Not that you asked. But you're here, right?

1) Musical Sit and Spins are really just better as regular Sit and Spins.

2) Shoving presents at my children to open up just feels funny. They really don't care. They want to play with the first two they opened.

3) When did the holidays become something we have to get through?

4) Triscuits and wheat thins. Festive, they are not. But I feel permitted to eat them in ridiculous quantities from December 21st to December 26th.

5) And cheese. Large, luscious blocks of high-fat cheese. I want to cry just thinking about it.

6) Watching my oldest get excited about this Christmas is one of the neatest things I've experienced as a Mom.

7) Cooking for a house full of people makes me happy.

8) Cooking white asparagus and purple potatoes makes me feel like a foodie when I'm really not. I just watch Top Chef.

9) Making bread pudding in a crockpot. Not a good idea.

10) Making sugar cookies with my peanut for Santa and his reindeer. The most fun ever.

11) Edaville Railroad still makes me feel like a kid.

This one is even funnier!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

In My Free Time

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

The Good, The Bad, and The Gnarly

The Good: Beautiful, sunshiney days filled with soft sand between our toes, pushes on swings from Gampy (the kids I mean, I keep getting stuck in the toddler swings) and warm evenings without a jacket and the window all the way down. The best visit.

The Bad: Seriously cantankerous kids on an airplane. One with an ear infection we don't yet know about. The other with just an attitude problem. Oh. And 65 really agitated fellow travelers prone to giving us a weak smile and then an eye roll they think we don't see.

Gnarly: The boozed-up 'lady' in line next to us as we embark, on the phone with her ever-lucky friend, citing specific details as to why she missed her first flight. Clues: new diagnosis of constipation. Chowing of several prunes for breakfast. Followed by airport hamburger (Danger Will Robinson!). Followed by copious imbibement of vodka. Followed by quality time in a seated position and one missed flight. Happy Trails!

Katie's Got A Brand New Bag!

It's time to go shopping, right?



Please check out this site from one of my very bestest friends, Katie Pye. She has launched a purse and belt design business, and you'll see from the page how very talented she is.

Personally, I'm a fan of the Florence bag, brown with large pink ribbon. I was very surprised to see how reasonably priced her bags are too, especially when you see the high-quality fabrics she uses. But, Kate's a smart whipper-snapper and she has eliminated the middle-man. Her wares are hand-stitched in her home and she's using all her business savvy to create, design and launch her very own business. So cool, Katie. So friggin' cool.

Jared: this is my hint. I like the brown bag with the large pink ribbon. It's called the Florence. You can purchase it here.

Happy Browsing and Happy Shopping!

Because I'm An Eight Year Old Sometimes

The kid was trying to show his Mom at work. Which happens to be at Home Depot, in the shovel department. But that kinda ruins it for me.

Tee Hee.

MamaSteph!

If you live on the South Shore and you're a Mom, you probably know MamaSteph. In our home, she's legendary. These photos are from this summer (obviously, I mean I do indeed sweat in sweaters, but I don't rock a tank top in November) and it was probably our 4th time to see her. We've kinda become groupies.

Try and picture it: Scituate Library. Vera Bradley diaper bags litter the floor, Volvo keys in side pockets, babies and toddlers adorned in Gymboree outfits, breasts feeding babies underneath boutique blouses (it's Scituate, not tapestry-blanketed Brookline...I don't stereotype at all though), and parents and children, fixated on one very imporant woman: Mama Steph.

She has a guitar. Long, silver hair (I'm going to bet that the idea of coloring her hair is completely foreign to her), printed batik skirt and tank top. Here is my notion of Mama Steph: she eats organic vegetables that she grows, natch, in her backyard. She eats whole foods, she does serious yoga. She is happy. She sings constantly, finding rhymes about anything. She sang songs to her children about maple syrup, about tennis shoe laces ("and you can turn them into all kinds of funny faces!"), about the way the (organic) cucumber is the perfect crunch for the perfect lunch! She sings like a child of the 60's and really does just put all of us in a trance.

For awhile this summer, I utilized, with great success, the MamaSteph Behavior Management System. When the toddler got a bit naughty, I pulled MamaSteph out of my pocket with fantastic results.

"Do you think MamaSteph would like to see you do that?

What would MamaSteph say?

Do you think MamaSteph would like to see you push Sissy like that?"

It was way too easy.

But the summer faded and MamaSteph took some time off so I was back to positive framing and specific behavioral phrase and all the other bs that we use in our house.
This Friday, however, we returned.

Back to the library with now, Ann Taylor sweater sets, Dansko clogs, baby carriers and lined Crocs. Back to singing about the library (she has a whole song about the library...can you imagine?), Doogie and Finn (her puppies, and of course they have an older brother named Angus) and her stuffed animals (featured in the pics) Cozy and Cinnamon. It was back to rhyming about the alphabet and the Muffin Man (he lives on Drory Lane-O), and those five funny monkeys.

I'm pretty sure my kids like her. They both rocked side to side and my oldest showcased shy grins that said "That is MamaSteph! Right in front of me!", but I have to wonder: am I there for them? Or me?

Yes, I said "Sweet Chariot"....

Someone is coming to drive my car home tonight. Her car, actually. She bought in Monday night, the same night we brought home our new (friggin' sweet!) ride. It's funny, because although I've bitched and moaned a fair bit about this car, the truth is that it was the best car I've ever owned.

Perhaps it was because I bought it on my own, after a nasty split from my first love. Maybe it was because it marked a whole new beginning for me, and that I was finally in the driver's seat in every way and didn't need to worry about towing around an extra 165 pounds of dead weight.


It also helped me pursue the makeup bit in that it could store a director's chair and 4 bags of makeup. It got me to Florida safely, caravaning behind my stepdad who had come to rescue me. It was great on gas. It was fun to drive. It was power everything.

It was mine.

Seven years later my life is so different. Husband, children, home, hearth. The car has been like a reliable old friend, one who would show up at any hour if I needed her. We took our first child home in that car, the ride a mother never forgets. She's shuttled us around on long Sunday drives with coffee stops and sippy cups and baby bottles and potty breaks. She's taken a beating with stains of every nature and a few bumps here and there.

So yes, she's a car. And out with the old and in with the new, right?

I guess so.

Adieu, sweet chariot. Thanks for the ride.

Loving This

UM.

Susan Powter has posted my video (below) to HER blog.

I know.

Me and Susan P

You probably should read the previous post if you haven't been here in a few days. Major happs.

That said, this could be one of the most horrifyingly funny and embarassing things ever. Just because. I think you'll understand.

Disclaimer: overuse of the words 'apparently' and 'SP!' was completely out of my control. I was high on the power of the Powter.

ps, Jared/Mower slide is completely out of order. It's supposed to be at the end of the video, but you'll notice that the music of the mower blesses the entire video.

Houston, We Have A Stalker

Most of you know that I read Susan Powter's blog. Obsessively. She's kinda crazy, too. Extreme. Intense. Self-indulgent.

But there is something about the blog that I just can't resist. It's all her craziness mixed up with good solid information about whole foods, or perhaps it's her nonstop makeup smudging. I don't know. I find her funny and irreverent. But not funny, belly laugh funny. I find her funny because I watch a ridiculous vlog and then can't wait to send it to my friends so they can laugh with me.

But, I'm getting away from the gestalt of this blog, today.

She called me. At home. On my phone. And we talked. (We=she talked. I listened and peppered in some stupid crap when I felt like I should have been participating).

And I videotaped it. My phone call with Crazy Susan Powter. So stay tuned.

(Dude, come on. I need to edit so I don't look like a complete asshat). But, I guess once you blog about a colonoscopy, a Susan Powter phone conference is child's play.

I Am A Culinary Shit-Show

I am the queen of self-deprecation. Self titled, yes, but I know myself pretty well. I'll beat you to the punch if there is something that you can rank on me for. Bad haircut? I'll say that I'm just recovering from a Flock of Seagulls moment. Booger in my nose? I'll say I'm packing away some extra protein for later. Food on my shirt? Same deal, just prepping for a snack. By the way, it's kinda impossible to find a shirt in my repetoire that does NOT have some sort of food item on it. This is why I like black.









It goes back a long way, actually. I was told by my biology teacher during a dissection that surgery would probably not be my profession. I'm a jump-in and start cutting and let's see what the hell happens, kinda girl. I used to make sundaes at Ben and Jerry's (like a meth addict running the meth clinic folks, not a good idea) and my boss watched me make one once. I was a flurry of scoop, whipped cream and toppings. There was shit everywhere. Really. There wasn't a dry inch on that counter. But, a beautiful sundae it was! He pulled me aside later and said this:









"Jen. You're a friggin' hurricane out there."









It's true.









I've been on a culinary mission lately too. Mix together my mom-role, my desire to create new and fun gluten free dishes, and my mission to force vegetables down our collective gullets and you've got a recipe for one messy friggin' kitchen. We took the kids to Haymarket in Boston last week and I fell in love with the romance of it. Lush and ripe fruits, hearty, earthy vegetables and surly folks hawking their wares lulled me into an altered state. Sure! I want two big bunches of asparagus even though I can only choke down about two stalks at a go. YES! I want a bag of baby spinach that can feed 4 families with (and will get narsty and funky in 3 days). Absosmurfly I want 12 red onions that I'll toss in January when they're green and not so fun on a Greek salad. OF COURSE I want a carton of figs. Carton. Of figs. Like, from a newton, kind of fig.









I've never eaten a fig that wasn't part of a newton. Have you? I did think about it.









-I'll make something magnificent and fabulous and goat chees-ey. No. I had an experience milking goats years ago and I kinda want to vomit when I smell it. Hands. On Teets. Dirty Goats. You feel me.









-I'll make something with pancetta (an excuse to eat bacon and sound fancy). No. I am not Giada and I don't have cute boobs like her with cute shirts and a show on Food Network. I don't even know if I'm saying pancetta right.




-I'll delight the culinary palates of my household with my OWN version of a Fig Newton.




Yes, yes, that was it. I'll make my own fig newtons! Screw Keebler! Screw TollHouse!









For reals: this is how I think.









To even up the ante I decided I would go all tree-huggery and make it a gluten free fig newton! Jesus! I'm brilliant.









Well, this is what it looked like after the gloves came off (literally and figuratively). Please notice the child-size dough roller. Really. It's from a kid's play cooking kit. It's for 3 year olds. I don't think Giada has one of those.

Suffice to say that at one point, I may have said, "Fudge it!" (but I didn't say that). My 'dough' was not sticking to my cutting board and my gluten-free flour wasn't doing the trick. So there it then was, plopped together like a big ol' hurricane sundae.

For the record, I made some kick-ass fig muffins and cookies. And check my banging apple crisp!

Oh Crap.

Now listen. You really have to have a sense of humor about this, pretty pretty please. Please don't worry that I have body dismorphic disorder. Or think that I'm judging any one else's hind-quarters. Because I really only care about mine.

But I had a horrifying experience the other day, jogging my jog (read: not really jogging at all. It could actually even be considered a hearty walk with a few skips thrown in now and then. An amble, if you will). I had on my Land's End Skorts. Have we talked about these? They are fantastical and comfy and wonderful and forgiving, all in one lycra-infused package of short-dom. They are, howevs, a bit small. Well can you blame me? The next size up were really way too big. So, do I go with a bit tighter or falling off me? Anyway.

I'm doing the jogging thing and I jog (humor me) past a teenage 'help our cheerleading squad!' car wash on the main drag of my town, so naturally I up my pace and pretend as if I do this ALL the time and I'm just prepping for my next 10K run. I start to slow my pace down when I get out of eyesight, and it just happens to be when I'm going by a dealership of some sort. With all windows. That I can see myself in.

No here's some key information before you jump all over me. I was the type of girl who, 30 pounds heavier, didn't really have a problem with cellulite. I was heavy, yes. But I exercised (what the hell, right? unfair, unfair, I call unfair) and was told by a few women that I looked better in a bathing suit than in clothing. I'm not sure what kind of compliment that is (if it's even a compliment) but I was not used to any sort of rippling or puckerage.

The baby-boom came and went and other than my SFAP (stomach from another planet, full zip code and demographical information available at your request) which was created not only from said beautiful baby but my friends, cheese and peanut butter.

Anyway, so I'm running past the window. And I see it. It's horrifying.

It's CIA.

Cellulite In Action.

I was actually tempted to stop running and start rubbing it like crazy, trying to see if that was really what I was looking at. But it was. And although it made me keep up my pace even when the car-washers had packed up and gone, it didn't stop me from a bowl of ice cream later that night.

And some cheese.

And some peanut butter.

Back on the Scene, Like a Sex Machine

Well, sort of. Not really. But I'm definitely back on the scene.

I'm back to work. Work that I get PAID for. In cash money. Don't get me wrong, I love the payment for my other full time work; kisses, giggles and tickle time. But cash works too....

So I'm thrust again into the working world. I forget during my 16 month full time stay at home gig that the logistics are what can be so harrowing. Backpacks for the girls, filled with appropriate changes of clothes, diapers, wipes and hats. Clothing laid out for the next day. That matches (sorry honey). Lunch for oldest with Celiac, snacks too....juice cups filled with desired juice to water ratio, reminder notes for Dad to completely cover the girls with copious amounts of sunscreen and oh...my stuff, too. Thankfully I don't do the drop off duty, Daddy has picked up that role and relishes his time with the girls in the morning to make them super-special-Daddy-breakfasts.

But me? I get to go....to the gym. The gym! A real gym! A gym withOUT the gym daycare lady hunting me down to report that one or both of my girls has: pooped her drawers, threw up, not been able to stop crying and has therefore thrown up, or is simply just NOT interested in letting mom work out for more than 14 minutes. (They would enter the cardio room and all the moms {not just me!} would duck and hide. Seriously. You could see moms all around just tuck their chins down and start to pray...'not me, please don't come for me...').

So, you can see the lusciousness in a gym experience all for myself. IPOD on, tunes a-blasty blast....(ps, have you listened to The Who's Eminence Front lately? Good Lord) and not having to worry about anything. OK, maybe I think for a minute about putting the weights back on the shelf or wiping down my machine.

Or how my posterior looks when I realize I'm stretching in front of a huge wall-sized mirror. (But not really).

I get shower time and dress (and makeup!) time without worrying about the toddler putting her toothbrush in the potty. Or the other toddler trying to 'reorganize' Daddy's shaving kit. I get to wear grown up nice work clothes. The only misstep was when I mistakenly used my mini-Febreze travel bottle for hair spray the other day. My hair didn't stay, but man was I ever fresh.

And you know, unless you've been home for a portion of time, you forget how this really feels. Most of the time when I was working I couldn't wait to get home, take off fancy mcbusiness wear and put on my comfies. I've been in comfies now for 16 months, and I needed me some Ann Taylor, stat.

So I get all purdied up with business shoes and concealer and I talk to grownups. All day! I talk about work stuff, home stuff, just....stuff. Stuff that comes from a part of my brain that was ready for the match strike again, ready to talk the talk and (with business shoes) walk the walk. So it's only part time. But it's my part time. And as soon as I walk out the door, the Mommy hat is on again and I'm humming Pop Goes the Weasel, anxious to get home to my girlies and get on my comfies.

Lie To Me. I Promise, I'll Believe (that these pants are too big and I need a smaller size)

As many of you know, I'm headed back to 'work' (like I haven't been working, right?) and I started this week. So there have been many things to juggle: daycare, logistics of dropoff and pickup, wardrobe issues (maternity t-shirts stained with many DNA samples are apparently not appropriate for work, I guess?), and the concept of a professional work environment. These are just the more obvious issues, but these changes have all hit AT ONCE. Not only am I thrust back into the work world, I haven't really had any time to prepare or adjust.

We've had houseguests for a few weeks now, and it's been the most wonderful part of our summer. I loves me a full house. The kids woke up without anyone (extra) here and didn't quite know what to do with themselves. They were stuck with just me. All that said, it's been a nonstop ride, and I hadn't had time to ease myself into it.

SO. Work consisted of three days this week and I started it off with one pair of shorts that fit and one pair of (very stained) capri pants. I knew that I had to shop, and fast. Target was not going to cut it this time (and I had checked the store and it was still tank top summertime fun) and I knew that bargain shopping for 5 hours wasn't going to happen either. I am a clearance-rack girl. I'll spend the time. I'll put in the effort to try on random pieces, then find other random pieces to go with them. I'll pride myself in spending $78 for 5 items.

Those days are gone, baby, gone.

I decided, after rummaging around a very discombobulated chain store with clothes strewn everywhere, that perhaps I should try something a bit more upscale. Don't get me wrong, I found a few cute pieces (read: crazy-ass clearance rack shopping) but I was growing tired from the hunt and the 19 year old salesgirl was totally giving me the stink-eye. Later at the checkout it was revealed that she was like, totally pissed because she worked a double and he's like totally asked her too many times and no one else will friggin' take the double shift so she's stuck picking up after everyone and doing the work that they should have done the day before and she hasn't even had time for a break and that is all I will write because we were all 19 once and famous for journalling our shit in front of strangers.

So. Like a moth to a flame, Ann Taylor and her friend Talbots, beckoned me forth. Yes, Ann Taylor. Yes, I will pay $28 for a camisole so my boobies aren't so obvious at school. Yes, Talbots, I will try most earnestly to not chuckle at a $168 handbag the size of my ankle in your clearance bin. Aside: the clearance racks at these stores are not even in the same league as the discount chains. They are where you can find either ridiculous steals or ridiculous excuses for clearance prices. Sorry, $70 for a pair of stretchy brown work pants on the clearance rack? I'd be mad, but you wrap up all my shit in that pretty paper and put a cute sticker on it to keep it all ensemble. Oh, and the vanity sizing, Ann Taylor Loft? I'm down. I know you're a bunch of big fat liars, but I'm down. And I'll put it all on the credit card, thankyouverymuch.

The salespeople really know their stuff. They can smell pokes like me as soon as I walk in. They know I'm desperate. They know I'm time-starved. They know I'll pay to get in, get served, and get the hell out. And they are right. It hit me, as I was leaving with a bag of tissue-wrapped goodies, that THIS was why people spent more at stores like this. It was easier. It was fun. And I was treated like a princess. "Can I get you another size?" "Would you like to try that in another color?" "Would you like me to watch the children while you go and get some alone time?"

Or, no, sorry, wrong fantasy.

It was a bit of a dreamy experience. It made the rest of the workweek all the more relaxed. Although I didn't wear my new digs this week (the new clothes are hanging in the closet like a shiny trophy though), I did feel ready for at least some of this change.

And I wore a really long shirt with my capris.

I'm Really Trying to Get It

This John Edwards thing has got me really puzzled.

One part of me really understands that every relationship, every marriage, is a complex web that is woven over time. The foundation you build, the habits you create, the words that you use....it's as personal as it gets. And really, who am I to question what happens in someone else's home? The privacy of someone else's kitchen table, when secrets are revealed and foundations crack and hope seeps out like a leaking faucet that no one can repair.

The truth for me, is that I know good people can do really horrible things. Good people with good hearts and good souls and all the best intentions sometimes really screw up, and sometimes with horrific consequences. The Edwards family is different from many families in that they have a public life, and therefore public highs and public lows. Can you imagine what this family is going through right now? If your father cheated on your mother and you knew about it, you had the choice to tell a friend, a neighbor, an aunt. Everyone knows their very personal business. Everyone knows that Daddy had a dalliance with some woman and it's plastered across every media outlet you can name. Everyone knows that he did it when your mother was going through chemotherapy.

Can you imagine John Edwards' pain? Can you imagine how he felt watching his vibrant wife, full of love and spirit, start to drift away before his eyes? Did he feel powerless? Was he so surrounded by the thoughts of her being taken from him that he just had to find some way to feel good again?

Did he just want to be around someone with full red cheeks and vigor and life?

Perhaps the pallor of cancer was too much for him to bear. Perhaps he's always been an adulterer. Perhaps he had the audacity to think that he wouldn't get caught.

I'm trying, you see...to really make this make sense in my mind. These are people who buried their first child together. Who raised a family together. Who built businesses and campaigns and still managed to stay happy and connected. It seems. How can this happen? How did this foundation crack? How did he do this?

There is a part of me, down under some layers, that just hates this guy. How dare he. Did he think the public was that stupid? He lied, over and over again. Did that make it better for her? For the kids? How does he explain it to them? Remember when she was diagnosed? Remember how he came back on the campaign trail because he publicly said that Elizabeth wanted him to? She didn't want him to abandon his dream? Did you kind of think he sucked a little then?

I did.

Good for you. Forge ahead. Leave your wife for weeks at a time. And while you're at it, sleep with some woman. A woman who you'll later say, brazenly, that you don't love. Is that supposed to be a relief for your wife? Your best friend? Your rock?

And now there is Elizabeth. A woman struggling to stay healthy. To stay bright and positive for her children who are watching their world slip away. To remind them that their father loves them very much, no matter what. Can you imagine having to tell your children how wonderful their father is after this? But I bet she does. She will keep her head low, I bet. She'll take care of those kids and hope that when the dust settles, she can start to rebuild her life, her foundation...perhaps next time with new bricks and mortar.

Update from the Menstrual Blogger

Yes, thank you. I'm okay. Sometimes I just rant in my head and I decided to do it on 'paper' this morning. Except it was very G-rated (in my head it isn't).





I like to hear the sound of water! Notsomuch when I realize it's a tenant in our backyard, rinsing out her animal crate. She was rinsing it for a reason.





I love good food! I don't like spending what seems to be a double-digit percentage of my day picking up scraps of it off my floor. Oh! The delight she has in tossing it on the floor! Ha-HA to you Mommy! Remember when you let me cry a bit this morning? What goes around comes around. Oh, and you missed some pear. Right there. Nope, right THERE. Next to the dehydrated macaroni you missed from last night, jackasssss.





I like other kids! I don't like sitting in a crowded doctor's office full of them. Nasty little varmits. Don't touch me, don't touch my children. But I'm glad your mom brought her magazine. I wouldn't want to interrupt her 'me-time'.


I love fresh laundry! I just don't like it when I forget I've washed it and I now have a washer-full of stinky foot.

Good Night!

What?

Today, I would like no tips. No suggestions. No demands, no requests. I would like to eat a meal without cottage cheese landing on my toe. I would like to drink coffee and put it down wherever the hell I'd like. I'd like to not imagine the worst, today.

I would love a nice hearty walk in silence. I would like to play my ipod at full blast without worrying that I'll miss a simmering toddler-brawl, or a sippy cup hitting the asphalt.

I would love to not feel pissy.

I would like to not be so moved by so many things. I would like China to publicly apologize for replacing the real singer in their opening ceremonies with someone prettier.

I would like to not care so much about things like that.

I would like to prepare my children for an outing without a full body wrestling match. I would like to change a diaper without having to use the restraint strap and various gadgets to keep someone from becoming apoplectic.

I would like to not have the pediatrician on speed dial, today.

I would like to be light and funny and carefree.

I would like to enjoy the sunshine and have it change me from the inside out.

Fence Me In

A mild but pesky anxiety disorder has been averted for the time being, thanks to this fence. It ain't fancy, and it ain't permanent, but it's mine.



We have a beautiful yard, really. Almost an acre of grass (the lush factor is dependent on the rain and when hubby has last mowed it) and a few fun hillish spots for Sam to run down at full throttle. Often I am with the babies one at a time, depending on nap schedules. The truth is that my trips outside with the both of them, pre-fence, have been terrifying.



I'm a worrywart. I know this. You know this. It's not going to change, really, yet it will ebb and flow with intensity over time. I will be less anxious when they 'know better' but I will always know that they won't really 'know better' until they are my age, and I know that I don't even know what I don't know. Are you with me?



All that said, there have been a few scary moments while I've double-babied it outside for playtime. Like, the baby wants to put pieces of broken glass in her mouth (thank you, previous owners, for shooting bottles in your backyard....saaaweeeet! May I suggest Arkansas?) while the toddler runs for the road. Yeah, like the main road we live on. The one with the traffic and the speeding teenagers who are texting and scrolling their ipod for a new playlist and drinking an iced coffee all at the same time. And let's not forget the 18 wheelers who use my road to avoid the highway. Anyway, you get the picture. I've had to sprint (really, sprint! like volleyball all over again but without the taut thighs and pimpled chin) to get her. It was too much.



I made the plea a few weeks ago to my husband for something makeshifty. Not the real deal, that's major bucks we don't have right now. But something, anything really, to fence my babies in. Let's play without Mom needing a prescription. Let's play without Mom picturing horrible things in the middle of the night. Let's play with a Mom who is chillaxed. It wasn't a hard sell, as he bears witness often to my ebbing and flowing, and I didn't really have to sell him anyway. Within two weeks, it was finished, thanks to Papi and Dad and an afternoon of low humidity and a promise of Cornhole.

Tagnanimous

See, 'tagging' is fun because it's groovy to learn new things about people you already know. Dontcha think?



My friend Diane gave me this, but in truth her friend Michelle did as well as my buddy from Florida, Carolyn.



1. Ten Years Ago....In 1998 -



I had just started my teaching career in Boston and was beginning my Masters Degree program. I was living in South Boston and really enjoying being 23 and having very few responsibilities. I jogged around Castle Island or rollerbladed with my buddy Heather. We went out for beers (Cider Jacks, please!) and plates of nachos at the Boston Beer Garden and talked about cute boys and which night club had the best music. Aaah, youth.



OH, and then I went and fudged it up by deciding to move in with my sponge boyfriend. Doh!



2. Five Things On Today's 'To - Do' List:

-Decide if I'm going to playgroup or not (will it rain? will I get lost again?)

-Plan and execute 3 meals. And clean up after them. Good Lord, I need an assistant.

-Go to the library, exchange books.

-Walk.

-Go through bins of clothing for our new niece who's visiting! Oh. And clean the floors. And go through the 42 magazines I have and kid myself by snipping out new recipes that I'll (never) try. And hang the laundry. And check Perez Hilton. I think that's more than 5.





3. Food I Enjoy:

-my homemade macaroni and cheese. Listen, I know only children are supposedly (or supposebly or supposively) really proud (read: obnoxious) about their achievements but this is really fantastic. Like, cheesy but crispy and crunchy on the top good. Like, please portion it out for me because I can't be trusted to not eat the tray good.



-an organic pear



-Jared's BBQ ribs.



-mom's lemon chicken with capers



-Samantha's gluten free brownies. They have chunks of chocolate in them. And they're like $34 a box, so they have to be good right?









4. Things I Would Do If I Were A Millionaire...



-Pay off mortgage

-Make sure the girls have money for college and wedding receptions

-hook our families UP and take a huge family vacation

-new cars, new pool

-buy more real estate/invest





5. Places I Have Lived...

-Cape Cod

-Florida

-South Boston

Mr. Bojangles...

We went to our favorite pizza joint last night...just the two of us! Babysitter, check. Happy and well-fed children with clean teeth, check. House picked up enough to not be embarassing, check.

We were in for a long wait, (and subsequently a visit to another spot but that's another story) but there was plenty to talk about. I think it would have been better having a chat with my hubby at the bar with a cold beer versus with my back up against the lotto machine (which was all lit up and subsequently very warm to stand against,) but the beer would come later.

In walks an old co-worker of mine from when I taught in Boston. I remembered him being very nice, a good guy. Single dad, not really on the prowl but probably really wanted to find a woman kind of guy. A bit dim, though. If I'm being honest.

So, in he walks. I picture myself going up to him (I picture things in my head like this sometimes before I do something, which in some cases like this one, is a really good idea) and introducing myself. I would say 'Hey! Did you teach at the Renaissance School downtown? Yeah, yeah. I worked with you in 1998, I think. Yes, yes. How are you? I remember you had a son, how's he doing? Oh yeah, I live in town, I'm here with my husband. (It wasn't going to be one sided but you know, to abbreviate it for you). Honey, meet so and so.'

So and so. I couldn't think of his name. I didn't want to struggle through that, and moreso I wasn't sure if I was interested in a quasi-reunion. I'm on date night. I missed chatting with my husband and I needed his attention as I was going to drop the suggestion that we needed a fence. So, I was focused. And I'm watching him and telling Jared about him and

oh.

oh.

He shook his parts a little. You know, the little leg thing that guys do to separate their man parts from their inner thigh that they think is totally inconspicuous and something we don't notice. And it's okay, really. I mean, it's 85 degrees out and his balls are sticking to his legs, I get it. But, it's when he went in with the hand jiggle for the 'Mr. Bojangles' , I started to think....perhaps I don't want to shake that hand. Maybe it's better if I just stand over here and watch the Red Sox All Star game.

He gets some popcorn. Greasy hands. (Yes, this is me. A bit OCD, but I have to think about this stuff. I don't want his popcorn-machine greasies on my hands.) Oooh, piece of a kernel stuck between some teeth. Fingers to pick it out. Sucking on fingers to get grease off. Perhaps I'm really all set with an awkward reu-

oh.

oh!

The hand has lifted the shirt to scratch the belly. It's not good. It's not good. Not at all. Pas du tout. Picture Matthew McConaughey lifting his shirt to scratch his belly and that think of something exactly the opposite of that. Oh dear. I now definitely do not want said reunion, nor do I want that hand touching mine. He walks to the other side of the bar. Leg move, again. My husband chimes in, "Was he always Joey Badda-badleg?" or something like that which has me in stitches. He, fellow-man, has picked up on the side-leg ball-release.

Now listen. I know that it's not a big deal. I know people pick their teeth and lick their fingers and scratch their bare bellies and adjust their private parts and it's fine. But I am, at some level, Jenny-Judger. Just pick your parts and your popcorn and your belly lint off at home. Really.

Where is that beer? My back is sweating against this lotto machine and I think Joe Bag O'Treats just figured out who I was.

Old Navy and their Crotchery

Dude. I can't even begin to tell you about my search for a pair of shorts this summer. It's painstakingly long and probably pretty boring for you unless you too share my long-crotched 'heavy about the leg' issue. It's three fold: I don't like to show my girly parts (read: this), I like for shorts to be breezy (as they are shorts for chrissake, I have capris already but it's July and there is sweat running down my leg), and I want to breathe normally when wearing them (read: not this).

If I'm being honest (and I like to do that), I'll look back and see that this short battle is not a new one entirely. Even as a heavier lass, I had the same issues with shorts. I even wore men's shorts (back in my Friendly Peanut Butter Cup Sundae all the time with Meghan but totally unfair that she wasn't fat Days) to deal with these issues. The truth? I'm cool with my situation. And by situation, I mean how my body looks. I am not trying to cut out favorite summer ice cream treats, I'm not abstaining from a cold beer on a hot day because of the 130 calories, I'm not even stressing about the size on my pants. I'm cool. BUT, I want to wear a good pair of shorts without people being able to read my horoscope, if you know what I mean.

Jen, we see from the pull on your crotch that you are a Sagittarius. You like moderate walks on the beach followed by a slushie. You enjoy scrapbooking but only when you do it about once a month. You are musically inclined, but you haven't really picked up your $500 (!!!!!) guitar since you bought your first home. You want to forget the year 2001, for the most part. You are fierce with a makeup brush. You are hairy about the chin area, but you make up for it with good teeth.

Etc.

So, I go on the search. The search actually is spread out (unfortch) over 4 separate shopping visits. The first three obviously unsuccessful, almost involving tears and maybe one frantic phone call to a friend (unfairly unfat Meghan) about why Old Navy makes shorts for people who have a two inch long crotch area. Or, crotchery. The search did include a Steven Tyler sighting at the Apple Store at Derby Streets. He was there with his girlfriend who tongued him mid-store so that everyone knew that his 85 pound bag of botoxed bones was HERS and she wasn't sharing. For the record, don't feel too bad for him because I was a meanie. He'll be okay. And he has 1456 gagillion dollars so I'm sure he'd be cool with it. Anyway, it seems that on the Old Navy assembly line, the women's shorts got mixed up with the junior's shorts...or even the children's shorts. I don't know. I can conjecture though that they did not try these shorts (and when I say these, I mean all. of. them.) on any woman that had given birth or had even really been able to give birth if you feel me.

Finally, after 5 stores and probably (honest!) 50 pairs of shorts. I found them. And bless their little hearts, they come in vanity sizes. That's right: when you know deep in your crotch that you are NOT that size, but the shorts fit? So, I fell for it. Docker's favorite fit denim shorts in a totally fun little size, you are the summer staple. I heart you and don't even care that you are lying through your denimy stretch teeth so that I'll buy more of you.

4th of July!

Really?

So, there are advertisements now on my blog for people who need colonoscopies! See bottom of page.

Discuss.

Dropping Some NYC*

Yes! I made it to NYC for my first girls weekend in a long, long time! I went to visit with Kathryn and meet Anna, Mana's new baby girl. First on the docket, after a 4 hour trip on the Bolt Bus (and a bit of carsickness, good gracious Jen, take a Dramamine) it was red wine and goat cheese time on Kathyrn's roofdeck. Kathryn and I had decided to take a Cupcake Tour of NYC, complete with four bakeries. The fancy legs on the left are from the Cupcake Cafe, but we'll get to that later.

Saturday started off with a metro ride and some sunshine walking to the West Village, where we went to our first stop, Billys Cafe.

I'm not sure if it was because this was our first stop (there is something about your first) but these cupcakes were the real deal. I'm a yellow-cake with vanilla frosting kind of cupcaker, but KT likes her some chocolate cake. This was good eating. I did not, however, enjoy the conversation at the nearby table, with incessant talking of exercise and how to burn more calories. Good Lord, I'm eating a cupcake. I wouldn't notice until the next day (um...we went back for more cupcakes) that the girl behind the counter may have needed an entire box of Midol or perhaps just a wack on the head. You work in a happy place, dingdong. Eat some frosting.

This was the world-famous Magnolia's, made so by a Sex and the City episode. The line was ridiculously long and kind of bodyguarded by an employee who let people in with specific instructions of where to stand and go and pay and get drinks. I forgot all of it promptly because of 1) the silly heat 2) the silly amount of people in the silly-small store 3) the zen-like trance I was put in seeing a display window full of cupcakes to choose from and 4) looking around for SJP or Matthew Broderick (it's their neighborhood!). The frosting for me was a winner, super-thick but not too buttery. Kathryn's was good, but the chocolate frosting got really thin really fast.

Of course there was a Veggie VW van there.

We were then hit by a colossal rain storm and ended up standing on a stoop with Fisher Stevens.

He looked a little rough and he said the F word a lot. Good shoes though. So, thankfully I could check the box next to 'Celebrity Sighting' on my to-do list for my NYC trip. We were soaked. My shoes needed the rest of the trip to dry on Kathryn's windowsill. Kathryn, also know as Sad Eyes Laughing in all photos. Not to be confused with Teeth All Showing.

We then hit the Cupcake Cafe (dancing cupcake legs) which boasted the best chocolate cake overall, but the frosting was a big miss. Think cold butter. Think pretty flowers made out of cold butter.

We then made the trek to the border of Chinatown to How Sweet It Is who had just catered George Clooney's birthday with their delicious layer cake. There was a window couch here, and we took advantage of it. We sipped some French Press coffee, chatted with the overzealous pastry student (okay, okay...your bosses are 'like totally dedicated to their craft!' can you just make sure you get me the cupcake with the MOST frosting?), and um...ordered cupcakes for letter. And a meringue cookie large enough to feed 4. Or just one drunk person. But anyway.

Um. These cupcakes. They were filled with things. I can't even really talk about it.

Kathryn and I got our hair did and went to a lovely French Bistro, Picnic. Big ups to Kathryn for planning out our wonderbar eating excursions, she knows her cuisine. (Word).

ps, of COURSE I'm putting a picture of us looking cutesy. Didn't you see the other ones? Redemption was necessary.

There was calimari with chorizo and cilantro, there was endive salad with blue cheese. There were diver scallops and pollock filets and black rice. I don't even know why it's black or if it's better for you (note: I was on a cupcake tour so....) but it was yummy good. And wine. There was some of that, too. Good red stuff.

Another highlight of the trip came later (after brunch in the West Village at the Paris Commune)
when I saw my forever friend Mana and met her new beautiful baby girl, Anna. Scott and Mana are proud and doting parents, and big brother Alex is already worrying about her when she cries.

Of course this isn't everything, but the trip was amazing in every way. Celebrating new life, old friendships, and a city so electric that it was hard for me to really sleep when I came home. I'll go again. If not New York...Paris maybe?

ps, thank you Jared. This was just what I needed.

*this is a reference to one bad-ass Blues Traveler song. Don't get any funny ideas. The only thing I 'do' is coffee. And cupcakes. And wine. Whatever.

I had a colonoscopy

So, the truth is that many of you know that already. It was a few months ago and I've er...healed from it. I'm actually suggesting a few tips for those of you have not yet gotten the tube up your bum.

Tip 1: if you have the opportunity to pick your gastroenterologist (say that three times fast with a tube up your bum), may I suggest choosing an ugly woman or just a regular looking woman. Shoot, Cindy Crawford would have been alright with me. In my case, I ended up with a rather attractive GI guy. The meeting in his office was great! He was cute and funny and I felt confident that I had chosen a great doctor. Until he mentioned me needing a colonoscopy. That he was going to er...facilitate. With a tube in my bum.

Tip 2: Try not to say this in said office visit, "Um. So who does the colonoscopy? You? Oh." If you do say this, watch the horror and wide-eyed look. They see right through it.

Tip 3: When purchasing items for a prep, don't buy them from the asshole guy at Target who wouldnt' know a good colonoscopy joke if it wacked him in the face.

Tip 4: Also, when preparing for your 'prep', perhaps do NOT suggest to your hubby that he pick that evening for his night out with the boys. Although you may try and be the cool wife (see aforementioned post about vain efforts to be cool and laid back), maybe now's the time to make sure hubby is home to watch the kids as you do suicide sprints to the loo.

Tip 5: Seriously, rub your bum with vaseline. Seriously, just do it.

Tip 6: Enjoy the good natured pokes (I can't help myself with the bum-puns, sorry) from your husband about your bum tubing. You'll get the last laugh when he gets the two finger hiya doin' from his physician and walks funny for two days.

Tip 7: TRY and be cool about your kinda crush on your doctor. For example, when the nurses ask you why you are receiving a colonoscopy say this: "Well, Dr. SoandSo is just starting to treat me, and he wants to rule out anything serious."

Tip 8: TRY when being asked above question to not say, "Well he's been servicing me for two days so he wants to check everything out." Servicing me? Dear Lord.

Tip 9: Make the attempt to be cool when the doctor enters the room and starts to tube your bum.

Tip 10: Jokes are OK. Maybe not this joke: "I really hope you have some better hobbies."

Or this: "How much extra for a clean hose?"

(To his credit, my doc reported that he wasn't sure that my insurance covered clean tubes and that if I really wanted one I had to get there first thing in the morning). Damn! Cute AND funny.

Tip 11: Feel free to watch the flatscreen monitor that is documenting your procedure and marvel at the technology. But. Remember that you will be high as a kite. And therefore more apt to say "Wow...is that the inside of my bum?!" at KIND OF a loud volume.

Spoiled...

Hey...real quick. Maybe it was the sun on her at the playground? Maybe something viral? Did the pineapple not mix well with the eggs for breakfast? Oh! Or perhaps it was....naaah...do you think? The fresh lemonade from Whole Foods (the kind that needs to be refrigerated) that was placed, unopened in the pantry. For three weeks. That she drank.

My Mother of the Year Award will fit nicely on the mantle, no?

Slice?

You know when all signs are pointing you in a direction and you just ignore them? And, when looking back you think, "Oh...perhaps I should have paid attention?"

Yesterday was a day like most others, filled with playtime and lunchtime and some fun romps around the backyard, looking for anthills and fuzzy dandelions. I decided to have my hubby meet us down at the local park at 5pm, so I could get in a walk and the kids could get their swing and slide fix. It was going well and we soon discovered that our 13 month old loves her some climbing and is quite deft at it. She started rubbing her eyes after about 35 minutes so we decided that it was time to go and eat that yummy supper I had made (lentil soup, which IS good, by the way). She was getting tired and snuggled me a little bit (this would be the first sign that I ignored), but I figured it was indeed close to her bedtime, so we packed the girls in the car and headed off.

We decided (forgetting that first sign?) that maybe we would do an impromptu (this is never a good idea, really) trip to the local pizza place for their yummy bogo pizzas and a turkey tip salad. And beer. Because of our oldests' Celiac Disease, we stopped home quickly to gather up yummies for her and the baby. In the driveway, our two year old chucked her sippy cup at Jared's head (this would be the second sign that we, like two jackasses intent on beer and pizza, ignored).

Okay, off we go. Bag of food in hand, we were feeling good...we can do this right? This is an okay idea, right? Sure, sure. We're laid back, we can hang. We can be spontaneous! Cool parents are spontaneous. We're cool. (Note: not really. We're in this case, buffoons). "Oh crap. I totally should have called John and Diane, remember we were going to go down with them? It's 6:15, it's probably too late because this is John's early night home, I bet they've already eaten." I did say this, and felt a bit guilty that we didn't call them, but really, they are lucky we didn't.

We were a bit worried that 6:30 was a bit too late to be venturing out with the kids and on the bogo pizza night, to boot. (3rd sign, dingdongs!) Our waitress (sweet sweet woman!) assured us that table number whatever would be going soon, they had just cashed out. Super, we were in luck, as the place was starting to fill up (think: high school kids looking forward to the end of school, working folks like us, parents with kids, and college kids off for the summer). The cashed-out table was now asking for a pot of coffee! Crap! (sign number 4, ladies and gentleman). We could wait, right? Yeah, we were cool. Spontaneous. Laaaaid back.

Kids needed to walk. Didn't like being held. Oldest was infatuated with golf video game some kids were playing. Youngest was not, she needed to do her drunken 'I'm a new walker!' walk and she did. Getting crabby as time ticked onward (#5). We actually were smart enough (cool and laid back, too!) to order before we even sat down, to expedite the process that was now starting to crumble before our eyes.

My cool, laid back efforts were being a bit thwarted by my desire to tell table whatever to drink their hot F#$%g coffee already. It's 6:45, don't you need to go to sleep? No, no, no....be cool. It's cool. I'm cool. Breathe. Please seat us soon for the love of God or our toddlers will take this establishment down and take all of us with it.

They did. Phew. Carrots and peanut butter for oldest. She is psyched and completely entertained. Bullet dodged. Baby doesn't really want anything, it seems. All set with her bottle of milk (6) and seems to only want plain, simple, Cheerios. (You know when you don't feel well and all you want is plain toast? Yep. It's coming, but I didn't pay it no mind #7). Food arrives! Sweeet! And beer! Niiiiice!

And then.

Pro.

Ject.

Ile.

It was, as some say, on like Donkey Kong. On the table. On her. On me. On the floor. On the napkins. Oh dear lord. I didn't really react, I just waited for the tsunami to end. The 11th grader looked over at our table, horrified, and quickly looked away. (You are welcome, parents of 11th grade boy....you are welcome for the organic birth control....)

Really? It's everywhere. My poor little girl is now starting to say "Mommy mommy mommy" and thankfully my waitress (really, so sweet) is already helping me clean up and has taken off my daughter's completely soaked sweater and placed it in a brown paper bag. She can tell I'm horrified and is telling me a story of her own (her kid barfed on her last week at dinner and it was in her hair...she wins!). She is assuring me that no one has noticied (because I'm of course, secretly worried that I've completely grossed out the entire place and everyone's evening is ruined) and really, no one did (save the not-so-horny-anymore teenaged boy).

My husband, Jared and Samantha, are clearly moved by the incident as they are still eating with wild abandon. Now, I normally would quell my...er...inclination to comment here as it's kind of a sticky (punny!) situation and there is no need to get pissy in the middle of puky. BUT, I couldn't help myself. There is puke all over me. There is a waitress running around taking care of our daughter's sweater and handing me clean towels, and my husband is chomping (chomping!) away at his buffalo chicken pizza, dipped in blue cheese dressing.

So, I commented. He acted. It was, despite the drama, all good.

A warm tubby and fresh pajamas and all was fine. Oh, and the baby took a bath, too.

Myspace

We're in a myspace age, aren't we? I actually had a page that I was using to advertise my makeup business, but it didn't fly. I barely signed on to the account, and it seemed that the wedding clients were finding me on their own. I find it interesting though, this need we have for our own 'space'. I remember my mother talking about this space she needed. She wanted a room built...built! as an addition onto our Cape Cod home that would be just hers. I didn't get it. What's the big deal? Why can't she just go in her room and shut the door? Why did she need her own separate room? I didn't even understand why she fought to have her own desk, much less her own square footage. She had said that she needed a place that was just hers. Her stuff, her chair, her books. Her lamp. Her sunshine window.

Her space.

I remember too seeing that episode of the Cosby Show where Claire Huxtable has a room built, just for her. Her rugs and her curtains and a lock on the door. Dr. Huxtable spoke of how great it would be, their new room. No kids to bug us! No phones to answer! Just time for the two of us! Do you remember how she looked at him and....clarified, that it was her room? I do. I didn't really get it, but I kinda got it. Oh! This was the room my mother dreamt of. Other mommies need one too. Even Claire Huxtable!

Two babies and 18 years later, I need my space too. It seems that wherever I go, two babies follow. It seems that wherever I run off too, someone is underfoot, asking for juice or peekaboo show or if I knew where the checkbook was. So, although we won't be expanding the living room or rennovating part of the basement (a girl can dream!), I can create some space for myself. Namely, a hook and eye lock that keeps the bathroom secured. That's right. I lock myself in the potty for some Jenny Alone Time. No, not when I'm home with the kids, but when my hubby is home and on duty, I get to go and lock myself away for a moment. Without a family in the bathroom with me all at once, without having to restock my 'beauty' accoutrement or admonish a toddler for sticking her finger in my hair paste, without having to hold a child on my lap while the other one hangs on my leg while I sit on my throne. Just 10 minutes. Maybe even 5, of locked up solitude.

So for some it's a website or study or a chair at Starbucks. For right now, it's a $1.79 lock from Home Depot, and it's worth every penny.

Sweet!

In one of those moments when I'm just not thinking straight, I decide this morning to take my two little slices of pie shopping with me. Not shopping for them, shopping for me. It's funny now just writing it, what in the same hill was I thinking? I wasn't, clearly, but it makes for good fodder now.

Mistakes, not necessarily in chronological order:

1) not feeding kids twice what they normally eat to potentially ward off need (and subsequent asking and re-asking and re-asking) for snacks while doing said shopping.

2) not drinking more coffee and/or using recreational drugs to make shopping trip less chaotic.

3) forgetting about wanting to lose the last of the baby weight BEFORE I went shopping for bathing suits. In ridiculously flourescent frigging lighting. For ridiculously expensive swimwear.

4) bending down in abovementioned dressing room to pick up snacks for children on floor....

5) being 99.7% naked while doing so

6) giving baby girl a bottle to drink when she was clearly in a mood to throw shit

7) remembering, as I considered purchasing not ONE but TWO swimsuits that $117.00 plus $117.00 equals a bag full of crazy.

8) not giving children laxative products so that poops would happen BEFORE we left the house. Or, just not while doing shopping. In expensivey-boutiquey place. Think Pretty Woman scene with those bitchy salespeople.

9) They were very nice salespeople I was just trying to make a point.