are intelligent, witty, slightly off-color and would totally blow your mind. Just trust me. But I just can't seem to get my act together. You must be wondering "How does Pieface actually sustain lives, feed babies, return phone calls, answer emails, etc. etc. when she can't even keep a simple blog updated?" And the answer to these and many other questions is "barely" (all except the feeding babies part - I'm pretty dedicated to that).

So my deepest apologies. Really and truly, if you are reading this (and I'm not sure if anyone still reads this) BUT IF YOU ARE please know that this neglect is nothing personal, that I love that you're reading and I love your comments. Yes, even you; person-with-the-Asian-keyboard-who-posts-random-Confucius-style-comments. Thank you.

I guess I've been feeling lately like I'm just barely making it as a mother. This is by far the hardest gig I've ever had, which may not speak much for me by way of character or capability. Some days it seems like everyone else has their act together and I keep seeing other people being the kind of parent I always thought I would be. But I continue to fall short. And it's frustrating. I would be lying if I said I haven't cruised the Craigslist classifieds looking for a job that would pay enough to send my kids to a place where the childcare professionals could take care of them. At least they have child development degrees, liscences, certifications. Which isn't as flashy as a Sociology degree, let's be honest. But the Sociology degree hasn't really helped in this current parenting job I've landed (I don't even want to think about my Communications minor or Inter-Personal Communications Associates degree - jeesh). Toddlers just don't appreciate synergy like they should.

Yes, there have been some pretty hard and long days.

And what's worse is that I get frustrated about being frustrated. I know. I'm ridiculous. But there it is.

So, after some pretty crazy days (and the realization that my education and skills are outdated and I could probably make enough to send my children to the double-wide day-care next to the train tracks and the cock-fighting ring, but not much more) I went looking for answers. And people, answers are what I found (thank you Internet).

I've been looking at this thing all wrong. Motherhood is a relationship, not a job. This might sound obvious to you, but it was enlightening to me. Because I was looking for some kind of validation or self-evaluation check-list. Something to tell me I was doing a good job, that my kids will one day contribute to the greater good, that The Red Baron would stop saying things in public that would cause a scene like "Don't touch me, you're hurting me!!" or that the Little Man would stop running into busy parking lots by himself. But I'm not going to find that stuff anywhere. I just have to do my best and pray that everyone's going to make it. Because my wagon is hitched to the motherhood bull, and that's where I want it. I want it hitched to the bull.

Also, I was reminded of something an old basketball coach once told me (get ready for a high school sports anecdote). She was a quasi-scary lady; very militant in our conditioning, not afraid to yell or demand respect. When she didn't get the respect she wanted, she stomped over in her ill-fitting early 90's track suit and took it. The ill-fitting track suit was the only thing keeping me from developing a deeper fear. The pants would ride up so high it was hard to take her seriously. She told me not to expect much playing time because I lacked the level of skill she preferred in her players but I had a good attitude so I could be on the team. I was excited at the chance to learn more and hopefully prove her wrong. Throughout the season I improved and somehow along the way picked up a perfectionist tendency. I would mentally beat myself up if the person I was defending scored too high or did too well (and this happened often), hindering my ability to effectively play the offensive game. Finally, she took me aside and said "Look. Some shots ... they're just going to fall. There's nothing you can do about it." (For some reason I want to start chanting "RU-DY! RU-DY!" right here).

After giggling that her faded navy blue running pants were bunched up to the bottom of her sports bra, I realized she was totally right. Some shots are just going to fall. There is not a single thing I can do about that. Sometimes the Red Baron is just going to be impossible and I will look like a crazed maniac dragging her dead weight out of Target. And sometimes the Little Man will defy all reason and only speak in dinosaur roars for days and wear Thomas the Tank Engine underwear as a hat. And there is nothing I can do about that (besides take pictures that I can't upload onto my blog). It's up to me to decide that we're going to roll with it, make sure no one gets hurt and move on. That's my job. And until recently, I didn't get that. My days have been looking up ever since coming to that realization. And motherhood is fun again.

Confucius says: "When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them."

Dude. Confucius. You totally get me.

That's me in the middle. With a tiny bit of crazy-eye.

On Being An Olympic Underachiever

2010-02-18T00:18:00.000-08:00

Tonight while I was watching the men's skating I distinctly remember watching these type of events as a kid and thinking "What's the big idea, I could totally do that" (I was really good at spinning around and not getting dizzy). Remember when you were little and you thought "I wonder when I'm going to get MY gold medal?" Not a matter of "if," but "when." Turns out I wasn't the only one. The longer I watch the Canadian coverage of the Olympics, the more former classmates I see in the standings. I went to elementary school with 3 Olympians. How funny is that? We all survived french immersion together. I'm starting to feel like a real Olympic underachiever. And there's the French Immersion/Quebec factor again. Have you noticed how many Canadian Olympians are francophone? I'm sensing a relationship between complicated grammar and athletic prowess. But that brings me to the question - what's my problem? Why aren't I an Olympian. I'll mull this one over and get back to you on that.

But let's talk about my current favorite Olympian - Maelle Ricker. I got goose bumps when I watched Maelle Ricker receive her gold medal for the women's snowboarding cross for Canada. This was a very fun moment because Maelle and I went to elementary and high school school together, though I didn't get to know her until grade 11 when we played on the basketball team together. Maelle has got to be the nicest, hardest working person ever. This kind of success could not have been given to a more deserving person. I'm so proud of her. When the competition started I was just casually telling people "I know her!" which slowly built up to an emphatic "I totally know her!" which preceded an enthusiastic "We were like TOTALLY FRIENDS!" and finally a slightly hysterical, "She was practically in my wedding!"

She was never in my wedding. But our last interaction was so typical of Maelle. We ran into each other at 7-11 in the winter of 1996 (am I old?) and she said "Hey - come up to Whistler I'll teach you how to snowboard" and I was like, "Thanks, but I'm just so super busy." Isn't that the lamest story ever? I assure you that she would never remember this. She is just so nice that she would just offer things like this - time, skills, etc. to an old friend and leave a lasting impression on an Olympic underachiever like me. I love it when good people are rewarded for their success - like all is well in the Olympic world.

I guess I'll just have to keep figuring out what Olympic sport is mine (my thighs would indicate speed skating, but my buoyancy leans more toward ski jumping. Decisions, decisions).

*I'll post some pictures when I return home from this magical Olympic land.

Dear Quebec, Thanks for Everything

2010-02-15T21:50:00.000-08:00

So I'm back in my hometown, Vancouver, BC, Canada, to attend the Olympics. This is a city of beauty, fun and it's my home town. I love it. If you've never been, you have to come. During the most normal times you won't regret the visit. However, throw in the Winter Olympics and it's like we've all died and gone to heaven (this heaven is red and white and smells faintly of wool socks). We're all practically dipped in fairy dust, it's so magical. I'm so glad and lucky to be here.

Currently there is a TV campaign promoting each of the Canadian provinces and Quebec's commercial ends with the tag-line "Quebec, Providing Emotions Since 1634." This made me laugh out loud when I saw it. Because any Canadian will tell you that this statement could not be more true. As you may or may not know, the Quebecois are constantly wanting to ditch the rest of Canada and after a while this happy little Canadian has started to take it personally. Like the rest of Canada is an ice cream parlor, and Quebec is just wandering around the place with one of those itty-bitty-teeny-tiny spoons contemplating whether the chocolate is chocolaty enough or whether the pralines are praliney (?) while rolling a swollen pecan in their mouth.

I have a unique perspective on the Quebecois since attending elementary school in the French Immersion Program, mostly run by Quebecois and the odd mild-mannered Albertan. You have never seen anything like the fire in the eyes of a French Immersion teacher discussing the glories of the early Canadian explorers (who were French), or the intricacies of verb conjugation in "plus-que-parfait" (the french verb tense directly translated to "even-more-than-perfect") or the beauties of Winter Carnival (celebrated only in Quebec). The only thing to rival their love for all things Quebecois is their love for obnoxiously loud MC Hammer pants and aerobics. These teachers were jumpy and could make a student burst into tears with the least provocation. They weren't mean necessarily, but definitely ran on pure passion, which you could see in their eyes (a teeny-tiny bit of Crazy Eye - from all the emotions). It was an interesting educational experience for sure. So you can see how the tag-line that brags of bringing "emotions" seems pretty funny to me.

Truth is: though I have felt jilted, I love that Quebec continues to be a Canadian province. I love that I've had the opportunity to learn french and visit such a beautiful place. I love that I can spot a French Canadian from a mile away (it's the Crazy Eye) and can then go and speak to said Crazy-Eye. I hope this is always the case and that Quebec never secedes. It's part of who we, as Canadians, all are.

These thoughts were rolling around in my head as I watched the first Canadian to ever win a gold medal on Canadian soil on Monday on television. It was a happy and exciting moment and the excitement extended into the Victory Ceremony the next day, which I was able to attend. I stood on my feet, with a sold-out crowd, singing "Oh Canada" at the highest decibel I could muster (and let's face it, if volume and lung capacity were an Olympic event, I would CLEAN HOUSE) and watched this young man hold up his gold medal to his country-people, beaming at his accomplishment. I just was absolutely brimming with patriotism and couldn't help but tear up. It was beautiful and something I will always remember. A moment when I thought "I am Canadian and I love that I am Canadian." As I'm sure you know by now, this Canadian Olympian is Alexandre Bilodeau, from the glorious province of Quebec.

So, thanks Quebec for providing all the emotions. I really owe you one.

On Being Discovered....

2010-01-17T22:59:00.000-08:00

So it's happened; I've been discovered. Twice. It's no big deal (insert arrogant snort here).

The first discovery happened when I went to my post-operative appointment to check on my gum grafting surgery. It was my first experience with implants and I'm extremely satisfied. Surprisingly, the actual grafting procedure itself wasn't THAT bad. This procedure also confirmed the end of a long battle with dental phobia. It's only taken 4 years, intense sessions with some laughing gas, and 12 dental procedures. This time I didn't even sweat as I sat in the examination chair, which is a real feat for me. Anyway - the procedure was totally no big deal as evidenced by the discussion being thrown back and forth above my wide open maw. The banter was light and lively - mostly centered around funny things like what was Bing Crosby's real name, what does TMZ stand for, etc. Part of me was relieved to think about something other than the slicing and dicing of my gums, but the other part of me was like "maybe you guys should focus - my gums are flapping in the wind here." All in all though, it was as pleasant as gum grafting can be.

So I walk into my post-op appointment and my periodontist takes one glimpse in my pearly whites and puffy reds and exclaims, "Tell me we took 'before' pictures! YOU LOOK AMAZING!" I know he was talking specifically about my gums and not my overall carriage, but I'm choosing to think that he meant the whole package. I was very gracious and accepted my high praise for my ridiculously quickly healing gums.

"Really, I want you to be in my commercial." Finally - my big break. Stay tuned.

My second discovery was last Wednesday morning. I got out of the shower and walked into my room, quickly closing the door behind me. I should preface that I'm at my parent's house, staying in my childhood room to welcome my little brother back into the civilized world after serving a 2 year mission in Tempe Arizona. So I usher my towel-wrapped self into my childhood bedroom, with wide-open blinds. Also, let me preface that though I'm not an exhibitionist, I have been known to keep my blinds open because there aren't any houses at an angle or position to see inside my bedroom. But to maintain some modesty, I kneel down, below the line-of-sight of the window sills. As I sit down to go through my suitcase, my towel slips down past my nether-regions.

"Oh well, no one can see me."

This thought ran through my mind at the very moment I turned to the window and looked right into the face with a strange man standing on the roof of my parent's house, facing my room while cleaning the gutters. You can imagine my shock as I realize that I'm naked, wet, in my childhood room (that threw in a whole new element psychologically) looking at some guy in a winter hat on a cell phone. Seems like a great time to make a call. I throw my body to the ground with a little yelp, trying to plaster my wet self to the ground behind my bed. I was really without options and just started laughing. I tried to open my suitcase with my toes and with some real difficulty get dressed, which is extremely difficult without showing any body parts at the window.

Replaying the whole scenario in my mind, I go down stairs, fully dressed mind you, to talk to my mom, who is thrilled because her gutter-cleaner guy just gave her a rockin' discount on her gutters.

Needless to say, it's been a really busy time lately planning my TV debut highlighting my ridiculously fast healing gums and unveiling my discount procuring booty.

I really hope nothing ends up on YouTube.

Resolutions

2009-12-29T23:39:00.001-08:00

Forgive me Blogiverse, for I have neglected thee.

I have to say December has been magical, but not without a casualty - my sleep. I think it's partly because of the pending pandemonium of producing a pretty great time for those I love, and partly because I have been having blogging topics floating in my mind and have no time in which to get these ideas down. It's ridiculous and embarrassing, but it's the truth. And I'm starting to resent you, your royal Bloginess. So here I am, Blogiland, way past my bed time. I promise to fill you in on my brain fodder (for the only reader that probably still checks this blog after a very sparse blogging month - thanks mom) if you'll just let me sleep. It's all I ask. It's really the least you could do, ingrate (I'm talking to the Blogosphere here and not my mom).

So here we go:

Today it snowed. And in Portland that means that people completely lose their minds and become seasonally insane. I'm not judging, because I might too be one to succumb to this seasonal insanity, but I know enough to exercise all methods of prevention, and stay out of my car and off of the roads. I know that I have very little cold weather driving experience (which happens when you grow up in the Palm Springs of Canada) and I know we're all better off with me off the road rather than involuntarily using my car as a weapon. Plus walking in the snow is fun. So, after dinner we got all the gear on (which was surprisingly adequate and even mostly water-proof with the exception of footwear) and went for an old fashioned snow walk to our local market/bakery place a few blocks away. Because what's the use of walking anywhere without the promise of a salted caramel brownie?

As soon as we step out into the weather, I remember that during "Arctic Blast 2008" we learned that Little Man hates the weather. We would stand him up in it, only for him to lift his pudgy arms to me and hunker down in the sling waiting for the cold stuff to magically disappear. He has no tolerance for anything remotely inconvenient weather-wise. He cries when the sun is too bright, he whimpers when the wind is remotely brisk, he balks with an open mouth when it rains. This from the kid that will randomly head butt anything at head-butting height and giggle about it. He's a true study of contrasts. He's a weather wimp. That might sound unfeeling and harsh coming from his mother, but better from me than in middle school in a taunting circle of 8th graders. Don't say I never equipped my kids of the real world.

So our walk was mostly him begging to be held, then begging to be put down and not moving a muscle for a couple minutes, and begging to be held again. Which was most disappointing to me because I have had a secret dream of strapping him to a baby-leash and harnessing it to a sled and just letting him run me to the bakery for the aforementioned brownie. This might also sound unfeeling and a little bit bizarre, but I come from a very decent and good place here. He has energy to burn and Mama needs a brownie. Win/Win. Better yet, it's zero emissions. We could even call it "going green."

You're welcome.

But with this weather wimpyness I have to explore other avenues, while continuing to avoid Social Services. So stay tuned.

There. You happy, your Highness (I'm talking to the BlogHead here)? I blogged. I trust you will let me go to sleep and dream of brownies and snow storms.

Good night.

Arctic Blast 2008 - The beginnings of the end of my toddler sleigh dreams.

Merry Christmas and Happy Deductible!!

2009-12-13T19:31:00.001-08:00

Isn't this time of year amazing? Not only because of the sentiment of the season and the "good will towards all wo/men," or the great tv specials or tear inducing commercials (State Farm why do you do that to me!?), but the rush and bustle of getting entirely ready for the big show is stressful, yet adrenalizing (imagine my disappointment when I realized that I didn't make up that word adrenalizing. A serious let-down because I love making up words, and I REALLY love taking credit for them).

But this time of year also has another level of activity and planning because I feel like this is the time of year for optimizing my health insurance and taking care of all the little nagging health items that quietly fester on my psyche. As you may not know, I worked in medical billing industry for several years before finding my calling in legal assisting (kidding) and know my way around an explanation of benefits pretty well (and for any of you wondering: medical billing is as glamorous as it sounds, I have the insurance knowledge and 10-key finger muscles to prove it). And as the calendar year winds down, I'm always in a mad rush to get those last items (wisdom tooth extractions, pregnancies, etc.) done before the calendar year ends so I can use up all my available benefits and so that my up-coming year's benefits can be dedicated to new problems and not old ones. I know I probably sound maniacal, but it's just how I am now. Medical billing did this to me. The irony here is that I am Canadian and was raised in a universal health care system where you didn't usually WANT to go into early labor so that your baby could be paid for under your previously met out-of-pocket max that had already cleaned out your bank account (FYI: babies with January birthday cost their parents lots of money. Case in point: Little Man, Jan. 10th. Took 17 months after driving him off the lot before that baby was officially ours and not owned by the hospital. Some days though I wondered what would happen if I was late a payment and what kind of repo-person they would send for him. I told you, I'm maniacal). Not to get political, but I am Canadian and turned out just fine under universal health care. I think.

So on top of decorating, crafting (I don't love the term crafting because it makes me feel like a granny crocheting an afghan, and not a young, mature 30-something crocheting a THROW BLANKET worthy of a pottery barn catalogue cover. But my legal counsel and I have been so busy we haven't had a chance to make up a word that suits me better, so we'll just stick to "crafting"), baking, cooking, wrapping, Santa-ing, and delivering - I'm also dentisting*, annual examing, and benefit crunching my way through December. Nothing better than the smell of freshly decorated sugar cookies and topical Novocain to get me in the holiday spirit.

So, if I seem a little absent in the blogging world this month, I am. But for very worthy reasons. Because the gifts won't buy themselves. The cookies won't bake themselves. These gums won't graft themselves. Wish me luck!!

*Pending legal counsel, the word "dentisting" is my property and I would appreciate a little credit if you chose to use this chawsome** word. A check for $1,000 per use will probably cover it.

**Same with "chawsome."

Grateful for Second Chances. And Thirds. And Fourths.

2009-11-25T11:10:00.000-08:00

Remember when I challenged myself to blog every day? What crazy pills was I taking? How do people blog every day? It's beyond me. So here's the down and dirty gratitude list of the missed days:

- Thankful for scoring free Portland Trailblazer tickets (through a client of The Man) and watching them stomp all over the muddied carcases of the Chicago Bulls. It was a doosy of a game and I loved every minute of it. From the babysitter, to the expensive but close parking, to the FREE tickets (did I mention they were free?) I had the best time. Later, The Man apologized for not being more chatty during the game. I hadn't noticed. I was drinking in the bigger than life arena, the skill of the ridiculously gigantic players, the Dr. Pepper in my cup holder.... I was on cloud 120 (that was the ridiculous score of the Blazers achieved during the game). It was totally awesome.

- Thankful for friends. I have the best friends. And they are good to me. Really. I'm totally undeserving.

- Thankful for the little Man's new favorite phrase - "Poopoo in the tub mama" because (this is really the only really good thing to come from this new fascination, because frankly, I get really annoyed every time he says or does it) it will be good blackmail when he's engaged to some fantastic girl, and we're looking through photo albums and reminiscing about old stories, and I say, "Remember Little Man when you used to poop in the tub? And you talked about it incessantly? And you wouldn't stop talking or doing it for like a couple months? Remember that?" And he'll feel uncomfortable and she'll be speechless and I'll be laughing. That's the ray of sunshine here.

And finally,

- Thankful for The Man coming home early today to start the Thanksgiving festivities. We are so lucky. Even when we're unlucky, we're lucky.

Have a great Thanksgiving everyone!

Poopoo in the tub!! Good one!!

Gratitude Day 4: My Grandpa's Pipes

2009-11-22T20:07:00.000-08:00

My Grandpa was quite a character. The only man I knew that owned more silk jackets and white leather shoes than I own diapers. For the record, I own lots of diapers. He always wore his hats at a jaunty tilt and had a joke, sometimes with a four-letter word in the punch-line, at the tip of his tongue. He was so fun to be around and made everyone around him feel happy. He was the kind of Grandpa that hid candy bars around his den, and would take us to McDonalds whenever he was in charge. He bought blue soda in bulk (hand it to the Canadian grocery stores) and when he couldn't remember your name he called you "Gorgeous" if you are a girl and "Handsome" if you were a boy. No one corrected him when he forgot their name. He drove a little red and white scooter around town as a retired senior citizen and loved to strike terror in the hearts of neighborhood wildlife and house pets. Otherwise a non-aggressive guy, he did love to shoot crows. From his balcony. In his underwear. I miss him.

For the record, I stole this picture from my cousin Carly's Blog - thanks Carly!

He had a career in radio and his voice could melt butter. He and my Grandma performed together (he sang and she accompanied him on the piano) and performed at many venues, especially retirement homes, weddings, funerals and church functions. They made a CD a while back, and I love to listen to it during the holidays. It reminds me where I came from and helps me remember him. In his underwear. Shooting crows. I miss him.

He passed away two years ago. The funeral was lovely and unforgettable. At the end we played a recording that he had prepared for his funeral long before he was even sick. At first I thought that perhaps singing at your own funeral would be strange and I wondered if people would think it slightly gauche. True to form, the beginning of the recording was my grandpa saying, "If you're listening to this, I'm gone now. And whether I'm going to heaven or hell, I'm sure I'll see many of you there" which preceded a beautiful version of the old gospel anthem "Going Home." The idea that we were departing from a beloved grandpa and had his own voice soothing and comforting us while celebrating his life, was very therapeutic and moving.

Fast forward to today: Sundays are usually chaotic around here. We attend Sunday afternoon church and my kids usually have quiet times/naps during that time. By the time the sun sets, my children resemble manic depressive rabid monkeys on uppers. Tonight, between time-outs and food fights I turned on my grandpa's CD and just sat. The Red Baron came and sat on my lap, and the Little Man soon followed. His soothing voice, repeating the songs that I loved as a rabid monkey, spoke to my children somehow, and they both calmed down. It was only a moment, but I know they heard him and something tells me they recognized his voice. Maybe he and the Little Man high-fived while passing in heaven (Grandpa died 2 months before the Little Man was born). I hope the Little Man got some good jokes out of him while there too. Something to make me secretly laugh, but publicly send him to time-out. Because I'm sure the jokes are inappropriate for even monkeys.

So today, I'm grateful for my Grandpa's pipes.

* I'm trying to figure out how to upload my very favorite song onto this blog. If anyone knows how to do that, please tell me and I will forever be indebted to you.

Gratitude Day 3: Surprises

2009-11-21T22:52:00.001-08:00

Since being "stuck in the mud" I've decided that I need to work harder at making my life a little more spontaneous and magical. But I've decided that the organic surprises (aka ones you don't fabricate yourself) that pop up naturally are the best way of un-sticking oneself. Today's organic surprises:

1) Finding out The Red Baron is way tougher than she looks when it comes to weather. Went for a walk today with her, and she wanted to go further and further in the pouring rain, with inadequate gear (thanks to her ill-prepared parents). A very pleasant surprise for this Northwest family.

AND

2) My husband is a machine when it comes to basement organization. A huge surprise.

It's just funny that right when you feel like you know someone really well (my child and husband), you find these hidden talents. Just kind of keeps me on my ill-maintained, unpolished toes.

In other news, the Little Man is getting more and more in the thick of incivility and toddlerhood and I'm starting to feel like I can't take him anywhere. But in the spirit of this gratitude post, I'm grateful that he's really cute.

I should really be a propaganda spinner.

Gratitude Day 2: Babies

2009-11-20T20:11:00.000-08:00

Today I'm grateful for babies. Other people's babies. Ok, ok, and my own.

Today I watched my friend's gorgeous little girls, which was so much fun. The older daughter played with my kids, which kept them all occupied and I got to hold the infant. Which was so fun. It's been a while (approximately 22 months give or take) since I could just sit and stare at a baby, and I forgot how fascinating that is. It's somehow very soothing like watching a fish tank at the dentist's office.

And I remembered: it's so much fun to hold other people's babies. I've become so consumed with my own babies, I really haven't held other people's babies in what seems like forever. Usually it's the last thing I even think of. But lately I've found myself gravitating to them. The promise of that baby smell, without the responsibility of producing that baby smell (my babies naturally smelled more like rotten milk or last week's diaper bucket), has been slightly magnetic. And I thought, "I should baby-sit more often for this friend of mine, this is so much fun." I need to also mention here that this particular baby is the smiliest, most mellow baby ever. Even her cry is cute and her puckered lower lip to show distress is the most delightful thing you've ever seen. It's like she's some kind of tron-baby.

And it made me miss this stage of my own kids. They were beautiful babies, if I do say so myself. And I realized that part of this gratitude theme is to appreciate what I have now. Today. And today I have two very opinionated toddlers that would launch into hysterics to know that I still refer to them as my babies. The Little Man's eye-brows would disappear over the crest of this forehead and the Red Baron would actually turn red, and it would be all over for me. So today I am grateful for holding other people's babies and for having held my own. They really were quite something.

The Red Baron with her first traces of red. 1 mo.

The Little-ist Man of them all. 1 week

Miss Me?

2009-11-19T20:19:00.000-08:00

The Little Man has a couple choice words/phrases right now, which have provided ample entertainment:

"STOP!" Shouted with both arms out, and eyebrows arched beyond health.

And,

"NO TOUCH!" Shouted with both arms out, eyebrows arched beyond health and a vehemence reserved for Eastern European dictators during war crime trials. This phrase is especially used when The Man around here puts the moves on me.

But mostly he says,

"STUCK IN THE MUD!" to just about everything and everyone. This is a fan favorite and applicable to any scenario.

But mostly, this is how I've felt lately on a very minor level. I've felt stuck in the proverbial mud of anticipation and energylessness (not a word, but should be). I would love to blame oinking fever but let's be honest, at this point it's my laziness, pressure of the holidays and perhaps the gloomy realities of the weather setting in. I've even had some real doosies to write about but haven't had the time, focus, or technical support to execute. My computer is still acting out and my camera is driving me crazy. But those are all just excuses. Again, this is such a mild case of stuck-in-the-mud irritation that if it were a soap they wouldn't even put a sensitive skin warning on it. So not to worry, this Pieface is not suffering. I'm just stuck in the mud.

So, to liven things up a bit I'm going to challenge myself to blog every day for the rest of the month on the theme of gratitude. Beyond being appropriate and timely, I think the gratitude shovel might be the best thing to get me out of my muddy mess. Lately, whenever I get ready to wind up and pitch myself into hurricane winds of complaining, I realize - wait a minute, these really aren't problems. My camera doesn't sync with my computer? COME ON PIEFACE!! You've got to come up with bigger problems than THAT! This country is in two wars and there's no cure for cancer for crying out loud!! If you're going to complain, vent about despair, or pain, or the loss of hope. But save your techno-dinosaur dance for another day.

So here we go:

Today, I am grateful for TECHNOLOGY (picture Kip, Napoleon Dynamite's brother serenading you right now). Even though it can be perplexing, I'm sure I would be lost without it. And you wouldn't be able to see the Red Baron's new look. Watch out Tyra.

The Red Baron's Small Smile

The Red Baron's Medium Smile

The Red Baron's Big Smile

My Favorite Eastern European dictator ever

Having "The Talk" With My Stuff

2009-11-08T20:57:00.001-08:00

It is one of life's great ironies that as soon as you can't do something, you want to do that thing all the more. And I'm afraid that I fall victim to wanting what I can't have all the time. Except in my case it's practically debilitating. As soon as an option is off the table, I am dead set on it and my brain does mental cartwheels and triple sow-cows until I can get this unattainable thing in my humongous, amazon hands. It's a sickness really and most recently it happened while I had swine flu.

I had just finished reading Peter Walsh's book "It's All Too Much - So Get It Together" about how getting rid of stuff leads to a better life, and then BAM! Swine flu drained my energy and my desire to even stay upright, let alone comb my attic and flush out my basement. While the book is geared toward the juvenile reader (and let's be honest - if I'm anything, I'm immature) and despite the continuous references to cleaning out your locker and returning your friend's Seventeen Magazine collection, the theories in this book were completely applicable to me as a home owner and mom. But suddenly because of my case of oinking fever, I couldn't implement these uncluttering truths and it was killing me. Not because I am unhinged at messiness (quite the opposite unfortunately), but because I was suddenly physically incapable of doing it. In my blurred vision and 102 degree fevers, I should have envisioned steaming cups of tea and warm comforters, not mislabeled boxes under my bed and mysteriously full garbage bags in my crawl-space.

See how complicated I am?

I've recovered from oinking and I'm trying to focus my pent up organizational energy with a vengeance.

But there's a problem: I've learned that I assign feelings to inanimate objects. These aren't just objects with emotions, they are much more than that. They are wedding gifts, mementos from the past, nay - they are members of the family. The guilt is pretty thick, like I'm letting them down, if I even think of clearing things out. Because my relationship with my stuff is like my relationship with people. And since no one is perfect and every relationship can be improved upon, I tend to give my stuff more lee-way that it deserves. So, it shouldn't really matter what the differences are between me and my unused fondue pot; everything can be resolved with some quality time and mutual respect. If I just focus less on my needs and hone in on the needs of my still-in-the-box kettle corn turner, somehow we can make it work.

But the personification of my stuff doesn't stop there. Whenever I take pictures of things to list on Craiglist, part of me feels like I'm taking photos at a funeral and in my head I hear "We have gathered here today to reflect on our dear friend, the futon." I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to add the line "to a good home" when writing the selling descriptions. Once while a Craigslist patron was looking at our old kitchen table, she expressed that she wasn't interested, and I got offended. All of the sudden I was thinking--with an Italian accent and punctuating my imaginary thoughts with double hand gestures--"What? You think you're better than this table? You think that this table that fed my children isn't good enough for you? Move along, this table doesn't even want to go home with the likes of yous." That's probably when I knew I had a problem.

Peter Walsh to the rescue! He says that we need to change the relationship with our stuff in order to successfully de-clutter not only our homes but our lives, and I knew as soon as I read those words, he was talking directly to me. So I've been having the talk with my stuff and there are some key lines I've been using to move things along. "It's not you, it's me" to lessen the blow. "You're going to a better place" to seal the fate. "You'll be happier where you will see the light of day" to illuminate the bright side. Last but not least, "We'll always have Maui." And I have to say, as strange as it is to admit publicly that I'm having to verbally define my relationships with my stuff in the same way that one would speak to a romantic interest, I am loving the feeling of closure and release.

I know I have a long road ahead (I'm tormented with my inability to provide solace to my 6th grade "Save the Whales" t-shirt), but I'm fairly proud of the two huge garbage bags full of stuff that is going to Goodwill this week and the stack of boxes that I've sentenced to recycling. It's a good start for me.

And as I escorted those garbage bags of stuff out to the back of my car, I could feel my house breathe a sigh of relief that I was finally lightening her heavy burden.

"You're welcome house," I said.

"Just call me Bernice." She replied.

10/20/06 - Computer Desk... and friend.

02/17/09 - Kitchen Table, looking especially dressed up.

10/20/06 - RIP Futon, may you continue to help people sit or sleep, which ever they prefer.

Top 10 Things About Being A Swino

2009-10-30T14:42:00.001-07:00

In my uneducated opinion, I'm about 90% over swine flu. The only real lingering effects are my low energy, which arguably could have been there before swine flu, and a lingering cough or two each day. So, in the art of fondly remembering things that are past, I give to you the top 10 things about having swine flu (in no particular order):

1) I was briefly a part of a national state of emergency. Someone out there in Sheboygan, WI, was worried and I was a part of it. Makes me feel patriotic.

2) Taking a nap during daylight is divine. I can't really remember a time that I could just take a nap during the day. It was incredible.

3) People write funny things on your facebook page like "I hope you survive." It's a unique time in your life when people don't know if you're going to make it. Since I'm mean, I only posted sporadically while I was sick, and let people imaginations run. For the record, I wasn't ever in peril of being hospitalized or anything like that. It got ugly but not THAT ugly.

4) You get to wear those super stylish surgical masks in public. If that doesn't make you feel like a leper, I don't know what will.

5) People call you just to check in. That was really nice, knowing that people are pulling for you. Or that they are morbidly curious. Either way, I liked it.

6) People bring you food. Like really good food. Like food that they would normally not even make for themselves. I'm talking homemade bread with hand ground wheat, and soups as far as the eye can see. It was really beautiful. I have fantastic friends.

7) Your mom comes to visit. And she lives a country away, and she's in real danger of getting a serious respiratory infection if she becomes a swino, but she comes anyway. Because that's what moms do, and my mom rules.

8) You can empathize with sick people again. Honestly, I forgot what having a 103 degree fever felt like. I'm hoping my stint as a swino will help me be more patient when my kids get sick and less frustrated with their inability to suffer quietly. Fevers and coughing is no fun and everyone should know about it. It's only right.

9) Your husband takes time off work, friends, life, fun trips to Las Vegas to take care of you. And though his having to cancel his trip made me cry (he was looking SO forward to it), knowing that he didn't think twice about it, and put my situation ahead of his own wants. I know he wasn't happy about it (who would be?), but duty called and he answered. He did a great job taking care of us all too. A regular Florence Nightingale!

10) A good ole fashion reality check. So much of my day has fake deadlines and unnecessary worry, I talk myself into being the "only one" who can do certain things, ridiculous things. Becoming a swino was interesting in that it was a total loss of control for me, and I had to give up the reins on everything and let other people handle things that had been my responsibility. And they did a great job. The reality check of my own insignificance came as a relief is some ways.

Anyways - those are my thoughts on THE DREADED SWINE FLU. I look forward to the time where we can look back on the time I became a swino and laugh. And laugh. And cough and then laugh again.

Sharks with Freakin' Laser Beams

2009-10-25T22:41:00.000-07:00

From the moment I found out the gender of my babies (I found out gender during both pregnancies - I'm not what you would call very patient), I had to find the perfect baby outfit. This outfit wasn't really for the baby, but to help me get through the pregnancy. I felt like it was some kind of insurance policy - that a baby was actually coming. It offered reassurance that all the torturous symptoms of pregnancy would be over eventually and that this baby was actually real, not some psychotic episode or strange pregnancy dream. This outfit would go under my pillow at night, I would cling to it while wanting to vomit, and drape it over my ever-expanding girth throughout those last HUGE months. It was my blanky. This might not make any sense to the non-pregnant person, but man, having an blanky seemed totally obvious to me.

When the Red Baron was due to arrive, I found this supremely cute pink polkadot soft sleeper that fit the bill nicely and it became my constant companion. Then, not long after she was born, we found out about the pending arrival of the Little Man. The first item of business was to find a blanky. But the more I looked at the boys clothes, the more unsatisfied I became. Here's the reason: infant baby boys clothes are absurd. I think the baby boy clothing execs got together and drafted all manly items into 3 categories: ferocious animals, professional sports, and power tools. Then, to decorate every manly item, they would randomly choose one thing from each category and make it into a completely ridiculous montage. Dinosaur playing football while holding a screwdriver - check. Alligator playing basketball next to a power drill - check. Lion playing baseball with a tiger holding a hammer - check. None of these images gave me any comfort. In fact, they're all a little terrifying and a tad bit insulting to my intelligence and the intelligence of my multi-celled fetus. Come on!! Do you really think an animal without opposable thumbs would even really like baseball? Please!

Let me qualify, I am aware that there are many, many child clothing retailers out there, but I do my shopping at Target, Craigslist, and the occasional Costco, and that's what was coming up in those locations. The kind of clothing that did not offer the calming reassurance I was looking for. Where were the unassuming plaids? The quiet stripes? The polite paisleys? Nowhere. Feeling bereft of any retailer support, I caved and picked up some Rottweilers-playing-rugby-while-flying-fighter-jet onesies and gave up the fight. Who am I to take on the infant boy retailers of America? I was just a puky mom who wanted a sweet little reminder that I wouldn't be pregnant forever and that my son would come into this world welcomed by cheer and warmth and not fangs and spark-plugs.

Then the Little Man was born, and some answers were offered in the labyrinth of differences between boys and girls clothes and their inspiration. When the Red Baron learned how to move/crawl/walk she usually did so around the existing furniture/obstructions/obstacles. If an infant can be dainty, she was it. But when the Little Man learned these same things he moved like a tank and usually did so as close to the obstacles as possible, like he needed some kind of challenge. As if simply moving straight and steady for the first time ever wasn't difficult enough, he needed to simultaneously scale the couch or straddle the cat. No obstacle was too great. Especially when it came to chasing his sister. Yes, the Red Baron was (and still is) the Little Man's Everest. She is the perfect moving target, and he's on the clock tower with a sniper rifle. The poor Red Baron, after months of being told to "watch out for the baby," "don't hurt the baby," and "be gentle with the baby," found out that this baby had been studying in utero with his little ninja snapping turtle friends while they dig a moat around a javelin field.

Turns out these retail execs know a thing or two. Little boys, even in their infancy, are so in tune with their primitive primeval selves, they can be strategic in obtaining their goal, as evidenced by their deft maneuvers and sharpened instincts when it comes to the chase. And if that can't be celebrated with a jujitsu sparring rhino in a hard hat, than I don't know anything.

So I'm on the look out for some girls clothes with street-fighting butterflies while building a throwing star factory, just to even the score a bit.

Exhibit A: Little Man's first attempt at a sock monkey half-nelson, 3 months old.

Oink - Public Service Announcement

2009-10-24T17:53:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I've got it. My husband has been calling it "THE DREADED SWINE FLU" for effect I think. And I just figured I wanted to share a little bit of info that I learned from the Dr.'s office, which I didn't know and found interesting:

- Swine flu is projected to hit about 40% of the population, with varying degrees of severity. The most severe (a projected 1%) will be hospitalized.

-The hospitalization will be because of respiratory distress. Which is so weird, because when I think of flu I think vomiting and digestive distress (I think I like that word combo). But this flu attacks the chest and you'll think you have a cold or strep, not the flu (at least I did).

-Hospitalizations usually happen within the first 48 hours of onset.

- The under 5 year old crowd (and over 65 year old crowd) tends to avoid the really bad symptoms, which is good and bad in a way. Good because if my kids had gotten as sick as I am, I would have gone completely insane (mental distress). But if they had shown more serious symptoms, other than a run-of-the-mill runny nose, I would have kept them isolated from society in efforts to keep it from spreading, instead of taking them to preschool, church, etc. Where they may have spread it to their other under 5 year old friends and their families. My kids didn't even have fevers, but the doctor is pretty sure I got sick from them.

- I was told under no circumstances to come in contact with anyone prego. So my prego friends, DON'T GET THIS. I've had fevers up to 103 this week, and have only been able to keep them down with high doses of tylenol and advil. I'm just not sure what a prego lady would be able to do in this situation.

-I sound like I smoke a pack-a-day still, which is pretty annoying. The coughing is pretty painful, and last night I woke myself up at 4am coughing to the point of gagging. I know, gross. But I just want people to know, because some cases aren't bad, and that's great. But this has the potential to get really uncomfortable, and I'm there.

-I've heard all kinds of estimations on incubation, and the doctor didn't even really know the period of contagion, etc. But she said that I needed to stay away from people until I could be fever-free for 24 hours without the use of medication, and so far that hasn't happened and I've been sick for 6 days.

-It's being spread by droplets, ie. coughing, sneezing, mucus, etc. and receiving those germs into your eyes, nose, mouth. So try to avoid touching your face at all costs. And wash your hands like crazy.

Anyway - just some info I've been meaning to put on here, but haven't really had a chance to. I'm in good hands and am feeling so loved. People are so good to me, I'm quite undeserving. I'm sure I'll be feeling 100% for the Halloween festivities. I have so much to write about lately - I promise to catch up soon! Until then - OINK!

Alternative Medicine

2009-10-20T14:34:00.001-07:00

I don't know what it is, but there's something going around these days, and there are several victims at my house.

My technology is sick. My printer won't print, my scanner won't scan and my computer won't compute. Actually it will compute, but it won't upload pictures, which is extremely annoying. Hence no really recent pictures up lately. Sorry folks. As soon as I can locate a professional to check it's vital signs, I'll have something fun up, I promise.

The kids are sick. Actually, they're ok, but the constant flow of greenish ooze from their noses and poor sleeping habits have me a little concerned. But I'm told the nose residue is the fall accessory of 2009 in the 2 yr.-7 yr. old crowd. If that's the case, my kids belong in Paris and Milan as this season's most fashion forward tots.

And finally, I'm sick. Actually, I'm not that bad, but my throat is on fire, and I sound like a-pack-a-day smoker. It's hard when the person who's supposed to take care of everyone else is not up to par. So the Red Baron is taking charge and is working as my own personal physician. Here is the transcript of my appointment with Dr. R. Baron:

Dr. R. Baron: Are you sick mom?

Me: Yes, I'm not feeling very well.

Dr. R. B.: Well, let's check your heart beat. Oh look, there's a baby in your stomach.

Me: Really? That's weird, I don't remember that being there (suddenly sucking in).

Dr. R. B.: Yeah, there she is. Her name is Mmmini.

Me: Ok, let's talk about my sore throat instead (feeling a little uncomfortable and self-conscious).

Dr. R. B.: Ok. And I need to check your eyes. And your mouth. And your shots.

Me: Where will I need shots?

Dr. R. B.: In the forehead, the heart and the baby.

Me: Ouch. That sounds serious.

Dr. R. B.: Shots only hurt for a minute. Then you can have a candy corn. (Which ironically might the reason why there's a Mmmini in the first place).

She wound up and gave me my shots; turns out stabs and shots are the same thing. What can I say? My Dr. is very thorough. She kissed it better and then started singing a Spanish song, while drumming on her brother's head. Did I mention she has a more homeopathic approach to medicine?

I'm relieved that my prognosis is so good. It turns out that Mmmini and I will be fine. It's nothing a candy corn won't fix. And luckily, I have a decent supply of the medicinal candy corn, so if you need any, you know where to come. I can be your dealer.

If you excuse me, I have to intervene on Dr. R. Baron from performing her first session of acupuncture on the Little Man. Stay well!!

Opposite Day

2009-10-15T16:43:00.000-07:00

Remember when you could just declare that it was opposite day? Like if someone said something you didn't approve of, for instance, "wear shoes" "it's time for dinner" "today is Tuesday," all you had to do was decide that it was opposite day and instantly in your mind you could wear sandals, eat dessert and it would be Friday. Am I alone in these elementary school antics? I hope not, because opposite day was the greatest, especially when there was a test to take in the winter while it was raining.

But in the effort to keep opposite day alive and well, let's just pretend that it's opposite day. No wait, let's make it opposite week.

And the Little Man is like this:

The Red Baron feels like this:

And they love each other like this:

But I'm going to level with you. It's been more like this:

Yes, that's the Little Man wearing a winter hat, stuffing Red Baron in the diaper trunk. She's not super happy about it. For a little guy, he's pretty spry. This week has been a little wearing, but I just have to remind myself that someday I'll miss the days where I could just sit back and watch Little Man stuff Red Baron into the diaper trunk. Probably when they're teenagers.

RIP Rest In Peace

2009-10-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

Usually when my kids hit their milestones there's fanfare and parades, facebook postings and phone calls to family, declaring the spectacular news:

"Red Baron used the potty!"

"Little Man just rolled over!"

"Red Baron stopped biting other children!"

"Little Man finally got hair!"

We just passed another milestone, but not the "national-moment-of-silence" kind. No, this isn't a really celebratory milestone. It's the kind that actually makes my quality of life drastically plummet. I approach this milestone with the weight of a person burying a loved one. Yes, it is this day I officially say good bye to my dear friend, the Red Baron's Afternoon Nap (let's call it "Reban").

I have had hard time letting go of this friend. In fact, Reban left several weeks ago. But I've been in denial. Reban needed to get some air and hasn't been back since.

At first, I wasn't alarmed. Reban probably just lost track of time, I thought.

That Reban! I'm sure Reban got distracted in the magazine rack at Safeway. She'll be waltzing through that door any moment now full of apologies, I continued.

But nothing happened. No phone calls, no emails. The silence of the space that Reban left in my home was filled with the screams of over-exhausted toddlers.

That's when I got scared. Phone calls to the pediatricians office and enquiries to the mommy websites didn't turn up any helpful leads. What if Reban was pinned in a ditch, isolated and obscured from the search parties a few meager feet away? No, I had to keep searching; I was Reban's only hope (or rather, Reban was my only hope). So I waited. And waited some more. But nothing. It was like that time I got stood up by a date, minus the hair spray and lipstick. Empty waiting and ticking of clocks. Except I knew Reban would never stand me up. No, Reban and I knew each other. Reban was the one who saved me from sure institutionalization and mental evaluations. No, Reban wouldn't leave me hanging. Not during toddlerhood. Not MY Reban.

After some time passed many said "Reban is gone, it's time to stop waiting and move on with your life. Go to the zoo or something." But I refused. I refused to believe that this thing of beauty, these moments of solitary tranquility and mental breathing were all just the charade of some one-sided relationship. That I didn't mean as much to Reban as Reban meant to me. But that was precisely the situation. And it hurt.

It was during these throws of desperation when I heard a knock at the door. Jilted, I answered it and in walked Parental Guided Quiet Time ("PGQT" doesn't work, so let's call it "Parry"). Parry entered, with a sippy cup full of milk and a bag full of library books and single-handedly filled the gap that was left by Reban. The baby gate closed behind Parry and with these tools of distraction, I was released from duty and alarming quiet blanketed my precious afternoon. And just like that, tranquility was restored once more.

Don't get me wrong, I still miss Reban. But the time has come to say good bye. So good bye dear friend. You're in a better place now. LONG LIVE PARRY (please)!

Red Baron (7 mos.), Monk the Monkey and Reban during happier times.

Nowhere To Hide

2009-10-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever looked over while getting undressed and seen the totally unimpressed face of your pet?

Yeah, me neither. But I think I'll work out anyway.

Farewell Queen of Awkward

2009-10-04T20:18:00.000-07:00

I'm the first to admit it: I am the queen of awkward. I'm the friend that goes in for the hug, when you are going in for the handshake. In fact, I go in for the hug when people aren't even wanting to shake hands. What can I say? I'm a hugger. It's something I'm coming to terms with and learning how to read social cues. I also forget names quickly, which is understandable for lighter associations, but not for people I've known my whole life, extended family members, etc. Yeah, pretty awkward. I've grown pretty attached to my title Queen Awkward. Which is why it is with great surprise I relinquish it, because this week I met three people that I think deserve my crown. And there's nothing more awkward than a three-way tie, am I right?

It all started with the piano tuner. He seemed pretty nice, and played some nice jazzy chop sticks, and I thought "I like this guy." Somehow our discussion rambled toward the two no-no subjects: politics and religion. I normally don't go near these emotionally charged topics, but I figured "Hey, he plays jazzy chop-sticks, how bad can this get?" Famous last words. Turns out he is a conservative southern Baptist and I am a liberal member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. But again, I thought to myself "Pieface, you're both adults, there's no reason for this to be anything but two mature adults discussing their backgrounds." But the discussion reached the point of no return when he said that I "seemed too well-educated to be Mormon" among other awkward accusations. Sure, it was all delivered in the nicest possible way, the way that you would picture a guy who played jazzy chopsticks to say it. But by the time he left, I was mentally exhausted. I'm happy that I stuck to my guns on being respectful versus his more aggressive approach, but HELLO! Are you really attacking my politics and religion, while you tune the piano and PLAY JAZZY CHOP STICKS? In MY house? In front of MY kids? AWKWARD!

Maybe you should just get back to tuning the piano.

Several days later I rode my bike to the grocery store with my kids in the bike trailer. After I packed everyone back into the trailer, I turned to put my cart into the little cart shelter, and in the 7 seconds that I wasn't by my kids' side a woman ran up to them with her hand on her heart, looking quite frantic.

Me: "....Hello....?"

Her: "Did you just go shopping while your kids waited outside in the bike cart?"

Me: "Ummm, no. Didn't you see me? I was just returning my cart," pointing to the cart shelter about 10 feet away from my bike.

Her: "Are you sure?"

Me: (getting on my bike) "Uh ... yup" (riding away).

Her: "Oh, because I was sure that someone had just left these adorable little children on the street, and I just didn't know what to do blah...blah....."

What the? I turn my back for approximately 7 seconds and this stranger is ready to call social services. AWKWARD!!

Fast forward to yesterday. I'm at the playground and this woman I don't know looks at me and asks in astonishment "Wow. You're a young mom. Like a really young mom. How old are you?" I--again--being the mature adult that I am, said "30" and resisted the cheerleader-in-trouble-with-a-married-sugar-daddy-in-the-State-Senate-and-you're-old-like-really-old, how-old-are-you? fictitious reply. Because, remember, I'M MATURE DANG IT!!!

So kudos to you Bible-thumping-piano-tuner, strange-grocery-store-social-services-lady and super-nosy-ageist-mom. You put my awkward hug with what's-his-name older ex-coworker while shopping at Ikea to shame! If you ask me, you all need a good hug!

Turns out the awkward hugging problem is genetic.

* Jazzy Chop Stick mentions: 4

Something Is Wrong With My Phone

2009-10-01T14:01:00.000-07:00

I feel like I owe a lot of people a lot of phone calls lately.

Sorry folks. My phone. It's been really weird lately. I promise to catch up soon.

Pieface Origins

2009-09-27T20:55:00.001-07:00

I feel like it's time for me to disclose the origins of Pieface.

It was the fall of 1985. I was 6 years old and in grade one (aka I'm Canadian). I loved school, but my favorite part was to wander around the playground, stirring up action. You know the elementary school type action: pushing kids into the rope pit, pretending to know how to play street hockey and making the boys let me play, chasing anyone that would run in front of me, etc. Nothing malicious or destructive, just active and busy. And as I remember it, I was kind of a lone wolf. Not that I didn't have friends, but being only 6, I was completely ignorant that you were supposed to have a posse and didn't know that in being alone you were indeed lonely. I think that's a learned trait.

It was during one of those recess rants that my path crossed a certain boy, let's call him Ronald (in the name of protecting the not-so-innocent). Ronald was also stirring up the pot and to be honest, I can't remember what transpired, but I must have done something to really get his goat because the next thing that happened has etched itself into my memory ever since. He looked at me for awhile, and yelled at the top of his lungs "Your face looks like a pie!! You're a PIEFACE!!" and ran off like a scared little school girl (ironic). I suppose a posse would have been useful right here.

I just stood there in shock. I quickly looked around, expecting to see someone right behind me smeared with blueberries or maybe a fancy lattice dough pattern tattoo. But no. I was the only one there. I remember feeling my face get really hot. The bell rang and I went back into the class room, only thinking one thing: is looking like a pie a bad thing? Because if it is, Ronald better run fast because he doesn't know what he was dealing with. I knew how to be scrappy because I have 3 older brothers and they were big (ages 8,10,11). We went to different elementary schools at the time, but I figured this worked to my tactical advantage. Ronald wouldn't know what to do when I showed up to school with my very own cavalry. Plus I had a little sister who was 4 at the time, who could scream louder than anyone I ever knew, so if the boys couldn't finish the job, than surely she could do some damage. And when I say "finish the job" and "damage" I mean give him a rub-burn on his forearm or any other fiendish acts my siblings had in their arsenal.

By the time I got home and sat down for dinner my bravado was completely depleted. Who was I kidding? Someone out there thought my face looked like a pie, and even my 6-year old psyche knew that this was not a high rung on the ladder of social acceptability. In fact, it was like the gum on the bottom of the shoe of the kid that was trying to crawl up the ladder in his double leg casts. My dad noticed that something was wrong and asked me what happened at school. As I told everyone the story, tears started sliding down my cheeks and by the end of it I was sobbing the words "heeeee...... c-c-c-called me... PIEFACE!" completely devastated. The table was silent. I regained my composure, expecting the war-cry and call to arms that would inevitably ensue.

It didn't.

The pause lasted longer than I expected. Then there was a muffled snort. Then heavy breathing, the kind that someone labors through to keep themselves from bursting out in hysterics. Then came the hysterics. My dad, bless his itty-bitty character-building little heart, said "well....he.... might be onto something." And at this point the whole table erupted. I would like to think that maybe I saw the humor in this funny little scene as well, but I'm sure at this point I unleashed my elbow hits to my brothers' ribs instead. Hey, don't judge, I was 6.

So my family started calling me Pieface (and "Evil Elbow"). I hated it at first. But this story has become part of our family legend and as I have heard this story re-told over and over again, I learned the important lesson that to laugh at yourself is healing, even when things are hard to laugh at. This story also reminds me that deep down I still have a feisty, independent, taking-matters-into-her-own-hands little girl is ready to throw some elbows for her cause. And I like that. So I wear my Pieface proudly, for everyone to see. Because, in my experience, very few people can say no to pie.

As for Ronald, he never met Pieface on the playground ever again. He may have had some run-ins with Evil Elbow but my memory is a little fuzzy on those events (in the name of protecting the not-so-innocent).

* I have tried to scan a picture of the original 6 year old Pieface, to accompany this post, but have had very little luck. I promise to produce photographic evidence and we can take a poll on whether you too think that Ronald really was on to something.

Wife of the Year

2009-09-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

So, I had a couple extra minutes the other day, and thought "Pieface, you should do something nice for the man in your life." See, he was having a hard day and everything seemed a little bleak. And I know that when I have a hard day, a little extra attention, a thoughtful gesture, a reassuring word or a fully cooked ham is all I need to get me through the tough moments. The next problem would be what do to? What could help his mood and lift his spirit? Should I make him something? Would he like a new outfit? How about if I send him out of the house with a book and "free time?" My brain came up with all these really fantastic answers and all these incredible ideas, but I realized they were all things that I wanted and not what HE would want.

And finally it dawned on me. The perfect, most excellent thing I could do for him, and it was shockingly simple.

So, I shaved my legs.

I don’t want you, dear Pieface reader, to think that I take my hygiene lightly or that I’m not a fan of shaved legs because that would be false. I’m a huge fan of shaved legs, and love the feeling and look of them immensely. My problem is that they require some time and effort which are in short supply these days (what with my new blogging responsibilities and all). Also, with the turning of seasons, and the pants being dusted off and pulled to the front of the closet again, shaved legs seem as useful as a calculator watch (don’t tell me you have forgotten all about the calculator watch!). In fact, unshaven legs are very useful in providing that extra layer of heat padding for those especially brisk days. Who in their right mind wouldn't want an extra layer of heat padding? Sounds fantastic, doesn't it? But this perspective isn't quite the view the man in my life takes. It's not that he wants me to be cold or anything ridiculous like that. Nor does he even really care if my legs are shaved or not (or that he really has a choice in the matter). I just know that it's something that I can do, like a nice little gesture to show him:

"Hey you.. yeah, you in the back, next to the Doritos... I know you care about this, and even though I don't really care about it, I care about it today because you care about it."

So there you have it. Shaved legs.

Don't say I never did anything for you, honey!

I Hope That This Never Happens To You

2009-09-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

You know the feeling when you find a fantastically priced house in the perfect neighborhood, with all the right schools and the gorgeous parks? It's like you've hit the jackpot. But they never tell you about that one strange neighbor .... with a problem... until it's way. too. late.

It all started like any other quiet, stay-at-home evening in the Finnegan household.

A family dinner,

Mrs. Finnegan and little Fanny watching Battlestar Galactica,

and Mr. Finnegan and young Barkley doing some sudoku,

but they couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

It was as though they were being watched somehow.

"...RUN FANNY!...."

"...Mommy...?"

They tried to escape, but they were really no match.

A criminal investigation was conducted where a suspicious piece of downy hair was found with a trace of tuna fish residue. The authorities haven't been able to question the Finnegan's neighbor, Crazy Eye Mishi, who coincidentally didn't report in for duty at her job down by the docks that night. Neither the Finnegans, nor Crazy Eye, were ever seen or heard from again.

*No dolls were harmed in the staging of this post.

The Red Baron's First Solo Flight

2009-09-17T14:37:00.000-07:00

The Red Baron has officially entered the system and had her first day of preschool (coincidentally on Tuesday, aka my 30th birthday). Never in the history of preschool students has there been a kid with higher expectations and anticipation. She has been asking to go to preschool since she turned 2 years old (I didn't start taking it personally for a good 6 months) and would practice leaving to go to preschool on a daily basis. We found out she got into our favorite preschool in June, and she has asked me a minimum of 4 times a day since "can I PLEASE go to preschool today?" like it was something I was willfully withholding from her.

And preschool has come at a high price too - the toll being that she had to be potty trained. Anna used her iron will in this instance and was so determined to go to preschool come hell or high urine, that she made the potty training happen on her own. Well, that and a jar of jelly beans, but since they're only 4 calories each we don't really count them.

Next came the outfit, and most importantly a backpack. I'm embarrassed to say that I shopped in more stores for Anna's backpack for preschool than I did for my own wedding dress. We made her special hair-band, bought glowing Tinkerbell shoes, searched Craigslist for the best "first day of preschool outfit" (my wallet has a moral dilemma against buying new clothes for my kids other than at Target) and performed what we hope to be an annual back to school fashion show the night before the big day. I was exhausted by the whole preschool ordeal and kept having preschool-related nightmares and found myself gazing into space wondering how healthy the other kid's snacks will be, what might happen if she kills the class guinea pig (by accident of course) and other equally important and meaningful thoughts.

So the day came and after tiring her completely by photographs, we all took her to school. Since she's never been in daycare before, I was a little anxious how she would handle our first parting. She walked in, found her cubby and turned and said, "Ok, bye guys." and started painting. Chad turned to me and said, "Did you hear that?" and I was in total shock. My baby just left ME at preschool like it was no big deal. The teachers handed us a little parting gift (complete with tear-inducing poem and Kleenex) and we were suddenly back in the car, completely dejected, relieved and stunned.

I looked in the back seat to find the Little Man, having lost his playmate and best friend for the morning, looking like this:

She could have had at least cried for a minute or shed a small tear, right? But she was nothing but excited and ready to tell everyone who the real boss was and that these "teachers" were merely ornamental in function and that the buck stops with her, as we heard her telling the teachers it wasn't time to clean up, she wasn't finished with her water colors yet. I have to say, hearing that interchange helped me leave a little less sad.

When I picked her up after, she was so sad to leave preschool. She looked at me and her whole body deflated as if to say, "Really? You again?" A trip to Burgerville for a celebratory berry smoothie solved that problem, and she's been wearing her backpack ever since.

The Proud Dada

A Very Proud Pieface

Getting Into the Birthday Spirit

2009-09-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

In our house, birthdays are celebrated like Hanukkah (for the record we're not Jewish) - it's long lasting, filled with fun and total disregard for the suggested daily caloric intake. And this birthday was no exception. It all started with a meeting Chad had with a new client, a karaoke joint called "Voice Box" downtown on last Friday night. He suggested that I bring the kids down at about 7:15 to do some good old fashioned family karaoke. You would think that the odd client meeting time (what client is meeting you on Friday night?), or overly specific arrival time would have tipped me off, but if Chad knows one thing about me it's that when talking karaoke I don't ask questions, I just show up with my game face on. So I'm heading into the Voice Box and as he's giving me a quick little mini-tour, I pass by this room, and all of these people jump up and yell "SURPRISE!" which made me almost throw up in my mouth. My poor Little Man, who was on my hip at the moment, completely froze in place and his inner-thigh muscles didn't let go of my side for about a half hour after the initial surprise. After assessing that my toddler wasn't going into cardiac arrest, my first thought was "how nice of Chad's client to let him throw me a surprise party." That is how convinced I was at his story. It took some time, but finally I realized that this party was thrown under this "client" guise.

This is the same guy who shows me my Christmas presents every year weeks in advance. How did he pull this off? Then I remembered a conversation that we had a while back, where we jointly decided not to have a big birthday parties for each other this year, because of schedule, budget, etc. I remember agreeing, but feeling a little disappointed because I like me a good partay! I realized that Chad was paying close attention AND listening to my disappointment, and as a result he threw me a surprise party, doing one of my favorite things - KARAOKE. Too many highlights to list, but two stand-out performances were: The Red Baron doing the worm along the floor under the disco lights, and the Little Man singing back-up for about a solid hour, because I couldn't wrestle the second microphone from his sticky little hands. And of course Chad's performance of "Sweet Child of Mine" brings a tear to my eye, as it always does. It was a great night, and I've been thinking about it ever since. Thanks folks for letting me monopolize the microphone and for putting up with my performance starved family.

My man can SANG! Little Man and Red Baron waiting patiently to have a turn doing "yoky."

Can you feel it? Sure you can.

If it's possible, it gets better. My other birthday present was given yesterday (Tuesday - my official birthday) and is a FREE DAY where I get to LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT KIDS and will return to a clean house, all by the heroic efforts of my husband. This is epic. Which proves that Chad was listening to me when I said "You know the best present would be 3 hours by myself with 50$" (a hint I dropped several months ago). I suppose I've been priming the birthday pump for quite a while.

To recap - I got a night of sweet karaoke tunes, a free day all to myself and a husband that listens, which is probably the best birthday gift of all. Which also means that this birthday is stretching to Saturday (my free day). So HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!! Mazel Tov!!

Mental Organizing

2009-09-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

My mind has had lots to think about lately, and I've been able to compartmentalize all my thoughts into specific categories. So here they are, in tidy, little, lists with labels and everything:

Category 1 - The Mundane

"That laundry pile is getting bigger and bigger. Oh well."

"I don't suppose that fridge will clean itself. Oh well."

"That kid probably needs a diaper change. Oh well."

Category 2 - The Trivial

"I wonder what's happening on Facebook right now?"

"Better check my email again."

"I wonder what's happening on Facebook right now?"

Category 3 - The Deep

"I was at the Twin Towers one month before 9/11."

"I took the bus to and from the Pentagon every morning and evening for 3.5 months during the summer of 2001."

"I became an American citizen on August 14th, 2001."

"It could have been me."

"It could have been any of us."

"It wasn't."

"This country was united then."

"This country isn't united now."

"Why do we have to have an enemy to unite?"

Category 4 - The Optimistic

"I hope things get better."

"Maybe I'll make cookies this afternoon."

"If I have to hear one more crazy loud-mouth verbally spew about health care, I'm moving to Canada."

"Chad can clean the fridge."

I'm really good at hypothetical/philosophical/metaphorical organizing. My mind is really the only part of me that does that (organize). Some of my best mental organizing skills were learned by the GOP during the recent Presidential elections. If we could all put our thoughts/actions into the "The Terrorists Win" category or the "The Terrorists Lose" category, we can't really go wrong.

For example, "I want to create a training camp in my basement." (Terrorists Win)

"I want to get along with my neighbor." (Terrorists Lose)

It's really easy. So, tonight as you are thinking your mundane, trivial, deep and optimistic thoughts, let it all lead you to where the Terrorists will lose the most. As for me, I'm going to a karaoke joint, because I'm pretty sure they would HATE that.

A Lesson from Hemingway

2009-09-09T22:51:00.000-07:00

A new favorite lately is listening to Writer's Corner on NPR, where I recently heard that Hemingway once wrote a story in 6 words. It reads: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." and is acclaimed as being one of his greatest works. I have never been concise in my writing and I'm even worse in my speech, but if I were to write the story of today in few words, it would probably go something like this:

"One dozen Krispy Cremes, totally inadequate."

"Where are you now Super Nanny?"

"I'll give you something to scream about."

Forgive me on the superfluous word on the last one. Today was one of those days. Cheers to tomorrow, because it couldn't get any louder than today.

Long Live the Skinny Hero!

2009-09-08T20:10:00.000-07:00

I didn't go to the spa or do anything luxurious. I gave blood on a Red Cross bus and had a GREAT time! Really. But I should explain, because let's be honest, it's a little weird to be so enthused about giving blood, and it's not something I've ever been very eager to do. Until now, that is.

Yesterday was a great holiday, except that holidays ruin your inner calendar. It felt like Saturday, which produced a REALLY big nap right in the middle of the afternoon, which in turn ruined my night's sleep. Between 10:30 pm and midnight I had gone to the grocery store, switched the car seats, cleaned the kitchen, made Chad's lunch, flipped the laundry, and unfortunately, was still bright eyed and bushy tailed.

So, I turned to my old loyal friend Facebook to entertain and tucker me out. Facebook and I understand each other. It's a selfish relationship really, but Facebook doesn't mind. She feeds my need for social interaction, busy-bodying, and internet snooping and doesn't ask anything in return. I like that. She's like your favorite Aunt; the one that you tell your quasi-secrets to and you think she's not going to tell them to anyone, and instead she tells them to everyone. But you don't get annoyed at her because she bakes you a cake with pictures of weddings and other people's babies, and funny sayings that don't mean anything, and all is forgiven. You can't help but forgive her and like her.

So I'm with my friend Facebook, and I get instant messaged by my wonderful neighbor. Before I know it, I've committed to going to a 4:30 appointment to donate blood. She's a social marketing genius and set up this smoke screen of free babysitting (provided by her wonderful daughter) and cookies in order to get me in her charity trap. Knowing that those are my two greatest needs these days, she went for the kill. I'm lucky she didn't ask for a kidney or a baby for the black market, because with the promise of those two things I probably would have given in to just about anything. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to demand a stack of People Magazines, which she quickly conceded to, and I was committed. In blood.

I have to admit - after a long night of poor to no sleep, giving blood was not at the top of my busy list today. But dutifully I went.

As I'm sitting down to give my medical history, the wonderful nurse says to me "You're a hero today. If you do this, you will save 3 lives." Now, I'm used to saving lives, but it's the same two lives, over and over again. Traffic, choking, bath-time, intussusception, wrestle mania - you name it. My kids are constantly on the track leading them to mortal danger, and sometimes I'm the only thing standing in their way. So saving 3 mystery lives was quite novel to me. Next the wonderful nurse asks me my weight by guessing. Usually this doesn't go my way. But her words are etched in my mind, and might make an appearance on my tombstone "you're what ... 135?" So now I'm a hero AND 135 pounds? You have got to be kidding me!! Could this day get any BETTER? My brain was reeling so much from hearing such a low number that I made the mistake of correcting her!! WHY ON EARTH DID I DO THAT? I could have reveled in the idea that someone thought me so slender, and who knows, maybe even convinced myself that it was true and start telling my dear friend Facebook all about it.

People magazines in hand, I float into the Red Cross bus on cloud nine, to give life-saving nectar to those who really need it, aka I'm a hero. My phlebotomist turns out to be this HUGE guy, who starts to tease me, by saying "Do me a favor: grab a ziplock bag and stick yourself will ya?" at which I start laughing long and hard. No one is going to ruin this mood of mine - didn't he hear? I'm a skinny hero. My obnoxious laughter put him in a better mood and he proceeded to prep and stick my arm with real caution. I hardly felt a thing, and sat pumping my blood into a bag, reading deliciously about John and Kate plus 8 (I couldn't help it - it's like a train wreck or anything with Pauly Shore - you just have to see it to believe it) and before I know it they said I'm done and wrap up my arm.

Next came the cookies: morsels of peanut-buttery, chocolate-fudgy goodness (there were oatmeal raisin cookies, but I leave those for the diabetics). Was that it? I'll give blood every week if this is how it goes down.

So please people - be a skinny hero. It's awesome. I would know.

Getting ready for the weekend

2009-09-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

Spent the day cleaning the house and training the domestic help. So draining.

The Red Baron In All Her Fineness

2009-09-01T15:15:00.001-07:00

The ruling-class never really gets much privacy. However, she doesn't seem to mind. This is where she does her best work.

Now this picture begs the question - is it emotionally abusive to post a picture of your child learning to potty-train on the Internet? There's nothing really scandalous about it, except for the hint of toilet paper holder, but is this crossing a line of decency? If it is, I truly apologize, and I vow to send my children to the best therapist my husband's money can buy. But until the results of this unofficial pole are tallied (and please don't feel obligated to respond in anyway), we'll just enjoy her Highness' latest legislation and call it good.

Why Didn't I Do This Before?

2009-08-31T16:03:00.000-07:00

Is there such thing as blogger's remorse? Because I think I experienced it last night. We were celebrating my first blog posting, when all of the sudden I felt like maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Like maybe I offended someone with the women's facial hair comment, or insulted my photographer/ex-pat/foodie/supermom friends (I stalk your blogs regularly/anonymously). I was ready to delete and forget this whole blogging thing ever happened, when my husband reassured me with a few magic words, which only he can really deliver:

"Honey, I insult people all the time, and things are working out just fine for me." He said with a kind of shrug of the shoulders and raise of the eyebrows.

Ladies and Gentlemen - I present my husband! I don't know if it was the adrenaline crash after my first actual posting (this is serious stuff I will remind you - like open-heart surgery or playing monopoly) or the late hour, but oddly it made me feel a lot better. But there was still this nagging feeling and I wondered if I'll survive this pressure cooker world of blogging (insert forlorn chime music here).

So I get up this morning, after the yells of "MAMA, I'M REEEEAAADDDDYYY!" were too hard to ignore any longer, and checked my email, and there they were. Wonderful comments and support from actual people. All of the sudden I have thoughts of being a published writer, family comedian, a blogging super-model, and I'm feeling the love. And all of this from the privacy of my Christmas pajamas and yesterday's mascara. I feel like I should place my hand on a cyber-Bible and take a blogging oath to "Do my duty in a bloggy kind of way, so help me God." Because friends, I'm drinking the Koolaid and I like it!! I'm afraid you've got me from here on out. This is just too much fun. And that's what I'm all about.

Find a picture below of my two in-house wake-up callers; The Red Baron on the left and The Little Man on the right.

Oh How the Mighty Have Fallen

2009-08-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

So. Here I am. Blogging. It's a mixture of surprise and indifference. I never swore I would never blog (dig the double negatives there). I'm not inclined to be that decisive or emotional about something like blogging. I just never thought I was the blogging type. You know the blogging types I'm talking about: the foodies, an ex-pat, a photographer, a Supermom with craft ideas and recipes that will increase your child's IQ. That is all blog-worthy content. Where would I fit in world like that?

The indifference comes in because I'm starting to feel like a technology dinosaur. I've started feeling like I'm one of the last ones hanging on in the hurricane of electronic progress, standing on the porch, shaking my fist at the wind, yelling things about "going down with the ship" etc. You know what I'm talking about - the old lady with a thin mask of facial hair and thick desire to not be budged. Things are going so fast, it's time to end the resistance.

I have decided that blogging gives me a tiny little voice and records a message from me to the whole universe out there, and let's be honest: that's kind of fun. And I'm all about fun. So here we go universe, check me out! I'm sure you're as surprised and indifferent as I am.