"Where is pinkie? Where is pinkie? Here I am!"

I've stalled for long enough.

Almost two weeks ago, I nearly cut off the entire tip of my left pinkie finger. Yesterday I had the stitches removed, but my finger still looks like a piece of dried-up meat. Click here to see the damage.

It was Sunday. My mother-in-law was making a cozy lunch party for some friends who were in town for a short while. Michael was freaking out because his football banquet was that evening, and he still had not completed the annual highlight film. So, the twins and I headed over to help prepare lunch, and Michael was to follow shortly thereafter.

There were many deli meats and cheeses, and bag after bag of interesting bread selections. To be helpful, I started slicing open the various rolls. Let's start with ciabatta bread. Sliced one perfectly. Next. And, yeah . . . that was it.

It happened so fast, I didn't even see it coming (and usually seconds before I do something stupid I feel like I am outside of myself watching my own stupidity). Towel. Pain. "Call Michael. Now."

When he showed up, he tried to hand me the car keys. The highlight film still wasn't done and wasn't going to be ready unless he worked non-stop on it. But no one else could drive (except my mother-in-law who was expecting company), so off we went. He dropped me off. David met me right as I was being seen (you know, after they make you pay and everything).

David is a medicinal boy scout - always prepared. Valium (when the nurse wasn't looking). Truly more damage had been done to my mental state than to my finger. Better.

It took 9 stitches to make my finger stay on. Somewhere in there my mom left work and showed up at the hospital as well. Michael called to joke around. He sort of thought I had just cut myself and they were going to give me one of those butterfly bandages or something.

People have been asking me, "Are you mad at your mother-in-law?" or "Are you even talking to Michael? Is he in the dog house?" First of all, I have no reason to be mad at my mother-in-law. I was the idiot who cut myself. Plus, I offered to help. I chose to be careless while I was cutting. She just chose to buy a thin, dense bread that is hard to cut. Not to worry - It will never be seen in our homes ever again.

And Michael . . . He was so worried about taking care of so many other people, he failed to take care of me. Not that this makes it OK, but don't we all tend to take for granted those who we love and need the most?

---

And now, some accolades.

A few people said (or wrote) things to me that made me really laugh when I was recovering. You'll enjoy these:

Cary: "Now how are you supposed to order 5 beers with one hand?"

Matt: "Look at the bright side: if you get back into teaching at a later date, you are now qualified to teach woodshop."

Joshua: "What the hell is the point of Ciabatta anyway? Even when it's right it tastes stale and crunchy. Impenetrable sponge keeping me from my meat. Be gone."

emu: a large, flightless bird of Australia, resembling the ostrich but smaller & having a feathered head & neck & rudimentary wings OR Jen's nemesis

It feels a little strange to have been trumped by emu oil.

On Saturday I participated in the Farmer's Market in my community. So, from 10 AM until 2 PM I sat under some palm trees by the lake and didn't sell anything. OK, so I sold one 1 oz tube of hand creme for $4.

I went with the intention of selling holiday gifts. Everything was packaged and ready to go. Easy spa shopping, right?

I was sandwiched between a sage burning, cedar flute playing hippee and the emu lady. The emu lady had a huge booth with emu-related products like feathers and eggs. Across from me was the fruit and nut mountain man. My spa stuff looked pretty good . . .

At first I worried that I had made a mistake by really promoting the holiday items because it seemed like most people were really shopping for themselves. People would stop at my booth, comment on how cute the packaging looked, maybe smell a demo product, hear my schpeel about Spa Escapes, and off they went.

Not a single person who stopped at the emu lady's booth left without buying something. Some bought expensive starter kits with a bunch of products, but most got their own 1oz bottle of emu oil. Want to get rid of scars? Emu oil. Have arthritic pain? Emu oil. Sore muscles? Emu oil. Dry skin? Emu oil. Cracked heels? Emu oil. There was a woman with a sad-looking Yorkie that was recovering from a horrible flea problem, and what do you know? Emu oil will make it all better. It's great to put directly on the irritated skin, AND she can give the pup a teaspoonful with her food everyday to keep her healthy and strong.

About 30 minutes before the end of the event, two young women came up to me and were very interested in the adorable stockings I have that are filled with miniature versions of our holiday products. Everything she looked at was chocolate, gingerbread, pumpkin, or peppermint scented. After smelling everything, she asked, "Do you have anything a little more Christmas-y?" I was speechless. Um.... So I picked up a snowman mug filled with cocoa mix and peppermint body tonic and a sparkly red 'Happy Holidays' decoration. She said she'd be back. Uh huh. Michael came by soon thereafter to help me pack things up, and I told him about the girl. He looked at my display and said, "More Christmas-y? Did she want little elves passing out samples and Santa Claus ringing her up?"

The next event is December 16th. Perhaps more people will be looking for gifts at that time. On the bright side, I heard the emu lady can't make it on the 16th. Too bad.

A house of animals: or a really bad toddler version of 'A Chorus Line'

The twins have a new game, and it's hysterical. You name an animal, any animal (dog, cat, lion, Stegosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, meerkat, bird, etc.) and they act it out. This is really Kyle's game, and Dylan plays along. It is a riot to watch. For the most part, Kyle only has two (maybe three) animals. Half the animals make high-pitched noises, and the other half make deep, throaty noises. Most walk on all fours.

The other day, Kyle was being a jaguar, and Dylan didn't like it:

Dylan: I no like the jaguar Kai-Kai. No do that one.

Kyle: OK.

Dylan: Be a zebra Kai-Kai.

Kyle: OK.

Interestingly enough, Kyle's jaguar and zebra walk on all fours and make the same deep, throaty noise. Dylan wasn't scared.

Today we challenged them: Be a fish! Be a turtle! Be a snail!

Oh my goodness . . . Isn't there a scene in A Chorus Line where someone talks about having to be an ice-cream cone or something in acting class?

Paging Ms. Babcock! Ms. Babcock, are you there? Is Tyler around? . . . .

Just for funsies

An anecdotal highlight of the last few days . . .

I had a Spa ESCAPE at my house last Thursday for some ladies in my community. As we were getting settled (the guests on my couch and me on the floor in front of them), I started tooting Michael's horn. Maybe it was because someone ask where my children were--I honestly can't remember. So I'm mid-sentence when I notice that the archway between our family room and formal dining room still has blue painter's tape at the top. Lovely.

Once all my guests had left on Thursday, I called Michael to tell him to come home. Turns out the kids had lice. It still gives me shivers thinking about how disgusting that is. There was apparently an outbreak at the elementary school, and my kids got it too. I was such a bad mother. I couldn't handle it at all-like instant anxiety attack. I was wearing my spa shirt that says "Got Stress?" on the front. My mom was with me and said, "Got stress?" Not funny. Michael took care of everything.

(Blue painter's tape is still on the wall, and I don't care)

Friday night was part 1 of a 2 part workshop led by a life coach. Apparently, every successful person has a life coach, and I now see why. Prior to our session, Stacy and I met Heather at US Airways and we went to Mill for dinner (I have no idea what the name of our restaurant was . . . Everything was organic, and I had a So-Cal Chicken Salad that was SO SO good). After dinner, we decided to hop into one car, and Stacy drove us to the hotel where we were meeting. There was a non-permanent sign that said you couldn't park in the lot after 6 PM, but Heather said it was nothing, and if Heather (of all people) wasn't going to fret about it, then I wasn't going to either. 45 minutes after the originally scheduled completion time (so it's now close to 10 PM), Stacy takes us back to our cars. They aren't there. Instead, there is some kind of reception space being set up. Panic. We later discover the cars haven't been impounded. They were towed to an empty lot a few blocks away. Whew. I'm completely exhausted, still have to drive 45 minutes home to Goodyear AND need to stop at the store for dog food and more lice stuff. So, I end up in my personal hell (Walmart) at 11:00 PM because where else can I get dog food and lice shampoo for the kids at 11:00 PM? AND.... part 2 of our workshop starts at 9 AM the next day. Heather saves the day by bringing everyone breakfast from McDonalds.

Saturday (post amazing session), my parents bring us dinner and take the kids (now lice-free) home with them. Hallelujah! After some errands, we end up at our neighbor's house for a glass of wine and good conversation. I slept until 9 AM the next morning. Hooray!!! I spent the bulk of the day mastering the art of "shrink wrap."

Meanwhile, the kids are at the zoo. Apparently, they were enamored with the baby goats in the petting zoo. Rumor has it that they ran from goat to goat giving them hugs and saying, "my baby...my baby." Within 10 minutes of being home from the zoo, the kids were in the bathtub.

Is it Monday already?

I felt like Julia Child. Or, at least like Rachael Ray.

Last night I received my first unsolicited cooking-related accolade from one of my children.

First may I saw how positively wonderful it was to come home on a Monday evening, pick up the kids, meet my husband at home, have him give the kids a bath while I cooked dinner, and had us all sit down together over a weekday meal? Ahhh. It's the little things in life.

I didn't do anything fancy for dinner. We had spaghetti with meat sauce, and I put some of those really buttery crescent rolls in the oven. Kyle was more interested in his apple, but Dylan just went to town with his pasta. He tried using his fork once and then set it aside and shoveled his food in with his little fingers. I know at some point this will be rude and inappropriate at the dinner table, but it's still cute for now. Michael and I shot each other smirks because Dylan totally has a thing for Italian food (red sauces especially). About three-quarters of the way through his bowl of pasta, Dylan stopped for a moment, took a breath, turned to me and said, "It's really good!"

Gold star for Mom!

Gentle Bitterness: A writing revisited

Michael has been bugging me for months to get all of our paperwork filed away (instead of neatly stacked on the desk) so we can talk to some guy about how we have no money (OK, not quite like that, but you know...). Anyway, I organized it all tonight and also stumbled across some lovely old photos and drawings and writings, and I felt compelled to revise/update something I wrote over five years ago. OK, so here it is:

Gentle Bitterness

I can never finish a cup of coffee. It's not that I don't like the way it tastes or that I get bored of it. It's the pacing. I start with short, quick sips. It's hot at first, and it only takes once - well, maybe twice - before you're extra careful. Then there's usually either some sort of conversation occurring between another party, or else a good book, magazine, or other distraction. The coffee is soon forgotten. Once remembered, the liquid has cooled, and the beverage has lost its main purpose - to warm the body, and (in a way) the soul. What you're left with is nothing but a half a cup of cold bitterness, one of the most undesirable things at a moment when all you want is something warm and gentle.

Although not everyone is fond of coffee, it seems to play an important role in many peoples' lives, adapting its purpose as the respective person grows, ages and learns. As a young child, coffee was an intriguing distraction. It kept my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles at the dinner table long after the dishes had been cleared. My headstands, twirls, and acrobatics were no match for those creamy white mugs of black bitter conversation. 'What could be more exciting than me?' I'd often wonder as I walked on my hands, back and forth across that olive-green shag carpet. I found myself willing to play the coffee game in exchange for some adult attention. Straightening myself out and speaking in the most adult-like way possible, I finally asked for a taste of "that." It only took one asking, for the next few years I was presented with my very own mug of coffee. It was really a mug of milk with about two tablespoons of coffee, but it was mine. And so I found myself at the dinner table those long hours sometimes listening, but often sleeping, as the adults shared their stories of "so and so" getting married, how "he" wasn't Jewish, or how "she" lost her job.

In Junior High the only acceptable coffee drink was an iced-mocha from Gloria Jean's. We'd pile it up with so much whipped cream, sugar, cinnamon, and chocolate shavings that you really couldn't call it coffee. At age thirteen we bustled around the mall feeling totally independent with babysitting money in our pockets and grown-up drinks in our hands. Once, finding ourselves without motorized transportation, my friend Jessica and I thought we could make our own iced-mochas. We poured some of my parents' leftover coffee into two mugs. It was cold already, but we decided to add some ice to it anyway, just to be sure. Then we proceeded to add milk, cinnamon, granulated sugar, and Nestle Quik (my kitchen wasn't equipped with chocolate shavings). As you might imagine, it was disgusting. It wasn't anything like Gloria Jean's. It tasted like, well, like coffee! Yuck. Soon after the iced-mocha craze, someone told us that coffee would stunt our growth. We four-foot-seven'ers decided to put down the coffee-flavored chocolate for a while.

Maybe it was the "Central Perk" Friends explosion (who knows) but coffeeshops quickly became the meeting place in high school. They weren't chosen as great hangouts because of all the fabulous Bay Area coffee. No way. In fact, at first the drink of choice was the Italian soda. Fruity or creamy, they were fizzy and fun, and a speciality of our favorite coffeeshop. As the weather grew colder, I had to drink something warmer. Hot chocolate was OK at first, but soon I started trying drinks like white chocolate mochas and a fabulous concoction called an "Irish Storm" (my five-foot-five status a more secure place to be). These drinks were warm, tasty, and they were coffee. They were also expensive. There were no refills on four dollar drinks, hence marking the importance of the coffee stirrer. There had to be a reason to stay for hours at a time, and those long red coffee stirrers worked as a substitute drink and helped me rationalize obscene loitering. An accomplished coffee stirrer chewer would chew at the straw until the plastic was soft, flexible and could fit entirely in the mouth. Only then could you begin your tricks, tying the stirrer in knots the way people often do with cherry stems. It was something to do, and it didn't cost any extra money. Toward the end of high school, we developed more ethics and less cash flow. This turn of events led me to the purchase of the one dollar cup of coffee with the twenty-five cent refill. I couldn't rationalize sitting there for hours on end, taking up valuable customer space, chewing on a coffee stirrer. Nor could I afford those four dollar drinks - I needed that extra money for college coffee. And I think one day I just started to like the taste of coffee. No sugar, no sweet-and-low. Just non-fat milk.

Surprisingly, coffee played a very small role in my college life. I wasn't up until all hours of the night writing papers and tossing back cups of caffeine to stay awake. Somehow my friends and I found the energy and stamina to get through long lengths of time with joyful ease . . . Sugar may have played a role. If we did partake in a coffee, it was an outing, and there were no loyalties to one shop or another.

Today (oh my), today coffee is almost a daily need. I'm not like my grandmother who walks into walls and is more incoherent than usual before she has her cup of coffee in the morning. But hey, I like that warm cup of liquid sunshine, this time sweetened and doused with cream. Still, I never do finish an entire cup of coffee. You see, it has to do with the pacing . . .

Nuggets and "Pup"cakes

Have you ever banged a frozen chicken nugget on a granite countertop to prove a point? I have.

A few days ago my children requested chicken nuggets for dinner, so I plugged in our handy dandy pizza pizzaz-thing-a-ma-bobber (it's a pizza cooker, but we use it for anything that is frozen that you are supposed to put in the oven). This action was greeted with a loud cry of disapproval, "No Mommy! No Mommy! No cook it!"

"Kyle, I have to cook the chicken nuggets for you."

"No Mommy, I eat it cold."

"Kyle, they're frozen, you can't eat them like this. I need to cook them."

"No Mommy!! I no like it hot. I eat it cold."

It was at this point that I took a chicken nugget and started banging it on the counter, trying to show Kyle that the nugget was frozen and, really, inedible. He was amused by this, and was then distracted by his brother and the dog.

My kids must be a little confused. I make things really hot, and then we have to wait for them to cool off, or I have a little trick of putting the hot plate of food in the freezer for a minute or so . . . . Ahh, the freezer. And there you go!

Later that evening, I noticed the bananas were looking, well, a little ripe, so I decided to whip up some banana muffins (which Dylan called "pupcakes").

"Mommy, what you doing?"

"I'm making banana muffins."

"Banana muffins like pupcakes?"

"Yes, they're like cupcakes."

"Mommy, I eat them now."

"Dylan, no you have to wait until they're cooked. I'm making them."

"No Mommy, I eat them now."

So, I show him my mixing bowl full of batter.

"Mommy's making them?"

"Yes, go to your playroom and I'll tell you when they're done."

I know my children are constantly learning new things, and it's easy to forget that there are just so many new concepts they experience every day. It's nice to get a chuckle every now and then when certain concepts are skewed . . . For example, right now if something is "broken," Dylan thinks it just "needs batteries." Or if I tell them we're going to the store (and this can be any store), he thinks we're going to "get ice-cream," because a week ago I took him to the grocery store to buy ice-cream.

We probably should go out and buy ice-cream more often.

Reunion

When I think about those good old college times, I'm usually thinking about my sophomore year. Lots of fun, lots of laughter, (ahem) lots of drinking...And good friends.

I was DREADING returning to college after my first summer back home. I had just broken up with someone and my two good friends were studying abroad. I had made plans to live in an apartment with my friend Casey. We bonded during a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream (she was Helena, I was Hermia). Sometime over the summer, plans changed and what started out as a two bedroom apartment for me and Casey turned into a four bedroom apartment with one other girl I sort of knew and another girl I had never met.

That girl I had never met - that's my friend Jaclyn. She is one of the most amazing people I have ever known, and I love her so much! (This post is going to be very picture heavy, so here is one of many)

We took this picture of us in the bathtub for her friend Toby (and if he asks, we had pillowfights in our underwear...).

This past weekend, all of my favorite sophomore year memories came flooding back as Jac and I headed westward to Joshua Tree, CA for Casey's post-elopment party. This was the most amazing non-wedding I have ever experienced -- what a ridiculous amount of fun! Part of the fun was just being with Jac and going on our own little road trip, singing along to Wicked . . . I know, sounds like a horrible teeny-bopper movie. Oh well...

(If you scroll to the bottom there is a picture of the three of us - the new bride is on the left). So, of course, lots of stories were told because all of Casey's friends wanted to know some crazy college stories. Truly, we were pretty tame, but there are a few anecdotes that had me collapsing with laughter. Really. This guy who was there (friend of the groom's cousin, I think) I think got a little worried that I had stopped breathing. I think we have a picture of him....

Yep, he's the one in the blue. I know his name is Jeff...The other guy is who Jac and I call "Particle Guy." He was taking pictures and kept complaining about all the "particles" in the shots (photos, not alcohol-that comes later).

Jac and I really didn't know anyone else there, but we're in the middle of cocktail hour - oh wait, gotta tell you about the signature cocktail of the evening: A shot of vodka, then champagne to the top, then a melon-ball size scoop of prickly pear sorbet.

Here's a picture of me and Jac with our drinks (you can sort of see Jac's pink fizzy drink).

OK, so it's cocktail hour and this guy (later to be named Dave) says to me, "Are you Jen?" So I probably look completely puzzled because I have no idea who this guy is, and I tell him yes. He then says, "You partied at my trailer in Tucson." OK, so I have never partied at any trailer before in my life, so I'm wondering what he's talking about...Then it hits me: "Oh, were you housesitting for a lesbian couple?" Yep. That was him. One evening Casey and I were going out and stopped at her friend's trailer - well, not his trailer. He was housesitting or subletting for a lesbian couple he knew. I guess I haven't changed much since 1998 . . .

The elopment party is at a place called Skip and Margie's Desert Hideaway. It's a cute little place in the middle of nowhere, and if we had to go to the bathroom, we had to use one of the six villas on site. It was odd at first just walking into someone's hotel room to use the bathroom, but everyone got used to it I guess. At one point, Jaclyn went into a room and said, "Hello? Anyone here?" No answer. So, she turns the corner and there is Dave peeing. Jac makes a U-turn and we head to another room.

When Dave exits the room he goes up to Jac and says, "PARTY FOUL!" He then tells everyone he encounters, "Hey, see that girl over there? She saw me peeing!" His wife bows her head and shakes it in shame. Later, on the dance floor, Dave thought it would be fun to start undressing. We caught it on camera. Here it is for your viewing pleasure:

We had a fabulous barbecue dinner, and we were in great company. Seated at our table (among others) was the groom's cousin (the groom is Norm, the cousin is Mark-I think) and his wife, Ann. She also made the cake (coconut and very very yummy). Jac and I thought she was hysterical because instead of tapping her glass with a utensil to get the newlyweds to kiss, she was banging her plate. Really. She thought this was better.

Later in the evening, our entertainment (besides dancing, stripping Dave) was a firedancer. This was slightly odd but very interesting. I couldn't do it.

The evening ended all too soon, but I will savor every moment of this trip. I've got to close with a picture of me and my girls. I feel so lucky to have known this two fabulous women, and I can't wait to enjoy their friendship for years to come.

Somewhere beyond community youth theatre

Our parents influence us in ways that are both obvious and latent. Knowing this, I wonder, 'What will my children be like? What will I do that will shape them and either a) bring them great happiness and success or b) ignite years of therapy?'

Yesterday my parents and I took the twins to see a play. It was a production of The Emperor's New Clothes by Spotlight Youth Theatre in Surprise. Overall, it was a cute little show, and the actors ranged from 12-ish-year-olds to adults.

Act One was enjoyable. Dylan and Kyle were very into the show, and Dylan kept turning to me and saying, "I'm watching, Mommy." Then intermission came. You would think intermission would be a good thing for young children, but it really did us in.

At the back of the "theatre," there was a table with little souvenirs. At first Kyle wanted a pinwheel and Dylan wanted a sparkly silver magic wand, but then they both saw the blow up snake sword, and that was that. Once Dylan knew there was "stuff" at the back of the room, he had a hard time paying attention to the show. At one point he leaned back in my arms like a baby, pressed in my nose and said "piggy, piggy." He was interested in anything but the people on stage, so I kept getting up and taking him to the back of the room, then trying to sit again, and we continued this routine for the remainder of the performance. Sometimes when the actors would sing, he took this as an invitation to break into song as well; although, he was singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea." Eventually, there was a loud dragon roar from stage left that caught his interest, and then later a flying rubber fish. Of course, as soon as the show ended both he and Kyle scurried up to the stage to check out the fish.

The twins had been to a Disney on Ice show and a puppet show, but this was their first true theatre experience. I'm sure it will be one of many, and I hope that my kids will have an appreciation for the performing arts...and that I won't turn into a horrid stage mother and try to live vicariously through my children. Although, you have got to hear Dylan sing "Beyond the Sea." It's hilarious.

Lyrics to "Beyond the Sea"

Somewhere beyond the sea

Somewhere waitin' for me

My lover stands on golden sand

And watches the ships

that go sailin'

Somewhere beyond the sea

She's there watchin' for me

If I could fly like birds on high

Then straight to her arms

I'd go sailin'

It's far beyond the star

It's near beyond the moon

I know beyond a doubt

My heart will lead me there soon

We'll meet beyond the shore

We'll kiss just as before

Happy we'll be, beyond the sea

And never again I'll go sailin'

***INSTRUMENTAL BREAK***

I know beyond a doubt,

My heart will lead me there soon

We'll meet, I know we'll meet

Beyond the shore

We'll kiss just as before

Happy we'll be, beyond the sea

And never again

I'll go sailin'

(No more sailin')

(So long sailin')

(Bye bye sailin')

Planny Plannerson

I am a planner. I will come up with a very specific, highly defined plan. I don't always stick to my plan, but I'll be darned if I don't have some sort of plan in mind, regardless of what adventure I am beginning. Granted, I'm not as bad as my friend Corey who was pained to go into the grocery store without a list. I know, I know...I'm a list person too, but we were buying groceries for one meal. One. For the two of us. I digress...

Earlier this week I decided I was fed up with the fact that one little button on my cell phone wasn't working. It was the "up" key. This was especially annoying when I would scroll through my contacts and go too fast and then not be able to go up and select the right one. I called tech support to try to remedy the situation. Apparently a lot of dropping on the ground is not good for your cell phone (and is not what the company calls a "manufacturer defect").

After much research I discovered that I was eligible for the deepest discounted upgrade and made the decision to purchase a similar phone for under $20. It rings, the buttons work, great. That was my plan.

I've mentioned before that my dear friend Joe is always willing to come along for the ride, right?

So the two of us visited the T-Mobile store, and as I walk over to the more conservatively-priced phones, Joe heads straight for the fancy stuff. Apparently, the phone he had been trying to convince me to get (the one he has) was available to me at 50% off ... oooh. And I kind of wanted it. I had been carrying around my ATC cell phone, my personal/BeautiControl cell phone & my Palm Pilot (now about 4 years old) and it was just too much. So the SDA is a phone and holds my contacts and my calendar and syncs to my Outlook and has internet capabilities and more I'm sure, if I sit down and read the manual.

I was interested but skeptical, and over walks Mr. Salesman. Now Mr. Salesman is not a very good salesman. He doesn't know much and just stands there and Joe tells me all the reasons why I need this phone. I ask a question. Mr. Salesman says "I don't know," and Joe answers. This continues.

I decide to buy the phone.

We get into a discussion about commissions because I'm feeling sort of bad that I talked to T-Mobile woman on the phone for nearly an hour the other day, but now I'm buying it from Mr. Salesman. Mr. Salesman says that the phone people don't get commissions--they provide customer service "for the good of the company."

So we ask, "Do you get a commission?"

"Yeah, "he replies.

Joe then spends a great deal of time trying to convince Mr. Salesman that he should buy Joe a coffee from Starbucks (right across the parking lot) because I wouldn't have purchased the much more expensive phone had he not been there (and this is true). Mr. Salesman completely ignored him. It was at first a bit uncomfortable and then really funny. We would talk about him in the third person as he was organizing my new toy.

He didn't blink, and nothing tall, grande, or venti was exchanged.

Adventures in toddler-hood

The other morning, after the twins' bath, Kyle went pee-pee in the potty.

Then he wanted to go more, but he wanted me and Dylan to leave the room. He shut the door to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later yelling, "I went potty! I went potty!" We rushed in and he had pooped in his potty. I was so excited, so I ran to get Michael.

Meanwhile, Sasha had eaten the poop.

--------

Fairly regularly, Dylan has been getting out of his own bed and climbing into our bed at some point during the night/very early morning. This morning around 4:00 AM, he made himself comfortable right between me and Michael. About 30 minutes later, Kyle came padding in, and I heard him sort of collapse somewhere on the ground. When I checked to see where he was a few minutes later, I saw him fast asleep on Sasha's bed. He stayed there until 6:45 AM when I picked him up to get him changed and ready for day care. It sounds silly to think of a little boy sleeing on a dog bed, but actually Sasha is the only one in the family with a memory foam mattress, so Kyle was quite smart to commandeer her bed.

--------

The unfortunate thing about Dylan coming to our bed in the morning is that when Michael gets up at 6:00 AM for work, Dylan gets up too. I am not a fan of this set up. My goal is always to sleep as long as I possibly can, and this morning was no exception. In fact, I was completely exhausted this morning. Dylan must have sensed my sleepiness because instead of saying, "Mommy get up!" he went to the kitchen, got his bowl from the cupboard, selected his cereal of choice, and brought both to my bedside so I could pour it for him. Then he stood there and ate his cereal dry and watched Kyle who was asleep on the dog bed.

Sally Hansen lies

I did something kind of stupid this evening.

Wait, let me rewind and start from the beginning. After work I went to happy hour at Applebees with a friend (Could that place be any cheaper? Oh my goodness . . . 2 very tall beers and 3 appetizers later, we were out $16--actually only $6 because we had a $10 gift card). The kids are with my parents for the night, so I stopped at Linens & Things because I had a gift card burning a hole in my wallet and thought I would buy a scale (since I'm trying to gain weight and need to start paying attention to these things). After trying many scales ranging from $29 to over $100, I discovered that they all sucked. I JUST went to the doctor and was weighed by their super-fancy scale, and all of the scales at the store said I was 7-10 pounds heavier than what I weighed at the doctor. Since I know I didn't gain 7-10 pounds in a week, the scales must all suck. So, what to buy? I found myself in the random iPod accessory section and selected a lovely iPod dock that is also an alarm clock. I love it.

So, I'm home now and have played with Sasha a bit and hooked up my snazzy new iPod dock and decided to take a relaxing bath in my enormous tub that has not been getting as much use as it should. I put my Therapeutic Bath Minerals in the tub and applied my Fango Seaweed Masque and listened to my iPod, controlling it with a lovely little remote. Ahhh, heaven. Notice I haven't done anything stupid yet.

After my bath I decided to continue pampering myself by waxing my eyebrows. Please note: waxing one's own eyebrows should never be paired with the word "pamper" or any derivation of the verb "to pamper." Damn that facial waxing kit! A couple of months ago a friend told me to go to a particular Albertson's that was going out of business. Apparently, all of the items were 25% - 80% off, so I stocked up on household items that I needed anyway. While I was there I encountered a do-it-yourself facial waxing kit. I'd always wondered if they were good and thought I'd try it out and save the $15 or so I spend to have my eyebrows professionally waxed.

There is a reason people charge you money to do this to you.

First I had to microwave the wax so it was warm and pliable but not too hot. Then there's a little plastic paddle you use to apply the wax. The paddle is cute and all, but it's really not great when you need to be precise. Also, I should add that the instructions told me that if the wax was too hot the paddle would be blue but if the wax was the perfect temperature the words "wax is ready" would appear. Neat, huh? Except that when I took the paddle out of the box, before I even touched the wax, it said "wax is ready." Oh really?

Application. This stuff is ridiculously sticky. I'm trying to apply small amounts and strings of wax are sticking to my cheeks and eyelashes. When I try to remove the wax from the non-waxing places, it sticks to my fingers and no amount of water, soap, or abrasive towel-rubbing is getting rid of the wax. OK, now time to pull the wax from my eyebrow area. Not bad. I'm used to the sting, and it actually feels kind of good to me. But there's a residue. And it's hard to get to some areas without risking wax getting on other parts of my eyebrow that I still actually want. I do the best I can do and then scrub my face to try to remove any excess wax, but there's some still on my actual eyebrow and all of the hairs are bound together, mocking me. All I can do its wait for it to dry and then try to flake it off without yanking out the rest of my eyebrow. Horrible thoughts of eyebrow baldness are seeping into my mind, and I notice lots of little hairs that I was unable to get with the wax (because of precision), so I pull out the tweezers.

I hate tweezers.

I tweeze and tweeze and tweeze until the two eyebrows look decent. Not bad, I guess. The wax is still clumped on my one eyebrow, so I reach for the conditioning/finishing oil that comes in the kit. It's supposed to soothe and soften the skin and hair. Onto a cotton pad it goes, and I apply it to my eye area and OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT HORRIBLE HORRIBLE PAIN? Conditioning oil, my ass! My eyebrows are now bright red and on fire. It doesn't feel like this at the salon. I dab my eye area with a tissue and reach for some facial moisturizer, hoping that will soothe the stinging. Nope, it feels worse. Tears are filling my eyes as I reach for all of these horrible, horrible products and toss them into the garbage can.

Never ever ever again!

No like matches

Driving the twins to their sitter today, I had the privilege of eavesdropping on a wonderful conversation. It blows my mind to think that not very long ago they shared the same crib, the same bouncy chair, the same bassinet and even the same womb. When they were little, we worried that they didn't interact with each other as much as we would have liked. Now, they're like little partners in crime. Actually, prior to our car experience, our entire family was in our master bathroom/closet (dog and cat included), and Kyle was upset about something . . . Being scolded for slamming the door, I think. In any event, he was totally what Joe would call "butt hurt," so Dylan went over to him and gave him a kiss. It was so incredibly adorable.

Now back to this morning. The conversation went something like this:

Kyle: Dylan, where's the sun?

Dylan: (looking) There Kai-kai! There!

Kyle: Where?

Dylan: Over there! Oh, flags Kai-Kai! Flags!

Kyle: Flags! Bird, Dylan! See the bird?

Dylan: I see the bird!

Kyle: Go to Val's house? Mommy, Val's house?

Me: Yep, you're going to Val's house.

Dylan: Mommy, I push the button.

Me: OK.

Dylan: Mommy, I push the button. I no like to walk. Mommy hold and I push the button.

I love how they understand me and understand each other. It's such a joy to experience this. We do have hiccups in the learning process, though. A few nights ago I was getting them into their PJs, and Dylan picked a Nemo top and a Nemo bottom, but they were from two separate Nemo sets. I tried to get Dylan to change bottoms:

Me: Dylan, let's wear this one. See, it matches.

Dylan: No. No like matches.

I did get him to switch so he matched.

When he moves away, I'll cry.

A very good friend of mine quite recently had a bit to drink and let me know he was, basically, not feelin' the love from me. So, I've decided to honor him with a blog:

He knows when I'm upset even before I realize that I'm upset.

When I'm upset, he does little things to make me happy (like play music he knows I like).

Once, when I was doubled over in pain, he took me to the pharmacy to fill a prescription for me and did the whole, "Can't you see she's in pain? Hurry!" routine.

He barely knew me and followed me to a friend's house where I was dropping off my car, despite the fact that I took a wrong turn and pulled over to get my bearings right near a curious-looking fellow who he believed I was going to for drugs.

He has no qualms about eating something that has been near or in my children's mouths.

I can usually count on him to "come along for the ride" if I need to drive somewhere and don't want to go alone.

He carries heavy things for me. Even those "heavy" things that I probably could carry but don't really want to carry.

He is, by far, the funniest person I know.

He trusts me.

I can tell him exactly what I'm thinking or feeling all the time without fear of judgement or rejection.

We have both seen each other cry.

My extended family knows him ("But he's so tall..." - Guess what statement received this response--HA!)

He's important enough to me that I blogged about him. I hope Michael's not pissed that I've blogged about another man, my kids, the cat and the dog, but not him.

A title just seems really unnecessary right now

My God, I love being inspired. The whole process of inspiration was what got me into teaching way back when . . . What a lifetime ago that was.

I’m such a sucker for a good tale, motivational talk, memoir-like conversation. Maybe I’m easily manipulated, but I love the feeling I get when suddenly everything is clear and there’s this fire inside of me burning to do something magical.

I had a class in college that used to really get me going. It was just a writing class—a class to teach writing, actually. Yet, instead of learning how to teach others to write, it would charge me into my own creative consciousness and for a moment (or two), I felt anything was possible. This is probably what made me a good teacher . . . I prescribed to my own doctrine.

I’ve come to appreciate the fact that I am not a creator, but a chronicler of sorts. When inspiration strikes me, I don’t suddenly invent something miraculous. Instead, I find myself in a pensive and open state where I am able to see things so clearly, and I feel compelled to capture the essence of my clarity.

The cause of my passion this evening? I finally saw the film version of Rent. I know, I know—horrible for a person who lives and breathes theatre every day. How dare I wait so long? I have my reasons, one quite sillier than the next. In any event, the clarity I’ve found right now is really just an affirmation of the wonderful life that I am so grateful to have. The details are small enough to look silly on paper, so I’ll breathe them all in silently and enjoy them, and be happy to share with anyone who asks.

Big Bang Piggy Bankin'

Well, it's been over a week, but we recently took a lovely road trip to Vegas. Aside from our overnight Sedona excursion in March, this was the first road trip Michael and I had taken alone in a while (before we were married, in fact). We also discovered around the third day that it was the longest we had been completely alone with each other since the twins were born. As much as I love my children, it was very nice to spend some quality time with my Michael.

I always try not to laundry list events, so I'll try anecdotal highlights. You might say that's just a fancy way to laundry list, and I'd say, well, it's my blog so I'll do whatever I want.

All the single guys in Vegas wear the same uniform. It's true. Michael and I took great pleasure in our people-watching activities, an enjoyable pasttime in a place like Las Vegas. Apparently, it's fashionable for young men to wear jeans, black dress shoes and an untucked and vertically-striped blue shirt (preferably light blue; although, darker shades of blue may also be acceptable). If they have hair, it is to be short on the sides and sort of spike up a bit on top. This might not sound like a big deal, but it cracked us up to see a group of five guys, all hanging out in a bar, all wearing the exact same outfit. I hadn't seen something like that since my UofA days when I would see flocks of sorority girls walking down the street--All wearing the same black, flared pants, black wedge/slides, and gaping v-neck shirt. And they all had shoulder-length blonde hair. All of them. If they didn't have blonde hair, they dyed it. If they didn't have short hair, they cut it. Seriously. I can see the image perfectly . . . walking by the Delta Delta Delta house on my way to go read books onto tape for blind students . . . (I am such a nice person!--Joe, that was for you).

White socks do not go with black dress shoes. OK, so this I knew before I went to Vegas, but I promised to embarrass our friend James. We were fortunate to have our good friends James and Heather join us for an evening out in Vegas. We had a fabulous time eating, drinking, playing, etc., but I thoroughly enjoyed the white sock experience. Thanks to James and Heather, we had special passes to a very exclusive lounge called The House of Blues Foundation Room. It's at the tippy-top of Mandalay Bay, and it was the coolest bar/lounge I have ever been to. We had a man-servant. I'll leave it at that. Anyway, before we could get into the club, the guys had to meet dress code inspection. Michael passed, but James needed to put on pants and black shoes, so up we went to their gorgeous suite. Apparently, James didn't receive the memo about needing jeans, black shoes, and the blue stiped button-down shirt, so he was in a bit of a pickle as he tried to piece together an outfit that would meet the approval of the fancy-schmancy bouncer. The biggest concern: socks. James brought dress shoes but no dress socks, so it was white or nothing. He really wanted to wear no socks at all, but I thought that would be extremely uncomfortable, and Heather and I told him to suck it up and wear the white socks--no one would see because his pants were plenty long. Then, of course, Michael sticks out his leg and reveals that he was actually wearing little white golf socks with his black shoes--not, of course, out of necessity, mind you. James was so embarrased to be wearing white socks and black dress shoes, that I felt the best thing would be to assure him that I would blog about him so everyone out there in my shared cyberspace world would know . . . James Scriven wore white socks with black dress shoes.

Big Bang Piggy Bankin' was once at Mandalay Bay, but it is no longer there and may actually no longer be in existence. Poor Heather. She purposely booked her hotel room at Mandalay Bay so she could play a slot machine called Big Bang Piggy Bankin'. We looked everywhere for her game, and after a few drinks we were very vocal with the Mandalay Bay casino staff and had them on their walkie-talkies trying to locate the machine. Alas, Heather never got to play her game.

"Don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear . . ."

I have never been able to sing well. This was quite a problem when I was a high school theatre student wanting to participate in our spring musical, and one of the more challenging things I had to do in high school was sing a very brief solo right before the dream ballet sequence of Oklahoma! I'm fairly certain that this was the extent of my solo:

Out of your dreams
and into his arms
you yearn to fly . . .

This itty-bitty sentence caused me so much grief, mostly because it was to be sung by a soprano, and I don't know what our music director was thinking when she gave me that part.

I practiced and practiced and practiced. It was my little solo that started the entire song, and I wanted it to be perfect. My parents were so irritated by my vocal inability that they would make me sit in the car in the garage and not allow me to practice inside the house. The only practicing I did outside of the car was on stage and on the basketball court outside the theatre. My friend would go to one end while I stayed at the other so I could practice projecting my frightened alto voice that was forced into a falsetto soprano.

The show came and went, and I survived (although right before the song I locked eyes with a boy I had dated very briefly that did not end well who was sitting in the front row of the house, and I completely misread the conductor and screwed up the opening of the song at our very first performance).

After Oklahoma! I avoided musicals and stuck with the things I could actually do well. My singing remained in the car with me, and to this day I have no problem singing along with the music, even if people in other cars can see me. I figure, 'Hey, they can't hear me! As far as they know, I'm a star.'

This evening when I picked up the twins from day care, I had the radio on and found myself singing along with the music. Kyle commanded, "No Mommy! No song!" In my car! My musical refuge!

I decided not to torture my children with my singing and took to "dancing" along to the music as I drove (yes, a feat, I know) "No Mommy! No dance!" Kyle scolded.

Fine, fine . . . No fun for me.

A few moments later I peeked back at Kyle through my rear-view mirror, and he was dancing.

No like it

Lately Dylan has been very particular about what he wears. Recall the pink hat story from March. And yes, the pink hat is still a daily presence in our lives.

I'm totally OK with him having opinions about his attire, and I've given up on making sure his clothes match (if he wants to wear plaid shorts and a rainbow-striped long-sleeved shirt, fine). My bigger concern right now is that he has a very strong opinion about clothes, and he only seems to like a small number of items in his wardrobe.

Ask my mother. She spent over an hour last week at Kohl's looking for clothes that Dylan might like. When she presented every item to him, he announced "no like it." We finally got him interested in a pair of red shorts and a blue striped top that he tolerated.

Meanwhile, my father and stepmother were out purchasing some pajamas to replace the Nemo and Mickey pajamas that are so small for the kids, I feared poor Kyle couldn't breathe! Sure enough, they found Dylan some larger Nemo PJs and some cute Buzz Lightyear PJs for Kyle. They wore them to bed last night, and this morning when I went to get them up Dylan immediately grabbed at his shirt and said, "Nemo shirt Mommy! No dress!" He didn't want me to undress him. I decided the PJs were cute enough and appropriate enough to wear to Kathy's house for the day, so I said, "OK, you can wear the Nemo jammies to Kathy's house, but I need to change your diaper."

Dylan didn't believe me.

"Kai-kai diaper," he said. So, I changed Kyle's diaper, and Dylan watched carefully as I replaced his Buzz Lightyear pajama bottoms. Satisfied, he brought me his diaper and said, "Fresh diaper. Nemo jammies?"

"Yes Dylan. You can wear the Nemo jammies."

Our Sasha

Last week we adopted a puppy. She's a 6-month-old Rottweiler, and we've named her Sasha. Aside from a very brief period of time when my family attempted to have a dog (I was about 7 or 8, I think), I have never "owned" a dog. My family has definitely always been a cat family, and I've admired dogs from afar and then sighed a breath of relief when leaving them behind at a friend or relative's house.

This adoption has definitely been (and continues to be) a journey for me, as I discover something new everyday about the life of a dog. Here's what I've gathered thus far:

• When dogs get excited, they pee.
• It is always best to lure a dog outside if you think he/she will be getting "excited."
• Dogs will eat anything.
• Dogs will stick their faces in a dirty litter box and pull out "presents" for you.
• Did I mention dogs will eat anything?
• A 52 pound puppy can bounce 5 feet in the air.
• A 13 pound cat can beat the crap out of a 52 pound Rottweiler.
• Dogs are democrats (seriously--they like listening to NPR!).
• Dogs are great at corralling young children.
• Dogs will "kiss" away your tears when you cry. Of course, then you smell like dog.
• My car smells like dog.

Happy Mother's Day

Saturday

Jen: Michael, did you plan anything special for Mother's Day?

Michael: Aren't we going to your parents' house?

J: Yes, but did you get me anything from the boys?

M: Was I supposed to?

J: I'm going to get a pedicure before I go grocery shopping . . . and I think I'll have my eyebrows waxed too.

M: (with oodles of enthusiasm) That's a GREAT idea! Bye!

Later that day . . .

M: See, aren't you glad I didn't get you anything? I couldn't have come up with anything better than the pedicure.

Sunday

(Jen gets to sleep a lot. Hooray!)

Michael: Boys, what do we want to say to Mommy?

Kyle (Dylan is busy with something): Happy Mommy's Day!!

And . . . we left Sasha (our new puppy) in her crate for most of the day, and she didn't poop in it! (don't get me started . . .)

What a great weekend.

Pity me

I am so frustrated.

My dad and I just spent an hour installing a child safety lock on my twins' bedroom door (to keep them in at bedtime), and within 2 minutes Dylan figured out how to open it.

Dylan's not even the mechanical one of the two. My mom said I could have given the materials and instructions to Kyle, and he would have installed the device himself . . . probably faster and better than we did.

I am not liking the "terrible twos." This stinks.

What if . . . real life?

OK, so as if coaching real-live football wasn't enough (not to mention pro Fantasy football that is sure to commence at the end of the summer), Michael is now participating in a fantasy-type coaching program online (www.whatifsports.com).

Here's what he's been doing lately:

"Gridiron Dynasty is your chance to work your way to the top of the college football coaching world! You'll first need to find a job and begin recruiting. As if finding the the perfect high school player for your coaching system wasn't difficult enough, you'll have a limited budget and hundreds of other coaches competing with you. After the recruiting period has ended, you'll coach your team through an entire college football season. Preparing for each opponent, dealing with player issues, administration issues (all while watching your team's national ranking) will really have you earning your paycheck! At the end of the regular season, unless you win your conference championship, then it will be up to the selection committee to decide whether your team will be playing in the post-season and have a chance to win a National Championship! After the season, your job continues - graduations, transfers and even players leaving early for the NFL. Plus, based on your success, you may have other schools seeking your coaching services - but only you can decide how best to build your own Gridiron Dynasty!"

Yep! Fake players (they even have photographs) that send you fake e-mails. Michael's in the recruiting phase right now, which they should really call the "butt kissing phase."

They're offering a special promotion, so right now this is all free. One day (soon, I'm sure) people (meaning Michael) will have to PAY to play this game.

I just don't get it.

Maybe I should create a fantasy website called "whatiftheatre.com." You would get to pretend you are the artistic director of a theatre company and you have to pick your season, hire directors and designers, cast actors, hire musicians, etc. Other participants would be other artistic directors at rival companies, and you would compete for ticket sales. There could be fake patrons who send fake e-mails telling you what they thought of your production: "Do a comedy!" or "You should only do serious plays!" Ooh! Ooh! And you could get e-mailed fake resumes from actors and fake audition footage!

Hmmm...Maybe I'm onto something.

Crazy cat lady

I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a “cat person,” but then again, I’m probably not being completely honest with myself if I don’t. When I think of “cat people,” the image that comes to mind is less than appealing. In fact, my very first thought goes back to a story my friend Heather told me when she used to have my job as PR Manager for the theatre. She was carrying press packets on opening night and ran into another employee and that employee’s boyfriend. Apparently, the boyfriend claimed to be a member of the press, and their conversation went something like this:

Heather: Oh really? Where do you work?

Employee’s Boyfriend: Actually, I have my own radio station.

H: Really? What format?

E.B.: It’s an online radio station for cats.

H: Oh . . . What kind of music do cats like?

E.B.: Pretty much anything, except Ozzie Osbourne.

H: Cats don’t like Ozzie Osbourne?

E.B.: No.

She gave him a press packet. I asked her if she ever followed up with the guy to see if he reviewed the show for his audiences and if any of them purchased tickets. That sent us into a fit of giggles, envisioning cats lined up at the Herberger, ticket in paw, waiting to see the new Pulitzer-winning drama, Anna in the Tropics.

I digress.The point is that guy was a “cat person.” I love cats and find wonderful enjoyment in http://www.stuffonmycat.com/. If you have a cat at your house, I will find it and love it and make it play with me whether it wants to or not. I love my cat, Daisy. However, I do not have pictures of her displayed on my desk at work, and I do not know when her birthday is (sometime in April . . . that’s as much as I can deduce). I used to give her wet food on Sundays (because it’s God’s day, and cats deserve a special treat on God’s day, I guess), but that schedule went awry when I had children.

Why is it taking me so long to get to my story?

Lately we’ve been seeing a lot of cats around our house. About a couple of months ago, I started to hear kitty-cat howling from about 7:30 PM until 10 or 11 PM. I’d go outside and look around, but I never saw a cat. Daisy would perk up and look around as well. Last week, the twins and I were playing in the family room and there was a tiger-striped, male, NON-neutered cat rubbing against our sliding glass door. I thought, ‘Oh, this is the kitty howler.’ A few days later, I saw a cat’s shadow through our kitchen window, opened the blinds, and there was a humungous orange and white long-haired cat walking along our fence. ‘Hmmm…maybe this is the kitty howler . . . .’ On Saturday my dad and I were leaving my house to grab some lunch, and when I opened the door to my garage, the tiger-striped cat was standing right there in front of my door. Later that evening, a completely DIFFERENT orange cat (short-haired and slightly smaller) was outside our sliding glass door. We both turned to Daisy who was enjoying a lovely bath after her dinner and said, “Daisy! What’s going on here?” She’s been spayed, so it’s not like she’s in heat and all of the male cats in the neighborhood are flocking to be with her. However . . . three cats within a couple of days? Come on!So I guess I wrote about how I’m not a cat person because I really wanted to write about the cat infestation without sounding like a crazy cat person. Then again, I believe I recently blogged about Daisy.

Shit.

I’m a cat person!

"Thunk!"

"Thunk!"

That's the sound I heard about 2 minutes ago. I wasn't really surprised because Michael and I converted the twins' cribs to toddler beds earlier this evening. Basically, you remove one side of the crib, and they have a mini daybed of sorts. Same crib mattress, it's just now they can get in and out of bed as they wish.

Of course, Dylan has had no trouble getting out of his crib, which is the main reason for today's conversion. Kyle is a little less agile, so we were mostly concerned about Kyle trying to mimic Dylan and then getting hurt.

When we first got the toddler beds arranged, they had a ball. Both climbed into Kyle's bed together and pretended to sleep (complete with Dylan's breathy, "hashu, hashu"--pretending to snore). Then, Kyle ran over to his bed and started jumping on it until he lost his balance and catapulted onto the floor. He didn't cry. He just looked completely shocked and a little embarrassed (Please note: I did tell my child on many occassions to stop jumping, but he did not listen to me. The best thing for him was probably the fall).

We left the excitement of the room and finished watching Toy Story from a couple of nights ago. They were really sleepy when we put them to bed, but I was still expecting to have them jump out of bed and come find us. They didn't. They went right to sleep, and all was quiet for over two hours.

The "thunk!" was the sound of Dylan rolling out of bed. I went up to their room, and he was sound asleep on the floor. I put him back into bed, covered him with his blankie, Kyle popped his head up to see what was going on, put his head back down, and all is quiet.

For now.

Boys who don't call

I just got off the phone with a good friend of mine who is waiting for a boy to call. Not just any boy, but a boy she likes (yes, I know I'm 27 and I should be saying "man," but with my girlfriends, until you marry the guy, he's still a boy). I don't understand why boys don't call. Let's say he has realized after four or so dates that he's not really interested. Would it kill him to let her know? Could he actually really like her but be afraid to come off as too desperate?

Michael put me through the ringer prior to one of our early dates. He called me sometime during the week, and we made plans to go to out that Saturday evening. He said he would call me on Saturday to firm things up. Three o'clock rolled around, and he still hadn't called. I had no idea if we were going bowling, rock climbing, ballroom dancing . . . if we were eating dinner together, if I was meeting him someplace, if he was picking me up . . . He finally did call that afternoon and picked me up a few hours later, but what a hellish day! Didn't he know I needed to change my outfit eight times and that my eye makeup would change depending on what my outfit was and that I needed to freshen my pedicure if I was wearing sandals? When I later gave him hell about the whole ordeal I discovered that he had been holding back all day from calling me because he didn't want to come across as too desperate. Which of his idiot friends taught him that one?

My friend and I started thinking it would be really great if people could just be really honest with each other:

"I don't think we should go out anymore . . . I saw this girl at the mall today with really big boobs, and I decided that's really what I want in a girlfriend."

"I like you all right, but I'm feeling kind of lazy lately, so I have no energy to put into a relationship right now."

"I really just want to fool around and not actually talk to you."

"I think you are beautiful and intelligent, but I recently realized that I'm gay. Perhaps I can introduce you to my straight brother." (wishful thinking)

"I really like you. In fact, I think I could see myself spending the rest of my life with you, and that freaks me out a little, so I need to take a step back and think. I'll probably call you in a month or two and realize I'm being foolish. Hopefully, you'll still be single and interested in me."

"I really like you, but my best friend who is single and has never had a serious, long-term relationship told me to stay distant . . . So I won't be calling you again until next week."

"I like you, but I'm afraid you won't like me. If you decide you don't like me, can you let me know and not just stop calling alltogether? Do you want to go get a cup of coffee?"

More hot sauce please

My kids are chatty! They have been so completely adorable lately because they're starting to put words together into complete sentences. Here are some of my personal favorites:

"Look Mommy! Look! (insert object of interest)"

"No like it!" (Only said by Kyle--I know this isn't a complete sentence . . . deal.)

"No want it!" (Only said by Dylan--this is his version of Kyle's "No like it!" In case you aren't understanding, both statements are negative. I hear these phrases a lot, especially when I'm trying to dress them)

"More hot sauce please" (This is a Dylan request--Please note: "hot sauce" refers to any sauce/condiment; although, hot sauce is Michael's condiment of choice)

"No baby Dylan" or "No baby Kai-Kai" (They both say this when I try to cradle them like they are infants. Well, sometimes they like it. Really)

I'm still trying to figure out what the hell Kyle says when we go to visit our new house. When we drive down the main street and pass other houses that are being built, he says something that sounds like it's in Swedish.

Date Night: Revisited

I really try to keep my posts here to amusing anecdotes and not laundry lists of activities, but I just have got to rave about Saturday.

Michael was coaching a baseball game in the morning, so Dylan, Kyle and I set out on an adventure. Our destination? Little Chops in Glendale. You see, the last time the boys had a haircut, we took them to a regular in-and-out spritz, cut, comb place, and it was a DISASTER! Screaming, crying, kicking . . . Not fun. Actually, that wasn't technically the twins' last haircut . . . But we are never to speak of the horrible wickedness that plagued my scissors and poor Kyle's hair.

Little Chops was so great, the boys didn't want to leave! Each station has a different "vehicle," so the kids get to pick which one they like: a silver airplane, a red jeep, a white police car, etc. In addition, each station also has a TV with VCR and DVD player. I selected some lovely flick with Elmo, and they were in heaven. Dylan fussed a little, but there were no tears, no screaming, just beautiful little boy haircuts. When they were finished, they each got a balloon.

The balloons didn't last long. The trouble with my kids and helium balloons is that they won't let me tie the balloon down to anything - not their wrist, their overalls, nothing. So, off we went to Babies 'R Us to find a baby shower gift for our friends, and no sooner do we enter the baby warehouse then do those lovely balloons float up, up, up and away from my two, now quite un-pacified children. Shopping at Babies 'R Us was not fun.

On to the shower. We arrived at a packed house a women with the intention of only dropping off the gifts, but ended up staying for about an hour. Dylan and Kyle frequently got lost in the sea of legs, and I would hear, "Mommy! Mommy!" from multiple rooms. After a bite to eat and a diaper change, we were off!

Home. Nap time? No, just kidding! Michael cam home just in time to relieve me of my mommy duties, and I conked out for about an hour. Beautiful. When I woke up, the three of them were all equally ready for naps, and they all slept from 3 until 5 PM while I enjoyed the quiet time by myself. Lovely.

Since the twins had such late and long naps, we crossed our fingers and took them out to dinner to Paul Lee's Chinese Kitchen. We had never taken them to a sit-down restaurant by ourselves before (usually we travel with the grandparent posse), and it was such a success! They colored and chatted, and enjoyed the atmosphere, and they even let us eat.

To cap off our beautiful evening, we stopped by Michael's school's varsity baseball game. It was COLD, so we didn't stay long. Michael taught the boys to cheer "Go Tigers!" and "Go! Go! Go!" which they did. Whenever someone would hit the ball (be it from our team or the opponent), they would cheer "Go Tigers!" or "Go! Go! Go!" It was adorable.

What a great date!

Sedona Snow

On Friday I kidnapped Michael and took him to Sedona for his 30th birthday, and we couldn't have asked for a better experience. Mother Nature decided to give us the gift of snow, and it was unbelievably beautiful. We arrived at our beautiful hotel, got to our room, and it started snowing. These gorgeous snowflakes came floating down from the sky, and we stood on our little patio outside and just took it all in. After settling in, we headed to the restaurant there and had a very yummy meal (Michael has a new love for polenta). As we sat at our candlelit table enjoying our meal and each other's company, we could see the snow continue to drift down to the Earth, steadily growing heavier and heavier . . . I haven't felt that peaceful in a very long time.

After about 18 hours of luxury, we headed out of Sedona and decided to really trash it up by going to the Cliff Castle Casino for lunch. Michael kept telling me that the place was actually a lot classier than other Arizona casinos, which kind of frightened me. After our meal, Michael decided we should put his birthday luck to good use. I lost $10 in a matter of about 15 minutes, which sounds better than it really was. About 13 of those minutes were spent scoping out the perfect machine with which I should fork over my money. I've never really gambled much, but the whole idea of it makes me very nervous. I'm especially weird about not wanting to sit right next to anyone, and I'm not interested in sharing any of my gambling experiences with random strangers. Apparently, I was the only one in the casino who felt that way because any time I sat down somewhere, immediately some guy smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer (at 1:00 PM) would plop down next to me and say, "Are you winning much?" or "How's your luck today?" or "These chairs are heavy, aren't they?" After losing my last $2 on some game that I still can't figure out, I went to find Michael.

Michael was sitting at a virtual Blackjack table. The table itself wasn't virtual, I mean, he was actually sitting on a real chair at a real table. Instead of a live dealer, there was a big screen and every once in a while the dealer would change between a blonde with cleavage coming right at you, an Asian woman with cleavage coming right at you, and an African-American man at some sort of tropical location. A few men were playing along with Michael, and the group already had its own little rapport. I almost lost it when the older guy next to Michael commented that he didn't like one of the dealers and another guy at the table announced that the dealer will hesitate if she has Blackjack. It's a freaking computer, people! Michael cashed out when he was up $25, so with my $10 loss, we left the casino $15 richer.

What a gift for us to be able to just be with each other, even if for only 24 or so hours.

I've been tagged!

So the rules are, once you've been tagged you have to write a blog with 6 weird things/habits about yourself. In the end you need to list 6 other people to tag and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment saying "You've been tagged" in their comments and tell them to read your blog...

1. I unintentionally transfer stress from myself to my husband. What I mean is, if I'm stressed out about something like the house being clean, the way I like to deal with my stress is to tell Michael every little thing that needs to be accomplished to make me happy. Then I feel better because after I've verbalized the list of chores, it's not as bad as I originally thought. The problem is, then Michael gets all stressed out because he likes to deal with one problem at a time. So, in de-stressing myself, I end up stressing out my husband.

2. I jump at the chance to tell you that you're wrong and why. I don't know why I do this. I think I just like to be right, and I'd like to know everything, even though I know that is impossible. Once I told Joe, "I know I don't know everything, I just want people to think I know everything."

3. I get caught in horrible cycles. For example, I haven't been to the dentist in almost a year (and yes, I sort of already blogged about this in December). I hav been putting off going to the dentist because the last time I went, he gave me this stuff called Gel-Kam. I was instructed to brush my teeth with it right afterI regularly brushed my teeth. It's not horrible-tasting, but you're not supposed to drink or eat anything for 20 minutes after using it, which is really hard for me because I HAVE to have a drink of water after I brush my teeth. So, I haven't been using the stuff, and I don't want to disappoint the dentist. I figured I would put off going to the dentist, use the Gel-Kam and maybe he wouldn't notice I hadn't used it for a while. The thing is, I hate using it, so I haven't been using it, so I can't go to the dentist, etc. etc.

4. I will always see the bad before the good. This is true for so many things, and Michael points this out to me all the time. I'll come home and not notice clean dishes or pictures hung or weeds pulled, but I can walk into a room and in two seconds see Cheerios on the floor . . . and man, I jump all over him!

5. I have to pee right before I go to sleep. This may not sound odd, but you don't know the extent of it. I will pee when I get into my PJs, but if I don't immediately crawl into bed and go directly to sleep I will be back in the bathroom peeing again and again. Sometimes I will go play on the computer, then come back to my room/bathroom and pee, then get into bed and grab my book. After I read a bit, I'll go pee again. Then if I don't fall asleep quickly, I'm bound to get up once again to pee. Why? If I have time to think, 'Do I have to pee?' then, well, I do. I'm kind of surprised that I have anything to eliminate. Why didn't it all leave my body 3 minutes ago when I last went to pee?

6. I spell things with my thumb and index finger. Say I'm a passenger in a vehicle, and I see a sign. I'll pick a word or phrase printed on that sign and use my index finger to spell out each letter on my thumb (right hand only). Sometimes I get fancy and curly-qy (Ys are fun). Often I keep repeating the same word or phrase with my fingers over and over again until it kind of starts to hurt, and then I force myself to stop. Don't worry, I don't do this when I'm driving!

OK, now I don't know who to tag because the only blogs I read on blogspot are Joe's and Ted's (and Ted tagged me and Joe). Joe just informed me that I could tag myspacers, so here goes: Sara, Sarah, Missy, Mike, Stephanie, Jen K. You are IT!!

Dylan's Pink Hat

This morning Michael and I found ourselves shopping with the twins for new hats. We were headed to a baseball game in Scottsdale (the USA team vs. the SF Giants' B-team--pretty cool), and the kids needed something to protect their eyes and face.

We encountered the same situation we always encounter: only one decent hat left. I don't understand it. There are always tons of hats for girls, and there will be 1 boyish toddler hat. The one hat that was there was a Bob the Builder hat - adorable, and it fit Kyle great. With no other options for Dylan, we purchased two hats that were paired together. One was beige and the other was pink. I told Michael, "It's only $4 for both of them, so he'll wear the beige one and we can give the pink one away." Fine. Great. We paid and headed to the car.

One problem: Guess which hat Dylan wanted to wear? Uh huh, the pink one. He would NOT wear the beige hat or the Bob the Builder hat. When we got into the car Michael discovered Kyle's old Pooh Bear hat. Dylan wasn't interested.

Dylan wore the pink hat all the way to Scottsdale, which drove Michael completely crazy. The only thing that concerned me was that the pink hat clashed horribly with Dylan's orange t-shirt.

When we arrived at the park in Scottsdale, Michael was adamant that Dylan not wear the pink hat. So, I convinced Dylan that the pink hat had to stay in the car. Kyle wore the Pooh Bear hat, Dylan wore the Bob the Builder hat, and all was well. Until the 6th inning . . .

A couple of hours later, Dylan took off his hat, shoved it at me and said, "Pink one!"

By the end of the 6th inning, they had basically had enough, so we headed home. He put the pink hat on as soon as he got into the car. He's upstairs right now watching Veggie Tales, wearing the pink hat.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Yesterday I did something awful. The twins and I were having such a good day: We went grocery shopping, watched a movie, went for a walk around the lake, rode their tricycles in the backyard . . . And that's when the tide changed. We were outside playing when I noticed how long their hair had gotten. It was so long, in fact, that Dylan's hair was covering his ears like little muffs, and Kyle's was draped down over his eyes. It seemed like the perfect time to give them haircuts. They were getting pretty dirty and would need a bath soon anyway. I ran inside to grab a comb and some scissors. I thought, 'I'll just give them a little trim.'

I have a vision now of Kyle in therapy sessions.

Dylan wouldn't let me touch him. Kyle, on the other hand, is a good little boy who does basically everything his mommy tells him. He sat very still and let me completely destroy his hair. Too much on this side, too much on that side, and too many attempts to even it all out . . . Oy vey!

Future Kyle: "I always wanted to please my mother. Once, when I was two, she butchered my hair, and I just sat there and let her do it. I just wanted to please her. I wanted her to be happy."

I swear I will never ever cut my children's hair. Ever.

Speaking of hair, when I got home from a glorious day of chit-chat and vegging with Sadie, Michael greeted me at the door with a shaved head. "I'm bald," he announced.

About once every two months, Michael re-realizes that he is going bald. He keeps trying to justify his abnormal hair growth (or lack thereof): "These hairs grow this way, and those hairs grow that way, and I have this empty spot here," he tells me. Yeah, it's called a BALD spot.

What cracks me up is that I have known Michael was balding since our very first date. I also knew he was a bit on the short side (something he "confessed" to me on our second or third date) and that his tummy was, well, being sucked in. None of these things bothered me at all - not even for a second.

The only thing about Michael's appearance that worried me was that he was wearing white socks with his brown sandals on our first date. Occassionally, I have to remind him of this, and, more importantly, that I chose to go out with him again after that!

Waiting for Godiva

Last week Michael and I were watching The Office, and it was Valentine's Day at Dunder Mifflin. Poor Pam had to keep receiving gifts for Phyllis, and nothing ever came for her. I thought, 'Oh boy, this is going to be me on Valentine's Day.' Michael and I even talked about it, and by the end of the conversation, I was expecting my man to pull through. I even enlisted the help of Joe to guide my husband; although, I'm doubtful Joe came through for me because today Michael called me at work and said, "Did you know you can't order flowers on Valentine's Day? It's too late!" Yeah hun, I knew that . . . (Joe, you owe me something pink, red, fuzzy or chocolatey)

My afternoon was filled with phone call after phone call from Michael:
M - "Did you get my thing?"
J - "No, what thing?"
M - "Hmm . . . OK . . . bye"

M - "Did you get it?"
J - "No"
M - "WHAT?!"
J - "I gotta go . . . bye!"

M - "Did you get my card yet?"
J - "Card?"
M - "Check your e-mail"
J - "It's not here"
M - "Check your Cox account"
J - "It's not there"
M - "WHAT?! Bye."

You can see how in the beginning I thought I was going to actually get something. It wasn't until late in the afternoon that I realized I was waiting all day long for an e-card. I left work at 5:15 PM, e-cardless.

Later that evening when Michael was changing the twins, I went to the computer to check one last time. Sitting in my inbox were three messages, all the same:

My husband is a dufus, but I love him. Four years ago today I was sick as a dog, and he made me his "famous" spaghetti dinner (which involves undercooked pasta and Ragu spaghetti sauce). Two days later he proposed to me in front of my entire family while we were visiting them in California.

You just can't get better than that. It's not fancy, but it's real, and it's sincere.

P.S. No one else in my office received any deliveries today either . . . But Sarah got gorgeous saphirre and diamond earrings from her long distance beau . . . And Stephanie was going to dinner with her fiance . . . And Amy's husband is a pilot and was out of town . . . And Sara and Joe were out of the office (This duo could have dramatically changed the atmosphere today - Sara's husband Ira is the flower-giving type and Joe's in a brand new, lovey-dovey relationship).

Mine! Mine!

According to an article on Parentbytes.com, "Territorial and possessiveness are common behaviours for two year olds."

This is something I was aware of before I had babies, it was something everyone told me would happen when I actually did have babies, and it's something I am experiencing now.

I felt better when I read this: "If your child is reasonably good at sharing by the time they are five, then you are doing well."

Oh good, only 3 more years of this.

You see, Kyle and Dylan will pick 1 item during a paricular period of time, and all I hear is "MINE! MINE! MINE!" It's like watching parts of Finding Nemo in surround sound.

Two nights ago, this two-year-old behavior far surpassed any of my expectations. I was fast asleep, and all of a sudden I heard Kyle screaming. This is not entirely a strange occurance. He often has little night tremors that don't even wake him up. He'll scream, roll over, and go back to sleep. However, on this particular evening, his dream was so vivid that he kept screaming and screaming until I went to his side and rubbed his back and smoothed his hair. He never woke up, just relaxed and quieted. Here's what he was screaming: "MINE! My ball! No! No! No! MINE! My ball!"

My kids are fighting in their sleep.

This wasn't just a one-time occurance that evening. He actually got up 3 hours later at 2:45 AM and 3 hours after that at 5:45 AM (that did it--he was up for the day after that).

The culprit? My mother's giant exercise ball. Dylan found it in her closet earlier that evening, and both he and Kyle were entranced. They had never seen a ball that big before. I mean, they call their little soccer ball "big ball!" Apparently, Kyle was so entranced by the ball that he dreamt about it. Well, not about "it," but about Dylan taking it away from him.

I also just want to add that during these evening festivities, Michael did not stir. Not once. I wonder if there's a webpage for that . . .

Weird things the twins really enjoy

Dylan and Kyle have such goofy senses of humor. I'm not sure if this stuff is normal for two-year-olds, but it just cracks me up. Maybe I can work as a comedian for toddlers. I'd travel from day care to day care, spreading joy and laughter. Here are some of my best bits:

I say "ring! ring!" and then put one of their feet to my ear and say "hello?" They think this is hysterical.

They love the whole "this little piggy" bit. Really. I mean, I did it to Dylan's left foot today, and when I was done he shoved his right foot in my face and said "other foot!" Then Kyle put his feet in my face and said "more! Kai-Kai feet! more!"

When I take off their socks, I always smell their feet and say, "EEW! Stinky feet!" and make a grossed-out face. Sometimes their feet really do smell (especially Dylan, WHEW!). They laugh and laugh . . . I'm now having visions of farting contests between Michael, Dylan and Kyle.

(Noticing a trend? They seem to have a thing about feet . . . )

I wander around the kitchen, looking in cupboards and drawers and pretend to be looking for one of them. "Kyle? Kyle? Where are you?" "Dylan?" Are you in here?" They giggle hysterically in the middle of the room with their hands covering their eyes. They think they're fooling me. It's great.

Occasionally, I ask Kyle, "Does Daddy need his diaper changed?" He'll look at me kind of funny, then waddle (yeah, it's definitely a waddle) over to Michael, then look at me again, then try to tug at Michael's waistband, then look at me and grin as if to say, "Aw, Mom! You got me again!"

More Nemo! More Nemo!

Last night we took the boys to Disney on Ice: Finding Nemo. The evening started out a bit rough as we attempted to grab a bite to eat beforehand, and didn't anticipate the slow service nor the torpidity of Grandma and her beau (which was clearly our fault, for senior citizens don't move faster as they age, and Grandma has been a senior citizen for a long time).

We ended up making it to the arena with ten minutes to spare, and luckily it wasn't too crowded. I mean, who in their right mind would bring children to a 7:30 PM performance? Uh, yeah. That would be us . . . In our defense, it was the only possible time for all of us (me, Michael, Mom, David--Grandma and Seymour just need 24 hours notice, and then they are good to go).

Every few yards there was another kiosk set up with every kind of Finding Nemo thing you could possibly want. The first time Kyle saw something Nemo-ish, he pointed and shouted, "Nemo! Nemo!" Three yards later, "More Nemo! More Nemo!" Three yards later, "More Nemo! More Nemo!" I cannot describe the excitement in his voice, but it is a sound I will remember for a very long time.

When we entered the main part of the area and headed to our seats, both boys got a little freaky. Dylan wanted to run around, and Kyle was gripping Mom and kept repeating, "Scared, Scared!" But once the show started, they were in heaven. Dylan was so mesmerzed, he didn't even notice that his papa was right there. He sat on my lap without moving throughout the entire first act. Kyle was WAY into the show. Anytime there was music, he started dancing. Now, try to imagine he's sitting on my mom's lap, kicking both legs forward at the same time and punching his arms out (with his hands in fists) as if he is rowing a boat as fast as he can. Oh, and there is a big (no, huge!) smile on his face. It was great.

Again, a wonderful experience that they will probably not remember, but I will never forget.

Blasphemy on the Highway

Yesterday was a long day that involved many hours in traffic. Thank goodness Sara, Joe and I had each other. When my iPod battery ran out of juice, we switched the radio onto NPR (Correction: Joe put it on KFYI and I changed it to KJZZ). We sat and listened to the reports regarding the Hamas victory in Palestine.

We were quiet for a while and then tried to "fix" the problem. Isn't there a way they can all just get along? Maybe not. This thought did not improve the mood. You see, the three of us are kind of the types of people who look at a problem and come up with a solution. It might be a very complicated solution that involves a lot of compromise, but there's always got to be a way to fix the situation. Twenty-something optimists, right?

Finally, my thoughts became so heavy and we were about to reach our destination. In an effort to lighten the mood I offered this suggestion:

Well, maybe we'll have Christ's second-coming and all of the Christians would be happy, return to God and leave everyone else behind. Then, the Palestines and the Israelis could have all the land they wanted!

OK, OK, so it doesn't completely help because everyone wants the HOLY land, which is on one location. Joe suggested that the holy land be reallocated. You guys have this part of the world, you over there have that part of the world, etc.

In any event, something's got to change. Right?

They Lost

So, the Broncos lost. Michael was devastated. I got home from the theatre this evening and asked him, "Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?"

He smiled, took my hand, and said, "I was hoping you and I could watch the documentary one of my football players made about the season. It's called The Road to State."

We watched an hour and forty-five minute documentary about high school football. And he was happy.