I fought a losing battle with my six-year-old son over the proper spelling of the first person plural pronoun.
September 30, 2009
Between the Hours of 3 and 5pm today...
I fought a losing battle with my six-year-old son over the proper spelling of the first person plural pronoun.
September 29, 2009
Bangs!!!
I woke up on Sunday morning to find what appeared to be the remains of a small mammal on my bathroom floor.
"What is that?" I asked my husband as I leaned in for a closer look.
My husband poked the pile of hair with a pencil. "Where did that come from?" he asked.
The answer pranced in a few seconds later.
"What's up with the hat?" my husband asked my six-year-old daughter. She was wearing a church dress and a Phillies baseball cap.
"Any idea whose hair this is?" I asked, pointing at the pile.
My daughter thought it looked like Kellen's.
All of your brothers have shaved heads," I reminded her.
"Let's see the damage," my husband demanded.
After several minutes of cajoling, Camber finally removed the cap.
"Do you like my new bangs?" she asked.
My husband gasped.
I bit my knuckles.
Always the perfectionist, my daughter went the extra mile and gave herself a fancy mullet...which actually doesn't look nearly as bad as I thought it would. Thank goodness for thick and wavy hair.
****
Let me have them! Tell me your kids' haircutting stories.
September 28, 2009
Phone Numbers
Since the first day of school, my five-year-old son has been itching to invite one of his new friends from kindergarten over to our house for a play date. Since class lists aren't distributed for privacy reasons and the new school directory isn't due to be published until December, we've been forced to communicate our desires through sticky notes and sealed envelopes.
"Have Zeke write his phone number on this piece of paper," I told Kellen early last week, pointing to a yellow post-it note strategically tacked to the front of his school folder.
My son came home from school that afternoon professing success. "Zeke wrote his number down! Can we call him right now?"
A quick glance at the post-it note alerted me to the fact that Zeke was not in my family's calling plan.
"Where does Zeke live?" I asked my son. "Malaysia?"
The next day, I tried a different approach.
"Give this to Zeke and tell him to take it home," I said, stuffing an envelope containing my contact information and a note to Zeke's mother into my son's backpack.
Three days passed before I received a response.
"Here you go!" Kellen said triumphantly as he handed me a sealed envelope. "I found this in my backpack. It's probably from Zeke's mom." He waited expectantly as I opened the envelope and inspected its contents.
"There's Zeke's phone number! There it is!" he yelled and began dancing around the kitchen.
His excitement was tempered by the revelation that the phone number to which he was pointing was in fact his own...and was written in my handwriting.
"Have Zeke write his phone number on this piece of paper," I told Kellen early last week, pointing to a yellow post-it note strategically tacked to the front of his school folder.
My son came home from school that afternoon professing success. "Zeke wrote his number down! Can we call him right now?"
A quick glance at the post-it note alerted me to the fact that Zeke was not in my family's calling plan.
"Where does Zeke live?" I asked my son. "Malaysia?"
The next day, I tried a different approach.
"Give this to Zeke and tell him to take it home," I said, stuffing an envelope containing my contact information and a note to Zeke's mother into my son's backpack.
Three days passed before I received a response.
"Here you go!" Kellen said triumphantly as he handed me a sealed envelope. "I found this in my backpack. It's probably from Zeke's mom." He waited expectantly as I opened the envelope and inspected its contents.
"There's Zeke's phone number! There it is!" he yelled and began dancing around the kitchen.
His excitement was tempered by the revelation that the phone number to which he was pointing was in fact his own...and was written in my handwriting.
September 23, 2009
Back to School Night!
My husband was out of town on business on Back to School Night at my kids' elementary school, so I had the privilege of attending the festivities solo.
I stopped by Kellen's kindergarten room long enough to wish his teacher (who was Camber's teacher last year) good luck...and admire her purple fingernail polish and sparkly gold toe ring.
"Very fancy," I observed.
I got to my daughter's first grade classroom late. I missed the introductions and slide show set to music, but I did get to inspect the contents of my daughter's desk, which included an illegal collection of push pins and a bag of moldy grapes.
I arrived at Cortlen's kindergarten room just as his teacher was summarizing the highlights of the first week of school. "Well," she said triumphantly, "We made it through the first week with only one bout of crying and one unrelated self-inflicted injury."
The classroom erupted in giggles. I would have laughed too, had the child who committed both offenses not been mine.
Cortlen confessed to crying in his seat the day that it happened. His teacher hands out gold stars each day for keeping one's hands to oneself. The worry that he would not accumulate enough stars by the end of the week to earn a small plastic snake from the prize basket was more than he could handle. The self-inflicted injury was an accident. He had been demonstrating to his new friends the proper way to ward off an attacker and forgot to back away from his own punch.
"I'm Cortlen's mom," I confessed to my son's teacher my way out the door.
The long pause that followed left me feeling like I should say something else. I didn't know what to say, so I said the first thing that popped into my head (which is usually the right thing).
"I have a feeling that I'll be providing your entertainment this year."
September 22, 2009
Abe & Me
I have come to realize that Abraham Lincoln and I have a lot in common. Despite being faced with tremendous adversity, we never gave up.
ABE
- 1831 - Lost his job
- 1832 - Defeated in run for Illinois State Legislature
- 1833 - Failed in business
- 1834 - Elected to Illinois State Legislature (success)
- 1835 - Sweetheart died
- 1836 - Had nervous breakdown
- 1838 - Defeated in run for Illinois House Speaker
- 1843 - Defeated in run for nomination for U.S. Congress
- 1846 - Elected to Congress (success)
- 1848 - Lost re-nomination
- 1849 - Rejected for land officer position
- 1854 - Defeated in run for U.S. Senate
- 1856 - Defeated in run for nomination for Vice President
- 1858 - Again defeated in run for U.S. Senate
- 1860 - Elected President of the United States of America (success)
Me
• 2006- Submitted application to be preschool class mom and rejected
• 2007- Submitted another application to be preschool class mom and rejected
• 2008- Applied to be daughter’s kindergarten room parent and rejected
• Winter 2008- Allowed to bring party favors to boys’ preschool holiday party (success)
• Spring 2009- Brought a plate of brownies to preschool graduation and instructed by sister to leave them in the car (lost the will to live)
• Spring 2009- Learned that all room moms at my daughter’s elementary school have hand-eye coordination, good people skills, and a label maker machine (cry myself to sleep)
• Summer 2009- Gifted 10 boxes of National Geographic magazines and a bag of miscellaneous colored yarn from a neighbor who is cleaning out her basement (hope restored)
• September 2009- Applied to be daughter’s first grade room mom. Implied (falsely) on my application that I own a Cricut machine and can play the harmonica.
•
•
September 21, 2009
Behaving Badly for the Babysitter
My kids have been entrusted to the care of plenty of people in their short lives: grandparents, aunts and uncles, neighbors, and family friends. All of the individuals who have watched my children for short bursts of time have, up until this point, shared one common attribute: namely, they have all been adults. On Friday night, I charted new waters by asking a fourteen-year-old neighbor to babysit my three older children while my husband and I (and Cameron) went out to dinner with some good friends.
The babysitter's arrival was preceded by 45 minutes of role playing proper babysitter behavior. By the time the teenager arrived at our doorstep, my kids had practiced going to bed seventeen times.
My husband and I left the house with the hope that our children would keep their eye on the prize. If the evening passed without incident, everyone could invite a friend over to play the next day...and we'd talk about making New England Whalers for breakfast.
Just as dinner was being served, my phone rang. I could hear the problem before I was told about it. In the background, I could audibly make out a trio of gremlins swinging from the chandeliers.
"They all went to bed fine," the babysitter explained. "They just won't stay there."
I requested a conference call with Stripe and his crew. I couldn't think of any specific threat offhand, so I settled for something ambiguously scary.
"There is going to be a major problem if you get out of your beds again," I hissed and hung up the phone.
The night ended with the babysitter getting a big tip paid for out of three gremlins' allowances.
Needless to say, the next morning there were no New England Whalers.
****
Have your kids ever acted up for the babysitter? What did they do?
The babysitter's arrival was preceded by 45 minutes of role playing proper babysitter behavior. By the time the teenager arrived at our doorstep, my kids had practiced going to bed seventeen times.
My husband and I left the house with the hope that our children would keep their eye on the prize. If the evening passed without incident, everyone could invite a friend over to play the next day...and we'd talk about making New England Whalers for breakfast.
Just as dinner was being served, my phone rang. I could hear the problem before I was told about it. In the background, I could audibly make out a trio of gremlins swinging from the chandeliers.
"They all went to bed fine," the babysitter explained. "They just won't stay there."
I requested a conference call with Stripe and his crew. I couldn't think of any specific threat offhand, so I settled for something ambiguously scary.
"There is going to be a major problem if you get out of your beds again," I hissed and hung up the phone.
The night ended with the babysitter getting a big tip paid for out of three gremlins' allowances.
Needless to say, the next morning there were no New England Whalers.
****
Have your kids ever acted up for the babysitter? What did they do?
September 18, 2009
It's All in the Family
Yesterday I took Cameron to see a developmental psychologist at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. What is clear is that my almost one-year-old son isn't doing s0me of the things that he should be doing at his age. What isn't clear is how Cameron's developmental issues are related, if at all, to his exposure to Fifth Disease in utero.
The psychologist began the test by producing a small red ball out of a large black suitcase. She put the ball on the table and asked Cameron to pick it up. Cameron responded by swiping the object off the table.
Next, the psychologist retrieved what looked like a dog chew toy from her suitcase and a small washcloth. She put the toy under the washcloth and asked Cameron to "find the hidden object."
Cameron swiped the objects onto the floor without looking at them.
The very nice but increasingly frustrated woman then produced a small baby doll and toy bottle. "Feed the baby," she instructed Cameron.
Cameron took one quick look and sent both the baby and her source of nourishment flying.
"How about this?" asked the psychologist, attempting to hand Cameron a rattle, then a wooden block, then a metal spoon. All objects were met with a force greater then themselves. My son chucked the spoon so hard that it hit a medical student who was watching the test from a corner in the room.
Ten minutes later, the test came to an abrupt halt. Everything in the room that wasn't nailed down was on the floor.
"I can't really evaluate your son if he is going to throw everything," the psychologist told me as she tapped her pencil on the table and tried not to look annoyed.
"That's okay," I said, packing up my stuff and moving towards the door. "I know now that there's nothing wrong with him."
"How do you know that?" the psychologist asked. The woman put down her pencil and peered at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses.
During the test I had an epiphany. My son's behavior made things crystal clear.
"Because he's just like my other kids," I answered matter-of-factly. Hugging my son tightly to my chest, I marched out the door.
September 16, 2009
Nicknames
My daughter came home on the first day of school wearing a name tag that read "Amber." When your child shares a name with an automobile wheel alignment setting, you learn to expect clerical error.
The next morning, I sent my daughter to school with a corrected name badge.
Two days later, Camber came home with a stack of papers stuffed inside a folder labeled "Amber." The day after that, my daughter brought home a note addressed to "Amber's Mom."
"I'm beginning to wonder if this teacher is playing with a full deck," I told my friend Tina, whose daughter is in the same class at school. Tina confessed that she had similar concerns. Her daughter Leah had been coming home with notes and binders and forms labeled simply "Le."
My suspicion of foul play was confirmed when I asked my daughter to write her full name on a piece of paper.
"Why did you write 'Amber' when your name is 'Camber?'" I asked.
"Because that's my new name," she said matter-of-factly.
Upon further interrogation, I learned that my daughter and her friend are united by a cruel but not insurmountable fate: neither was blessed at birth with a nickname. Tired of watching their classmates Katie, Maddie, and Nikki hog all the glory, they decided to take matters into their own hands. When asked by her new teacher what she preferred to be called this school year, my daughter chose fossilized tree resin. Her friend picked the definite article used for masculine nouns in French.
"Amber is a very pretty name, but I would prefer if you went by the name that your Dad and I gave you," I told her.
Amber ignored me.
My husband told me not to take my daughter's name change personally. "At least her new name isn't weird," he told me. Then he reminded me of the nickname that I chose for myself when I was seven. Inspired by my love of flying horses and secret belief that I was one, in the second grade I answered only to the name of Peggy.
****
Have your kids made up their own nicknames? If so, what are they?!
The next morning, I sent my daughter to school with a corrected name badge.
Two days later, Camber came home with a stack of papers stuffed inside a folder labeled "Amber." The day after that, my daughter brought home a note addressed to "Amber's Mom."
"I'm beginning to wonder if this teacher is playing with a full deck," I told my friend Tina, whose daughter is in the same class at school. Tina confessed that she had similar concerns. Her daughter Leah had been coming home with notes and binders and forms labeled simply "Le."
My suspicion of foul play was confirmed when I asked my daughter to write her full name on a piece of paper.
"Why did you write 'Amber' when your name is 'Camber?'" I asked.
"Because that's my new name," she said matter-of-factly.
Upon further interrogation, I learned that my daughter and her friend are united by a cruel but not insurmountable fate: neither was blessed at birth with a nickname. Tired of watching their classmates Katie, Maddie, and Nikki hog all the glory, they decided to take matters into their own hands. When asked by her new teacher what she preferred to be called this school year, my daughter chose fossilized tree resin. Her friend picked the definite article used for masculine nouns in French.
"Amber is a very pretty name, but I would prefer if you went by the name that your Dad and I gave you," I told her.
Amber ignored me.
My husband told me not to take my daughter's name change personally. "At least her new name isn't weird," he told me. Then he reminded me of the nickname that I chose for myself when I was seven. Inspired by my love of flying horses and secret belief that I was one, in the second grade I answered only to the name of Peggy.
****
Have your kids made up their own nicknames? If so, what are they?!
September 15, 2009
The New England Whaler and Other School Lunch Delicacies
The current obsession of our household is the school lunch menu. The calendar displaying each month's offerings is posted on the side of the refrigerator, where it is studied religiously until it is committed to memory by everyone under the age of seven.
"Can I PLEEEEEEASE buy lunch tomorrow?" Camber begged one night at dinner last week. "They're having wide egg noodles with a side of gravy," she said, licking her lips.
At the mention of gravy, Kellen and Cortlen started to cry. The cruel fate of attending morning kindergarten and coming home from school each day before lunch is served was too much to bear.
My husband almost lost his lunch imagining what a thick dollop of gravy would look like on his own plate. I smiled politely at my daughter and quickly scanned the menu for a less repulsive alternative.
Necessity forced me to rethink my definition of disgusting.
"How about Wednesday's special--the New England Whaler?" I suggested, referring to the elementary school's pseudonym for a Bacon, Egg, and Cheese McMuffin.
"That's served with tater tots and strawberry milk," Camber added, weighing her options.
The mention of flavored milk caused Cortlen to throw himself off his chair. As he writhed on the ground underneath the kitchen table, Camber set about the task of making what was amounting to a very difficult decision.
After consulting our neighbor's daughter about the quality of the school's breakfast-for-lunch sandwiches and changing her mind seventeen times, my daughter finally decided to hold off buying lunch this week until Thursday, when the cafeteria will be serving up a delicious medley of meatloaf, creamed spinach and fruit chunks floating in lite corn syrup.
I think she chose wisely. Hee hee! What do you think?!
******
What's the most appetizing item on your kid's school lunch menu this month?
September 13, 2009
My Son's Future Girlfriend
One of my many awesome readers gave me permission to post this hysterical picture that she took of her daughter on the first day of school.I believe in arranged marriages. She and Cortlen are a match made in heaven.
****
If any of you have any equally funny pictures of your kids dressed up in their back to school finery, send them my way! This has "slide show" written all over it.
September 11, 2009
The Bermuda Triangle
This is what my six-year-old daughter wore on the first day of first grade. Take a good look at the outfit because fifty percent of it is no longer with us.
"Where is your new sweater?" I asked when she got off the bus later that afternoon.
"I don't know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "It could be anywhere."
My heart swelled with joy at the realization that I had, in essence, flushed $15 down the toilet. I was distraught to say the least, but eventually took comfort in the knowledge that the sweater was not alone. Where ever it was, my daughter's hair clips, socks, and bracelet were also. Or so I hoped.
"Why are half of your clothes missing?" I wanted to know. "Did you have gym today? Was it hot in your classroom? What would compel you to take off your socks?
"Just face it," my daughter replied, "The sweater is gone."
This morning, Camber came down for breakfast wearing a skirt, flip flops and three sweatshirts.
"But I'm cold!" she whined when I told her to lose the extra layers.
The two most recent additions to my daughter's sweatshirt collection stayed at home. The third--a ratty and stained Hannah Montana atrocity--was ceremoniously draped over her shoulders and sent to its impending doom.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," I said to the sweatshirt as I watched it board the school bus and head down the street toward the Bermuda Triangle.
******
What has your child lost/left at school?
September 10, 2009
Back to School Pictures!!!
Today was my boys' first day of kindergarten.
All I asked for was one picture for their scrapbooks.
I heart cooperative children.
All I asked for was one picture for their scrapbooks.
I heart cooperative children.
September 9, 2009
Melissa and the Blog
My friend Melissa mercilessly makes fun of my blog (that's why I like her), yet also always wants to be in it.
"Why am I never in your lame-0 blog?" she whined a few weeks ago.
I asked her if she had ever actually read my blog. "If you're in my blog," I reminded her, "Typically it isn't because you've done something good."
If anything, my actions and behaviors with and around Melissa are generally more blogworthy than hers. By all measures, Melissa is my polar opposite: cultured and refined, well-mannered and polite, Melissa serves her kids their Sunday dinners on her wedding china to teach them good table etiquette. I'm a plastic cup kind of girl. Needless to say, whenever we are together, it's usually me who makes the inappropriate comment, runs out of diapers at an inopportune moment, or has the kid who pukes on the mall manikin.
Up until this week, Melissa has stayed off my blog radar. On Sunday, everything changed. Melissa and her family spent the afternoon with us because their house is up for sale and their realtor was holding a two-hour open house. Because of this, Melissa also brought her dog, a little Maltese named Pepper.
Upon entering our house, Pepper sniffed the perimeter of the basement and then, finding a suitable spot in the far corner, proceeded to have a large bowel movement.
"Oh my! Oh my!" Melissa cried, shaking with embarrassment and shame. "I'm so unbelievably sorry!" she apologized.
I just smiled and gave her a hug.
"Congratulations," my husband told her. "You've just made the blog."
"Why am I never in your lame-0 blog?" she whined a few weeks ago.
I asked her if she had ever actually read my blog. "If you're in my blog," I reminded her, "Typically it isn't because you've done something good."
If anything, my actions and behaviors with and around Melissa are generally more blogworthy than hers. By all measures, Melissa is my polar opposite: cultured and refined, well-mannered and polite, Melissa serves her kids their Sunday dinners on her wedding china to teach them good table etiquette. I'm a plastic cup kind of girl. Needless to say, whenever we are together, it's usually me who makes the inappropriate comment, runs out of diapers at an inopportune moment, or has the kid who pukes on the mall manikin.
Up until this week, Melissa has stayed off my blog radar. On Sunday, everything changed. Melissa and her family spent the afternoon with us because their house is up for sale and their realtor was holding a two-hour open house. Because of this, Melissa also brought her dog, a little Maltese named Pepper.
Upon entering our house, Pepper sniffed the perimeter of the basement and then, finding a suitable spot in the far corner, proceeded to have a large bowel movement.
"Oh my! Oh my!" Melissa cried, shaking with embarrassment and shame. "I'm so unbelievably sorry!" she apologized.
I just smiled and gave her a hug.
"Congratulations," my husband told her. "You've just made the blog."
September 8, 2009
Trials and Tribulations
We all have stories of childhood suffering.
My ancestors crossed the plains in wagons and handcarts.
My parents walked to school in snow up to their knees. Uphill. Both ways.
I survived cross-country road trips without a car DVD player.
My children accept the first two stories. The third they have a hard time believing.
"You never watched movies in the car when you were growing up?" they asked the other day, incredulously.
I confirmed my suffering.
Yesterday, my children earned their own stripes.
I woke up in the morning to find that my car battery had died. Reviving the battery proved to be refreshingly easy (my husband jump-started it). Getting the car's entertainment system to work again was a different story. As I learned, whenever the car battery dies, the built-in DVD player automatically shuts down and can only be restarted with a five digit code....which of course I didn't have. For two horrendously long hours while the very kind and patient dealer tracked down my code, my kids had to do without their Magic School Bus videos.
"I am sooooooo bored!" Kellen wailed on the five minute drive to the grocery store.
"I can't stand this!" cried Camber on the way home.
"How much longer?" asked Cortlen, as if his life depended on it.
Watching my children suffer was excruciating, so I decided that it was best to tune it out.
Fortunately, my car stereo comes with one set of headphone jacks.
My ancestors crossed the plains in wagons and handcarts.
My parents walked to school in snow up to their knees. Uphill. Both ways.
I survived cross-country road trips without a car DVD player.
My children accept the first two stories. The third they have a hard time believing.
"You never watched movies in the car when you were growing up?" they asked the other day, incredulously.
I confirmed my suffering.
Yesterday, my children earned their own stripes.
I woke up in the morning to find that my car battery had died. Reviving the battery proved to be refreshingly easy (my husband jump-started it). Getting the car's entertainment system to work again was a different story. As I learned, whenever the car battery dies, the built-in DVD player automatically shuts down and can only be restarted with a five digit code....which of course I didn't have. For two horrendously long hours while the very kind and patient dealer tracked down my code, my kids had to do without their Magic School Bus videos."I am sooooooo bored!" Kellen wailed on the five minute drive to the grocery store.
"I can't stand this!" cried Camber on the way home.
"How much longer?" asked Cortlen, as if his life depended on it.
Watching my children suffer was excruciating, so I decided that it was best to tune it out.
Fortunately, my car stereo comes with one set of headphone jacks.
September 7, 2009
Missing Brains
(Monk, after reconstructive surgery)By the time I got to the crime scene, Kellen was borderline hysterical. Cortlen and Camber had already shoved the scissors under the sofa.
"They chopped off Monk's ear!!!!!" Kellen screamed, pointing at the suspects.
"Why did you do that?" I asked his siblings, more than a tad bit annoyed.
"Because Camber told me to," Cortlen stated matter-of-factly.
I looked around for other lemmings, but they had already run over the edge of the cliff.
"If Camber told you to saw off your own leg, would you?" I asked my son.
A long pause was followed by an even longer explanation that boiled down to a one word answer: "Probably."
"That is very disappointing," I told Cortlen. "I thought you had a brain."
At the mention of brains, Kellen was alerted to the fact that his monkey was spilling his all over the family room floor. My son stopped the seepage of white stuffing by plugging the hole with his finger.
Cortlen took the cue and put his fingers in his own ear canals...just to be safe.
September 5, 2009
Ms. Chronic Disease of America WINNER
Before announcing the winner, I want to thank all of the contestants in this pageant. Hundreds of ladies--and a few men--aspired to Ms. Chronic Disease of America but only one can wear the coveted crown and claim this coveted honor all for herself.
Almost 2000 votes were cast! Yowzers! Thanks for your support and sense of humor!
With 32% of your votes, the winner of the first annual MS. CHRONIC DISEASE OF AMERICA PAGEANT is.....
Congratulations!
In the event that Ms. Psoriatic Arthritis should experience a sudden and miraculous healing or be otherwise unable to perform her duties as Ms. Chronic Disease of America, one of the runner-ups will take over the title.
Erin is taking autograph requests HERE.
Signed head shots are free.
Photos with dead animals are extra.
****
Thanks everyone for participating..... and especially for being good sports. Sometimes laughter isn't the best medicine. Most of the time though, it is.
Almost 2000 votes were cast! Yowzers! Thanks for your support and sense of humor!
With 32% of your votes, the winner of the first annual MS. CHRONIC DISEASE OF AMERICA PAGEANT is.....
MS. PSORIATIC ARTHRITIS!!!!
(AKA ERIN)
(AKA ERIN)
Congratulations!
In the event that Ms. Psoriatic Arthritis should experience a sudden and miraculous healing or be otherwise unable to perform her duties as Ms. Chronic Disease of America, one of the runner-ups will take over the title.
Erin is taking autograph requests HERE.
Signed head shots are free.
Photos with dead animals are extra.
****
Thanks everyone for participating..... and especially for being good sports. Sometimes laughter isn't the best medicine. Most of the time though, it is.
September 4, 2009
The Painted Lady
Last night, I went to the mall to buy some new makeup. Before I even reached the department store counter, a woman in a white lab coat accosted me with a perfume sample and a special offer.
"You can get all of this for free," she said, pointing to an assortment of vials and tubes on the display counter, "With any qualifying purchase of $22.50 or more."
I stopped in my tracks.
I was fairly certain that I would never use any of the objects displayed in the clear Plexiglas case, but the thought of taking the mysterious items home and storing them under my bathroom sink for half a decade strangely appealed to me.
"You've got two minutes," I told the faux doctor.The woman quickly got to work, eyeballing me and trying to decide what type of foundation best complemented an albino wearing a sweatshirt and Crocs.
The woman spent the next several minutes dabbing, wiping, brushing, blending, concealing, smoothing and evening out my skin tone with a small paintbrush.
By the time the woman finished, I was exhausted...and slightly itchy.
The woman handed me a mirror and invited me to take a peek. I was relieved to see that her labor was not in vain. The person staring back at me looked as though she had been dipped in cocoa powder and rolled in a fine layer of breadcrumbs.
"Gorgeous!" I shouted triumphantly and jumped out of the chair. "Thank you so much!"
"Where are you going?" the woman asked as I picked up my purse and began moving quickly in the direction of the nearest store exit.
I didn't have time to answer her. A face that colorful and textured shouldn't be wasted at the mall. It belongs out on the town.
****
I've had some really great experiences at mall makeup counters. Needless to say, yesterday was not one of them. Anyone leave the makeup counter looking worse than when you showed up?
*****
I promise that the pageant winner will be announced soon. It's taking me longer than expected to tabulate the votes...and remember my PollDaddy password :)
September 2, 2009
The Tooth Fairy is in the Hot Seat
The Tooth Fairy is in big trouble at my house. Last Wednesday, my daughter lost her second tooth. When she woke up the next morning, her tooth was still under her pillow. Bursting into our bedroom at the crack of dawn she cried, "The Tooth Fairy didn't come!"
I looked at my husband who grimaced and put a pillow over his head.
I told my daughter that the Tooth Fairy probably got lost in the city or bit by the raccoon/wolverine that recently has taken up residence under our deck.
"She'll come tonight," I promised.
Just to make sure, my daughter wrote the Tooth Fairy a note, specifying where to place the two crisp dollars she was expected to bring.
The next morning, Camber came into our bedroom in tears.
My husband told her that the Tooth Fairy was vacationing in Hawaii. The truth was that she spent the night tiling the kids' bathroom.
While my daughter ate breakfast, I slipped into her room and shoved two dollars plus interest under her mattress. A few minutes later, I casually suggested that she try to look for the money again.
My daughter was not at all surprised to find the bills in an odd place.
"I don't think the Tooth Fairy is very smart," she announced as she counted her bills.
I would have to say that I agree.
*****
Anyone else have a child who the Tooth Fairy forgot?
Please?
September 1, 2009
Orchards
Taking your kids' pictures in an orchard is all the rage these days...and for good reason:
Aren't they gorgeous? I coveted these photos taken in Utah until I remembered that there was an orchard just like the one in the above photographs just thirty minutes from my house in Philadelphia. And then it hit me. I didn't need a real photographer or a normal camera to take some awesome orchard pictures of my kids...I could do it myself!!!!!
Upon our arrival at the orchard, it became immediately obvious that there were some subtle but important differences between Wendy's orchard and mine; namely, in hers, the peaches and apples were still attached to the tree branches, while the ground in my orchard was filled with rotten fruit.
"Watch where you step!" I warned my entourage.
Ignoring the piles of decaying fruit was one thing; ignoring the insects attached to them was quite another.
"Please help me make it out alive. Please help me make it out alive," chanted Camber over and over again as she stepped over and around swarms of bees and yellow jackets.
Once we reached a clearing devoid of dying peaches, Cortlen and Kellen deemed it safe to remove their shirts.
"Put those back on!" I barked to my half-naked offspring. "I want to take some pictures!"
"I thought we were here to pick peaches," said Kellen, confused.
"No way," said Camber, ripping out her hair clip. "I am not taking any pictures."
"I have to use the bathroom," announced Kellen as he started hopping on one foot. "Really bad."
Our trip to the restroom ruined the magic. My sons could not be talked back into their shirts at any price and my daughter was on the brink of a meltdown over the bees and my refusal to buy her a can of soda from the orchard vending machine (don't hate on modern conveniences in inappropriate places.... that's how we roll in Philly).
I pouted the whole drive home.
Why does being like everyone else have to be so hard?
photo of cute kid by Wendy of Blue Lily Photography
Aren't they gorgeous? I coveted these photos taken in Utah until I remembered that there was an orchard just like the one in the above photographs just thirty minutes from my house in Philadelphia. And then it hit me. I didn't need a real photographer or a normal camera to take some awesome orchard pictures of my kids...I could do it myself!!!!!
Upon our arrival at the orchard, it became immediately obvious that there were some subtle but important differences between Wendy's orchard and mine; namely, in hers, the peaches and apples were still attached to the tree branches, while the ground in my orchard was filled with rotten fruit.
"Watch where you step!" I warned my entourage.
Ignoring the piles of decaying fruit was one thing; ignoring the insects attached to them was quite another.
"Please help me make it out alive. Please help me make it out alive," chanted Camber over and over again as she stepped over and around swarms of bees and yellow jackets.
Once we reached a clearing devoid of dying peaches, Cortlen and Kellen deemed it safe to remove their shirts.
"Put those back on!" I barked to my half-naked offspring. "I want to take some pictures!"
"I thought we were here to pick peaches," said Kellen, confused.
"No way," said Camber, ripping out her hair clip. "I am not taking any pictures."
"I have to use the bathroom," announced Kellen as he started hopping on one foot. "Really bad."
Our trip to the restroom ruined the magic. My sons could not be talked back into their shirts at any price and my daughter was on the brink of a meltdown over the bees and my refusal to buy her a can of soda from the orchard vending machine (don't hate on modern conveniences in inappropriate places.... that's how we roll in Philly).
I pouted the whole drive home.
Why does being like everyone else have to be so hard?
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