So, Chase is all registered for Kindergarten. How in the world did that happen? The kid is going to be five in July. Five. 5?! It just can't be true--where has my sweet, little toddling boy gone?
But you know one good thing about him getting older? This magic little thing called the Drop Off Birthday Party. It is fantastic. You drop him at the door and then two hours later you pick him up. Of course, his appearance may have changed just a bit in those 120 minutes:
Still, beggars can't be choosers. He still has all appendages and vital organs? Then we're good. I'm sure I'll get used to those crazy, buggy eyes eventually.
Hi. Remember me? The Mellon? I haven't been hanging around here much lately. Have you been wondering just what it is that could be keeping me from clogging up the interwebs with my stream of consciousness rambling?
No?! You hadn't even noticed my absence? Oh. Well, that's a blow to the ole ego, isn't it? And here I'd put together this lovely photograph-enhanced list itemizing a few of the things that have been occupying space in my brain lately. You know what. I'm going to go ahead and share it anyway, if that's ok with you. What? I can't hear you. Lalalalalalalalala....
So here we go, in some order of importance:
1) I'm a Foo for you Dave Grohl.
Did you know that Foo Fighters released a new CD Tuesday? (They're a band Mom) And they had a documentary out, too? And Dave was on the cover of Sunday Style? It's been a veritable FooSmorgasboard. I think I've listened to Wasting Light about 30 times already. Seriously. My favorite song is Arlandria. Or Bridge Burning. Or I Should Have Known. Or maybe Dear Rosemary. No, These Days. Back & Forth? Oh they're all good--well except White Limo--which I do like right up until the screaming starts. The screeching gives me flashbacks to the latest battle waged in the Amaya/Chase wars, so I can't stand to listen to it for long. Maybe when more time has passed and the wounds aren't as fresh...
2) Reading. I love going to the bookstore--it's like Disneyland to me. Only better because you don't have to wait in line for 20 minutes to get to the good stuff.
Yes, I have a Kindle and an iPad. And sure, nothing beats the convenience of clicking a few buttons and finding the book you want to read on the screen in front of you a minute later. But, I'd never give up my trips to the bookstore. I love to wander the aisles picking up anything that strikes my fancy. And, there's just something about holding an actual book-the feel of the pages in your hand, the smell of the ink. Love.
Right now, I am reading This Is Not The Story You Think It Is: A Season of Unlikely Happiness by Laura Munson
which caught my eye both because the author's name is Laura and I have a thing for Lauras and because I liked the giant horseshoe on the cover. So far, I've laughed, cried, nodded and had several ah-ha moments. Which is the very definition of a good book in my opinion.
3) Cooking--AKA You Win Some...
Buffalo Chicken Pizza
You Lose Some.
Broiled Salmon or as I like to call it: My broiler hates me and there is nothing more disgusting than the smell of burning fish skin. I mean fish in general is nasty, nasty stuff. Burnt fish? Barf Barf Barf.
4) Heaven. Or the writing utensils I'd imagine they have there anyway.
5) Spring! And pretty spring skirts.
6) Spring cleaning my closet to make room for all of those pretty new spring clothes.
7 Bags to Purple Heart. How on earth did I ever accumulate enough articles of clothing that I can fill 7 bags and still have a closet jam packed? I think I should probably go try to fill 7 more before PH comes tomorrow. But I get so attached to my clothes. Like they're my babies. I just can't send my babies off to some strange home. No, instead they must stay buried in my closet where most of them will never see the light of day. I have issues. I know.
7) Return of my Cherry Cola Highlights. I just adore that the dye color name is Cherry Cola. Makes me smile because it reminds me of one of my favorite song lyrics: Seeking cherry cola as the bridging wine from Melissa Auf der Mar's Lightning is my Girl.
Totally worth those 3.5 hours lost to the Time Sucking Vortex, yes?
Disclaimer: I have no connection to any of the products featured in today's post. No one cares enough what I think to approach me about writing a review. Everything mentioned here was purchased by my own personal volition with my own AmEx. I will in no way benefit from anyone going out and also purchasing said items other than earning the right to say "I told you so."
During the NCAA basketball tournament, this great blog post was making the rounds of all of my Mountaineer Facebook friends' walls. It might be disguised as a sports piece, but it is in actuality a very succinct narrative on what it means to be a West Virginian. And now, here we are long after the final buzzer of March Madness has shrilled, and those written words are still resonating deep within me. You see, I am so very homesick. And no before you ask, I haven't abandoned my family or fled the country--I don't mean this home that I live in now. I know that outsiders may find it difficult to relate, but home to a born and bred West Virginian will always be in those hills no matter where we may physically reside. So when I say I'm homesick, I mean that I miss my mountain mama. It goes beyond a simple longing for the winding country roads and pepperoni rolls. The longer I am gone, the more disconnected I feel from my roots. The affluent suburban mindset has all but eroded away the memory of a rural upbringing where poverty abounded, but so too did pride and a sense of belonging and community. And it makes me very sad, melancholy even, to think that this new reality of mine will continue to make me feel even further removed from my humble beginnings as each year passes.
I miss the girl that I was when home was, in fact, home. The slightly sassy, entirely nerdy girl who was going to go out and conquer the world completely unaware of just how blissfully naive and sheltered she was. The person buried somewhere within me who has since become over-shadowed by my roles as wife and mother. The one who had a future full of possibilities, but was too young and foolish to even recognize what a gift a wide open future really was.
Don't get me wrong. I have a great gig going here. It is not outside the realm of reason to say that I have led a charmed life, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. While it is true that, depending on the decibel level of the sibling disputes occurring between Chase and Amaya at any given moment, I have been known to announce my plans to run away, that's just an empty threat. Well, as long as I remain able to take frequent Mamacations as the need presents itself anyway.
I guess the point I am trying to make is that my life is pretty much set now--the major decisions made, the possibilities narrowed. Which is the way life goes: as one takes on more responsibility the freedom to just up and join the Peace Corp on a whim diminishes. Opportunities that once existed, no longer do. They've been missed. Passed over. Traded for another option. Economics 101. Opportunity cost would have been a much more applicable concept to my life all those years ago if the professor would have put it in those terms rather than how it applied to IBM. Microchips mean very little to a 19 year old technology-phobe, after all.
There is a part of me that misses all of the variations of my life that could have been if I had chosen to go right instead of left at that fork in the road. I know that sounds silly to say that I miss something that never was, but I can't think of a better way to describe it--perhaps wistful? It's both a yearning and a sadness. Perhaps a mourning even. And yes, I know right now you're thinking one of those paths I should have chosen was a career in drama--believe me I know. Stupid limited resources and complete lack of stage presence.
Still, even though in my youth I did not fully comprehend that choosing one thing made the other an impossibility, I don't know that I would have changed any of the paths I ended up walking. Because it's not that I am willing to trade A for B, or even that I want to. It's that I want to somehow be able to live them both. I want to be a stay at home mom and an elementary school teacher. I want to spend a year in Florence learning to speak both Italian and Da Vinci, but still be home every night to make dinner for my family. Which is ridiculous and impossible. But absurd or not, it's what I've been longing for lately. To be split in two so that one part of me could be an always free Mountaineer running barefoot through those glorious hills while the other is a perfectly coiffed, suburban soccer mom sipping her Starbucks while chauffeuring her kids to play dates and music lessons.
1) Sunday's gorgeous weather found us taking a trip to Frying Pan Park to visit with the animals. Is there anything cuter than baby farm animals? I mean this is the main reason that I won't eat lamb
or veal. I just can't get the picture of these cute little creatures out of my head long enough to bring the fork to mouth. Just the thought of eating a baby animal makes my stomach twist and bile begin to rise in my throat. Not exactly appetizing.
And I'm not sure I can ever eat bacon again after seeing this.
At least not for a day or two anyway.
Now chickens, on the other hand, just don't register the same response. Pass the nuggets.
2) Throughout our entire visit at the farm, my children not only refrained from the constant squabbling and nitpicking, but actually appeared to enjoy each other's company.
At first, I thought it might be a side effect of the fresh spring air and the wide open running room.
But upon further reflection, I think they stepped up their game after observing this finely modeled example of sibling harmony.
Nothing says love your brother like a Pile O' Piggies.
Spring is here! And I really think it plans to stick around this time. In fact, I'm going to officially go on record as saying that there will be no further need for warm winter coats until next November. I'm even packing them away I'm so sure of this prophesy. From here on out, it's barefoot on the patio days.
Now, you might be wondering what Little Miss Sunshine is doing on her knees there. Well, if you look really closely at the grout line, you'll see a tiny speck. That little dot is actually this:
A poor little bee who'd lost the will or perhaps the ability to fly. Maybe because he got a little overzealous with the pollen collection and was too heavy to take flight? That yellow stuff on him is pollen, right? If not, ew.
So yes, we were studying a bee yesterday. The little stinger kept crawling all over the patio fluttering his wings to no avail. It's a wonder the poor thing didn't fall over dead from fright because Iverson kept sticking his nose right up against him and slobbering all over the place. Which caused Amaya to chase after the dog screaming: "Don't eat him!" It was quite comical. Also she gets her compassion from me. Obviously.
The kids decided that since bees like flowers, maybe if they gave him one he'd get well and take to the sky once again.
Sadly, the daffodil did not captivate the bee enough for him to forget that he should be walking away from the giant striped arm instead of toward it. I ended up relocating our insect friend to the yard, and we eventually lost track of him. I fear it may have been his final hours, but at least he did not meet his maker by the paws of a silly Australian Shepherd.
You may be wondering why the kids weren't running screaming from the bee. Well they did at first. But I gently reminded them that the bee won't bother them if they don't bother the bee--which is basically my line for every squiggly, squirmy creature one might encounter in nature. Which, yes I know is not 100% true, but true enough that I feel little guilt about continuing to repeat the phrase. Plus bees aren't really something to be afraid of unless you happen to be allergic to them.
I know what you're thinking right now: But they sting! Bees sting! Pain! Pain is something to fear! And yes, you might have a point there, but you see my view on the whole bee thing has been so skewed that I can't really be made to see reason. What? You want to know the story? Well, if you insist...
We must go back, way back, back into time. Back to when I was just a small fry--maybe 5?-- and my family had an apple tree in the front yard. My dad decided that it would be my chore to pick up the apples that had fallen to the ground and put them into a 5 gallon bucket. When the bucket was full, I was done with my chore for the day. And I'd get a dollar; a crisp GW of my very own. Thus, I was quite happy to prance around the yard tossing apples into a bucket--I mean do you know how much penny candy a dollar could buy? 100 pieces? Um, no actually inflation had risen the price of penny candy to 5¢, so only 20. Still, that's a lot of sugar to a kindergartner.
But do you know what likes to land on and feast upon rotting apples? Wasps. And do you know how angry they get when you try to pick up their tasty treat and throw it in a plastic cylinder? Very. It was usually after the 4th or 5th sting that my mom would take pity on me and end the misery by taking me inside to rub a solution of water and baking soda on my welts. I don't think I ever lasted long enough to get a single bucket full that entire summer. But what I did get is desensitized to the fear of being stung by a bee--sure it smarts a bit, but only for a minute or two. Ten max. Oh and I also got my dollar. Every time.
My self esteem has taken quite a few hits this week folks. It all started with the random gluteal pain which it turns out was not random at all but was actually brought on by excessive intense poses and warrior 3s. Yes Yoga. Yoga made my ass hurt. Which on its own isn't such a big blow to my gym confidence, but then my hip flexors had to go and get all tight and sore which makes throwing a round house kick quite painful. Whimpering every time I put my leg in the air doesn't really gel well with my whole pretending to be a ninja, ya know?
So I thought, "Ok it's a bad gym week. No biggie. They happen. Let's focus on being a domestic goddess instead." I am quite resilient after all. But well, that plan kind of backfired when I scorched my omelet so bad the entire house smelled like burnt egg for 2 days. And yes, this little snafu most likely could have been prevented if I were patient enough to stand guard by the pan instead of wandering off to water the plants while it was cooking, but still. Who burns eggs?
But once again, I shook it off. If at first you don't succeed and all of that nonsense. So I made what I thought was the most delicious pasta salad for dinner Thursday night. I mean noodles, salami, mozzarella, spinach, tomato, olive oil---what's not to like?
Everything apparently. At least according to all three members of my family. Every last one of the turncoats made faces and pushed the food around the bowl trying to make it seem like they'd actually eaten something. Total fail and nothing even burnt to blame it on. That's fine though--that means I have enough left over to eat for lunch for the next 5-7 days or until the tomatoes start rotting--whichever comes first. It's all good.
Now on the whole, I have a very healthy self esteem. I have a pretty firm grasp on just who I am and who I am not. So these little set backs while a bit disheartening weren't enough to bring me to my knees. Nope. That came yesterday with the discovery of this:
Yes, the escaped and recently recaptured Bronx Zoo Cobra has nearly 1,000 times more twitter followers than I do. I mean Charlie Sheen and his winning, tiger blood, rock star Martian, gnarly gnarliness was one thing, but a snake? Come on! He has no fingers--how does he type? With his fangs? And his brain--so small. How could he possibly be more interesting than me? The world is not fair people.
So at this point there's only one option left for salvaging any happiness: indulge my narcissistic tendencies by playing with Photo Booth.
Steve Jobs is my hero yo. I bet he has more followers than me too, but dude's earned it, so I'm ok with that. Plus he's human. That helps.
1) The human body is amazing. Truly. I think about this quite a bit when I am working out. Mostly, I am blown away by how my body adapts to the changes that I am insisting on forcing it into. It's really kind of neat to think about how difficult/darn near impossible I used to find certain exercises that I can now do with (relative) ease. It makes me a bit high on my own potential actually.
And while this change is gradual, I do have markers along the way to let me know I'm moving in the right direction. I call those markers: PAIN. As in the soreness of the muscles that I feel the next day. That is nature's way of telling me that yes, I can have a sleeker body, but it's going to cost me in spades. Or ThermaCares as the case may be. Most of the time, as I'm performing an exercise, the active muscle is firing so much that I know there will be pain the next day. The burning I feel is kind of a warm up for the agony I'll be made to endure 24 to 48 hours later. Wince for wince, overall I'd say it's worth it. At least I know what I'm getting myself into. I'm asking for it really.
But sometimes, I wake up to soreness that I was not at all prepared for. I wrack (rack?) my brain trying to recall just what torture was inflicted that is now causing me to scream in protest every time I take a step forward. And I come up with nothing because to the best of my memory I sailed right on through the prior workout without any real distress or discomfort. But I NEED to know what caused this pain so I can be sure to never, ever do it again. Like, I mean ever.
At this point, I have two choices. a) I can mime my way through every movement that I executed the day before. Believe me, I'll know when the culprit has been found and chances are also good that so will every other person within earshot. or b) I can go right to the source. Which is why earlier today my trainer received the following text: Why does my ass hurt? Oddly, she has yet to reply. I mean after seven years, you'd think she'd be expecting such a message and have a response typed and ready to be sent. It seems she has not adapted as well as I have, eh?
2) How can something be so terrorific one minute and so darn sweet the next?
To ensure survival of the species or something? Nature. That chick knew what she was doing.
Knock it off. Yes, Mother Nature, I'm looking at you. I don't know if you have some kind of under the table deal with Old Man Winter or what, but this 40° rainy, windy day? I am not amused. Twas but a few days ago, Amaya and I were running around jacketless outside smelling the flowers
and now today here I am wearing my sweat pants, toes tucked under a blanket with hands wrapped tightly around my mug of coffee trying to siphon some of its warmth into the icicles I call fingers. I mean it is Spring right?
And now I hear rumblings about possible snow over the weekend? Really lady? Snow?! You go ahead and do what you want Ms. Nature, but just know that if I see even a single white flake you are hereby removed from my Christmas Card List. Permanently. Think about that for a bit why dontcha?
1) I am sure that I've mentioned before what a finicky eater my son is. Child is not at all interested in widening his culinary palate--he'll stick with pancakes, chicken nuggets, chocolate milk and corn dogs thankyouverymuch. That doesn't mean that I ever stop trying to fandango a vegetable or high quality protein into his system though. I look at it almost like a challenge--as if the the gauntlet has been thrown down and my only recourse is to get the kid to eat a carrot or perish in the effort. Sadly, if my life depends on getting the kid to ingest anything green then I fear my days on this earth are numbered.
I did have a bit of hope this weekend when we took the kids to Benihana. Chase was having the time of his life chatting up the chef, laughing hysterically at all of his tricks.
I thought for sure that since he had watched someone prepare a meal especially for him--with gusto even--that Chase would happily scarf up that chicken and rice. Ha! As the chef was putting the food on his plate, my child says, "No thank you. I don't eat that." Ummm it's chicken kid--just like the nuggets only not deep fried and covered in bread. Oh, I see the problem here. Never mind.
Now his sister, well she's the garbage pail of the family. She'll try anything.
I am not kidding. Yesterday, I found her digging moldy strawberries out of the trash and shoving them in her mouth. Appetite for indigestion.
2) When I was a teenager wrestling with all the drama and horrendously awful days that entails, my mother would always tell me "This too shall pass" which at the time was not overly helpful. But as I've gotten older and wiser (ahem!) it has come to be a great steadying phrase in my head when I'm feeling overwhelmed or sad or angry. It is comforting to be able to put those rotten days into perspective and remember that they aren't permanent. Eventually, I will feel relief again. The pain will subside. The aggravation will alleviate. Nothing lasts forever and this period of angst won't even come close.
But on the flip side of that are the happy times. The exhilarating moments that take our breath away and fill our chests with that bubble of joy that grows so big we think it will certainly explode inside us releasing a giddy spray of rainbow and unicorn shrapnel. Those too shall pass just as surely as the bad moments. More swiftly even and often before we've had the chance to realize how beautiful that nanosecond really was.
I just finished reading The Days of Awe by Hugh Nissenson, and it contains the most simple, yet captivating line: "Ah, moment, stay!" Those words have been ringing in my ears for a few days now, and I feel that I must answer their summons and remember to acknowledge those precious minutes of grace that pass through my life and bid them to remain a few minutes more.
Yes, my poor little Petunia is feeling a bit under the weather today. She's got a fever and a cough and is pretty much all around miserable. And of course this is happening on a beautiful 70°+ day. Sun is shining, but I'll only get to see it peeking through the windows as my attention will be focused on this:
Which is okay because I'm still looking at a sunshine, a sad one yes, but still my sunshine.
This one greeted me first thing this morning with a reminder that wasn't it St. Patrick's Day and didn't I buy him a new shirt to wear today, and is it really ok that he doesn't wear a school shirt today? Yes, he's my excitable little worrier.
This one was a sleepy head and had a rough time waking up this morning. She was not interested in cooperating with any of my plans for coordinating tops & bottoms as she insisted on dressing herself. I am considering forwarding this picture on to the Sartorialist. Lil miss is a trendsetter if I ever saw one.
And me, well between the side braid and the gingham, I think I'm channeling Ellie Mae more than any Irish ancestry I may possess.
But it's green, so y'all better just keep your pinchin' fingers to yourselves.
1) It is not wise to use a plastic spoon to stir Margaritas while simultaneously depressing the pulse button on your blender. Trust me on this:
I am currently wanted in the state of Maryland for the murder of an innocent utensil and the mutilation of an alcoholic beverage. Being on the lamb is tough, y'all--it's not like I'm eating bonbons here.
So my advice to you is this--use a metal spoon. Or um just don't stir while the blender is on. Either or.
2) A few months ago, the grocery store had Gain dishwashing soap on sale for $.99 and I had two $.50 coupons that would double to a dollar. So of course I had to scoop up my free bottles of liquid soap. You might be confused right now since you may only know of Gain as a laundry detergent. Apparently, they're diversifying their portfolio or something. I don't know, it was free. I don't ask questions when something's free.
But perhaps I should have. I finally got around to opening a bottle of it today, and well, its scent is quite similar to that of the laundry detergent. So now my pots and pans smell like my socks, and I'm just not sure how I feel about that.
My mother and I love to go thrifting in search of treasures. It's mainly the hunt of it that thrills me most. You just never know what you're going to come across when you're inside a thrift store. Which is why when I saw three shiny, red boxes on the shelf last weekend, I knew I had to get a closer look. I mean who wouldn't be curious as to what a Marie Osmond Fine Collectible entails.
Of all of the possibilities that ran through my head prior to opening the box--and believe me I had some strange ideas--none of them came anywhere near the horror that actually awaited me.
Perhaps a bit closer of a look?
Dude. And I thought Hedda was creepy. Marie Osmond has some 'splainin' to do.
So how fortuitous then that I happened upon this lovely portrait while cleaning out my inbox today. This photo dates back to December, and yes it's pretty much been that long since I last plowed my way through the gnarly gnarlingtonness of my inbox. Anyway--the point here is that this is what winning looks like to me:
Not my winning. Oh no. My friend Molly is the one winning for finding that book for my son. You're confused. I understand. My thought process is hard to follow if you happen to be in possession of a normal brain as I assume most of you are. Let me draw your attention to the book's title. You see, back in October, I'd made a silly little video that all of my friends love to laugh at. Perhaps you remember it? If so, then you know how much of a rock star from Mars Molly really was. But perhaps you've forgotten and/or never watched it in the first place. Well, I'm here for my people, so I have provided y'all with the video and the post completely unabridged :
I have something that I simply must share--Real Housewives of DC confessional style:
Did I get that silky smooth, always calm tone down just right? I think I hear Bravo calling now. Oh, and remember, this is just between you and me, don't tell anyone now, ya hear?
Hmm now that I think about it, maybe I'm winning too..bi-WINNING it is.
1) When I was in junior high, the guy who lived across the street from me drove a cherry red Dodge Stealth. I'd stare out my window at that beautiful piece of machinery while contemplating all the ways that I could con the man into falling for me so hard that he'd give me my own set of keys complete with disco ball key chain while saying: 'Sure, baby you can drive my car.' So what if he was probably 30 and I was 13--age ain't nothing but a number when we're talking about sexy little advanced sports coupes. The Stealth was my dream--he was just the Ambien to get me there.
So today as I was driving to the library, I ended up behind an identical Stealth. Well, identical 20 years ago perhaps. This one had been pretty beaten up over the years: the paint worn down and faded to a sad tomato-ish color, taillights duct taped over, dents outnumbering scratches. And I was heartbroken that I no longer felt that quickening pulse when my gaze fell upon the car--it was too old to get me excited anymore. And then I thought to myself--I bet that's exactly how I look too. Past my prime. I think I'll eat a cupcake now.
2) Chase is rarely amused by his sister's attempts to play with his toys. It's kind of funny the lengths he will go to in order to keep her from touching his batman stash--he will even go so far as to travel all the way up to her room to get her Tinkerbell just to have something to distract her from his shiny baubles. And if that doesn't work, then he whines and yells and hisses at her to leave him alone. It's loads of fun at 7AM let me tell you.
Which is why I find it amusing that tonight after music while we were waiting for Daddy and Amaya to return home, Chase was practically jumping out of his pants so anxious was he to see his sister. At the slightest of sounds, he'd jump up and run to the mudroom saying, "Amaya?" It was so cute and adorable that I thought, "Oh finally, he's starting to appreciate the sibling that I bore solely to give him a playmate. Thank heavens."
But no. Within 5 minutes of their reuniting, it was back to the standard knockdown, drag out brawl.
Guess it's true what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder. I think I'll test that out a bit by excusing myself for awhile.
Have you ever noticed there is a stretch of I68 between I70 & Cumberland that is completely void of any quick on/off exits containing clean bathrooms? Well, at least from January-April it is since the powers that be have chosen to close the Sideling Hill Rest Stop during those months because apparently no one needs to visit the restroom when it's cold. or something. And wouldn't you just know that would be the exact stretch of interstate that Chase would whimper from the backseat that he had to use the potty Right this second or else.
So realizing that it's a good 15-20 minutes before we will encounter a mother-approved bathroom, we do what any reasonable parents with a boy will do--prepare to let him pee by the side of the road. And you know most boys will jump at the chance to be one with nature, but not my son. Oh no.
Chase: I don't want to pee outside. I'll get in trouble.
Drew: You won't get in trouble. It's an emergency. It's ok in an emergency.
Chase: No, regular people don't pee outside. Only dogs pee outside. Regular people pee in potties.
Drew: Well, we don't have a potty now, so it's either pee outside or hold it for 10 minutes.
Fifteen minutes later, we're pulling into Chick-fil-A. Cause my son is nothing if not a regular person.
