The Dress With Sleeves

With astoundingly few exceptions, I will purchase and wear any dress that fulfills the following requirements:

* Costs less than $30.00
* Has sleeves
* Does not require me to wear a camisole/tank top underneath it to hide my imaginary cleavage
* Hits the knee
* Is not made by Laura Ashley

Finding a dress that meets all of these requisites is nearly impossible. Which is why I practically did a cartwheel the other day when, in the middle of Marshalls, I stumbled across this gem:

The top was fine. I was willing to overlook the weird pooching on both sides of the skirt because I live in a constant state of denial that things on the rack will look dramatically better once they are on my body.

I rarely try things on in stores anymore for a couple reasons: a) I almost always have my children with me and b) The lighting in the dressing rooms gives the false illusion that I have wrinkles and need to get my hair colored.

Into the cart it went.

I tried on the dress the minute that I got home. It was comfortable, but it didn't look quite right pulled down to my kneecaps.

For $19.99, I wasn't sure that I cared.

I decided to ask my neighbor what she thought.

"I think you can do better," she said when I modeled the dress for her in her living room.

This is a nice way of saying that I looked gross.

I was on my way to the bathroom to change when the woman's teenage daughter popped her head out of her bedroom.

"Hmm," she said when she saw me. Without a word, she walked over to me and hiked up the bottom half of my dress.

Of course, I felt violated.

"Much better," she said.

That's how I learned that my knee-length dress is supposed to be a mini-skirt.

Mom Blogging 101

Lately, I've been getting a lot of blogging related questions from you guys. I'm a little reluctant to offer much advice on the subject for a couple of reasons: 1) As you will quickly see, I don't follow my own advice a lot of the time 2) Most of what I have to say about blogging directly contradicts a lot of stuff that you'll read on the Internet.

So take everything I have to say with a grain of salt.

Q: I want to start a blog. Any advice?

A: This depends on the kind of you want. If you are writing for just your friends and family, then do whatever you want! If you aim for a larger readership, then I would think about specializing.

A lot of mom blogs out there remind me of crock pots, and not necessairily in a bad way: their content is made up of a bunch of different things (personal stories, recipes, photography tips, craft tutorials, product reviews, etc.). Some of these blogs are really, really successful, but many struggle, I think, because they try to do too much. I admire bloggers who can do it all, but I am a one trick pony. People don't come to my blog to see pretty pictures, to find out about the latest fashions, or to find a new recipe (at least I sure hope not). I have strong feelings about Casey Anthony, the national debt crisis, and Duke basketball, but no one comes to my blog to read about them. People come I hope/I think to read a funny story about a kid that is mine, but could be theirs. And that's it. Almost every time I wander outside of my genre, bad things happen.


Q: I'm worried that if I specialize, I'll run out of things to say.

A: If I wrote a craft/cooking/home decorating/party planning/photography blog, I would be able to produce exactly 1 entry worth reading. Maybe less, if the topic is home decorating. I admire all of these talents, but unfortunately, don't have any of them. Other than write, there isn't much that I can do. Or like to do for that matter. In short, embrace what you are good at and run with it. When you accept the fact that you don't have to be everything to everyone, blogging doesn't seem so scary.


Q: How do you find time to blog?


A: We don't have cable.

Q: How much money do you make blogging?

A: This might be the #1 question that I am asked. Some people ask out of sheer curiosity, but most ask because they want to know if writing a mom blog can take the place of a part-time job.

Maybe I'm way off, but I sort of feel like blogging is to our generation what Tupperware parties and vitamin supplements were to our mothers'. In all these ventures, the financial success of few give the mistaken impression that quick and easy money is available to all. If you want to start a blog, then absolutely go for it! Just don't quit your day job. I haven't :)


Q: Do you ever run out of material?

A: Sometimes there's a slow day. But since I write funny stories about my kids, the best way to ensure a steady stream of content is to spent lots and lots of time with them. :)


Q: How do you attract readers to your blog?

A: My blog readership grew almost exclusively through word-of-mouth advertising (muchas gracias to all of you who have told your girlfriend/mother/sister about my blog and/or forwarded a link). I know that people are way into Facebook and Twitter and Kirtsy but I'm still easing my way into the 21st century.

You guys are the bestest.

Why the Pioneers Didn't Come to Florida

It has become clear to me why most of the pioneers in the 1800s headed west instead of south.

The first reason has to do with an overabundance of aggressive black snakes in Florida.

The second has to do with the average daily temperature in the state during the month of July.

A few days ago, a thunderstorm went through our subdivision. The storm must have done something, because half of our neighbors' air conditioning systems went out at once.

Needless to say, there was much wailing in the land.

Last night, my family slept in one room, on the ground, with three box fans blowing in our faces. And we still practically sweat to death.

We don't have an air conditioning repairman, so I did what any other desperate person would do in a similar circumstance: I walked down the street and talked to the workers.

All of the air conditioning repairmen that I met were very friendly. They were so friendly in fact that it was hard to decide who was the most deserving of my life savings.

I ended up choosing the repairman with the most number of children. The winner had eight and had just impregnated his wife for the ninth time. Eddie and I became good friends in the hour that we spent together. He showed me a piece of metal the size of his thumb and told him that it could be mine for only $500.

There was some confusion about what happened next. I thought I told Eddie that I was going inside to call my husband to discuss our options. He thought I gave him the go ahead to install the part.

By the time I came back outside, the part was installed and Eddie was packing up.

"If you want, I can just take the part back out," Eddie told me when I expressed some annoyance about the situation.

I came close to having him do it. But then I remembered how much fun it was to camp inside my own house.

Maybe next time I'll pick the repairman with the least number of kids.

An Open Letter to Groupon

Dear Groupon,

I still have feelings for you, but we need to talk.

When we got together a few months ago, I agreed to let you email me every day, and you promised to send me coupons for things that I actually want to buy. Once every blue moon, you'll throw me a bone in the form of a half-off coupon to a Cold Stone Creamery that is 45 miles from my house. But most of the time, you send me offers for neck tightening and electrolysis.

Are you trying to tell me something?

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I know that I probably need to have my teeth whitened/breasts enlarged/nose reduced/lips plumped/face lasered/back massaged, but what I really want are 50% off coupons to Lasik eye centers, hair salons, and boudoir photography studios.

Oh wait! You send me lots of offers for these places too.

Groupon, I'm going to keep you around for the time being, but fair warning.

I might be breaking up with you soon.

***
I hope you all have a good weekend. For those of you who haven't noticed the link on my sidebar: I have joined the 21st century! Please "friend" me on Facebook if/when you get a chance.

Stolen Credit Card

Someone in San Francisco who likes Redbox and gas stations has access to our credit card number.

I stand corrected: HAD access.

My husband realized what was going on early this morning and canceled our credit card immediately.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch wind of the situation until long after $150 worth of groceries were bagged and sitting in my shopping cart.

Talk about awkward.

"Do you have another card I could try?" the cashier asked. Three of the five people in line behind me sighed and moved to a different line.

I shook my head. I had 43 cents in cash on me and my debit card was next to my computer at home.

Double awkward since Cameron had already sat on a bag of hamburger buns (killing them instantly) and was eating his way through a box of graham crackers.

I started sweating bullets. Then I called my husband, who was in a meeting and didn't pick up the phone.

I offered the woman my Driver's License and an Ulta Frequent Shopper card.

"I'll be right back," I told her. "I promise."

The woman smiled sweetly. "I know you will," she said, as she slipped my driver's license into the pocket of her apron.

I made my husband go back and pay for the groceries.

Other People's Underwear

Yesterday afternoon, I told my boys that I had a special surprise waiting for them in the space that someday will be a walled-in study (right now it's just an open and empty formal living room).

They dug through two loads of clean laundry looking for their presents until they realized that the clothing piles were their presents.

"Thank you!" I chirped and went off to make dinner.

Over the next thirty minutes, lots of activity took place in the empty living room. Unfortunately, none of it was productive.

When I peeked around the corner to check on the progress, the boys were fighting over who had to fold all of the underwear.

"Do you have any plastic gloves?" they asked me.

"The longer you guys drag this out," I told them, "The less time you're going to have in the pool."

When I turned my back, one of them (I don't know who) threw a bra at me. And a pair of toddler-sized Lighting McQueen underpants.

They landed next to my foot.

"Be careful," I said with a crazy look in my eye. "Or I might make you wear them."

Shockingly, everyone got over their issue with touching other people's underwear.

Shopping at Target

I rarely take my kids to Target anymore. One reason is that bright lights and toy aisles tend to bring out the worst in them. The other has to do with how clothing racks make them all have to urinate.

I quickly grabbed what I needed to get today and was headed for the checkout lane when I spotted something as rare and elusive as the Hope Diamond: a 50% off clothing rack stocked with clothes that I actually would wear.

"Two minutes," I promised when the whining began. "That's all I ask."

Ten seconds into the ordeal, the first one said he had to use the bathroom.

"Too bad," I replied. I had just taken everyone to the bathroom literally five minutes earlier.

"But I didn't go when everyone else went," he cried. When pressed, he said that he had spent the time playing with the soap dispenser.

"That's too bad," I said. "You can wait for two minutes."

About this time, another shopper in the vicinity began scowling at me.

"I have to go too!" cried the other one.

The shopper began to make weird noises with her tongue.

"I am going to pee my pants!" the first one yelled. He started hopping on one foot.

The shopper looked like she was going to start hopping on one foot too.

"Agh!" I cried, succumbing to peer pressure. "Forget it! Let's go!"

I took my boys to the bathroom and left my fall wardrobe on the rack.

When I came back, my fall wardrobe was in the other shopper's cart.

Of course.

Chuck-E-Cheese's

I celebrated my fourteenth birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese's.

This wasn't by choice.

I'm the oldest of seven and the indoor arcade was the only place where all of my younger siblings could be safely contained.

Needless to say, I was traumatized by the experience of being forced to wear a party hat as a surly teenager and have a large mouse sing "Happy Birthday" to me.

There is another reason why I haven't frequented Chuck-E-Cheese's as much as my kids would like: the pizza.

By design or default, Chuck-E-Cheese's pizza has never been one of its strengths. It is the company's hope that that is all about to change.



This afternoon, my kids and I tried out the restaurant's new pizza recipe on the house...and it's pretty dang good. I'd place it alongside its competitors in terms of quality and value.

This is good news if you are like me and spend every other Saturday at the Cheeser celebrating the birthday of one of your child's classmates. It is also good news for those of us who were scarred for life at Chuck-E-Cheese's as teenagers and are looking for a way to reclaim what was lost.

After today, I'm entertaining the idea of celebrating my next birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese's. On purpose.

The Cheerleadering Tic

Last weekend, I put Camber on a plane to California. Right at this moment she's experiencing what life is like at grandma and grandpa's house...with no brothers.

Here in Orlando, it's all sports all the time. It has been so blazing hot in the afternoons that I have started taking my boys to a local college gymnasium to play basketball.

On Monday, my boys shared the court with a group of very tall guys, one of whom looked like Grant Hill.

I immediately put the thought out of my mind. "Why would he be here?" I asked myself.

Then I remembered the NBA lockout.



Needless to say, my boys freaked out.

While my sons were drooling over the privilege of being in the company of current and former NBA superstars, I joined a dozen cheerleaders in line at the ladies' room. While we waited, I talked to some of them. They told me that they were in Orlando for a week-long camp.

The girls were very pleasant and easy to talk with, but I couldn't help but notice that they all had trouble standing still during our conversation. Specifically, they appeared to be doing little cheers and mouthing the words "Go-Fight-Win" while we discussed important things like the weather and frozen yogurt.

I found this extremely odd and a bit unnerving until I remembered that one of my college roommates, who was a former high school cheerleader, used to do the same thing when we were in line at the grocery store. And walking to school. And eating in restaurants. My roommate was always very grateful when I stopped her from cheering at bizarre times and in public places, as she claimed not to even be aware of what she was doing.

As I watched these girls today, something came into my mind: maybe cheering is a tic.

Another Way I Ruined My Child's Life

Today I ruined Cortlen's life.

He told me this several times on the way home from the bowling alley.

What heinous act of child abuse did I commit this time?

I tried to teach him how to bowl.

"Instead of dropping the bowling ball on the lane, you want to try to roll it," I told him.

On his first attempt, the ball rolled into the gutter.

This tragedy is the sole reason why he ended up losing to his twin brother by 15 points, and his two-year-old brother by 8. At least according to him.



"You made me lose on purpose!" he cried. "It's all your fault!"


"I didn't even make eye contact with you during your second game," I reminded him. "What happened there?"



While the rest of us were putting away the bowling balls and returning our rented shoes, Cortlen threw his street shoes down the lane.

I am still not sure what he hoped to accomplish by this.

On the way home, he repeated the phrase "I hate bowling" 8 million times.

"I'm not going to take you again if you act like this," I warned.

Later that night, we had a little talk about sportsmanship.

"You were a bad sport to try to make me lose at bowling today," he told me.

In addition to being star athletes, my kids are also intellectually gifted.

The Tournament Team

A few months ago, my boys joined a tournament soccer team.

As my husband and I have quickly learned, soccer tournaments for seven year-olds in central Florida (and other places I imagine) are fun, non-pressure filled events complete with sponsor tents and local media coverage. The minute that we arrived at our first tournament, we realized that we were missing all three items required of all good soccer parents: a 60-quart cooler on wheels, a pop up tent, and t-shirts with our sons' names screen printed across the back.

Our boys would have played better in their first game this weekend, we think, if they had personalized soccer bags and a team bus or van like everyone else.

Oh. My. Gosh. I seriously thought that I had stepped foot into the Twilight Zone.

"Isn't this fun?" asked the boys' coach at around noon. My temper was about as high as the temperature outside.

"Yep," I answered briskly.

On the way to the bathroom, one of the coaches from a team named the Orlando Singlebury's Seafood Shack Green Gorillas (name changed to protect the guilty) ran up to me.

"Please keep this on the down low, but we'd like to invite one of your sons to try out for our team." He said this as if he was issuing an invitation to the Royal Wedding.

I am about as interested in royal weddings as I am root canals.

We I returned to our team's tent, our coach issued a timely warning.

"Watch out for poachers," he told all the parents. "They are crawling around like insects here."

A few minutes later, he checked in with me personally. "You're happy with our team, right? You're not thinking of switching are you?"

I glanced over to the son that was causing all the ruckus. He was spitting watermelon seeds at his teammates.

"I say that we fulfill our commitment, and then we're done," I told my husband. "No more of this."

My husband nodded in agreement but kept quiet.

If you don't have anything nice to say, sometimes it's best not to say anything at all.

Babysitters in Training

I had to send an important email this morning and so I told my three older kids that I would give them each a dollar to keep Cameron occupied for twenty minutes.

A few minutes later, I heard my blender eat a spoon.

"Not a good time," I told the four smoothie makers. "I need you to do something less destructive."

Chasing each other around the house with foam baseball ball bats was not what I had in mind.

Neither was building a tent out of all of my bedding.

Or watching bloody videos of shark attacks on YouTube.

"Watch this movie instead for 10 minutes," I begged. "Please."

Why watch a movie when you make your own? I spent a considerable chunk of my evening deleting 100 still shots of my kids' nostrils from my cell phone camera.

At the end of 20 minutes, I had written exactly two sentences.

And forked over $3.

Pet Sitting Services Offered

Our next door neighbors went out of town this weekend, leaving us in charge of Shimmer, their pet goldfish.

Of course, less than 24 hours after arriving at our house, Shimmer inexplicably died.

Now we are faced with a dilemma. Do we replace the goldfish with one from a pet store or do we offer our neighbors one of the frozen goldfish that are, for equally inexplicable reasons, STILL IN MY FREEZER?

Her First Time

It's been raining here all week. This is a good thing because we're having a little drought, but a bad thing because we've run out of things to do.

Yesterday, I took my kids to a dollar movie theater. In the summer, we go there at least once per week. Most of the time, we only see day care centers and people that we don't know. This time we ran into one of my son's classmates from school. Upon seeing each other, the boys ran into each other's arms and immediately began wrestling on the floor. As I pried them off each other, the other boy's mother frantically looked around the lobby.

"Are there others here?" she asked nervously.

I had no idea what she was talking about. "Are you here with anyone else from school?" she asked. "Have you seen anyone else from X Elementary here today?"

When I shook my head, she relaxed and explained that she didn't usually venture onto the other side of the tracks.

That much was apparent.

The woman also told me that she hadn't seen much of the place yet, but she was kind of creeped out by the amount of popcorn ground into the lobby floor and the number of people waiting in line for the bathroom.

We invited the woman and her children to sit by us in the theater. She nibbled on her nails and told me that she wasn't sure that she was going to stay.

"Just pretend I was never here," the woman told me on her way out. I'm no brain surgeon, but I know that' s code for "Don't tell anyone that I was here."

I assured her that I don't have any real friends.

I didn't tell her about those online.