crafting....

Last week I made this for New Beginnings. I'm kind of proud of it. Because in the wee hours of the morn, I feared that it wouldn't turn out.

Idea stolen from here. Takes some time, but eaaaaasssssy. You could do this for a family reunion, or someone's birthday, or anniversary, or just for kicks and giggles.

bribing...

In an attempt to throw our three year old off, we are once again trying a new tactic to encourage poop in the toilet rather than the pants. Tactic #5,326 = bribery in its most basic and desperate form.

This is the poop basket. It contains immediate gratification. Each time Millie poops in the toilet, she can choose a prize. If it is a small amount, then it is a small prize. Larger quantity equals a larger prize.

If she poops in her pants, then she has to put back one of her prizes.

So we now know that she will not poop for: her beloved parents, fresh smells or for fear of germs.

But she will poop for: Dora band aids, rings, bracelets, neco sweathearts, barrettes, pens, jacks, and princess wall clings.

taking...

For my 32nd birthday:

• Ellis gave me a crib full of wet wipes. Millie was complicit



• Millie put on her socks and shoes without throwing a tantrum



• Ellis and Millie rocked the naps



• Millie pooped in the toilet....once



• Clin brought me some Cheesecake....Factory



• And a strange cardigan like wrap that I will need to try on....
  
  
• And some Guitar......Hero
  
  

I should turn 32 more often.

older.

Birthdays. Not that big of a deal. You feel the same way. I know you do. Last year hit me as old. But this year is not hitting me as much.

I plan on working. And taking my girls to gymnastics. And then working some more.

Maybe I'll memorize a couple of lines. And maybe, if all goes well, I'll get a nap. But the chance of that is slim to none.

My only real birthday plans include cooking absolutely nothing and drinking a diet coke. Pretty common occurrences chez moi.

photo via ginnerobot

wounded and wounding.

To all of you waiting for Thank you Cards:

They are coming. They haven't officially been mailed. Or postmarked. Or written. But they are sitting on my counter, waiting for some inspirational words and a stamp.

They have been waiting since Christmas. But they will come. Cross my heart.

Although that may not mean much since half of the thank you cards from my wedding are still waiting. Somewhere. In some box.

And I've always felt bad about that. The inner wound that continuously trickles blood.

Which is why you can be assured that they are coming. Because I won't allow myself a second wound.

Sincerely,
wounding hearts since 2000

photo via kimberlyfaye

ancient.

Another reminder of my age:

1. I watched an episode of Oprah, the topic of which was hormones. I usually skip those focused on menopause/hormones, etc. But Oprah said, if you want to live past 35 you should watch. And I did. I mean I do. 35 hits kind of close.


2. The other night, at rehearsal, I sat in awe as the young, attractive, and physically fit (yeah - more reason to come see All Shook Up) leads added singing, blocking, and words to a scene. All which I also considered choreography because it was a lot of movement, more than a normal scene. And they were convincing, sounded good, and new what they were doing. Multi-tasking at its finest. Then I followed with my scene in which I continually got lost in the pages of script as I heard those sitting on the sidelines exclaim, "she's crazy." And I think, again, perhaps that I am. or will be. soon.

prejudiced.

I like to think that I have no bias. That I'm not a prejudiced person, holding all things relatively equal.

But this weekend I was reminded that a small part of me is holding onto a whole lot of hatred and anger toward one thing. The oatmeal raisin cookie.

It tastes okay. It's not really about taste. It's about expectations.

If I purchase a box of oatmeal raisin cookies, then I know what to expect. And to that I say fine.

But if I purchase a box of mixed cookies that includes oatmeal raisin? I am always the one, no exceptions, to pick the oatmeal raisin assuming it is oatmeal chocolate chip.

And once I bite I am required to finish. No enjoyment. And so not worth the calories.

photo via Smaku

surviving part 2.

1:00 AM. Cries from a daughter who refuses to poop. In a groggy state, I take her to the bathroom. She screams the second she sits on the toilet.

Ringing ears and 2 bite marks later, we retreat to our rooms. Millie into pleasant slumber, knowing that she didn't have to poop. And me into a state of complete awakeness, exclaiming to Clin that I hate the word mother. And everything that it entails.

surviving, part 1.

Survival Mode. That is my existence. I am sitting on a couch next to a pile of clothes that has been sitting here, unfolded, much longer. The house is a museum. Untouched. I haven't been home in the eve since Saturday.

And the past few days have taught us that the girls in this family need their sleep. One night is fine. But two nights of bedtime at 10:00 PM equals anger and madness. And hours of screaming. Loud. And that's just the girls I'm talking about. I'm not even going to touch on my personal tantrums of late.

Taking the girls to the high school for the Musical Theatre review on Monday, Millie took her shoes off three times (each) in the car before I could get them both on. At the same time. Once out of the car she threw herself in the middle of the road. and screamed. Then as I walked away (no cars were coming. I totally checked.) she stood up and screamed. Black snow dripping from her knees, black tears dripping from her heart.

Then, just to get through the 2 hour performance, Ellis ate more candy than she has had in her life. And my talent for mothering shined. Blinding those in the vicinity. First we pulled out the Pez. I thought: this will last through Act I. 5 minutes later I was already reaching for the suckers. Millie's was a blow pop - which was smart, right? Because after the sucker part was gone, she would still have gum, right? That should have gotten us home. But the gum ended up in her stomach. And turned into a stupid idea when she screamed to be taken out for a drink.

Act II. We broke out a bag of sour skittles, a bag of M&Ms and a couple bottles of water. Eventually making it through, thanks to the amazing help of Kelly and Melanie. THANK YOU. That's right, 3 adults to 2 toddlers? And we survived.

So I had every intention of recording my favorite songs and putting a video up for you. I managed one song. Shaky, with appearances from Ellis's hand. And she even breaks into the chorus of Feist's 1,2,3,4. But I've failed at loading the video. Failed.

photo via chop1n

loving Doogieeeee!

This weekend brought the best SNL in a long time. Why? Neil Patrick Harris. I love you! I love you! You can do no wrong.

And while on the topic? One of my favorite moments in Neil Patrick Harris history. Greatness.

living.

I live on the line between suburbia and country. When we first moved here, five years ago, I would wake up to cows mooing. The road just east of us housed parading peacocks and every Sunday morning turkeys could be found strutting on the road to the west.

More houses have been built and more cars are on the road. The turkeys are no longer given free reign on the road. The peacocks prefer the backyards of the new neighbors. And I can no longer hear the cows from my bedroom.

But one thing has not changed. Weekend mornings, periodically throughout the day, I hear what sounds like a firecracker. Or a false starting car. For five years I've reasoned that this was the sound of someone fixing their car, or using leftover fireworks.

No. I've recently learned the truth behind the sound. Gun shots. Close gun shots. Evidently living near a lake brings animals... and the hunt.

I was always one to assume that laws would prohibit hunting within a certain range of a house. What do I know. My neighbor reports seeing people with rifles going through our subdivision's park to access the wetlands.

Now that I know what the popping means, I'm alert to the sound. One night, I heard what I thought was a gun. 11:00 PM seemed a bit late for the hunt and I was freaked out. Asking another neighbor if she had heard the shots, I learned something...

Setting off fireworks can quiet a barking dog. My neighbors' solution to the noise.

That's the life between suburbia and nature.

an observation...

that

1. i can't cut my hair. and i will be okay with that. and soon the scruff that are my eyebrows will match the scruff that will be my hair. matching is good.
   


2. the sun melts the snow in everyone's driveway. but mine.
   


3. i don't understand why hot dogs? and i mourn.
   


4. everyone should join us.
   


5. i need some stencils.

immortal.

What is this, you ask?

A pen.

And only the best idea, ever, for a gift to wedding reception guests.

It says:

Thank You For Sharing Our Day

J.B. & Mary Richards

November 14, 2003

Yesterday, when Clin pulled it out of his pocket, we reminisced about our friends and what we were doing November of 2003.

And every time we pull it out we say the same thing.

You want to be defy death? Be remembered fondly by your friends and strangers? Give them a pen and immortality is yours.

At least until it runs out.

opinionated.

Wooden hangers. Why would I replace all of my perfectly fabulous metal and plastic hangers to purchase wooden hangers? Supposedly they are good for clothes. Or better smelling. Or better for the environment. But throwing out all of my cheap-o hangers is worse for the environment. Isn't it? And my clothes look fine on them. They aren't ripping holes into my shirts, or leaving plastic flakes on my pants.

Wooden hangers are an obnoxious, ridiculous idea. And to you who keep chanting the call that I'm ridiculous for housing a closet full of metal and plastic hangers (you know who you are Mr./Ms. TV personalities), I have one question:

Why would I spend money on such an unneccessary item when I could put the money to better use? Like on a bowl full of shrimp. Or chili. Or garbage bags. Or salt.

photo via Material Boy

resoluting.

If I was really into setting some goals for the new year, they would include:

• No sugar. At all.
• Run a marathon. (Anna - you would be my trainer, and Kelly you would be forced to do this with me.)
• Build the rest of our backyard fence. By myself.
• Get up every morn at 6:00 AM

All things I would love to do. But the practical me just could not allow the side effects of such drastic change to strain my relations with immediate family, Kelly, or Anna. I just couldn't do that to them.

So the real list? The one that just might get done?

• Survive the next 3 months
• Take a statistics course
• Touch up paint on walls and baseboards
• Re-caulk bathrooms. (anyone know how to do this? Do I have to remove the old caulk?)

And that's about it. Anything beyond is just asking for an unfinished product.