On the Wings of Love

It's a cruel world in which we live.


My excitement over my impending move to Vienna's hometown has been tempered by the sad realization that now there will be no wedding.

If Jake and Vienna can't make it, no one can.

Cammie Returns...With a Vengeance

From the minute that Cameron was born, he has been used as bait.

"If you do all your homework without whining," I would tell my daughter, "I'll let you dress Cameron up in your doll clothes."

For the most part, Cameron has been pretty compliant with his sister's demands. Over the past twenty-one months, he has been forced into service as a lap dog, kitten, ferret, and Prince Charming. He spends most of his time, however, as "Cammie," beloved daughter of Her Highness.


As much as my daughter hates to admit it, the tide is turning against her. Cammie is pushing two and isn't as fond of the tutus, wigs, and ballet slippers as he used to be. While he can't talk and still isn't strong enough to wiggle out of a determined grasp, he is finding other ways to let his will be made known. This morning, my daughter converted the walk-in closet in her bedroom into a royal nursery. She piled the room high with blankets and pretzels and other essentials before stuffing Cammie inside it for a little nap. A few seconds later, she opened the door wide enough to hand her daughter a sippy cup and put a glittery headband on the sleeping angel's head.

The scream could be heard from down the street.

The sweet little princess had bitten the hand that fed her.

Blog Snobs

A few weeks back, I received an invitation to a blogger event in New York City. Although I was flattered to be included on the guest list, the thought of making small talk with a bunch of prominent mom bloggers for the day was as appealing as the thought of impaling oneself with a sharp stick.

The invitation in question was on the fast track to my Trash folder when I happened to notice the words "spa" and "massage" in it.

"You know, I think I might go to this one," I told my husband. As a general rule, I'm not a big fan of being touched by strangers, especially while in a state of semi-undress. I make exceptions for strangers who work as massage therapists in fancy hotels.

Yesterday was the big day. The minute I walked into the hotel lobby, I saw them. The other bloggers filled two sofas and a love seat and jabbered away like schoolgirls. At the end of each sentence, they paused momentarily to take pictures of themselves and/or Tweet about what they just ate for lunch.

I decided to bite the bullet. "Hello,"I said, introducing myself to the crowd. A few heads looked up from their cell phones.
"What's your blog?" one woman asked.
After I told her, the woman shrugged her shoulders. "Never heard of it." She went on to tell me the name of her blog, which I had heard of. "I was just on the Today Show," she continued.

After a few more introductions, I realized that I was the only mom blogger in attendance who A) had more than one child by choice B) didn't have a business card and C) hadn't been on a national morning news program.

"How many kids do you have?" one blogger asked me.
When I said "four," she visibly recoiled in horror.

The woman and her friends warmed up to me considerably after learning that I was once almost on The Oprah Show. One even invited me to sit with them.

I declined.

"Run now as fast as you can," said the sane, rational voice inside my head.
"Run after you get the massage," said the glutton for punishment.

After a few minutes, a woman from the hotel took all of us down to the hotel spa, where we were instructed to shower and put on our swimsuits. We were instructed to reconvene in the lobby of the spa in 10 minutes without our cell phones. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth followed.

In the changing room, I met a woman who made me think that I had jumped to conclusions prematurely. Sallee was friendly, warm, sincere, and hadn't been on Good Morning America ever. As it turned out, she was not a blogger herself, but rather the personal assistant to another blogger who had a last minute change of plans and couldn't attend the event. Sallee was a place holder.

I liked Sallee the minute I met her. I liked her even more when she leaned over and whispered into my ear the exact same thing that I was thinking; namely, that despite having glow-in-the dark skin, both of us looked better in our swimsuits than most of the other bloggers did in theirs.

Tee Hee!

CLEARLY that doesn't say much. But still, it was something to cling to while being subjected to an endless stream of stories about Matt Lauer.

Chicken Pox: Share the Wealth

One of the questions that I get asked most frequently as a blogger is "How do you drive traffic to your site?"

Up until last week, I did not have an answer. Now I do.

WRITE ABOUT CHICKEN POX!

Who knew that infectious disease= free ticket to popularity?!

If I had only gotten the memo in high school; I might have made the drill team.

Last week, I wrote a silly little post about how my kids "infected" themselves and their toys with Chicken Pox (aka a pink marker). Since then, I've received a disturbing number of emails requesting face-to-face contact:

Do your kids really have chicken pox or was that really marker marks? Please respond ASAP.

I'm confused. Do your kids have the pox or not? I found your blog on the web and have read your post 15 times and can't tell if your being serious or not. If your serious, I have a favor to ask.

Hi! I found your blog while doing an Internet search for how to get chicken pox but I'm a little confused. Do you or don't you have the pox at your house? I live in Philly and I was hoping to expose my girls.

I was searching for Chicken Pox and found your site. Where did you get C.P. and how can we get it at our house? I am so jealous. I've been trying to infect my kids for three years now. Wish I lived closer to you. I'm in Nebraska :(

I'm in Pittsburgh but will drive [five hours] to expose my kids to the virus. Can we come over for a playdate? Here's the link to my Facebook page and blog so you can see that I'm not crazy.

I was actually looking for chicken pox for my kids to "catch" and stumbled upon your site.(I sent you another email, but not sure if it went through). I'm hoping my children (7 and 9 yrs) will actually catch chicken pox and not need the vaccine. Any chance someone you know is still contagious and willing to "share" something "germy?"

Hello! I hear you have the Chicken Pox at your house! I'm a mom of four too and live Chester County. My kids aren't vaccinated and I was wondering if you would be willing to share some Chicken Pox germs with us? We will come to you!

Hi! Your kids have the chicken pox? Are you willing to share? I see that you are in Pennsylvania. Sadly, I'm in Washington State. Could you send a t-shirt in the mail? Not sure if it spreads the virus or not but willing to take a chance.

Due to our impending move, I haven't been checking and responding to emails as quickly or often as usual. The delay in response prompted a couple anxious women to try to hunt me down using alternative means. Last night, I got this email from Silvina, our exceptionally talented Philadelphia photographer:

Jana!

I just got the strangest voice mail...someone who said how they enjoy my blog, and she's wondering if my kids really got the chicken pox because she would really love to expose hers daughters to it...?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Obviously she thought she was leaving that voice mail on your phone.

I have to admit that I'm quite enjoying my new social status. Who wouldn't get excited over an invitation to rub shoulders (literally) with unvaccinated strangers?

Finally, I feel as though I have "arrived."

The Coffee Table's Near Death Experience

I am officially in purge mode. A few weeks ago, I made the commitment to get rid of all of the things in my house that haven't been used in a year.

Under this rule, I am allowed to keep my deep fryer, snow cone maker, and disco roller skates.

Under this same rule, I must part with my South Beach Diet cookbooks, 3/4 of the shoes in my closet, and the entire contents of my living room.

Every day for the past week, I've entertained a steady stream of new friends that I've met on Craigslist. A college student from Temple hauled away my husband's desk; a grad student from Penn bought our basement sofa. My living room furniture went to an older couple with a beach house in New Jersey.

I was fine with selling the living room set--which included an antique pine coffee table--to the couple until they announced their plans to defile it.

"This is perfect," the woman told me as she examined the table. "We'll just cut the legs off and paint it white," she told her husband.

"Nope," I said, pulling the table out of the room. "You can't have it now."

The woman looked genuinely confused when I told her that I consider antiques to be living pieces of history.

I feel that it is necessary to mention at this point that I am the granddaughter of an antique clock restorer.

"How would you like it if someone cut your legs off at the knees?" I asked her.

The woman said that that was something that she probably would not like very much at all.

"If you are going to sell something, you can't dictate what people do with it," my husband told me when he got home from work.

Surprisingly, the living room set is still in our living room.



****
My sister's wedding recently was featured on RUFFLED. Check it out!

If Walls Could Talk

I love treasure hunts. That's one of the reasons why I start to sweat profusely whenever I see a Marshalls or T.J. Maxx.

In a former life, our house was Santa's Village. When we moved in five years ago, all of the carpet was red. Every other surface was covered with forest green wallpaper.

My husband and I renovated our house entirely by ourselves (it was as fun as it sounds) and every time we embarked on a project, I always held my breath in hopes that behind a wall or underneath three layers of hideous bathroom tile we would find a stash of reindeer antlers or a petrified elf.

For the record, all we ever found were mouse droppings and dry rot.

We don't want the future owners of this home (yep--we sold the house again and this one is a keeper!) to experience the same disappointment of deflated expectations that we have been forced to endure over the years; that's why we have left them special hidden gifts.

On the pine plank sub floor of our family room, I wrote a letter to Santa in black magic marker. Chip off the bead board paneling in the master bathroom and you'll find hieroglyphs depicting us winning the lottery and hiring someone else to rewire the overhead fan. My husband and I were not in the best of moods when we remodeled the kids' bathroom. Our sentiments toward the project and our feelings towards tile saws in particular are etched into the drywall behind the toilet and vanity.

In about a hundred years, I expect our home to make a very good episode of If Walls Could Talk.

When the moment is right and our walls speak up, I have a sick feeling that they're going to tell the world that their previous owners were a teensy bit disturbed.

Webkinz

Earlier this week, my daughter found five dollars under a sofa seat cushion.

"That's actually my money," I told her, holding out my hand.

She stuffed the bill in her pocket. "Finders keepers, losers weepers," she said.

I counted to ten very slowly. "Whatever," I said, pretending not to care. "Just do something productive with it."

Later that night, I found my daughter sitting on my husband's lap at the computer. They had just ordered a stuffed animal off of eBay.

"Here's your five dollars back," Camber chirped as she handed me the five dollar bill.


Yesterday morning, Mr. Quacker arrived in the mail. After two hours of begging, it became apparent that it would impossible to move forward in life until the stuffed animal had a birth certificate and was properly registered on the Webkinz website.

The process of registering a stuffed animal on the site in question is relatively straightforward once the site finally loads; a cartoon duck named Ms. Birdy asks your child to choose a name for his/her pet and type the name into a box.

An unfortunate typo resulted in Mr. Quacker's conversion to the Religious Society of Friends.

To make Mr. Quacker/Quaker's adoption official, all that was required by the registrant and his/her parental helper was the creation of a user name and password...and the plugging in of a secret code unique to each creature.

I wanted to poke my eyeballs out long before the website informed me that Mr. Quaker's secret code was invalid.

"The code doesn't work," I told my daughter. She took the news that she owned a fake Webkinz very hard.

"This isn't real?" she asked, holding up the stuffed duck in stunned disbelief. "It looks real!"

When the time is right, I will bequeath her my Jimmy Chew shoes. Until then, I will feign horror at the existence of counterfeit stuffed animals.

RIP Game Boy

In anticipation of our upcoming 18 hour road trip to Florida, I broke down and agreed to buy a portable video game system for my kids.

The man at the video game store put three different consoles on the counter, the least expensive of which cost $75.

My boys stared at the system that cost $200 and started to drool.

While the man told me more than I wanted to know about video game graphics, I felt my mind wander to the possibility of walking out of the store without a video game system at all.

"Don't you have anything less expensive?" I asked.

The man shook his head.

"What about that thing?" I asked, pointing to a small object on a shelf behind the counter.

"That's an old Game Boy system," the man said wrinkling his nose. "But you don't want that. A dog chewed on the outside and the screen is scratched." He held it out for me to inspect. "I just keep it around for people to test games."

"That's exactly what I want," I told the guy. "I'll take it!"

The man looked confused until I gestured to the Game Boy's new owners. One was making farting noises on his arm; the other was jumping up and down on one foot.

"I have to go to bathroom soooooooooo bad!" he cried.

The man offered to sell me the contraption for $40.00 but because of the bite wounds, I was able to talk him down to $20.

The Game Boy made it home intact. It survived the afternoon and somehow managed to live through dinner. About an hour ago, one of my sons accidentally dropped it on the driveway.

"It's all over!" they wailed in unison.

"I only got to play it once before it broke!" cried the twin that didn't drop the Game Boy on the driveway.

My only regret? Not buying the $200 console.

We Sold Our House!

It went under contract late last week. A young couple shopping for their first home came to see it on Thursday night and made a solid offer on Friday morning.

Needless to say, we were ecstatic. The couple was itching to move forward so we were more than supportive of their decision to have the home inspection on Saturday.

Yesterday afternoon, our realtor Candy called us with the results. "The good news," she told us, "Is that the home inspector didn't find anything big." On the list of suggested repairs was a new dryer vent, two GFCI outlets, and a cracked piece of siding the size of a quarter.

"What's the bad news?" I asked.

Candy said that she would email over a complete list of things for which the buyers wanted credit.

I opened the email in the presence of three neighbors.

"They want you to put a third egress window in the basement!" shrieked Helen-Marie, falling out of her chair in disbelief. Only one is required by law.

"And granite counter tops in the kitchen?" barked Sandy. Right now they're Corian. Granted they are forest green Corian (not my choice...the counter tops were there when we moved in), but still.

"They also want a new roof, a new driveway, new windows, and stainless steel appliances!" I added, scrolling down. By the time that we reached the end of the list, we were laughing so hard that we were crying.

The only thing that the buyers didn't ask for was swimming pool and a pony stable.

"Ask them if they'd like their new driveway paved in gold," suggested Helen Marie.

Since nothing that the buyers requested was on the inspection report, my husband and I ended up sending them a copy of our home disclosure with the date that the home was built circled in red. We also returned their earnest money. Clearly, the buyers did not realize that old houses have old things inside them.

"I can't believe you let them off," another friend told me this afternoon.
"They're new at this," I replied. "This is their first house."
"You're very nice," my friend said.

My friend does not know me that well.

I'm not that nice. It's taking all the willpower I can muster at the moment to resisting posting the buyers' names and photographs (thank you Facebook!) on this blog.

Public Service Announcement: Chicken Pox Outbreak!!!

Warning! A horrible vaccine-resistant strain of Chicken Pox has struck our household. Yours might be next.


All of my seven-year-old daughter's Barbie dolls are afflicted, except the one with leprosy who, having survived the loss of a leg and arm, presumably is immune to all other diseases.

"How would you feel if I put marker all over your bodies?" I asked the prime suspects. Kellen fell on the ground in a fit of laughter. Cortlen took off his shirt and handed me a marker.

Unwittingly, I had just stumbled upon every six-year-old boy's dream.

Your Invited to Dinner At Our House

THE MENU

Appetizer: Instant Oatmeal, cooked for 8 minutes sans water



Main Course: Slice of Pizza doused with 11 packets of hot pepper

Dessert: Cheese Sandwich


Independence in the kitchen does not come easy. Nor is it cheap. This week alone, Cortlen started a fire in the microwave, Kellen sacrificed half of an extra-large pizza to the gods, and Camber learned the hard way that cheese sticks taste better when they are not wrapped.

****
What amazing feasts have your kids prepared in your kitchen?

Mr. Nibbles

A few weeks ago, a small brown field mouse has taken up residence in the bushes next to my front door. My kids love the mouse and have named him Mr. Nibbles.

I love Mr. Nibbles considerably less.

Recent Internet searches on my computer include "How to Poison Mr. Nibbles" and "How to Attract Large Quantities of Cats to One's Front Yard."

I'm not the only house in my neighborhood with a rodent problem. Nearly every house on my street is playing host to one or more of Mr. Nibbles' relatives.

"It's just that time of the year," my neighbor Bill told me, shrugging his shoulders. "They'll go away in about a month."

I don't think that I can wait a month.

"What about your cat?" suggested Joan, my neighbor to the East.

I went inside to find our tabby standing on the kitchen counter. Her head was inside a bag of tortilla chips.

"Time to earn your keep," I said, scooping her up. I opened the front door and plopped Millie down next to Mr. Nibble's burrow.

"Get to work," I instructed.

Millie sniffed the hole and waddled back inside the house.

By the time I got to her, she had already scaled three shelves of our pantry and was nibbling through a bag of flour tortillas.

Evidently she prefers Mexican food.

Home Showings

Yesterday afternoon, my realtor Candy called to tell me that another realtor wanted to show my house that evening at 8:30pm.

“That’s kind of late,” I replied with a sigh. “But we’ll do what we’ve got to do.”

Keeping one’s house in constant “showing” condition is a joy akin to being pecked to death by a flock of chickens.

After driving aimlessly around our town for thirty minutes, we returned home to find the realtor’s car still parked in our driveway. Our kids—who normally go to bed at 7:30pm—were foaming at the mouth.

“We have to get them to bed,” I told my husband moments after telling Twins A & B to keep all appendages to themselves for the eighteenth time in two minutes.

Thus began the impatient wait. At nine o’clock, we circled around our street again….the realtor’s car was still there.

“What are they doing in there?” Tim wondered out loud. “Taking a nap?”

I decided to take a peek.

Tim parked the car on the street behind our house and stayed with the kids while I walked through two neighbors’ yards to the edge of ours. Hiding in the bushes under the cover of darkness, I was able to catch a clear view through the rear sliding glass door of two strangers crawling on their hands and knees across my kitchen floor.

The spectacle confirmed what I long suspected: my house is a magnet for crazies.

“Why is this happening to me?” I asked myself.

Before I could answer, I caught a glimpse of a furry blob race across the room and pounce on one of the strangers.

The potential home buyers were playing with my cat. Their realtor stood by the door and watched.

Over the next ten minutes, the strangers tested every cat toy in our house. They also opened every cupboard door, thumbed through several cookbooks, and flipped through my wall calendar.

Finally, at 10pm, an hour and a half after entering my house, the strangers and their realtor finally left.

“They better buy the house,” my husband growled.

“They better give us more than our asking price,” I replied. Our kids were out of their minds by the time we got them into their beds.

Candy called me this morning with the other realtor’s feedback.

The strangers didn’t like the house. It was too small for their needs...and in the wrong school district.

Dumpster Diving

On Friday afternoon, I fell into the dumpster behind Pier 1 Imports. The cause of the mishap was a delicious cardboard box in mint condition that was just out of reach.

Just as I was violating the limits of my flexibility, a truck full of rowdy teenage boys drove by the dumpster. The driver honked his horn and I tumbled into a mound of empty hurricane lamp boxes.

Things I learned from this experience:

* Dumpsters are not as confining as I imagined them to be. Mine, in fact, was quite spacious and because it was a cardboard-only container, it wasn't at all stinky.

* It took longer than I thought to get out of the dumpster. The walls are slippery little buggers.

* Children who witness their mother fall into a dumpster will either think she is super cool or a super big idiot. Despite my attempt to convince them that I belonged in the first category, they unanimously voted me into the second.

"No cardboard box is worth that kind of humiliation," my husband told me when I got home.

I beg to differ:

Isn't she beautiful?!!! I've decided to name her Ruth.

The Flute

Many people don't know this about me, but I am a very talented musician. I played the flute for three years in middle school, eventually reaching second to last chair.

In the seventh grade, I was awarded "Musician of the Month." When presenting the award to me, my band teacher talked a lot about determination and courage, but very little about talent and bright futures. I'm sure this was so my classmates wouldn't resent me.

At my sister's wedding last week, my dad gave me an unexpected gift: my flute! He found it in a box in his attic.

Last night, I played the flute for the first time in twenty years. I'm just as good as I remembered.

All talents should be shared, and I am thrilled to finally have one that is appropriate for church.

Question: Parting gift or welcome present?

Specifically, should I sign up to play the flute (I only do solos of course) during during church services on my last Sunday in Pennsylvania or my first Sunday in Orlando?

It's a very tough decision, but one that could mean the difference between being always remembered and instant popularity.

First Showing

We had our first showing on our house yesterday afternoon. I was at the grocery store with my boys when the real estate appointment desk called, telling me that a realtor was on my doorstep who wanted to show my house on the spot.

Fortunately, I had anticipated such events and had cleaned my house top to bottom before heading to the store.

I waited all day for feedback of the showing from my realtor. Finally Candy called.

"The prospective buyers really liked everything about the house," she said. I beamed and did a fist pump in the air.

"Except for the feces in the upstairs toilet," she continued. My face turned every shade of purple.


I hung up the phone and hunted down my sons, who were in the process of stripping a bush in my front yard of all of its leaves.

"Who didn't flush the toilet this morning?" I asked, trying to stifle my rage. Always loyal, the twins pointed at each other and ran in opposite directions.

*********
Any horror stories from trying to sell your house? I am mortified.

Innocence Lost

Recently, my children have been forced to confront some hard truths. Included among them are the realizations that a) not everyone believes in the Easter Bunny b) some people don't like wet willies c) the Tooth Fairy is cheap.

This weekend, they learned their most painful life lesson to date: namely, that not everyone in the world likes the Duke Blue Devils as much as they do.


It's a cruel world indeed.

My Sister's Wedding

This is my sister Amy. And me. My sister agreed to let me poke fun of her wedding preparations IF I promised to post photographs of the actual event.

Well, the joke is on me. The wedding ceremony was AMAZING and the party afterward was PERFECT. Whales were present, but in far fewer quantities than I expected.

Here we go:

LDS Washington D.C. Temple

This is where Amy and Warren got married. Gorgeous, huh? You can find out more about Mormon temples HERE.


My sister's dress is actually a vintage flapper dress. It weighed a million pounds.

The morning before my sister's wedding, Camber decided to give herself bangs. I tried to slick them back as best as I could, but was largely unsuccessful. Where she got the candy necklace and why she is wearing it is a mystery to all of us.




Kellen spent the majority of the reception eating cake and drawing pictures of whales on a white board.

This is my brother Brian (age 21) who just finished serving a two-year Mormon mission in Madrid, Spain. He's headed back to Brigham Young University in July and needs a date in the worst way. He's borderline albino like me, but other than that, he's pretty much perfect. If you've got any suggestions, let me hear 'em!



*****

This is the talented photographer who took all of the above photographs (and 2340 more). Megan of Meg Ruth Photography was my sister's roommate at BYU, where she majored in Photography. Now she lives and works in Las Vegas. You can see more of Megan's work HERE and HERE.

If you like what you see, you're in luck! Megan does just about everything (family, newborn, weddings etc...)...and she travels!!!! What's more, she is one of the nicest people on the planet. She made everyone feel amazingly comfortable. Put simply, I adore her.

Amy and Warren: Congratulations! I am so incredibly happy for you.