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?

curry in a hurry

Okay, here's a quick and easy chicken curry dish. I love curry, so I was thrilled to find this in the latest issue of Real Simple magazine. Enjoy!

1 1/2 tbsp olive oil

1 sm yellow onion, thinly sliced (you could always get pre-chopped in the produce section)

2 tsp curry powder

1/2 c plain yogurt

3/4 cup heavy cream (You could always use half-and-half to make it lighter)

1/2 tsp Kosher salt (I used the good ol' plain stuff)

1/4 tsp black pepper

1 14.5-oz can diced tomatoes, drained (optional...and I opted to skip these)

1 rotisserie chicken (of course, I had to complicate things and get fresh chicken to cook)

2 c cooked white rice (I used Basmati; Jasmine would also be great or couscous)

1/4 c fresh cilantro leaves, roughly chopped (I skipped this!)

Heat oil in skillet. Add onion, cook, and stir for 7 minutes. Sprinkle curry powder, stir, and cook for another minute. Add yogurt and cream and simmer gently (isn't this redundant?) for 3 minutes. Stir in salt, pepper, and tomatoes (if using). Remove from heat. Slice or shred chicken. Top rice with chicken then sauce and sprinkle with cilantro. Voila! Oh, and I actually mixed the chicken in the sauce and then topped the rice. Dee-lish!

best shot monday

It may appear that this is turning into a photoblog, but I can assure you, I have not abandoned the writing. It's just easier (and sometimes more fun) to post photos. And now that I've upgraded my Flickr account, it's even easier. I'm going to borrow an idea from one of the other blogs I keep up with, and that is to post a "Best shot Monday" each week. After all, the weekend almost always offers some great photo ops. Here's one of Eli eating yogurt for dessert last night. He has a great fancy for utensils these days and wants to DO IT HIMSELF. So we just let him go all out, and he was plastered, literally from head to toe, by the time SD whisked him up to the bathroom to scrub his booty and other yogurt-laden parts.

happy weekend

she reads!

These days I find myself thinking back to pre-child years and all the time I wasted when I could have been reading, books upon books of useful and useless literary, historical, you-name-it knowledge. I wish I had some of that time back. However, if I had it, I'd probably still squander it terribly because that's just how it goes, right? According to Murphy's Law or something? In the past few weeks, though, I've managed to carve out a little time to pick up a few short reads, one of which is Louise Erdrich's book The Blue Jay's Dance: A Birth Year.

I wish I would have known about it when I was pregnant or while SD and I were in the throes of the first few months of parenthood. Nevertheless, it still fills me with supreme appreciation for being lucky enough to have the experience of being a parent and echoes many sentiments I have felt as I reflect on our first child's first year. It's beautifully written, and I would recommend it to any parent, especially new mothers. I'm not all the way through, but here's one of my favorite passages so far:

"We live and work with a divided consciousness. It is a beautiful enough shock to fall in love with another adult, to feel the possibility of unbearable sorrow at the loss of that other, essential, personality, expressed just so, that particular touch. But love of an infant is of a different order. It is twinned love, all absorbing, a blur of boundaries and messages. It is uncomfortably close to self-erasure, and in the face of it one's fat ambitions, desperations, private icons, and urges fall away into a dreamlike before that haunts and forces itself into the present with tough persistence. The self will not be forced under, nor will the baby's needs gracefully retreat. The world tips away when we look into our children's faces. The days flood by. Time with children runs through our fingers like water as we lift our hands, try to hold, to capture, to fix moments in a lens, a magic circle of images or words. We snap photos, videotape, memorialize while we experience a fast-forward in which there is no replay of even a single moment."

So true.

the house of the monster teeth

I promised myself I would post today, no matter how lame it might end up being, because I know there are some (all, say, seven of you) who like to see updates. It's 10:30ish and I'm just having my coffee now, so who knows WHAT will spew forth from this keyboard. I'm just saying, don't expect (my usual), um, greatness. Heh.

We're upholding the almighty status quo here and trying relentlessly to get organized, stay organized, work on pet projects, be healthy, stay healthy, visit the gym more than never per week, refrain from tripping over hammers, cars, and other brightly-hued plastics, be good parents, enjoy parenting, be good spouses, raise a good son, enjoy life, be kind, and find amusement in all things chaotic.

Sound familiar?

Eli has TWO HUGE MONSTER TEETH charging out of the top backsides of his mouth. Ouch, I know. Considering this, he is still dang happy, but he has been waking up in the middle of the night for the past couple of days. He spent half of one night with us in our bed and got us to wondering why on Jupiter we didn't get the king-sized mattress.

You may be able to see specks of the tiny dentures in this photo, one of my recent favorites:

Despite this seeming setback, he has managed to carry out most of his typical toddleresque mischief, which lately has included:

• ordering an on-demand movie with the remote control,
• dialing 911 while playing with the phone (I usually take the battery out, but of course, the one time I don't...),
• putting my underwear (clean, of course) on his head and blithely trotting around the room, which I will, OF COURSE, bring up when he is 16 and angsty.

Yes, things are getting interesting.

fast love

Ziplocked roses,
sugared hearts,
cardboard poetica,
and milk (because we're out),
in the Express Lane.

hurryhometowoo,

because we all need an excuse
to
eat
more
chocolate.

But, really, the 15th would have worked better for me.

Happy LoVe Day, a day late :-)

bathbug

mediocrity this way flies

Okay, this is gonna be quick. Well, everytime I say that, I end up writing something godawful long and overwrought. This won't be it, I can assure you, because I am tired. So, mediocrity this way flies. What have we been up to?

• Eating falafel (which, I think, correct me if I am wrong, is pronounced, fa-la-full). Fa, la, la, la, la...la, la...la, la. Yummy. The Greeks got it right. I guess it's Greek. Got it in the Kosher section of the grocery. Kid likes it. Husband likes it. Wife likes it. Slap it in a pita with some hummus and veggies, and damn, you've got supper.
• Taxes: I think we're gonna get money back.
• Movies: Little Miss Sunshine. Ahhhhh, what a super flick, su-per flick, it's su-per flick-ay, yaohhh. Seriously, SD and I agreed, this is the best movie we've seen in a while, which I guess, isn't saying that much since, well, we *never* watch movies anymore, but it really, really impressed us. Funny and sad and uplifiting and not overly sentimental and just real, right down to the heroin-snorting grandpa, the mom's 10 or 12 pants size, and the angsty-mute teenage son. L.O.V.E.D, loved it. If you saw it and hated it, don't rain on my parade, okay? Devil Wears Prada. Less impressed. Meryl can almost do no wrong in my book of books (Sophie's Choice, anyone?), but, um, the movie was predictable and slightly boring. The clothes, however, were enviable.
• 30: Less than three months for both SD and me. Holy crap. I'm planning to bungee jump or get a tattoo. You think I'm kidding?
• Our child: Beautiful, joyous, perfect, and rashy. He had a reaction to the MMR he got at his 12-mos check-up. The doctor told me it could take up to a week for it to appear, but I don't think I believed her. After a few days, I thought we were in the clear, but then...this:

A aside to the grandmothers: He's fine -- happy as all get-out. It's already started to diminish, but, whoah, was he rashy.

All right, so that's our update. How was your weekend? Do tell...

all right, already...

I know, I know, it's coming. Soon. I promise. More pictures and intimate (or maybe not so) details from our toddlered life. I mean, I've got BIG things to share -- as in, SD and I watched TWO movies last night. Did hell turn an icy 1000-below and I not get the memo?

Duties call: coffee to make and toddler to feed. I shall returneth...

And why, pray tell, is my profile picture not showing up?!!? I must get my own, non-Bloggerfied web site. That's number one hundred forty-five million on the do-to list, so it might happen, uh, when the frosty Netherworld drops another 50 bajillion or so degrees. Ya think?

birthday boy!

on the day you were born...

We were reborn into Joy, Hope, Innocence, and Possibility.

Since then, we have stumbled through a blurry past, trying to remember where and what we were before you:

More sleep, fancy restaurants, impulsiveness, time to waste, time to wait, time to lose.

Less laughter and fewer Cheerios, poops, and wooden blocks to build houses, ships, and dreams to tower over Reality and Practicality.

You have brought Clarity to our obscurity, Gladness in our despair, Relief to our burden, and Direction through the foggy intricacies of
breathing,
thinking,
resisting,
deciding,
hurting,
forgiving,
loving,
living.

And we are indebted but most of all thankful.

Happy first birthday to our precious boy.

on ants and laboring

I've got a joke for you: What do ants and laboring have in common? Well, yes, ants labor...to build ant piles. And to invade perfectly undisturbed domiciles in Texas via tiny crevices in the floor, wall, etc. Yes, we have ants. Not at the moment because my endeavoring husband poisoned them all last night. But before he did so, 'twas the meeting of the Great Ant Assembly upon our bathroom countertops and the kitchen floor. It's lovely, really. And I'm sure it will end up costing us some non-insignificant sum of money paid by check to Terminex. But, I digress. Laboring, did somebody say laboring? Yes, on this day a year ago I was LABORING, I would guess, much more deliberatly than an ant constructing a pile of soft dirt. Not that I have anything against the willpower of an ant, except when they're on my countertops.

It's elevenish (pm) as I'm writing this, so as I remember, at this time a year ago, SD and I were just transferring from the birthing center (where I had already labored for about 24 hours) to the hospital, where I would receive a humongous needle in my spine from the god Anesthesis.

"You must remain still for this," I remember him saying. Maybe those weren't his exact words, but I remember thinking, "Oh, okay, that's an easy one. I mean, I will just instruct the labor contraction to hold off until the cold, silver rod delivers the numbing agent to my already jacked-up nervous system. Yes, that will be a piece of freakin' birthday cake."

As luck would have it, the needle slipped in before the next contraction did, and before I could say, "Could I have some ice chips with that?" I felt my legs and pelvis float away, like cotton puffs on the nurse's cart as it rolled out of the room. Oh, and I should also mention that by this point, SD was almost horizontal himself. I think we focus on how hard it is for a woman to endure childbirth but forget how difficult it is for a partner to witness. I mean, we're talking, BIG STEEL NEEDLES here, people.

After that, we just waited for more dilation, which was hard-won. I forget precisely when it was that we made the decision to do the C-section, but it was, of course, not the outcome we wanted. In that moment, we were disappointed, relieved, anxious, and strangely calm. And then, at 2:34 in the afternoon, our first child was born, perfectly pink and puffy and ready to upset the relative tranquility of our sleep-indulged existence. TLT (Total Labor Time): 42 1/2 hours.

Pretty amazing stuff. We thought so, at least. And now, also amazing and much more hilarious than his actual birth itself is this, a little something we like to call A Tribute to David Bowie and the 80s on the Eve of Eli's First Birthday:

eli, the great

peek-a-boo on the run

for my husband...

Go Colts!

4 May 1978

SD and I have just spent the last few hours traipsing through at least a ton of old pictures from our infancies to the near-present. I found this one of me in the mix and thought it was appropriate to post a week before our son's first birthday. Wow. Time soars, and we hang on, willingly or not, for the ride.

photoshopping

So, I've just spent the last two hours or so exploring the capabilities of Photoshop, which was a Christmas gift from SD. Ahhh, how I love him. This was really the first chunk of time I've devoted to it, and, oh, how seductive it is, like grocery-store chocolate cake at two in the morning. You can do just about anything. Yes, anything. Like float a banana out of your ear if you want to. These are the days when technology makes me smile. More cropped and recolored art to come in future blogs because chocolate cake (and Eli) are irresistible.

throwing a bone...

Because it's been a week since my last post, I know. And I also know that my Catholic-school grammar teachers would say, "You're not supposed to begin a sentence with because." And so I do it because I'm almost 30, and it's artistic rebellion, and, er, nothing else is coming to me here. Seriously, I should think of doing other rebellious things because if all I've got is grammatical rebellion, well, that's just pathetic. And how do I ALWAYS manage to launch into these idiotic musings anyway?

We have been doing a few things of note, if you're interested. Yeah, yeah, I know, you only come for the pictures, but the writing is for me and for whoever else feels so inclined to partake. So, here goes our update:

• We've been a few Village People latley hanging at the Y.M.C.A. We joined a couple of months ago, and are just now kind of hitting our stride with going regularly. There's a great Child Watch program where we bring the tyke, and although it was an adjustment (for all of us!) at first, he's loving it, and it's great to see him interacting with other kiddos. One of the first times we brought him, SD said, as we sauntered to the cardio room, "Man, I feel like we're dating again."
• I also recently joined an area mom's group and will join up with a smaller playgroup within the larger organization. Eli and I were supposed to go to a gathering yesterday, but the weather was, um, cold and gross, so we stayed in.
• Let's see, what else? Well, first birthdays are in the air and all around us. Well, that was redundant. Ahem. This weekend we will attend the first birthday party of SD's boss's daughter, and I will be taking notes because we have our own coming up soon. Also, Eli would like to send his personal birthday wishes to Eva Rose, his first love and future prom date, who turns one today. Love ya, babe. Call me.
• And the love for the revamped pantry continues. Now if I could just transfer that model to all the closets in our house, it would be true bliss. We're working on Eli's room now and going through all of the clothes he's grown out of. It's just a little sad to me that he will never be that small again, but I'm getting over it because he's just so much fun now, and I know the next year holds even more surprises, some of which I'm just a little afraid to behold, actually.

Happy Thursday, and I will try to throw a more substantial bone (with more than one picture) soon. But in the meantime, check out our Flickr slideshow if you haven't yet. From here, look left, and you can't miss it. Because it's blinking and flashing and, well, now I've just started another sentence with that word. Because I can. Because I like it. Because I'm just a little crazy. Because, as I told one of my childless-but-soon-to-be-a-mom friends this week, you do lose brain cells when you become a mother, in case you didn't know.

contemplations

"Ah, zee wvorld, zee wvorld, vhat is it comeeng to? Brittanee Speers, Paris Heeltone. I can't take it any longeur. . ."

"It's terreebule. I zie avake in my crib, zinking, I must share zee cheer-i-oze."

"Hah, ha, ha...I crack myself up."

Behold, a pantry!

Okay, first things first, cause I'm feelin' guilty:

• I am fully aware that not ALL football players are overweight and male,
• that college players don't get the big bucks that pro-players do;
• and that on occassion, I have been known to enjoy chips and salsa.

Now then, I promised evidence of the SMACK's descent.

Remember this (gasp):

Who's your mama now?

Who am I kidding? Like you were even going to believe this might be my pantry. This is my idol pantry that one day, just maybe, if the kitchen gods smile down upon me, I will achieve. For now, I had to settle for a more inexpensive solution and something I was capable of accomplishing in a fairly short amount of time. It's not perfection, but I love it, and it has made the last 48 hours of meal preparation more joyful than you could ever know.

Baskets were on sale at Home Depot. Stackable containers were not on sale at Target, but we got them anyway, and my favorite aspect of the makeover: spice world (see below).

God, I LOVE Ikea. Cheap spice jars AND cheap hot dogs. Here's a close up of the spicaaayyy spiiiiice...ahhhh.

I'd like to thank my husband for the moral support and for providing pep talks when, thinking I could not go on, I struggled to find a place for the crushed box of Ziplocs. And to our son Eli, thank you for taking great naps. I'm hoping the canned goods remain upright for at least a week. Silly idealism.

the land of toddle

Okay, so I'm embarrassed I've left up my "tiger pride" post as long as I have, as if it somehow it defines who I am (one who thinks of no loftier fancies than the tossing of a pigskin to an overweight male who gets paid far too much money to run a straight, and sometimes jagged line, in order to score "points," which, really, don't amount to a whole lot of diddley-hoo). And I've just disappointed (and potentially ticked off) every person reading this blog who enjoys eating salsa and chips and watching the aforementioned drill. I don't hate it, really. And besides, how many people really look at my blog. And, truth be told, I do have a certain fondness for the purple and the gold. And sorry, Jill, for my insults upon the Irish. Please convey my sincerest apologies to your husband, whose good name I have sorely offended.

Speaking of running straight and jagged lines, we have one in our presence who does such a thing, albeit without a pigskin. Yes, it's our tiny toddling tower of Eli, who, for the record, does define much of who I am at the moment. In the past week, he has learned that he can travel to great lands (the dining room) if he finds a solid surface from which to push up and depart. My creative stores are depleted tonight; otherwise, I'd include a snappy metaphor to further describe what he looks like when he toddles. All I can say is it's cuter than anything we've seen so far from him. Okay, that's a lamo excuse for a description, I know, but again, am tired...organized pantry today.

Oh, yeah...the smack...came down. And it's a vision of beauty if I may exclaim so. I will be including some fine pantry photography soon, so stay tuned. We're talking canned goods at attention and even pledging allegiance to their snazzy new abode. Trust me, it's a sight to behold.

Hope all weekends near and far were satisfying. Mondays always make me want to claw my sagging eyelids off. Ugh. Sorry about that. You know you're tired when...you make disgusting jokes about your eyelids. More pictures and exciting updates from us coming soon...

tiger pride

Congrats to the purple and gold for beating the ever-lovin' pants off of those pesky Irish tonight in the Sugar Bowl . I'm not normally a football kind of gal, but it's always great to see a home team (and the ol' alma mata) win!

feat of feet



He walks!

beautiful belly

No, this is not my belly a year ago, but I kind of wish it was. We saw what we thought were elbows or knees when I was pregnant with Eli but never this. I'm not sure where the picture originated, but it was in a set labeled photos of the year sent to me by my dad. And I guess there's a chance it could be a photoshop creation, but even so, what a remarkable impression of a life, waiting to burst forth into its new reality. Wow.

Hap-pee New Yearrrrrrrrr!

We wish you health, happiness, and a lot of reasons to toot your horn in 2007!

Happy Eleven Months, a day late!

I wanted to post this last night, but Blogger would not allow it, which reminds me that I need to carve out some time to set up my own site. Anyhow, yes, the babe is one month closer to the milestonic first year. And here are some of his latest:

• Clapping (so adorable)
• Waving goodbye (again, adorable)
• Climbing the stairs (not adorable in the least...well, maybe slightly)
• Cuddling with pets of the stuffed variety (more adorable than all of the above)
• Saying ma-ma...finally (ahhhhhh, the most adorable)
• Walking...almost (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!)

Our hearts are full, and our running shoes are laced for all that lies ahead!

The Smack-Down

Ahhhhhh, 'tis the season for doing some good ol' New Year horn tootin' and resolutin', or as SD and I like to say when we've spent too much, eaten too much, or basically just breathed too much: It's time for the smack-down. I haven't written resolutions yet, but I've already assigned myself a project:

Holy cracker box and canned tomatoes! Yes, it's, what else, but our beloved pantry. Now, first I would like to say that I feel it is both brave and frightfully honest of me to air my dirty pantry for all of you to see. But, I KNOW I'm not the only one who has a pantry that looks like this, even if you don't want to admit it (heh). And if you don't (have a ghastly pantry, that is), then some other area of your life or your house is cluttered, I'm sure. And if it's not, then I hate you, and you no longer have permission to read my blog.

Now then...the first step to healing is awareness, right? Here is the first part of my twelve-step, organize-my-pantry-or-perish program:

because, damn it, when I go to the grocery store in 2007, I WILL know how many cans of chicken broth we already own. Let the smack-down begin...

Joy!

Happy Christmas to all!

Pixel Perfect

Santa came to our house early and brought a new Digital Canon Rebel XT (ta-dow), and so we felt the need to go forth and take some pictures. And the kid needed to have his visit with Santa, so we weren't at a loss for something to photograph. Here are some highlights from our day at Market Street:

10,000 pounds of snow is not as much as it sounds like (SD did the calcs) AND, um, it's really messy when it melts and kids are throwing it and it hits you while you're waiting in line to see Santa.

Yep, look closely, and you can see that Santa is showing a little leg, and a hairy one at that. No wonder the kid looks, errrr, troubled.

Ahhh, a family pic! Do our faces look a little washed? Hmmm. Are we really this pale? Sadly, yes, I think we probably are. But maybe we can blame it on the camera settings. Oh, and I am not, I repeat, not growing a pine cone out of the top of my head.

Straight from the North Pole to Texas, it's one of Santa's own, slaking his lips with some of that super-dee-duper reindeer punch that will allow him to fly from Mongolia to Uruguay in one night. Here I go with my bad jokes again. Apologies.

That's a big, honkin' Christmas tree.

Extreme cuteness #1

Extreme cuteness #2

Un mystère du bonbon

So, upon our doorstep at approximately 1 o'clock this afternoon was left this:



A lovely box of delectable mini-cheesecakes from Harry and David. The note from sender reads: "FROM: VERY GRATEFUL NEIGHBORS." Hmmmm. The only other clue to who these very thoughtful people are (who, by the way, have great taste) is a sort-of return address in Ohio. But we've never lived in Ohio! So, if you're reading this post and 'tis you who are the secret candy santa, reveal thyself so that we may thank thee properly! Now then, I must go and fetch the child before he gets his hands stuck in the waffle maker (unplugged, of course). And, yes, I've already indulged. Delish.

Dispatch from the Land of the Weary

Have just returned from spending 6-plus hours in car STOP Whoah STOP Must unpack back seat's accumulated mass of air-dropped relief in the form of toys, cheerios, and other objects intended to amuse child STOP Must eat something other than chocolate covered pretzels, chips, gum, and Diet Coke STOP Broccoli STOP Maybe McDonald's STOP Must praise child for being excellent at solitary confinement STOP It is great to be home STOP Can't remember if there are clean sheets on the bed STOP Will sleep on no sheets, dirty sheets, or cement slab STOP Whichever requires me to walk the shortest distance STOP before STOP I STOP pass STOP out STOP STOP STOP

Addendum

So maybe SD and I do have a shot at Parents of the Year after all. Just heard about this on the news. Seriously, this is incredible, a little unbelievable to me, and just sad:

http://www.ktbs.com/news/local/4877961.html

Job Security for the Tooth Fairy

So, the kid has another tooth. Check it out:


I should also add that he found it wildy funny that I was trying to take this picture, which is the only reason I was, in fact, able to get the picture. And, if you're wondering about the scrape above his eye, he had a run-in with the fireplace. And it's all Dad's fault (grin) 'cause he was babysitting. No, seriously, it's really MY fault because we bought a bumper several weeks back, and I didn't want to put it on at that moment because I wanted to take Christmas pictures with our hearth in all its unbumpered glory. Yep, Mother of the Year right here.

And, now, after his brush with brick and the new tooth, he's all smug:

Not too much else to report. The most exciting things going on here at the moment are as follows:

1. Flushed large, half-alive spider down toilet this morning;

2. Watched cat chase squirrel up tree in front yard, which kiddo rather enjoyed;

3. Decided after seeing her on TV recently that in my next life I would like to be Gwen Stefani because, well, the chick is cool, and she's a mom, so that gives me great hope.

Oh, and Christmas cards are coming by the hardest. I remember when this used to be fun. Maybe they'll make it to their various destinations by some obscure holiday like Groundhog Day. What can I say but that I have a kid, and you can better believe I'm going to milk that for all it's worth!

Topless Tannenbaum

So, here it is. Ain't she a beauty? Too bad our lovely crimson blown-glass tree topper won't fit. I think we're going to perform the first-ever tree branch liposuction and see what we come up with.

Brupper

Tonight we had brupper, which consisted of scrambled eggs topped with cheese, turkey bacon, and toast, at 7 pm. It was a quiet rebellion against all of the more appropriate choices swirling around in my head of what I should cook for supper. It was actually SD's idea. I remember doing this as a kid, and it was exciting. Like, you mean we're going to have fried eggs and biscuits for supper? We can't do that. Oh yes we can. Okay, so I'm treading the plank, about to go overboard here, I know. Just thought it was worthy of mentioning. Brupper. Mmmm, good.

The babe is getting along smashingly these days, if you wondering (and I know you are). These are what I have fondly termed "days of redirection." Allow me to elaborate:

Eli (briskly crawling to nearest shelf, chair, Christmas tree, electrical outlet -- insert possibly fatal object of choice): Na, na, na, na (which I have figured either means mom, I want something, or a combination of the two)

Mom (quickly arriving on scene to fetch child): Eli, what are you doing?

E (basking in the mischief that is his, all his, to create): Heh.

M (remaining upbeat while strategizing): Eli, look at this (pointing to any one of the gajillion bright and very lonely toys strewn on the rug).

E (pondering the proposition): Hah (even louder than at first).

M (now fetching child and moving to safer environment): Come on, Eli, look at this...ooh, aahhh, wow, ooh... (am losing brain cells by nanosecond and all abilities to speak intelligently).

E (briskly crawling to nearest shelf, chair, Christmas tree, electrical outlet, insert possibly fatal object of choice): Na, na, na, na...

::

Oh, the times, they are a changin'. And we're lovin' every minute. On a somber note, I just read a headline that James Kim, the missing father of the family who had been stranded in Oregon, was found dead. I am deeply saddened to hear this. I guess some stories just don't have happy endings.

More news from us coming to a blog near you very soon. Sending love from the Lone Star...

Just another manic Monday

In honor of my love for the 80s, my infatuation with The Bangles when I was a tween, and my truly MANIC day today, I am including the lyrics to an old favorite here. I can hear the melody in my head, and I am instantly transported to my elementary school talent show, where my friend and I, mere third-graders, are performing a dance (choreographed by us) in our matching splatter-color shirt-and-short set. Classy.

Manic Monday

by The Bangles

Six o'clock already I was just in the middle of a dream

I was kissin' Valentino

By a crystal blue Italian stream

But I can't be late

'Cause then I guess I just won't get paid

These are the days

When you wish your bed was already made

It's just another manic Monday

I wish it was Sunday

'Cause that's my funday

My I don't have to runday

It's just another manic Monday

Have to catch an early train

Got to be to work by nine

And if I had an air-o-plane

I still couldn't make it on time

'Cause it takes me so long

Just to figure out what I'm gonna wear

Blame it on the train

But the boss is already there

All of the nights

Why did my lover have to pick

Last night to get down

Doesn't it matter

That I have to feed the both of us

Employment's down

He tells me in his bedroom voice

C'mon honey, let's go make some noise

Time it goes so fast

When you're having fun

::

Okay, so I admit, my manic Monday wasn't manic for the exact same reason as hers was, but I do have a boss who requires me to report to work, energetically, at 6 am, so she had it easy. And, whoah, I never knew the actual words in the second-to-last stanza until now. You know how the lyrics just run together like Charlie Brown-teacher speak when you're young and singing songs. Okay, and when you're old, too. So now I'm thinking this might have been an inappropriate song choice for 8-year-olds in a Catholic school talent show. Heh. I bet the nuns didn't have a clue. Or maybe they were just drunk.