blogstone: one hundred

Happy 100 posts to me. It's a blogstone. Get it. Like milestone. I crack myself up. Well, sometimes. Okay, rarely. Holy schnokers, it has been like root-canal hard to drag myself to the blog this week to write my stinkin' anniversary post. But here I am. You win the prize, but only if you read all the way to the end.

I feel since it is my 100th, I should, like, give a speech or something:

Eight months ago when the lovely and talented Jill said to me, "Jen, you should totally start a blog; there are tons of moms doing it," I was like: "A what?" And as they say, the rest is...

Okay, so there's my speech. Oh, and I guess I'd like to thank Blogger, even though picture uploads have been root-canal hard and, in general, the template choices could be more creative. I know, it's free, I should lower my standards.

But the point is, blogging motivates me to write (some "shitty first drafts" as Anne Lamott would say) about our life, right down to the ants in our walls and the carpal tunnel I am sure to get from all the trimwork and painting I've done in the past three weeks. Oh, right, I never did write about that. Too much throbbing and twitching to type, I guess. And, how could I forget, blogging also allows me to post pictures of my husband wearing rabbit ears and eating sushi for all of our family and closest friends to see -- and possibly even people who don't know us and therefore don't have the reassurance that we are mostly normal, with a few exceptions. Seriously, what's there not to love about a blog? Oh, right, see previous paragraph.

In this, my 100th post, I feel I should also share with you, my devoted readers, that at times my love of blog has reached obsessive levels, like last week when I dreamt that SD and I actually got to meet (and have dinner with) one of my blog idols whom I do not know personally (of course) and who lives thousands of miles away (of course), and we just *so* hit it off, and -- here's the kicker -- she featured us in her blog post the next day. And, of course, I felt like a rock star. Well, I guess that would be blog star. I mean, in my dream, I felt like a rock/blog star. In my bed when I woke up, I felt like an idiot. And a little bit, um, like a lunatic, too.

So, happy 100 to me. I shudder to think what dreams may come between now and my bicentennial.

:::

Today, I finally got around to plopping our (as of two days ago) 14-month-old babe in some good ol' Texas bluebonnets and, of course, taking pictures. It's a whole phenomenon thingie here -- people pulling off the road to snap photos of their kids frolicking in the wildflowers and all. It's wild (heh, heh), but when in Rome...

Here are a few of my faves:

space balls

Well, not that great of a BSM, but here's Eli's new solar system mobile to go in his brand-spankin' new toddler room (our project for the past week or so). Cool, huh? Got it yesterday and were so excited to hang it. It's no surprise that he loves it, too, and, if he were taller or it hung lower, he would scoop the planets right out of the sky -- the pretend blue-sheetrock sky, that is. More room photos and catching up to come. As always, for more best shots, click on over to Picture This. Happy Monday!

scrub-a-dub-dub (and do rabbits eat sushi?)

Yesterday afternoon I was thinking I'd have to pull one from our family archives for my best shot Monday since we didn't take that many photos this weekend (but instead did lots of painting). But then, I bathed the boy and, voila, we had new pictures. For more bath photos and some slightly bizarre ones of my husband wearing rabbit ears and eating sushi, go on over to our Flickr page. What can I say but that we get a little batty on Sundays. Oh, and for more BSMs, go here!

have you seen this?

Some

very

cool

photos

and

a

cool

tune.

Happy

hump

day!

birches
by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


*It's been a while since I read this, but today, while I was outside swinging the kiddo, I thought of it and wanted to record it here because I like it so darn much. I'm sure Frost would be proud to have made it into my blog. Ya think?

escape artist

Here's my best shot Monday. Eli is now a master at wriggling his way out of his high chair belt. When I shot this, he was nearly standing (in the chair), and relishing the view from the top. Yes, ladies and gents, we've got a lively one on our hands. For more best shots, go here. Hope the weekend delivered lots of whatever you wanted it to. I'll be back later this week with more notable toddler exploits. Happy Monday!

more of what we do for fun

dreaming of the espadrille

So, as my not-so-stellar Fashion Week comes to a close, I realize that I have done nothing on shoes. The thing I (and probably ever other woman) love most about shoe shopping is that you never go home feeling like you need to lose 10 pounds. Feet might not be the most attractive parts of our bodies, but they also don't pack the twinkies like other bodily regions. So, in honor of how fun and self-esteem boosting it always is to shop for shoes, I thought I'd post a few favorites. Eli and I met our neighbor and her kids at the park earlier today, and I was, of course, scoping out what the other moms were wearing. Horrible. I know. But you know you would do it too. And it was field work for Fashion Week; I couldn't help myself. I have to say, some of them were lookin' pretty dang snappy for being at a playground. Can't say I would go through that much trouble to sweat while chasing after the kiddo, but at least it provided some great fashion ideas for the poor, disheveled moi. As I was pushing Eli in the swing (which I did for about an hour because he LOVES it more than all of his toys and a grilled cheese sandwich combined), I noticed them: a pair, delicate yet bold, stylish yet casual, and the perfect addition to jeans, gauchos, or a great sundress. Yes, ladies, 'twas indeed the beloved espadrille.

This chance meeting reminded me that I've been wanting a pair of stinkin' espadrilles since they came back on the fashion scene a few years ago. But it's no surprise to me that I am, once again, at least a few light years behind the trend. But that's okay, this way I can wait and see if these sometimes flighty trends will indeed stick around before I actually purchase and possibly get photographed in them for all posterity. And also, it quite possibly minimizes the extent to which my children, decades from now, will laugh at me for what I was wearing. Well, nah, they'll probably still laugh. A lot. I was just trying to make myself feel better about being fashionably late ALL THE TIME. Anyway, as always, I digress. So, of course I wasn't going to walk up to her and ask her where she got the shoes because, well, that would make me look like the shoe-stalker that I really am. And it would also make me look desperate, like I have no real style or ideas of my own. And I mean, that's just not the case. Come on, people. I ooze personal style. So, after a couple of hours in the land of lots o' tots, Eli and I made our way home, and I, still dreaming of the espadrilles, made my way to the computer (once Eli was contentedly playing, of course) to search for the playground espadrilles. Sadly, I could not find the exact pair I saw, but I did find these which are similar. I don't like them as much and, truth be told, I don't think they're techincally true espadrilles, but we all have to learn how to deal with disappointment in life, right? A bonus is that they're $39.99, which is not bad for a non-Payless shoe. I can't do Payless; they're cute, but they wreak some pretty severe havoc upon my feet.

A style I can't say I'm as thrilled about as the espadrille is the flat. I know, they're back whether I like it or not. Truth is, I like the look, but I've always depended on shoes to provide the height that my DNA didn't. Let's just say I was never the tallest girl in my class. Even though I'm not going to stock my closet with them, I do like this one. It's got a cool skater look and it seems like it would be comfortable. So, it's a maybe.

Finally, the flip flop. Gosh, even though it's a flat, I gotta love it. Here's one that looks very casual and cushy. And the price isn't bad either.

So, there you have it. My Fashion Week. And what have I learned? Just that this everyday posting bit is for the birds. I can't wait to go back to my normal routine of posting whenever the heckola I want to. And I'm sure you're saying, "Thank God (insert deity of choice), I'm tired of hearing from her." And I'm saying, "Thank God, I'm tired of hearing from me."

Thanks to all of you who weighed in on my swimsuit challenge. I'll post a photo of what I find. And now, in closing, I would like to leave you with the words of the brilliant and ever-witty Oscar Wilde, who said, "Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." Ha!

Happy weekend, and I'll be back with my best shot Monday, but not until then because, gawd, I'm exhausted.

no itsy bitsy polka dots here

All right, so my fashion week is turning out to be kind of lame. I had high hopes, but I would just rather be doing other things than looking for outfits online and trying to establish some chic but simple and affordable style for myself, my child, and my husband -- which is why, as I have already stated, we will be visiting our favorite FFTM stores in the coming weeks and letting someone else do it for us. Of course, with this comes the acceptance that our style will be the exact same style of thousands of others. Too bad we're not rich. Then we could afford a personal stylist.

Okay, I'm over it. The dream is dead. Bring on the sameness.

So today's post was going to be about swimwear. I know. Appalling. But now that SD and I have decided we will combine a beach weekend (Eli's first!) in early June with visiting an old friend of his in Corpus Christi, I must start thinking on how best to represent myself and my, how shall I say, fuller environs, in these beachy, peachy situations. I suppose I do still have a little time to get buff, but who are we kidding. Really. A better bet is to just find a merciful swimsuit that can forgive a thousand sins, like the bar of dark mint chocolate I consumed last night.

Bikinis are out. AS IF I even needed to establish that one. I don't know that I have EVER in my life worn one. I have done the tankini. I can deal with that. So I'm soliciting your help (yes, all three of you) on this one. Maybe my hip little collegiate sister (and the other hip little high school one too) can come through for me on this. Where, oh, where on this godforsaken spinning sphere can I find some decent, kind and merciful swimwear to cloak my undesirables?

the fashionably tired and inspi(red)

Our boy child, wonder son, shining star in our universe was up (as in wide awake) at two this morning, blowing zerberts on himself and us, bouncing in his bed, bouncing in our bed, saying his new word "ight" (light), and cracking himself up -- until about 4ish, I think, when I finally was able to settle him and put him back to sleep. So naturally, I am close to zombie status today, even after having my cup o' Joe. When I'm tired (or just lazy), I want to be comfortable, not tied up in the trappings of itchy fabric or anything tight-fitting. What's more comfortable and soft than the good ol' tee, preferably oldish and laundered multiple times already for maximum softness. And what's even more great about the tee is that it can be fashionable, especially these days with all the cool designs. One of my favorites is the (RED) campaign tees. They're sold exclusively at Gap and 50% of the profits go to the global fund to help eliminate AIDS in Africa. I'm sure you know the shirts I'm talking about:

Target also has some fun screen tees, like this one, and strange ones, like this one. Not sure what these animals are doing, but I don't think I want Eli sporting this one. But if you tend towards the slightly bizarre, here's a French tee site I found called La Fraise. Moving right along...if you have a designer within and want to do your own thing, visit CustomInk.com, a very cool company my friend Jill just starting working for, or just click on the badge below my Flickr one. Very cool stuff!

And now for my favorite tee (drum roll, please): this dainty white one from my favorite guilty pleasure store, Anthropologie, from which I will be featuring more fashions later this week. Although, for $68, I'm not sure I'd exactly lie around the house in it.

quick and dirty: the usual suspects

I don't know where this day has gone. As I write this, I'm thinking to myself how amusing this saying is, like there's some island where all the lost and dearly-departed days go when they die before their time, before their hours were satisfactorily saturated with enough accomplishments (i.e., grocery trips, cleaning, thinking, breathing...you know, that stuff). It's sad, very sad. But enough with my drama. The title of this is "quick and dirty" for a reason: I have some where to be this evening and the house still needs, uh, to be picked up (actually burned down because it's so godawful messy, but I know I shouldn't joke about such things, so this wasn't a joke, okay..wait, I mean, it was a joke...no burning going on here, oh god, here I go shoving the ginormous proverbial foot in my ginormous trap). And I can't promise to deliver on the "dirty" part, but I just like the sound of "quick and dir-taaaay." If you haven't guessed, I'm easily amused, which comes in handy being a stay-at-home-mom and all.

So, what I did promise this week was fashion. Sigh. You know, I'm actually a little stressed. Earlier today, I was like, "Oh my gawd, Jennifer, you said you would write a post about what?!!!??" I was gnawing my finger nails to the quick at the thought of it. Because, I mean, I have such a vast readership, you know, that I know the masses are waiting (with respirators) for "Jen's Fashion Week." Easily amused. Didn't believe me the first time, huh?

So, here goes nothin' (except fashion, maybe).

I have always envied people who could put together a great outfit with seemingly no effort at all because well, they have this innate sense of style. Maybe you're one of these people. If you are, you should stop reading here and redirect yourself to peoplewhohavestyle.com since you obviously aren't going to learn anything new here. In thinking about what in the you-know-what I was gonna post this week, I thought I should start with the ones we all know and love: the Targets, Old Navies, Gaps, etc. You know, usual fashion-for-the-masses suspects. During a somewhat recent trip to one of the aforementioned fashion for the masses (FFTM...what is up with me and acronyms lately) stores, I vowed, walking out, that I would not shop there for at least 6 months because everytime I did, I ended up having the same pair of shorts or top as the first six people I saw on the street as I left FFTM store X. If you're confused by all the flailing letters, stay with me. Coherence usually finds favor with me by mid-draft.

Okay, so where was I. Oh, right, swearing off FFTM stores. Well, I can't do it. I just can't. For one, these stores offer things that are not only affordable (important for a SAHM) but much more stylish for the price than probably was available to our mothers and grandmothers who just had to be talented and make a good bit of their own clothes. And at nearly 30, I don't feel as idiotic shopping in these stores as I would in the Abercrombie-esque environs. Because I don't own a surfboard. So, if you are looking for me this weekend, I will probably be combing the racks, todder and hubby in tow, at our neighborhood Old Navy and Target to jumpstart our Spring wardrobe. Also, SD's sister is a hard-working manager at an Old Navy store, so gotta support the fam, you know!

And since no post is really complete without pictures, I found these adorable shorts for Eli at Old Navy online last night, and he's in a size 18-24 months if anyone is interested...hint, hint.

Also, my friend Jean, mommy to the sweet and adorable Eva Rose, purchased this colorful Spring dress, which according to her fits well, and according to me may help ressurect her from her poetry-writing slump. But she's a talented poet, so I think she can do it without the dress. But in some other article of clothing, of course. I'm not advocating nudist poetry here. Unless that's the kind of thing you (the general term, not you personally, Jean) go for, of course. I am definitely not here to judge or stand in the way of creative expression. And I will stop here with this little digression before I run out of feet to stick in my face.

Finally, I love this dress from Target online, but I promised you fashions to hide that pesky arm flab, and this is certainly not one of them. Maybe I'll do some push-ups tonight?

P.S. I'm not proofing this, so if you find typos, that'll be the "dirty" element that was lacking.

what we do for fun

Here is my best shot Monday. Ah, the allure of toilet paper, untouched and waiting to be unfurled and frayed into ribbons of joy. I love his expression: such freedom and satisfaction at getting to do what he wants. I saw it as a win-win situation because I got a great shot out of the deal and I only had to clean up a few miles of crushed toilet paper. Easier than smashed vegetables on the kitchen floor. Happy Monday! And don't forget, it's Fashion Week here, so I'll be back tomorrow with some chic Spring looks to rectify our ruffian ways. You won't want to miss it! And for more of Monday's Best Shots, go to Picture This. There are some definite goodies.

inner voices and the meter man outside my window

Okay, so I'm going to let you in on a little secret: sometimes I think I hear voices. You know, like Haley Joel Osment saw dead people. I'll call these voices the goddamn inner voices (because I like originality). And yes, I know I just took the Lord's name in vain. I think She understands creative expression -- really, I do. And does it actually count if you don't capitalize the g? Anyhow, forgive me my vanity. So, as I was saying, the GDIVs are constantly chattering away in my cerebral parts, nagging me to expound upon all the little idiosyncratic things that go on in our daily life. Because I don't want to forget them when, years from now, these cerebral parts start to deteriote and I no longer can recall that I ate a breakfast of microwaved turkey bacon on toast with spreadable cheese consecutively for a month (not gourmet but easy). Or that Eli has recently discovered his tongue and now can be found smacking his lips together just to feel the strange sensation of it undulating in his tiny mouth. Or that my husband cracks the same monkey joke every morning as he is leaving for work, and I laugh like it is for the first time everytime because to me it really is still that funny and because I love him. Ordinary can be extraordinary, they say. And because of this, I can't help but feel a loss at the end of each day of details that slip away and with each week and month fall deeper and deeper into that part of my memory that one day might not be accessible. So, I write when I can and remind myself that some moments are just meant to be taken in, drunk with love and reverence, and not necessarily intended to be transcribed, photographed, or videorecorded.

And then there are those moments, those morsels of idiocy and folly and sentiment, and get-it-off-your-chest bitchin', that simply need to be shared with the handful of people who read your blog. So here are the nominees in no particular (well, maybe) order:

• It has recently occurred to me that he who checks the meter might not just be doing it for the fabulous wage and great vacation time. No, I've begun to think there may be other motives, like the off-chance he'll catch a suburban housewife or two in her PJs (or less) when he slips, unbeknownst, through the back gate and shuffles ever-so-innocently, clipboard in hand, to the, uh, meter, which happens to be near the large (uncurtained) kitchen window. I'm sure there are meter women, too, but not in these here parts. Next time I'm poking my head out and asking for license and registration. And I'm getting a curtain. An opaque one. Perhaps something in the burlap family.
• I'm on strike -- politically opposed to indoor exercise at our gym. I just can't bring myself to do it lately. Besides the fan-freakin'-tastic weather we've been having, our neighborhood has some great hike/bike paths and tot parks and Eli is still at a strollable age AND so the neighbors tell me, we'll only have a couple of months before IT comes: the smothering, why-do-you-even-bother-showering-but-please wear deodorant HEAT. However, the Y does have a pool, so I guess we will continue to pay our dues even while using it minimally until the summer. Hmph. Dilemma-schlema.
• And while we're on the subject of exercise, let me just say that the Girl Scouts should be ashamed of themselves, going from doorstep to doorstep peddling their crumbs of sabotage. Thin mints! What's thin about them? Nothing. They are the surest way to kill a diet because they are irresistible and beckon me to just have another when I've already had twenty. And because of this, even though none of them will probably read this, I now feel I should express my deepest appreciation (and apologies) to all of those neighbors, teachers, friends, family members who, being fully aware that they were just a few shakes, rattles, and rolls away from that new pair of jeans, bought cookies from me, a squirrel-cheeked Brownie Girl Scout, so that I could reach my goal of 450 boxes and win a ride down the Mississippi on the Creole Queen riverboat. I am n0t kidding.
• And still speaking of exercise (god, it is just the bane of our existence lately), SD has finally reached some resolution on his chronic knee troubles. He saw an orthopedist and apparently is suffering from "an oblique tear of the posterior horn of the medial meniscus extending through the periphery and the inferior surface with a small meniscal cyst dissecting proximally along the posteromedial femoral condyle." And all of this will be fixed with a miraculous 45-minute outpatient procedure, which should result in near-erasure of the pain in about a week's time. I'm skeptimistic in a really hopeful way. He needs some relief.
• Eli is just recovering from a pretty fierce diaper rash. All I have to say is, "Desitin is the BOMB." I swear that stuff has magical, weegeeboard, voodoo, shaman-like powers of healing. I'm thinking of trying it as an acne cream. I'll get back to you on that one.
• And here's a fun one: irony in a bottle, our latest vino selection. I guess there's enough of it floating around us, someone figured they should try to contain it for us to then re-imbibe. Ironic.

bottled irony

Oh, and how could I forget, happy 13 months to Eli, the tiny king of our domain. That is, until we decide to bring forth a pesky sibling to rob him of all his shining glory, which by the way, is not, I repeat, not in the works, so, grandmas, cool your cornbread. Heh. Maybe next year.

Finally, I am declaring next week Fashion Week at my blog. Why? (a) Because it's my blog, (b) Because warm weather always makes me want to look like I flew off the cover of Vanity Fair or Vogue, (c) Because our house is the house of the fashionably depraved and (d) because what else will I fill a week's worth of posts with? I don't know exactly what I'll do yet, but I'm sure it will involve flip-flops (ahhh, my shoe, my love), shirts that don't make my arms look fat (what every mother wants), cool stuff for my hot hubby, cool stuff for my hot baby (don't take that the wrong way), and, dare I say it, swimsuits (gasp). It's going to be hot, so you won't want to miss it. And now, as I type this I'm getting very very nervous because now I have to produce something having to do with fashion, which clearly, as I have already stated, is a challenge for me. Shit.

And now for the promised jaw-dropping portion of this post: I have a dentist appointment at the end of the month, and I'm convinced they are going to have to heavily sedate me while they scratch, scrape, and attempt to eradicate all the plaquish matter that has accumulated since I last visited the dentist about two years ago, which instantly reminds me of a hygeine video we were shown in elementary school about taking care of your teeth. The plaque and other undesirables that collect in your mouth were personified and marched into this poor boy's mouth like the North Korean army. Oh wait, come to think of it, I don't think the video was about teeth at all -- I think it was about getting vaccinated for rabies. The things you learn in Catholic school.

That's all for now. Happy weekend. Anybody got big plans they wanna share?

neglect

On Monday I *thought*, "You know, I think I will try and post something everyday this week." Well, who's the big, fat loser on that one, huh?" Anyway, I promise (if you care), that I shall return, possibly (hopefully) tomorrow with, well, what else but stimulating, jaw-dropping inside scoop from our sordid life. And I bet you won't be able to sleep tonight thinking about this.

Stay tuned...or would that be wired, in this case?