Time for the THANKFUL post.

It's trite and everyone does it this time of year. But that's okay because it's important to stop, inspect, reflect, and corn-ily gush about the things that make your heart go pitter-pat.

So, you know how I do with me lists:

-a husband who not only buys me coffee filters before I run out (he doesn't drink coffee) but who also buys me the t-shirt above because I love the show Friday Night Lights. Riggins is so dreamy.

-two little peanutty buttons who crawl into bed with me and whisper-shout with their yummy morning breath.

-a woodstove that cranks out wintery warmth and the money to buy wood for it.

-parents who would do anything for me and my crew.

-hot hot hot water.

-tea kettle and Earl Grey.

-real friends I can call who'll be ready for me, no matter what.

-the age and wisdom to know how and when to let go and move on.

-strong legs and a belly with some scars on it.

-food in the pantry and even more in the freezer.

-a job that pays me in many ways.

What about you? Share please!

Tidbits.

Oh dear. Upon review of my blog I realize that it's been a cranky few weeks for me. We've had a rough fall as a family unit. But we're good. We're fever-free (I'm knocking feverishly on wood now, pun intended) and my antibiotics have almost run out and I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

And so I'm starting to make plans. Masters plus 30? Yeah, almost there. Getting myself in shape mentally and physically? Yep. Creating better boundaries and sticking close to home? You-betcha.

I'm also checking out some new sites that I really like:

www.crankyfitness.com (how perfect is this?)

www.susanpowteronline.com I know, I know, I'm still on this site. Even though I've decided that Susan and I won't be besties (I don't know if she appreciated my blog....oops!). Listen. The woman has some fierce recipes.

www.heythattastesgood.com This has awesome gluten-free recipes and the author takes amazing pics of her process and product. Think photojournalism meets gluten free hippy chef.

And read this book if you have any desire to...it's so interesting. Talk about the food industry. Talk about our brain's hard-wiring to not only seek out but 'hyper-eat' foods with fat, sugar and salt (and even moreso foods with layers of each and all). Talk about how strong dopamine is in our brains and how we (really) don't have control once the shoveling starts. If you like science-driven food information, you'll like this.

Oh! And if you have large feet. If you have Sasquatch feet. If you have feet that are hard to fit. If you have large calves (hey-o!) like me, you'll like www.zappos.com Free shipping! Sizes 11 and up! Pictures! Multiple views! And boots for us lassies with some husky calves.

Stay healthy!
XO
Jen

Are You Kidding Me?

Let me set it up for you: My house is currently, an infirmary. We had two weeks at the end of last month that was snot-central. Where I hit the pediatrician's office every time I heard the wheeze of my youngest and got a sleeve crunchy with what I wiped off her face. I am pretty good and not flipping out about something that I can't directly control. I don't freak out when the terror-alert color changes. But this latest 'pandemic' has me checking cheeks and using rectal thermometers with a frequency that has my children developing a healthy fear of the vaseline jar. "It doesn't hurt honey. It just feels a little weird."

We've had two ER trips in the last two weeks (everybody's fine). If a trip to the ER doesn't stress you out, seeking people with masks on may. Or being quarantined in a room with other mask-wearers, may. Between the sleep-loss from midnight drives, sleep-loss from worrying that you're missing something, sleep-loss from hearing them cough, and sleep-loss from all the other reasons why you normally lose sleep, I'm tired. I'm really really tired.

So between my husband and myself, it's like Zombie-land at this house. Apart from the incredibly energetic bursts from the kiddos, which we're unfortunately trying to corral as they send them into long and painful coughing fits. Last night the youngest wanted to be up. And up she was. For hours. She also, apparently, wanted to get to the baby powder that's on the changing table. So, up she went with her spidey-like climbing limbs and she emptied it out. And then she got to the clippers (no blood loss). And honestly, nothing worked. No gentle reprimands. No redirections. No less-than-gentle reprimands. Usually my last-straw, "You go nigh-night!" does the trick but she may as well has just flipped me off last night. Girlfriend was not having it!

She finally, after three hours, made it into the big bed. Yes, she won! I lost! I caved! And it just didn't matter, because we both were desperate for sleep and I knew that not even an hour later, I would be peeling her Elmo-pajama'd body off my back and gently snuggle her in her own bed.

So I know you're stuck in your own sick spin cycle, but that's the view from mine. I'm off to Neti Pot.

Spin Cycle

I remember my old spin cycles. When I was swamped with my job, going to graduate school, and trying to maintain a (albeit already terrible) relationship. Even earlier, managing part time work and a full courseload and making time for girl night and beer. There were times that it got so concentrated that I felt like I had to just shut my eyes, keep my head low, and drive through it.

Of course as a parent, my spin cycles are more intense and for me, harder to manage because these little people don't seem to sympathize when you are 'done' and need a nap, or a tub, or an afternoon to lay on the couch and watch TLC (or The Travel Channel when they're doing 'No Reservation' reruns. Anthony Bourdain is my kind of asshole). Whether it was early on when the baby ran a fever and we took turns staying up and watching her, cooling her off with a washcloth and keeping the Motrin at the ready; or perhaps now with two little ones, shuttling us back and forth to the pediatrician's office and trying to stay calm about fevers and coughs and 'flu symptoms'.

It's been like that for awhile here. Sick kids, sick parents, sick friends. Less sleep than is preferable. Less time for long walks. Less time on the phone with friends. So much so that I felt like I was under a blanket for a few weeks, not able to return phone calls or write emails. Just enough to prepare meals, keep a house (relatively) clean, keep the laundry going and have time to push kids on swings and read books, when they were feeling LESS lousy.

And normally I'll admit that I get very itchy when I feel like I haven't been out or just alone, really. But this last time was different. Maybe I was feeling particularly protective of our family time, after a rough few weeks of transition for my children and a time of reflection for me. Don't get me wrong, I've scooted out a few nights to hit the grocery store or go shop for the kids, but there is a rush to get back. To check in on them. Feel their cheeks. Snuggle them in. Smell their hair and smile a little at how silly they got in the tub earlier.

To know they are mine, always and truly. And to stay close for as long as I can.

I need Stacey London

So, I wore this getup the other day. It was a mistake.

The dress was wonderful; 3/4 length sleeve, mock turtleneck, right below the knee length. Black.

The spanx-y girdle underneath was ONCE wonderful. Seems a little elastic collapsation has occured and momma had a lot of wedge-a-mite sandwiches all. day. long.

Bra was good.

SLIP. Ugh. So, let's just go back in time a little. I loathe slips. My mother is an old-fashioned Mom who believes in slips, wearing something on your feet already or you'll get a splinter or catch a cold, and writing thank-you notes. I totally agree with her on all counts excepts I have strategically shopped, over time, for things that do not require slips. You have a slip built-in? Sweet! You have a camisole-like spanxy thing that is part of the dress? You can't see the light of day through my legs? Nice nice nice. I'm in.

Well I bought the dress 'sight unseen' so to speak. I didn't try it on.

There were 87 people in line to try their stuff on, and from a quick glance I determined that each person had 129 items. So I just bought it and went home.

Okay, so...it's morning. It's a work morning (read: I need to be on time). Makeup is on. Hair is did. Teeth are brushed, lunch is packed. Yada. Yada. Yada.

Dress! Here comes the dress! I'm excited for the dress. I can wear fun hoop earrings and a cool scarf and I! Shaved! My! Legs! (honestly, this is the reason I ended up wearing the dress in the end. Who wastes shaved legs?).

So, on goes the dress. On goes the slip. Which I bought on purpose because of it's shorter length so it wouldn't peeakaboo under the dress. I didn't do that last part right though, because it was a bit too long. And it would show.

But I shaved my legs! On a work morning with 35 minutes to get ready I had shaved my legs. And moisturized them. I was wearing this dress, dammit.

So. I took a deep breath and pulled a move only 7th grade girls do when they just don't know better and their mothers haven't seen what they're up to.

I tucked the slip under my bra.

You know, it would have actually worked. BUT, the spanx issue had me picking all day. AND I pee. A LOT. I really pee a lot.

So, if you can imagine the breakdown and reassembly of the outfit. Remove scarf, untuck slip from bra, etc. etc. Then put humpty dumpty back together again and think, every time, 'Why the hell did I wear this in the first place? My friggin' slip is tucked under MY BRA.'

Anyway.

My legs were smooth.

I Believe.....

-that lists and bullet points make my life easier and are far better than the run-ons I have a tendency to write.

-that Noggin and PBS should have Nobel Peace Prizes for all the peace they have brought to my home. And the dinners they allow me to make.

-that clipping coupons is a waste of time most of the time but for some reason I just can't stop doing it.

-that my scale should go in the dumpster.

-in the power of date night and the chance to actually look at my husband's face.

-that Facebook is a great way to give silent thanks for having good enough judgement to have never got with that guy who makes ridiculous posts but who was a superstar in high school.

-that extra money on good night cream is just worth it, already.

Mashed together like potatoes.

You have to know that I think of new things to blog about every day. Many times during the day. How when I run out of concealer it's like losing a lover. When I talk to my high school students and feel like maybe if I look at them the right way, they'll get how ripe their lives are with possibility. How when my kids are all over me I feel tightness in the air that makes me feel trapped in a box. Or how I can be so filled up with love for them that it makes me a little shaky.

Or how about when I have a babysitter at the house so I can go get a pap smear (word!) and have just enough time afterwards to do nothing. Or maybe buy an overpriced coffee while I'm filling up on milk and diapers. That time to finish a conversation is just a dream and that I feel sometimes even more disconnected NOW because my babies are older and know how to ruin a phone call with world-spy like savviness. (Savviness? Saviety? Saviciousness?)

And maybe how when the girls and Jared are all snuggled up with me in bed I feel like it's the most complete and wonderful place to be and that I wouldn't want for anything else. Or perhaps how I want to eat like a hippie earth mother most days but some days could subsist on nachos and peanut butter sundae. And beer.

But that will have to wait for another day. Someone just pooped their pants.

Cleaning Out the Closets

September has always been a month of rejuvination for me. I get a full-gust of wind and start tons of projects (or, finally finish some!). I feel productive. Alive. I see the days ahead of me and they are full and ripe and bursting with possibility and potential.

I clean out closets. I'll get rid of the summer dresses and cute tank tops that have been my wardrobe and the girls' wardrobe all summer and find the long sleeved numbers, the jeans, the sweatshirts and the thick socks. I'll tuck the bathing suits into the back of the drawer, and hope that the next time I pull them out I could be more understanding of the body they cover.

I want my job to be full of rigor and movement, I want my students to see with clarity the potential before them. I want them to recognize the support they have and flourish under the wings of their mentors.

I want my wood floors to shine with a new lustre. I want the bathroom to be ever-fresh and for the white tiled floors to not piss me off any more. (Who does that, though?)

I'll sit outside and smell the air. I'll harvest my garden with vigor, realizing soon enough I'll be inside, watching the plants wilt and crumble into their winter slumber.

Right now, I'll go roast some fresh green beans from my backyard, and hope for the cucumbers to sprout.

Wrap Up

Well HELLO there, friends. It's been a whirlwind and you know how I like to do lists, so...

1. Surgery went well on the big guy's hip. It sucks for him. This is a man who does so much in our house that it's killing him to sit and do 0.07% of it. That said, he can still put together a decent breakfast for us and can sit and watch the kids play outside while I clean up inside and rock back and forth in the fetal position. I kid, I kid.

2. We had tons of help from family and friends! Thank you for visiting, thank you for cooking, thank you for letting me bring my kids to your house for an afternoon, thank you thank you thank you. Thanks to my folks who kept my kids overnight three times in the last three weeks!

3. The Curtis girls went to Jersey! We played with our friend Cha-Cha and I got to catch up with a good girlfriend. We had wine. We had brie. We had lots of Starbucks. We went to the Land of Make Believe. Our daughters had pretty princess parties with dress up and I saw the biggest collection of My Little Pony dolls on the planet. (My wonderful friend also swooped in and rescued us in a 'for another time' shituation that totally sucked but sucked WAY less because she was there. Thank you friend!)

4. We were hot. And not zexy hot but a 'why don't we have AC, again? hot'.

5. Potty training for both is in full swing. Oldest is good and is going through the NIGHT people. Word! Little one is working on it. I'm doing a lot of laundry.

6. KT is back in town. This makes me so so so happy. And she has a kick ass job that is (finally) seeing how wicked smaht she is. Girlfriend is bound for some serious greatness in her life. Proud of her.

There will be more later. I know you'll be waiting.

MamaSteph Part 4

Puff! Little Jackie Paper! Lots of Ring Around the Rosie!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e84dTvKIyXg

MamaSteph Part 3

Yeah, I'm totally singing in this one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_LbBxoPRaY

MamaSteph Part 2

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm5MoR0sdQc

MamaSteph Part 1

There will be three videos posted here....it's okay if you just look for footage of your kid(s)...

I realized, far too late, that I sang through most of Mamasteph's songs...so....sorry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQyRtDSCSWc

Summer Bliss, 2009

A day at Island Grove with a friend of over 20 years...

Softball in the backyard with kids who have great throws and ridiculous line drives...

Hot dogs and tuna steaks and salad with lettuce from my own garden....

Roasted marshmallows with my husband at the helm and my kids' faces gooey and smiling.....

Pre-Op

We're readying ourselves for big daddy's surgery next week. So there will be guaze, bandages and ice packs on the ready.

Mom's spirit will be overtaken by a kind and nurturing soul who will not grimace or snicker and will tend to both husband and children with a Snow White-like charm.

Oh No You Diiiin't

Seriously, Oxygen channel? A dancing weight loss competition called Dance Your Ass Off? Is this in response to the surmised sad, poor and hefty viewers of So You Think You Can Dance who want to feel the burn of the hot spotlight? Was this an idea hatched to even the playing fields and to give everyone a chance?

I dunno.

This is a time when I'm judging too soon. But the commercials for this program make my skin itch. It's bad enough that we are constantly engaged in watching people stand in front of a firing squad of 'expert judges' to decide if they suck or not. If they should keep pursuing the only dream they ever had. But throw weight into the mix? I worry. Will they still get crapped on by the judges for being overweight? Or will the judging be based on a mixture of their dancing chops and their weight loss?

"Not only was that a perfect funkymcfunkydanceymove, but you've lost 17 pounds in one week! It's totally unhealthy and it's water weight but YOU have edged out the competition this week and you are above the purple line of death and destruction." Or something like that. I think what gets under my skin like a greedy little wood tick is the idea that this show is meant for dancers who are passionate and beautiful and talented and who just happen to be larger than other dancers. If I were a betting woman (which I'm not because I'm horribly cheap and I don't like to give away my money unless it's for a really good cause or unless I'm put on the spot and want to look good), I'll say that there will be an undercurrent theme here that the program is all about self-empowerment...loving yourself no matter what...beauty on the inside will trump all....the importance of embracing your true dancer! Which in my humble, defeats the whole purpose....WHY does it then need to be a diet show, then? Can't we have some larger dancers? Or do we NEED to have them be weighed for them to be successful? For the show to be watchable? Grrrr. I'm not sure why this chaps my ass the way it does but know this: my ass is really chapped! Like, needs some ass-chapstick chapped.

And then there's More To Love. It's Bachelor and Bachelorette for plus-size guys and gals. Really? Really? Can't we just have some plus-sized folks on the REAL show? Why do we need a separate frigging show? Irk Irk Irksome. You know why, and so do I. Would anyone watch it then, or would it be a joke? Would those really smart and funny and beautiful people just be fodder for late night stand-up? Would there be bets on how fast they'd get booted?

What do you think?

Totally getting all earthy crunchy on yo' ass.

I've been feeling this for years now, but I beat it down with a conservative stick.

I'm unearthing my true self, my tree-hugger persona, my granola-rolla, my hippie chick.

I'm eating all organic-y and whatnot.

I'm wearing sandals constantly and the thought of heels makes me roll my eyes.

I'm recycling everything and copping a major 'tude when others don't.

I'm COMPOSTING for chrissake.

Yeah, for my garden. Which I'll harvest and eat. With the homemade gluten free bread I'm fixing to make.

I'm even considering using organic face products, but only if the concealer really conceals and the lip gloss doesn't have eucalyptus. Makes my lips burn.

I could be in the middle of the Himalayas, wearing Birkenstocks and rocking an organic-cotton Kotex before I forget my lip products.

I haven't gone veggie yet, I don't know if I'd survive in this house without some animal. And I know that the day J picks a lentil over beef will be a frightening day when the earth stops rotating properly and my toddlers listen and follow instructions the very first time I utter them.

Off to downward dog. With shiny lips.

You Can Say You Knew Me When

Far be it for me to be so bragadocious, but I think I've got something tucked up my sleeve:

Stay at home mother of two, part time special ed teacher, full-time spitfire with an impatient streak and a tendency to take everything personally breaks through the literary world with a blockbuster smash about what it's like to be a real housewife.

Ok. Perhaps I could loosen up the phrasing on 'housewife' because the dustbunnies are at the moment having talks about an uprising about their overly-dusty situation.

But why not? I almost cried at the library today. Haven't you? When the 2 year old has dumped every. single. puzzle. on the floor and you know, looking at it, that the next 18 minutes of your life will be spent putting pieces back in spots whilst managing an already misbehaving toddler and an older sibling who's now stuck helping you and is pretty pissed about it. I pieced those puzzles like a pro and realized, as I put the Arthur pieces back with nimble fingers and dubious dexterity that all those books written and sold and read and shared at book clubs across the world are stories just like mine. Like yours, like ours. Women who just finally put pen to paper (finger to keyboard?) and did it. Think of all the good ideas you've had and then some other whippersnapper took it and made a boatload of cash.

So I don't know what my timeline is, but the clock is tickin'.

What do you want to do?

I See You Looking At Me All Different Now

So, it all started with my quest for a brassiere. Not a nursing brassiere. Not a Wal Mart special (less than $9.00) brassiere. Not a bra that I knew would be soon stained with something or over-worn and under-washed.

I was going to Victoria' Secret. I was going to buy me a proper over the shoulder boulder holder.

To be honest, Vicki's never really did it for me in the days of old (when I was on the prowl and thought, like a dufus, that guys cared about stuff like that). I didn't care for the single clasp on the back, that even on a skinny day made me feel like I could shove some quarters in my back fat and save them for later, in case I happen upon a gumball machine or need to do some laundry at the coin-op. I didn't care for the shiny flowers. I didn't care for the price tag. I didn't care for the fact that I was a 'irregular size' and told that repeatedly. A 38 B bra size just makes me more special. And screw you, Tiffany. Eat something other than your cigarettes and your Bubbleyum. Sorry.

I think I may have gone the catalog/clearance route once or twice, but the days of lingering over a lingerie magazine are far from my reality. When I usually realize I need a bra, it's much, much too late. There are usually already stains, stretches, inappropriate cup situations. Backfat for you and your friends. It's kneejerk, which unfortunately seems to be how I take care of things like this. But it's a new day, my friends. And when I say friends I am actually referring to those two, but you also.

So I go. And I wear the wrong bra. It's like a sports bra (see? I just throw on whatever is there that won't show my nipples...I just don't like those things sticking out, it's not sexy to me. Just makes me feel all nekkid). So the VS girl measures me and she says I'm a friggin' A CUP.

After I wake up from passing out in a zen-state of euphoria....this is a long story too but I would always prefer small biddies over big biddies and hearing that I'm an A cup is like hearing that I really am black on the inside (I've always known this) and that DNA has just proven it to be true.

Or, that I have really small biddies. Wheee!

So I have to come back at a later time. This usually means I'm not coming back. And the sucky thing is that I have a coupon for free skivvies and $10 off a fancy bra should I choose to purchase one. But I can't get the free skivs and use the coupon at different times so I apparently really do need to come back. Historically I would never go back. But remember, it's a new day. And my breasts deserve a nice, lofty, cushy, expensive new high-rise condo called a brassiere.

I go back! I think I hire a sitter (I mean this is an act of breastly desperation, right? Who hires a friggin' sitter to get a BRA?...Oh, a mom does). Anyway, so I get sized. Still a 38B, the earth still rotates properly and all is right in the world (I sadly let the A cup fantasy go). She brings me 3 kinds. Two are promising, but ensure me lots of strap-pulling and back-fat glancing, so I decide to just go for the extra nice purty one that I didn't think I could pull off. It's also $50.

$50 for a BRA? The only expensive bra I've ever owned was purchased for me by my dear Mommy and it was post-delivery-second-baby-in-14-months-holy-shit-this-girl-needs-a-decent-bra, bra. It was wonderful with lace cups and underwire and snaps and I wore it EVERY DAY for 9 months. Medela, like the breast pump, bra. It was amazing in a world of early mornings and late nights and tearful latches and very hairy legs.

So it's called the Bio Fit Bra. You can wear it 7 different ways! And you know what, I don't know about you, but I have about 4 shirts I just don't wear AT ALL because I can't find the right bra to wear with it. Maybe it's a racerback tank top. Maybe it's a tighter blouse that makes me feel like I'm a coin collecter for the laundry. Maybe it's just too sheer and my little guys pop out. I don't know, but this bra has switches and hitches and hydraulics and clear straps and like 15 different places to latch the little strappies into. And a lacy little pouch for the extra straps Oh Dear Me! And it fits me. It fits the cups and the back and the shoulders. It's got 3 THREE, for the love of God just give us THREE rows for clasps.

And so I buy it. With my coupon ($40 for a bra still makes me want to throw up a little) and my free (read: boring) underpants and off I go.

I'm excited!

I'm thrilled!

I'm proud!

I put the bra in the closet. I hang it on a friggin' HANGER.

And I don't wear it for 2 weeks.

Why? Because it's a $40 bra. That is super-special. That fits me. That makes me feel fabulous. Why would I go and do a silly thing like ENJOY it?

So I rock the Old Maidenforms for a bit. And the Wal Mart Not So Specials (I swear one makes my girls like torpedoes, like something out of Austin Powers and it's just not cute on a real person). And then I just decide I need to break. out. the. sling.

So I do. And I rock it. Hard.

Cups are flush.

Back fat is in it's place and it's not even thinking of pulling any funny-coin-business.

And business is covered.

So if you see me with an extra som'm som'n in my swagger. It's the bra baby.

It's the bra.

Freedom Rings...

You know it's springtime in New England when you can smell the outside burn piles and see the sun shine after 6pm. It's a time to crack open the windows in the house and let the dusty air out. When the Sox seem to be on every night, and a cold beer is the perfect accompaniment to food on the grill.

At school you see it, too. The staff is out the door by 3pm, the students seem to glaze over when you remind them about MCAS tutoring and getting their physics homework in on time. They know what awaits them. A friend's car. Windows down. The music so loud that no one can hear the others talk, but nobody cares. Stopping for an iced coffee. Smelling the air for the first time in months.

It's hard to believe that this season of warm weather and flip flops is just as long as the other part of the year, the part with shovels and snow-chunked boots and hot cocoa in mugs. It feels like it just flies by. Like the rest of what's good.

So this year, I won't pine. I won't worry about summer and it going too fast. I won't worry about next year and the budget and school cuts. I'll be in the moment with my two peanutty buttons and my love and my cut lawn and my Red Sox.

But it's a MAGIC Bullet!

I have a problem.

With infomercials.

It's been going on for awhile now, but I've kept it in check for years. Mostly because I have a husband who would either A) laugh me out of town or B) remind me that we are a one and a quarter income family. I will say that over the years I've found some wonderful products. May I?

TaeBo: Billy Blanks is a surprise here. Not a fluent speaker, sweatier than most should be, and apparantly hung like a clydesdale (tight biker shorts, not insider scoop!). But actually a really challenging workout. I bought the VHS tapes and they are hidden somewhere with hair ties from 5th grade and journals about who I wanted to kiss (I'm not telling....you'd probably find them and poke them on facebook).

Juiceman Juicer: Sigh. One of my many attempts at drastic, effortless weight loss. After a small investment in bags of apples and carrots, it also went into a box of the great unknown.

BodyFlex (this will hurt me considerably, especially when Jason P gets ahold of it....but I must live and sacrifice for my craft!). Wow, another get skinny-quick scheme. The concept of your body using oxygen to remove inches from your body by exhaling in a freakishly exaggerated and loud manner, inhaling sharply, and putting your body and/or face into a strange position to get the most extreme inch-dropping results. (This worked, I sweartogod....but honestly, I just got ridiculed so hard that I laughed through each pose, so I moved on to the Tae Bo).

Asparagus Diet Pills: sigh. You think your urine smells sharp after your morning go? I match you and raise you.

Proactiv. It works. Seriously. As a matter of fact, I'll be digging out some repair lotion soon. I imagine you'd do that too if your three-year-old looked at your chin, pointed to an incident, and asked you if you got a boo-boo. From a hammer.

The Firm exercise series. Would you like to know about the Original Series? The Fanny Lifter series? The Transfirmer? I have them all.

The PedEgg: your at-home pedicure! Little mini razors painlessly remove dead skin from your feet! Unless you have a problem with moderation and get down to the bone.

P90X: this is my latest fitness obsession. It's excellent. It's rigorous. I'm taking a break b/c I blew my back out, but I do believe that I bounced back quickly because of this program. We call it P90WD40 because it's more fun (KT! Excellent Description Vernacular!). I may dig this out again soon, especially where aforementioned three year old who said, "Mommy, maybe you can fit in the swing if you get tinier!"

Magic Bullet; I actually didn't purchase this. But bless Jared's heart because he listened to me extol the virtues of the magic bullet super salad slicer, and bread maker, and special blade for shredding carrots. "Babe! We can make HUGE salads in like 45 seconds! We can dice those potatoes for Sunday morning breakfast in like under a minute (and undo all the salad work because we do potatoes by frying them) and honey I can totally make bread for Peanut because it mixes the dough right inside the bowl thingy and we can keep it gluten free!"

I talked myself off the ledge but did manage to hook myself up with a juicer. So I'm technically back to square one, I suppose. But I'm smarter and less-inclined to buy really crazy things. But have you seen the Sham Wow? I mean, it looks incredible. Let me know.

Pouty Patty Stomps on the Soap Box

I know, I know, I'm a bit of a prude when it comes to following the rules. I like to do that.

So, when it says "Cell Phone Use Not Permitted in Waiting Area" that means hang up your friggin phone and go into the hallway.

Unless you're saving lives. Or keeping nations at peace. Which I'm thinking is not the case as you guffaw and "OMG!'d" on the phone with your girlfriend while your kid angrily stacks blocks and gives you the stink eye because you're ignoring her and because it says in 14 places "Cell Phone Use Not Permitted in Waiting Area" and she knows you're an asshat, too.

For Shizzle

Yeah, you know what? I've been busy and you have too. Friggin' New England winter has made me almost a slave to my home and most-def a slave to my pediatrician's office. Thankfully, I like them there and they are nice to my kids and they give out free aquaphor. I will admit here that I am a potential hoarder and when they say 'Take a bunch!' I take that literally and I mean I take 12. And then if my husband is there he does the same thing. We are a creamy family and we likes our lip balms.

Anyway, so waah waah waah. But I'll say in a nutshell: bronchitis, ear infections, new day care (that is fantastical and wonderful and let me know if you want info), family drama (save it fo' yo' mama!), peace, my jacked-up back, a sweet wood stove and a very special 3rd birthday. Everything is cool. We are lucky folks. But I've had too much on my mind to blog. And I can't blog about half the stuff that's on my mind.

I am in flux though. I'm changing. I can feel it in my bones and in my face. I'm starting to evolve into something else. I just don't know what. But it's fun, and it's interesting....I'll keep you posted. I don't even know what I'm wearing tomorrow, but I know that I'm having a turkey sandwich. Some stuff is just more important than others.

peace and chicken grease

Like A Naive and Determined Woman-Child

I've had a crush on this perfume for over 10 years. It started when I was a Boston newbie, seduced by the splendor of the city, entranced by the sparkle of storefronts and the scents of bistros. And Neiman Marcus. I was entranced by Neiman Marcus.







I recall spending weekend days in the city when it was shiny and new to me, before I became jaded by the subway funk, and the lack of umbrella etiquette (seriously, I should have worn safety goggles) and before the sheer fatigue of commuting to a soul-sucking job started to show on my face.







I'd meander my way into the city, one day to Haymarket for produce and flowers, another day to ogle the window displays on Newbury St. and dream of a day (soon!) where I could go into any dayspa and order one of those $400 Days of Beauty and not blink an eye. Maybe another day I'd browse books on travel and fine food and nurse a $2 cup of coffee for hours. And then another day when I would go to Copley, the 'mall' that really isn't a mall for most of us. It's a showcase of the most expensive boutique stores you can imagine. Where people drop thousands of dollars on handbags and jeans. Where there isn't a fast food joint in site (but through the glass tunnel is a California Pizza Kitchen, which is analagous to a Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits in a regular mall for us normal folk) but espresso bars with $7 pastries and bottled Evian only. This is where I stepped into Neiman's.







I didn't realize at the time, as it was my virgin tour, that Neiman's only accepts cash and American Express. Although at 23, I'm not sure that it would have mattered because I was living pretty large (remember now that I was 23) with a low overhead and I had just discovered my love of makeup palettes. I wandered through the clothing sections, glancing at price tags well above anything I had seen in my Marshall/TJ Maxx days. Hundreds for a blouse? Is it magic? Is there a jacket that comes with it? Maybe it's a chameleon shirt that actually changes to match the color of your pants? No. Just expensive and there was no way that I'd ever allow myself to partake. I did have my limits (let's go out to dinner only 3 nights a week, okay? I totally have to watch my budget).







So, on my way out, I happen to pass the perfume and cosmetics bar. This place, I would learn, would be the gauntlet for me, the intersection I had to muscle through if I wanted to get out of a store safely. And it was even more true in a place like Neiman's. Trish McEvoy brushes, Shu Uemura creams, Chanel perfumes. It was intoxicating.







And then I saw this beautiful little bottle. Delicate. Gold-embossed label. Refined. Wrapped in fancy gold ribbon. French. A true fit for Neiman's. It was everything I wasn't. I was a White Musk girl from The Body Shop and had been for years. Wasn't it time for a change? Wasn't I ready to be refined and French and fancy with gold ribbon around me?







It turns out I wasn't. Maybe I had enjoyed some gluttonous weekends and thought the price was too steep at that moment, maybe I wasn't convinced I was ready for such a big change. I mean, I had a signature scent after all. I left Neiman's and figured I'd get it next time.







Of course I didn't, but each time I'd go to Neiman's, I'd go through and give her a sniff. My Neiman visits have been few though, and over time I forgot the name of it and moved on to other perfumes that I've loved. I have recently run out of my latest signature scent and my other two scents are not for everday wear. I didn't think too much about it, knowing I barely wear perfume every day anyway.







I had a playdate in the city with my girl Kathryn (you remember her, she sang with my oldest while folding my laundry because that's how she do) who lives in NYC but thankfully is considering a trip back this away (hands in prayer position). We sipped Italian coffee. We talked about the things that workplace Russians and toddlers wouldn't permit on phone chats and of course, took in the city and I could see the splendor again. We went to Copley. I remembered a perfume I once loved, but what was the name of it? Something with the word petite. That's all I had.







We went to Neiman's and started to meander. I couldn't find it on any of the glass trays on the countertops. It was alright though, because the perfumier Ann saw that we were struggling and swept in like a chopper to answer our eau de toilette prayers. It two seconds, "I think it has the word petite in it...?"







Oh, there it was.







Petite Cherie. Annick Goutal.







There was the bottle! There was that fine gold cap, the delicate ribbon, the ballooned bottle with etchings down the side. The bottle of who I ain't.





So Kathryn and I sniffed and whiffed and Ann did her best Neiman spiel (but not too pushy, that would be gauche and very un-Neiman-y) but I passed (hello? diapers and gluten free foods and a husband who hand-splits and chops our wood...am I really going to come home with bottle full of ridiculous? No. I'm no martyr, I just want to play fair, you know?). She did, however, hook a broke sister up when she gave me 4 sweet little samples. I knew in that moment that I could stretch them out for months.





And so today, it came for me in the mail.





Kathryn did it.





She decided it was time. For me to be the golden bottle, or just to smell really really lovely.





And I don't know what was more moving; the fact that she did it, or the fact that she knows me well enought to know that I wouldn't do it myself.





I could blast you with some serious corny right now, but I think you get it. Kathryn is the kind of girl who knows I'm really a clearance gal but who thinks I deserve a little Neiman's once in awhile. Thanks.





And if you were wondering, this is what I'm rolling with right now: A fruity-floral fragrance in which vanilla, peach, musk rose and freshly cut grass recall purity and boldness. Like a naive and determined woman-child who both stirs the senses and moves the heart.

Yeah, that'll work.