Don't forget to sign up and vocalize your opinion at Vocal Point. I've been taking surveys, giving my opinion and seeing new products as well as testing them for two weeks now and I think I'm in love. It's a great new site and worth look so go ahead- click here.
The truck was packed. Blearily my eyes tried to focus as my father woke us up and told us to get in the truck, it was almost time to "hit the road." We were Sebago bound. Sebago Lake, Maine.
Every year my family would pack up the car and go to Sebago. We would head out on the five hour journey around 3 a.m. "We've got to get there early so we can pick the best campsite!", my Dad would declare. Each year I was allowed to invite one friend to spend ten days camping with us. This particular year I chose my friend Julie. I couldn't wait! It was freedom! Showers that operated by coin! Canadians in speedos! S'mores by the campfire and endless hours of roaming by the lake. Pre-teen heaven, well, minus the Canadian flag speedos.
Propped up on pillows, ensconced in our sleeping bags and surrounded by books and other on-the-road activities we giggled ourselves silly despite the early hour. Immediately we dug into the JUMBO bag of Sweet Tarts my mother had stowed in the back. First we ate them with wild abandon. We cackled through our shared sugar high, too hyped up to read. Then we got choosy deeming only the yellow, green and orange Sweet Tarts worthy of our ingestion. Pink and Purple were lame. Yet abundant. Sweet Tarts were scattered all over the back seat. At one point a Sweet Tart food fight broke out. By the time we reached the campground were sick to death of ALL Sweet Tarts as we gazed out at the Maine forests in a Sweet Tart haze. Blech. "DO NOT MENTION SWEET TARTS! EVER!" we declared. The mere sight of a wrapper made us queasy and it was only 8 a.m.
We waited five hours for our campsite number to be called. Five hours of sour stomachs, overtired tween-age girls complaining about the damp air, and desperately wanting a swim. I don't know how my parents stood it. The sky began to take on an ominous look to it. By the time we set up camp it had begun to rain. And rain. Then it rained some more. My Dad dug ditches around the tents and the covered picnic table. There would be no swimming on this trip. Only dampness and wet. A campfire was a no-go. No campfire=No s'mores. I got a little cranky. We spent a majority of our time at the covered table by lantern light drawing silly portraits with equally silly names while listening to Berlin on the radio over and over again until my mother snapped. It was the summer of 'Top Gun' after all.
The rain continued. Julie and I had to take down our tiny tent and move in with my parents. Our Tiger Beat pictures of Michael J. Fox had would no longer stay on the tent walls. It was tragic! The rain kept coming. The campground was like a giant sponge and the lake rose higher. Would our tent convert into an ark? One night as the ditch by the covered table overflowed I noticed something swimming by my feet. What's this? A Crayfish had made its way from the lake to our camp site. It was taking up residence with us now. I told him, "It's not any better in here!" The rain poured on. We didn't even need to use the coin operated showers. We could just step outside if we wanted to. We all felt a little bit stir crazy.
On the ninth day of rain, our last day of camping/living under water, the rain lightened. By day ten as we packed up the site the sun came out in all its glorious yellow brightness. Not a cloud in the sky. We begged my parents to let us stay another few days. Can't we just take a swim? We'll put the crayfish back now and find him a good home! No dice. The truck was packed revealing an avalanche of hidden Sweet Tarts and Sweet Tart wrappers. I looked at Julie and she looked as green as I felt. "DON'T MENTION SWEET TARTS! EVER!" we declared and climbed into the truck for the five hour ride home. This time we would be eating Reese's Cups!
Looking back now there really wasn't much we could do about the rain. My parents were smart enough to bring along tons of "fun" food, books, and drawing paper to keep two girls occupied. The radio/tv combo helped a lot too I might add. This trip didn't taint me from camping either. I will continue the camping tradition with my kids and will remember to pack the plastic, a shovel for digging ditches, and be prepared for any errant crayfish (perhaps with a pot?) that might cross our paths. As well as a bag of candy. Just not Sweet Tarts.
*Author's Note- In the Summer of 2000, I finally decided to take the plunge and eat a Sweet Tart. I ate every color but purple and pink. I still can't. The idea still makes me sick.
This Blog Blast post is brought to you by PBN and PickPackGo! So head on over to PBN and share your Clark Griswold family vacation stories, check out PICKPACKGO for some ultra good deals, and get a chance at winning a PORTABLE DVD PLAYER for your next trip!
Ok, there is a whole lot I want to cover today. First things first. I've become a contributor to this great site that I just have to share. I'm honored to be writing there and be surrounded by such a diverse group of writers. I can't wait to see what the future holds for this endeavor so please click here and to read my first piece that I alluded to in Desk Jockey the other day go here. Now read! Go forth and spread the word about Moms Speak Up!
Next up is this little tidbit I found in the NY Times yesterday. There I was idling in line at SBUX and I noticed the headline 'He's Happier, She's Less So' and it immediately spurned me to pull out my dorky notebook I carry around for "writing thoughts"/errands to run and jot it down. After reading it I can see the point it is trying to make but it just doesn't jive with me. Mainly because in most of these situations I have come to realize that while sometimes I start to circle the drain of obsessive thoughts of being "hotter", "happier", with a cleaner house than anyone else, they are just that-obsessive thoughts. It's also usually by then that H has started mumbling under his breath about me to-
1. Get a grip and stop acting like a loon.
2. Realize it doesn't matter
3. Stop acting like my mother (the whole cleaning/bestest hostess frenzy thing)
I can admit to being guilty of all of this stuff. To letting it all get the best of me and making me terribly unhappy but only for a small while. Then I shake it off and realize that I have only one life and all that isn't worth worrying about. I also have a REALLY grounded spouse who calls me out on this type of stuff. While we are on it keeping up with the Joneses or buying a house that makes you unable to do anything but sit in that house for the next few years also fits into this articles realm. If you don't believe me just read, The Yellow Wallpaper, and you can catch a glimpse of what might become of you if you stay locked inside for too long.
Now before I get down off my solidly built box today, I urge you to also visit the League of Maternal Justice. Whether you are a Mom or not it doesn't matter. All that matters is that you are supporting women. This site has a lot going on and it's worth a peruse. They have a wealth of resources on all things breast and are a powerful group of women. I can already hear them roaring. Plus I like the buttons. 
Done. I'm just done. I can't even feel even a smidgen bad for her now. I feel that maybe if I just type this then I can release myself from reading even just one more article about her. Because really? I'm so over it.
It's Britney bitch. To quote the woman herself.
I know I don't normally go into the celebrity realm much anymore, but this whole thing is so out of control I seriously would not be surprised if suddenly she goes the way of Elvis and people report that it wasn't accident how she died, but a conspiracy. E! True Hollywood stories would do that sad voice over special on her and it would be an all day affair. Cut to the tragic photos of her funeral with her sons properly attired in Petite Tresor ensembles and then to the "crime scene" shots of her lying face down in a bed with old dirty 1,000 count sheets and endless bottles of Coke, possibly some coke, Cheeto excrement, and ashtrays full of stubbed out half-smoked Marlboros. I think someone just made money off that last sentence but I can't be sure.
I think it began with the head shaving and the umbrella weilding. Then she went away for a while and we all got sick of P*ris and LiLo instead. Now she's back! I admit I watched the alleged comeback. I even wanted her to succeed. Really. I did! Instead it was awful. I cringed while I sat on my comfy couch. It was then I first thought , "Now just go away." "Retreat girl!" "Pull yourself together." But somehow she just doesn't. It's clear she doesn't know how. She's addicted to the lens because there's nothing else perhaps? Her flunkies keep her out all hours and she is powerless to stand up to anyone? I don't know. She's a spoiled child who screams "Gimme More" and they do? I'm sick of talking about it and trying to figure it out. It is painfully obvious my pearls of wisdom and advice are going unheard by Ms. B. I'm only yelling them from across the country and at my computer after all.
Maybe Oprah needs to intervene. They can have a good cry. Maybe she should just go all Gloria Swanson/Sunset Boulevard on someones ass and then we would see that she really does need help. We see it now but it's much too much fun to just take photos of the girl/woman as if she is a zoo exhibit. She herself can't seem to resist.
In conclusion of this incredibly fascinating seat gripping piece, I say this. Leave the girl alone. Stop talking and posting about her. Make her a D-List celebrity that has to go into hiding and on some spiritual retreats for a few years. Let her come back 50 lbs heavier wearing a caftan on some awful reality show and have her shit together as much as someone can in that vacuum. As it stands now she's becoming so last year. Or she needs to be.
That's all.
Don't forget to head on over to Mummy's Product Reviews for a new review on some of Ryka's new kicks without celebrity endorsement! PBN has more reviews on other styles of Rykas and more too!
Recently there have been talks brewing in these here parts of me going back to work. It's all a bit fuzzy and I think I was drinking something called a Tropical Typhoon when the subject came up. I can't be sure as it was a Typhoon.
I know. Going back to work you say? What about all those awful hours you put in under sometimes heinous circumstances? What about the commute? What about the asshat?! Don't you remember the asshat?! I hear you people. I hear you loud and clear. I'm not so far removed from it all yet. Truthfully the desire to go back to being a desk jockey is not at all strong. In fact, I am content to never see another set of gray cubicle walls or smell the stench of burned Maxwell House ever again if possible. It was just last week I told a friend, the only way I'm ever going back to work outside of the house is as a writer. Plain and simple. Nothing else.
Mainly, the question is, what about T.D.? What about all the other possible Dash Two Future Dictators I could spawn? I'm sure the asshat thinks spawn is the proper word for me too. Didn't I make the decision to work from home and try this writing thing out so I could be with T.D. more and help pull our family from the crash and burn wreckage it had become? Yes, I did. So why go back? Why Groundhog day myself?
I was made an interesting offer last week and I feel really conflicted. It's an offer that effectively has me writing my own ticket and working from home. A real salary. A job so far from what I ever thought I would be doing but that could quite possibly be a giant step into something I could really enjoy. Truth is, I've never worked with a group of people that actually think I have talent. That appreciate my efforts and hear my ideas. I've only ever worked with ass clowns and pervs. Sad, but true. It was that realization that had me downing the Typhoon. It was then that I realized that in all my working life I have never been taken for my abilities. Sure I've been promoted and been told, "Good job!" here and there but for the most part my working career has been rife with sexual innuendos, harassment's of various natures, and a lack of a good role model.
There was one exception to this string of malcontent jobs, and oddly in the same realm of work I would be doing if I took this new offer. Whether it was the fact that it was an office full of women I don't know, but our male boss was extremely sensitive and PC. For once I enjoyed PC. For once I went to work without wondering if my breasts or ass would be discussed right in front of me. For once I knew no one was going to ask about my sex life with my husband or if there was a lack thereof that they could "remedy". It was nice. It was more than nice, I felt competent and valued. Then the economy tanked and I lost my job. Such is life.
I discussed this all with H as I was just realizing it at that moment, as I stared down the giant strawberry from the Typhoon. Do I want to go back to work in an actual position and not freelance? I wouldn't be writing so much and we would have to get childcare. More discussion has to come from this on all sides in order for me to make an informed decision. However, that offer? It made me really appreciate what I've created and realize that I needed to step back and figure out what works for me and what doesn't in a work environment. It's a bit liberating I have to say. I'll be discussing it more here shortly.
What is it about a kid free weekend that makes you wonder and discuss the idea of having another child? That topic came up more than once for H and I this sans T.D. weekend. For me, it surrounded me and clouded my thoughts, making me jump from one opinion to the next never able to land on a definite decision.
When it comes to the idea of having another child many thoughts crowd my brain. They plague me and doubt looms large. Can we afford another child? How are we going to have room for another one? Can I stand the body upheaval again and the sickness I might have all the while caring for T.D. and not lose my ever-lovin' mind? I'm not so sure.
I am an only child. I see nothing wrong with only children despite H's jokes of, "only children are weird..." I would love to give T.D. a sibling based on the fact that now that I'm older I wish I had someone to share things with about my parents and our family. There's no one to make fun of my parents idiosyncrasies with and no one to tell me when I sound like my mother, except H, and it's not the same. In fact, I've always thought, who better to raise an only child, but another only child? I know not to fill their Christmases with board games that will only sit in a closet waiting to be played. I understand the sometimes secretive ways of an only child and all the inner dialogue that goes on, as well as the outer talking-to-myself-all-the-time thing. Plus the five or so imaginary friends. Do I really want to add another kid into the mix when I feel so competent in the only child arena?
Add in the fact that I just don't know if I truly have it in me and that is the real issue that I have a hard time voicing. I know that is normal. It's not the question of will I be able to love another as much either. It's the patience and non-selfish thing I worry about. More kids = less time for me and for H and I. Will grandparents be quite as willing to take on two? Probably not in the first few years. Can I handle the day in, day out, even less working that will occur when another child is added into the mix? I just don't know and often my brain says, No. I'm not one to say I'll figure that out when the time comes. It makes a little sad that I doubt myself so much in that way but maybe I'm just being brutally honest. The idea of another person in a house that is already feeling small to me makes me feel a little crazed. Plus, college is ridiculously expensive and I worry about that enough with one.
Yet, I know that H really wants another one. He seems so much better at processing all this than me. He seems excited at just the prospect. I have to admit that in my first trimester with T.D. I was continuously at crossroads with how I really felt about having a child and yet there I was pregnant. I still feel guilt for those continuous thoughts. I am clearly, despite what my OBGYN says, not a woman who can handle many kids. I like my own inner world way too much. I was kind of excited to share that with T.D.
So the Dash Two factor much like an election year is undecided. I'm even undecided on how definite I really feel about saying no to another child. It's as if my brain just can't comprehend it. Like my ducks will never be in a row enough to figure it all out and I feel really alone in my thinking all this.
T.D. has gone on a whirlwind adventure to her Nana's house for a... wait for it... drum roll please... a solid week! I hardly know what to do with myself. I know the time will fly by as I've already got the following planned.
Hours of reviews to conduct and write up (that includes pureeing many a vegetable and fruit and freezing it)
Hours working here. I must reach Bongo the Clown. Though really? Asking for Bongo never stops being funny.
One baseball game (the last at RFK..sniff, sniff if I were actually a Nats fan. Go SOX!)
Some light yard work (I know the excitement doesn't end)
Getting myself to a bridal shop where I will cringe as I'm measured publicly for yet another bridesmaid dress. (Don't get me wrong I love the honor I just don't love the markup or the dyed shoes.)
Possibly relaxing and reading the six books and counting that are stacking up on my nightstand. This does not count the magazines all chocked full of fabulous fall fashions or the need I have to consume an entire season of DEXTER and 30 ROCK in one day.
Pedicure- check!
Possibly painting my bathroom. It really should be done by 2008 even if it is December 2008.
One office party to go to for H's company. Mummy might have to actually sit on a bale of hay and feed a goat. Does one wear pearls to that?
One surprise birthday bash in a museum. Pearls can most definetly be worn there! Hopefully there's no hay.
A night out with the spouse- plans are in the making
And all the other things that make up an average day that are ever more humdrum than the things I've just described.
I am desperate to enjoy this time and know it will go quickly. I am still in the cocked ear mode of listening for T.D. to begin her cries of, "LADY! I'M UP! Come get me!!! NOW!!!" It's all to good to be true really. If I wasn't sitting on my ass typing this post I would be doing a jig at my fortune of having this freedom.
I was all set to write up a nice little rant about this Mommy Track'd article but I just don't feel like another soap box session today. Grr...
Then I thought about how I could type up a cute piece on me waxing poetic about fall but then vomit rushed into my mouth at their sheer gushiness of it all.
I won't even go into the gardening frenzy that overtook me yesterday as a result of all my neighbors fall gardening enterprises. Even the poop neighbors put in new flowers and shrubs. Heh. I just did.
I could tell you about my thinking of taking an exotic dance class and my conflicting views on the whole thing along with my morbid curiosity on the whole matter. Plus I sort of feel I have nothing to wear. Is that the point?
I could simply direct you here and here because I love this group and really want to know- would you want this in your city?
Instead I'll just let you enjoy this for your viewing pleasure. Seems to be a trend in weddings these days. I'm thinking of it for my next piece on Flaming Tulle. Where we (ahem) still need a new FEATURED BRIDE so if you know of someone who wants or needs advice, wants to talk weddings, their wedding, with us email us!
H can do a mean 'Thriller' when he wants to as well.
Check out Mummy's Product Reviews for another awesome giveaway! Get there quick before it's going, going, Gone!!!
Am I right? If you started wearing gloves on your nose or putting your retainer in your ear it wouldn't work out so well and people would deem you not so bright, so why are some places such as Facebook continuing to encourage the despicably twisted yet pervasive thought- breasts for feeding is bad. Breasts to be augmented and oggled is good. Riiiiiight.
Except that not only does this Facebook episode, the MYSpace one or the Harvard Medical School incident (see NY TIMES) not only demean women further it sets us back. David Wescott, a blogger, made his point well on this topic:
Facebook has come down on both sides of a “free speech issue” here - once clamping down, once letting speech and organizing go - and in each case it’s come down in a way that arguably sets women back.
Crap! Am I going to get sued now? Ms. Hilton is apparently suing Hallmark for using her copyrighted, that's right you read that correctly, phrase "That's hot" on one of their greeting cards.
Hm.... Can I copyright the term ShippyMcflippyShadippy then? It has no meaning but it seems like fun.
In other disturbing news, H and I really have our homework cut out for us. In a recent article in Newsweek, Ken Burns (you know the documentary maker extraordinaire)stated that many high schoolers don't know who fought in WWII or about the American-Japanese internment camps that were here in this very country. Seriously? I know I'm a history geek and all but it is so disturbing to me that we are losing this information to say things like...No Child Left Behind standardized tests. We're losing what keeps us from becoming robots. Creepy all consuming text messaging robots who run on Dunkin. I feel the little Andy Rooney curmudgeon in me coming out.
Jessica Simpson rumors swirl these days with talks of her wanting to adopt a child. Now we hear so does her friend/stylist Ken Paves. Perhaps together. Seriously? Kids are not accessories. I don't even like when the media says this because it just validates this more. They are not this year's IT bag! It irritates me beyond measure how babies are now like Swatch watches were in the 80s. I think I'm going to start a new trend. I'm going to adopt a baby wildebeest. I'm going to bleach its hair blond too so it looks more like me. Bows, there will be lots of bows! Then I'm going to come out with a line of wildebeest baby clothes, organic feed, and diaper bags. They'll sell like hot cakes don't you think?
Anyway it's back to normal life today of writing, reviews, writing reviews, carting urine around town, going to the bank and other such fun things.
Nothing restores my sense of inner peace/tranquility/countless moments of zen better than a weekend spent with the girls. This past weekend I did just that.
Restored? Yes. Tired? A wee bit. A whole day walking around my great city traveling by foot or tunnel makes for a tired Mummy but a happy contented one. Countless glasses of wine and laughs with friends while looking at some truly great art, be it street or museum worthy, is my idea of a good time. The weather was soft with just a tad of bit of crispness in it. The light had that new fall glow as we traversed the cobblestones of Georgetown. I felt younger and lighter. Prettier even despite hating my new layers.
I even got to get gussied up a bit and go out without finding a spot of mac n'cheese on my little black dress. No one cried as I blow dried my hair. I didn't have to haggle with my toddler to use my lip liner. I even woke up to an SBUX latte the next day. Did I mention that it was after 8 a.m. when I woke up? Heaven. on. earth.
The weekend was so good that even the metro ride home complete with sunshine spilling through the windows with a rather remarkable lack of protesters was pleasant. I read a whole Newsweek people! In. ONE. Sitting. No one asked me a question. I didn't have to tell the dog or T.D. to knock it off. Whatever it might be.
I got home just at the start of nap time too. Consumed a Sunday Post, watched Zodiac with H, and really got to enjoy two full days. No work. No traffic. No one asking anything of me. I will say it again. Heaven.
Oh and the best part? MY TOILET IS SEALED! IT'S FINISHED!!! Now all I need to do is paint.
I love products! I write product reviews for a living after all. I simply adore trying new items. From crackers to soap my house can be jam packed! Though I haven't actually tried jam. I give an honest review too. Yes, really. If sometimes it seems that there is just too much that I love it is because quite frankly there is a TON of great stuff out there. Now there is one more. Get out your favorites list and add this to it. You are really going to want to. Vocal Point.
What is Vocal Point you ask? I know you are all pins and needles. Simply put, Vocal Point is the 411. See how I show my age here people? And it's all for you! Being a Vocal Point member will bring YOU inside information on new products and services. Even better, companies (well-known ones at that!) will look to you for guidance on developing new products. Think Kashi! Join Focus Groups! Watch Meerkat Manor! To me this is a great idea. I am a big fan on getting my two sense in and trying something new in the process. What could be more fun and it's no cost to you! SO CHECK IT OUT! I'm eagerly awaiting my samples now and having fun on the website in the process!
Always a small girl I never had an issue with weight or wearing different size clothes. That all changed however when I got myself knocked up and gained 40 lbs. I swore even that would never happen. I would be that cute "I will gain 25 lbs ONLY" pregnant woman. Heh. Except I craved pork. I ate my way through my pregnancy while sitting behind a desk consuming all manner of bad office food in a way I had never done before. Fries with that?! Yes please! Two slices of cake? Why thank you!
I lost 20 lbs the first week. Easy peasy I thought. My main goal was to not be wearing maternity pants when I got back to work. Been there, done that! Ok, so they were a size up from my old pre-baby size but they weren't maternity pants! I was depressed about this and my new poundage. I joined Weight Watchers. I hit the gym in my office and at home and we booked a trip to Jamaica forever sealing the deal with myself to lose those last 10 lbs that I could not shake. Through doing things like the Perfect Run, hitting the gym (LOTS of cardio), and watching what I ate I did it! I was so proud! I can see my abs in our beach shots of that trip! I still find this fact amazing. So while I looked good I still could not come to terms with how my body still didn't look the same pre-baby. Damn hips! I'm an hourglass girl now and growing up I just wasn't. It's been a hard thing to acclimate to. Styles I wore before are now ill-fitting and I lost that sense of body confidence I once had. What else is new right?
My daughter is now 18 months. Through a few revelations and less scrutiny I've found that the only way I'm happy is if I've had enough exercise. Enough exercise to blow off steam and have a good sweat. It keeps me feeling good which in turn makes me see myself in a better light. I also try to eliminate the crap in my diet. When I eat A LOT of junk food I feel slow. It's not easy to chase a toddler when you feel slow. I challenge myself with The Nine, I work out regularly with a great gym that is supportive and has a good, FREE daycare. Really I'm Workin' It to feel good about me and to set a good example for my daughter. When my daughter rubs some cellulite on my thighs I want to cringe and yell NO! But I check myself and move on. It's not easy but workin' it never is. Run, walk, jog, Pilate's, yoga, Zumba and some strip aerobics. I've done it all and in the process figured out that I must be happy with what I have. If not, how can my daughter ever be?
This How Do You Fit It In blog blast is brought to by PBN and the fun folks of Ryka. Head on over HERE and read more fit stories and how you too can get free shoes and outfit and more! That's right! RYKA is giving away even more HERE. That's 50 pairs of shoes and 50 shirts everyday through October!!
*****************************
Head over to Mummy's Product Reviews for an awesome read (think fashion! think Nina Garcia and Project Runway!) and one hell of a great find!
Talking politics on the blog is like talking about my marriage it can stir up things that are best left well, not out there for all the world to see. I try not to discuss politics here but sometimes it's just damn near impossible like during an election year or when you are just too fired up and your husband can't stand to listen to you rant anymore.
Then along comes a candidate, labeled second-tier, that just begs me to learn more. I'm talking about Gravel. Mike Gravel. He's a presidential hopeful with not a lot of money but an interesting take on things. You may have seen him on YouTube throwing a rock into some water a few months ago. No? Maybe you remember him from the 70's, if so good on you! However, he's probably not on your radar. While just as busy as the other presidential hopefuls he just doesn't get a lot of play. Which really? I love.
To me what is most fascinating about Gravel is not his determination, it's his ability to show his true self on all occasions. He has no money in his campaign chest, about $130K per quarter, compared to the millions the other candidates possess. The man uses parking meters in DC because garages are too expensive and he doesn't have the staff that many of the more well-known candidates do. His thoughts on being called second-tier? He finds it troubling that because he doesn't possess a pack of media hounding him or big money that he is treated as a joke. A joke by the media. The media he needs to make his ideas and himself known to the American public. To Gravel second-tier means that just a few people get to decide who becomes a serious candidate and who doesn't. Troubling indeed.
Always a lover of the underdog, I think that is why I find Gravel so fascinating. I'm not saying I am voting for him, a lady has to keep her secrets after all, but I keep coming back to him. Listening to him speak. Reading articles by him and about him. I am curious. Just like we all need to be about our candidates. Gravel can be controversial and since he doesn't have people in his ear all the time he really talks and speaks his mind no matter what the outcome. That appeals to me. The man owns one car and rents an apartment for goodness sake. He isn't living in some big house with a staff of servants or aides always telling him what to do and not do.
So while the media likes to make him out to be a bit crazy and prone to outbursts, I would rather learn about him and his beliefs in my own way just like I do all the candidates and make my informed decision that way. In the coming year more and more spin will be made on the candidates skewing and hiding their true voices. I'm doing my homework now. And right now grassroots and old fashioned politics without all the slickness of Oprah and big money are by far the more interesting avenue to me.
Packaged candidates after all are so last election season.
Overheard last night in my house.
H: Did you hear? Lex has been banned from Chicago by Oprah.
Me: What?! Chicago? Why? Did she make some disparaging remark about Obama?
H: Well... apparently she was a guest on Oprah and she said some things she shouldn't have to Ms. Harpo Productions and then peed on her chair right on stage.
Me: Seriously?! That's nuts! Oprah should know better than to have Lex on her show.
H: I know. It's sad. Now Oprah has banned Lex from her show and all of Chicago.
Me: Hm... Maybe Lex should think about getting in good with the beef industry now.
*************************************************************************************
Yes, from time to time H and I have these completely inane and ridiculous conversations about our dog, Lex's illicit and completely hellacious behavior. Usually involving some celebrity these conversations can take on epic proportions and involve running story lines. Lex has been to J.Lo's wedding to Marc Anthony, has partied with 50 Cent and tried in vain to counsel Nick and Jessica. She also drives a yellow Hummer that is always in the shop. Boston Terriers are notoriously bad drivers. Many times Lex is banned from areas, parties, towns, whole countries, and hot spots. She has even spent time with Cheney. Though he's a sore loser and Lex cheats at poker so Cheney won't play with her anymore.
ON A MUCH MORE SERIOUS NOTE-
It is with much sadness that I read about the passing of Dame Anita Roddick on September 10. Dame. Roddick is the founder of that wonderful store, The Body Shop. Beyond being my first foray catalog that I received in the mail as a teen and also my first experience with natural products, Roddick was a champion activist for not just environmental causes but many others including Amnesty International, political causes and women's rights around the world. I have always loved her products, stores, and philosophies.She will be greatly missed as she was and is downright inspiring. Visit over here for more.
From the 21361 newsletter that arrived in my inbox only moments ago. For those of you who don't know what 21361 is it's from Henry Rollins a.k.a. the man H sometimes fears I will leave him for.
I get a lot of letters asking if there will be an opportunity to meet me after the show. I am flattered that anyone is interested. The answer is yes, of course. Postshow, I go to the bus and hang out in front of it and meet anyone who is
there, sign stuff, do photos, talk, whatever else.
Ok first thing. AAAHHHHH!!!! SQUEEE!! YES! I will be there! October 1st! I will not punk out like a wuss this time. Many moons ago, many spoken word shows ago I might add, I met Hank. I was but a young college coed who had major stars in her eyes for this Mr. Rollins. My roommate pulled some strings and I got backstage to meet him in the flesh. I was at best speechless. A complete tool with a boyfriend who just wouldn't go away. My dorky speechlessness amused Henry and he threw peanuts at me (which of course I totally let happen) while he conducted interviews across the room. Being pelted with peanuts by Rollins. Is there anything better?
So yes. I am a complete freak. Each time I go to a show I SWEAR I will nut up and meet him again for the sole purpose of getting another autograph or something equally nerdy. Each time I wuss out and slink to my car. THIS TIME I'm upping the stakes. THIS TIME I will man up times TEN and get a picture. I'll post it here too. Even if H has to drag me to the front of that bus as I say, "No, really I'm good. I don't need a picture! I'm fine, let's just go home. The babysitter is waiting."
As this blog as my witness I will do it. I will not go home with my head hanging in shame at my shyness and lack of nerve. I will get that picture. And still be a complete toolshed, but who cares.
Enjoy!
A MEME for you courtesy of Jo a blogger I'm just getting to know. I have her to thank for the inspirational blogger award. And now...
The Rules:
1) You have to post the rules before you give the facts.
2) Players must list one fact that is relevant to your life for each letter in your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name then use a name that you like.
3) When you are tagged, you must write a post containing your own middle name game facts.
4) At the end of your post, you must tag one person for each letter in your middle name. Don’t forget to comment them telling that they are tagged and to read your post to get the rules.
Well Holy Moly. My middle name is Elizabeth Anne. This is going to take a while. Quite possibly it might also be eye bleedinly boring so hang on to your knickers if you're wearin' them.
E- E stands for Eggs. I used to hate them. Then I got knocked up and couldn't eat enough of them. Suddenly I can stomach eggs and often. It kind of disgusts me. Eggs benedict, eggs floretine, scrambled (though never without some sort of seasoning), poached, hard boiled, and on and on. Never prison egg though. NEVER. Or flat egg. Heh.
L- Long toe nails- I have a fear of them. When I see them on people I shiver and probably they notice it too. I shiver, my lip curls and I am blatantly staring at their hooves.
I- Well easy, I no longer think of only myself. OK that is not true. I haven't thought only of myself since I've been married.
Z- Zig-Zag. One Mom recently mentioned that kids are ready to be potty-trained when they zig-zag and can turn corners while running. I am waiting for the zig-zag with quiet desperation. That and I'm still sitting T.D. on the potty.
A- Assume. People always assume that I'm staying home with T.D. and that really my life is that of playdates and fun. I must shop all day and be so rested. HA! Perhaps if I didn't work from home. Stop assuming people you know what it does.
B- Butt. I can be obsessed with mine and making it defy gravity. Or become smaller. I simply refuse to let it go and do it's own natural progression thing. What can I say? I like a firm butt! Or even a semi-firm one. Eating eggs of the cadbury cream variety don't really go with this idea.
E- Evidence. There is evidence to the contrary that my neighbors are picking up their dog poop like the HOA says they are. It's been a year of calls, emails, letters, and talking to them. Still nothing has changed. I pray daily they move. I stepped in poop last week with bare feet. Dried up crusty white poop, but poop all the same. This does not make me want to bake cookies for these people.
T- Two. The only number of children I will have. We're thinking of a second. THINKING. Which is not the same as DOING.
H- Heroes the show. People keep talking about it with the imminent new season about to begin. Do I dare invest myself in another show? I'm just not sold. Yet I already know what "Save the cheerleader, save the world." means.
A- Ha! You thought we were done! Awesome. I was doing an awesome job on the 'nine' challenge and now I'm struggling this week to kick my semi-firm butt back into high gear.
N- Never have I ever had to clean up poop in the bathtub. I'm jinxing myself I know. Never have I ever taken a shot of basically anything. It never stays down. I'm a drinking wuss.
N- Nissan. I drive a Pathfinder and I love it! It handles like a truck and is narrow enough in the driver's seat to be comfortable like a car for me. Plus I really love having my controls on the steering wheel. Her name is Chloe by the way.
E- Anne with an E. That is me. I know. How very Anne of Green Gables that is. Well, yes it is. I got to pick my middle name when I was in middle school as I never had one before. I went back and forth between for years between Elizabeth and Ann. Then I decided to use them both and add the 'e' as I was heavy into my Anne of Green Gables reading and watching. I've never regretted it either.
So there you have it. My meme. Because really? We bloggers all have to do them sometime. I tag Steph from Where in the World and Lauren from Catalog of Bitch. GAME ON ladies!
I would stand back from me today. Just stand back. I'm feeling that witchy, twitchy, evil feeling with a touch of fang. I simply have too much to do and not enough time to do it.
There are lists. Lists of people to call, things to remember, bills to pay, work to do, places to go, and actually no people to see thank the high heavens. I should have known that it would be one of those days when I walked into our bedroom, that sacred place, to find dog poop by the bed. Say what?! I know! Dog poop. Somehow I don't think it's from our neighbors dog either. Disgusting as it is I think it was an accident, what H calls a "lost nugget". Choke down whatever you are eating and I'm sorry. I ran to clean that up and on my way into the bathroom I ran SMACK! into the door. The door I closed so T.D. wouldn't play in the bathroom earlier in the day. Yup. It hurt like the dickens.
Later, I tripped over a laundry basket and fell to my knees. I trekked to the grocery store and had "that kid". The one who screams and throws things so you end up slinking out of the store feeling like you should be given the 'Crappiest Mom of the Year' award for not handling your child properly. Now I just have that song by the Eagles, you know the one- Witchy Woman, on continuous loop in my head and I'm developing a facial tic over the bathroom that is STILL not finished.
Some of this is my own fault. If I had decided to work this weekend instead of say, enjoy my time with my family, I would have a finished bathroom... maybe. Maybe. The fact that it's not finished though haunts me. I think of it all the time as I'm home most days. If I could do it myself I would, but I don't have the time or knowledge for some of the items. No offense to H as the man works his ass off, but if it's not done soon (by BOTH of us) I'm going to be more than witchy woman. I'm going to be the woman who scares fifteen year old boys sending them running home to Mommy as I roam around town with a spackling blade swinging a nearly full can of paint muttering things about mint green paint chips and lost time. I'll have a facial tic that will nearly destroy any sort of recognition and my gnarled fingers and bird's nest hair will only enhance my witch-like appearance.
So just stand back. If you come near me don't ask anything of me. Just smile, perhaps offer a treat to me, and I might just lick your hand rather than bite it.
P.S. Ms. Spears alleged comeback last night. Discuss. Seriously America I really had high hopes. I wanted her to do well. She didn't have to have a bangin' body again. She just needed to seem... well, with it. As if she wasn't under the influence of some brainwashing drug or half dead. Also? No more of those outfits Ms. Spears. No more. Not until some dicipline comes back in your life.
Folks, allow me to direct your attention to Exhibit A. Now don't be alarmed! They are indeed ugly I know. Hideous, just hideous. They are however only a pair of shorts. Men's shorts. Men's shorts, circa 1991, that at one time were impossibly big on the owner. Notice the heinously inappropriate and blatantly out of style double pleats. The dull and unflattering color of gray. Wake up people! These shorts were worn by the victim in high school! That was 13 years ago! Oh yes, she's a victim alright. A victim in a crime of fashion. 
Don't avert your eyes. There is probably something very close to this lurking in your closet. You could be a victim too. You probably made the same excuses that she did. Eventually they will fit right. Oh they did. They fit, but they were already hopelessly outdated by then. I'll just wear them to clean or paint. You know, when I'm doing projects and yard work around the house. Ha! You foolish girl! You never wore them! And not because you didn't paint, it was because of THIS!
Exhibit B. That stain is actually a hardened candy. A candy that went through the wash and a drying cycle in 1991. The very year the victim first bought the shorts. Since then the pocket has been sealed shut. Completely unusable. Sad, but true. Please! Try not to avert your eyes. The truth must be told. Trust in the fact that since reading this book, the victim has eradicated all sorts of items (overly tight shirts, badly fitting pants, too small belts and one embarrassingly awful pair of Hush Puppies)from her closet.
They go quite nicely don't they? Please don't pity the poor girl. She's learned her lesson. They didn't even go to Good Will. They went directly into the trash.
We're having a Blog Blast today to celebrate the arrival of one awesome and inspiring book, The Little Black Book of Style. Head on over to PBN for some other horrific, sad and downright hilarious posts from other victims of bad taste.
Yes, really. I got sucked in to some alternate universe last night where I watched for almost a full hour people who are obsessed with pumpkins. Ahem...GIANT pumpkins. These are no ordinary pumpkins people, nor or these growers ordinary.
Entranced I was by the unbreakable stares these people had as they watched, yes watched, their pumpkins grow. Did you know that some giant varieties can grow up to 50 lbs in a day?! I know! Mad, I tell you, mad! I found my mouth just hanging open as I watched one man lovingly place Barney blankets on his special fruits daily and then proceed to wrap himself in those very same blankets as he silently stared those orange beauties down for a spell.
There was an entirely all too seductive instrumental sequence where one man, much like Quint from Jaws, oiled and rubbed his fruit down until it reached a high gloss shine. While that pumpkin was an especially brilliant shade of orange, if I were that guys wife I might be a bit pissed at all the lovin' he was supplying that giant pumpkin. Hey Buddy! Why don't you spend less time on the that gourd over there and a little more time in the house on your wife! Actually, I'm not sure he had a wife. Quint didn't have a wife either.
The spouses seemed to find the whole thing bemusing. Odd yes, but actually more humorous. One wife gave up her entire backyard for her husband's one pumpkin and got a minivan in return. That's love I tell you. Especially from the couple with no children and the people who view these giant orange orbs as pets. Total. Devotion. Of the highest order. The pumpkin must not touch the ground, they inject milk into them, develop computer/weather tracking systems to figure out the smallest need of that ginormous plant they are creating, create pumpkin hammocks, and yes, even sleep with the fruit. I learned a bit too much about pumpkin sex in the process I think.
At one point H snickered at me as he came up for air from his fantasy football draft haze (that could be a show unto itself much like the pumpkins) and told me I was a bit 'too' into the whole pursuit of the pumpkin. Heh! What does he know? Does he know that mice can be a real problem and completely hollow out a pumpkin unbeknownst to it's master? Didn't think so!
Still at this moment I am amazed that a show devoted to the single topic of giant pumpkins and the people who adore them kept my attention for almost an hour. These days in my manic state of reading five books to review, trying to watch kids DVDs to review, and generally reviewing a whole lot of stuff and work at the same time I can't seem to keep my attention on anything. My span is that of a gnat or wait, my daughter. We've become two small attention span peas in a pod. Peas. Now I might watch a full hour on peas. Giant peas.
Imagine that you and your spouse are sipping your way through a second set of Mimosas over a tranquil brunch. Music plays and you can actually hear it. Oh look! There's a guest speaker on the latest hot novel holding court and it's all for you! A dream perhaps? Well, not if you are participating in a day date given by parent P-L-A-Y. parent P-L-A-Y holds day dates in the NYC area (talk of expansion is brewing) and the best part? Baby-sitting services right there at the event only in a totally separate room. I know! It is a dream that can be a reality.
So why am I talking about this? Well, parent P-L-A-Y has come up with another genius idea called, BASHED! The ABC's of Party Planning. It's a one day event being held on October 28, in NYC. The Altman Building to be exact (that's Chelsea people) and for an entire day on multiple floors there will be vendors, live music, food, seminars, and more all devoted to helping you in a one-stop shop way for everything you need to know about planning your next kids party. Be it a Sweet 16 or Bar Mitvah or even a baby shower, BASHED! has got you covered!
Check out their website for more information and who knows you might even see me there!
I am in a funk. Call it post vacation blues or the end of the summer doldrums, call it nothing. I don't care. I'm just in a funk. Funkified and not in a good, hey that music gets me movin' kind of way.
So lets update shall we? Maybe I'll feel better at the end.
1. The mole is no longer suspect! I can't tell you how great it was to come home from vacation and hear that on my answering machine. All of it is GONE!! There is nothing left and all I have left to do is my follow-up stitches removal visit and I'm sure a nice little lecture about sunscreen, etc. That's fine. My evil little mole is gone. Sure I have franken-boob, but gone are the scary cells and quite frankly I no longer feel the need to scratch out the offending area.
2. Thank you to EVERYONE who offered kind wishes, good thoughts, and prayers my way. I was truly scared I'll admit. It helped so much to know that I wasn't alone, many of you offered your own suspect mole stories, and I needed to hear them. I appreciate it all more than I can adequately say. THANK YOU!
3. The NINE is over. Or is it? After a stellar beginning I crashed and burned myself while on vacation. It is my own fault. I know. I worked out not a bit the week of the second bit of the mole removal. I was so wrapped up in my head, work, and getting ready for vacation I pushed it all aside. Dumb. I lost 5 lbs total and firmed up my legs nicely. My abs also came back. Now after a vacation of late night brownie eating I've been done in. H feels he's gained the 'Nine'. I'm looking to this girl now for inspiration. Roll my fat ass to the gym!
4. I am holding special one time only event for Arbonne! I have a few Intelligence body, hand, and foot lotions on sale and there are some FABULOUS holiday items. Check them out here and let me know if you want something. veamason at gmail dot com.
Ok so now I do feel a bit better. Except my butt hasn't shrunk any since writing this. Damn.
Mummy's just giving stuff away today! Check out her reviews for details and get yourself a pair of back to school barrettes and more!
Run! Run 'em hard! C'mon kids! Let's run over here. Climb the rocks! Look at the pretty gazebo! Oooh! Climb the steps kids, climb them. Up, down. Up, down. That's it!
From six a.m. until 9 p.m. four adults spent an entire day running three little girls ragged. Four adults against three kids under the age of three. And can I just say, those girls kicked our asses. We did it all for a night on the town. Free babysitting by my parents had us giddy with excitement and almost a bit drunk on the freedom of it all. Who would be the victors? The sweet little girls or the hungry for drinks and adult conversation parents?
In the morning it was endless rounds of strolling Elmo and tea parties. We ran them around the yard and chased butterflies. We kept them hydrated of course, but we didn't stop when it was close to nap time and lunch. Instead opted to take them out to a festival. "Run around girls! Check out everything!" Those kids devoured their lunches. There were no finicky eaters that day. We rewarded them with ice cream and headed home. Naps were not allowed on the car ride home either. Got to keep them up and moving!
The ride home had H and I dancing in our seats to all manner of music. A little Coolio got T.D. rockin' in her seat. When 'Hey there Delilah' came on T.D. was almost in a trance. She was dangerously close to being attacked by a nap fairy. Thankfully we made it home. Once there we unloaded the tykes and again went for more rounds of tea parties, bubble blowing, general scampering about and maybe a dose or two of benadryl was involved.
Bath time proved to be their final undoing. Warm water and more playing had them relaxed and drowsy. Bundled cutely in their towels their wet hair slicked back they knew they were beaten. All three pajama clad girls went down easily. Aaaah....
Hastily and in record time we adults spiffied up and headed out. Casino bound and ecstatic the night was ours for the taking!