10 sept 2018

Sep10

What a weekend! Apart from hosting our first community group on Sunday where Ryan said he was thankful he doesn’t get nervous talking in front of people because my eyes were boring into him (I was a ball of nerves the whole evening, thankful though of how easily he can talk to groups) and coming down from the high of realizing how well we all did fit together, a group of believers in different stages of life committing our time to study and pray and support each other over the next year. Both tears and laughter were shed this first night and it’s amazing to me how quickly strangers can bond if only just a sliver of vulnerability is shown.

But aside from all that, Ruthie turned 7 today. She actually got teary-eyed last night, her last tuck-in as a 6 year old.

In an effort to push back against the me-me-me that we all have inside us and hoping they learn to appreciate experiences with only a few friends, I’ve pretty much opted out of parties. You know they’ll end up wanting the exact opposite later on and that’s fine too, just hoping a piece of this gets stuck in their psyche. Last year, Ruthie asked her friend Kalyn to go canoeing with their dads who are also good friends. Ryan was hoping that’d become a tradition, but this year we asked if Kalyn could spend the night on Saturday and she did! They chased after cats and fireflies, helped me make noodles for dinner, tore apart a pinata, and had a pillow fight.

Ryan slept.

They all crashed in one big bed after watching a movie and woke up in the morning when Annie farted really loudly.

Our favorite donut shop was closed this morning, so we had to forgo our donut tradition and had chocolate chip pancakes instead, Ruth’s second favorite.

I asked Ruthie to choose a couple friends from school to take through a drive-thru safari today. I decorated the van with streamers and leaned into the jabbering that only 7 year olds can create. Their endurance is admirable.

Annie thought it was her birthday because I let her sit up front with me during the safari. She couldn’t believe how big the windshield window was. The emus made us scream and anytime we saw one ahead, the race to roll up all the windows and hide below the window was intense. But my favorite moment was when an employee cut up an apple, opened up the gates just for us to feed the giraffe and they all ooohed and ahhhed….over the cat lying on the bench. That literally proves that you don’t have to do jack for a good time at this age. My gawd, Ruth, you have four cats at home.

As I’m typing this, I hear classical music in the living room along with squeals and laughter and I’m imagining them reenacting their ballet class with dear-ole-dad.

Thankful for another year with my kind, shy, funny Ruthie. I like you.

22 aug 2018

Aug22

If you ask her, Ruthie hates Hobby Lobby. Because one time three years ago she toppled backwards in one of their small carts. She’s sure the same employee is still working there and will recognize her.

We finally convinced her to walk through the doors again and behold, how these aisles must look to a 3ft child. Pretending to be in a jungle ate up a good ten minutes.

It may have even inspired the big eagles nest they made later that day. I have to remind myself that telling them to not come inside unless they’re hurt or needing the bathroom may be a good thing despite their howls at me. They worked on and played in this nest for a good hour.

Ruth’s first day of first grade. She wanted to wear different earrings, and so while I was putting them in she said that last year another girl had these exact ones too but she never told her because she was shy. I asked if she was gonna be different this year and she said, ‘No, I’ll probably still be shy.’ Sweet Ruth.

19 aug 2018

Aug19

All we did was spend a day on the lake yesterday but today it feels like it was a week long party cruise. And this is from someone who snuck back onto the boat for two naps.

Ryan’s best childhood friend has a family house on Beaver Lake with his six siblings and we got a coveted invite this year. Their first adults-only weekend get together. Although I’d never met them, their reputation had preceded them as funny and loud and good company. Fifteen minutes in and I was already gushing over them to them. Warm people. Instantly.

My floppy hat flew off en route to a cove and I screamed as if it were my wallet.

I’d gotten up at 430 to go to the gym, skipped breakfast, and immediately entered vacation mode upon arrival, so by late afternoon after jabbering to anyone within earshot of my noodle, I was already floating on my back fast asleep hanging onto the anchor rope.

14 hours after arriving we drove back home, kinda wishing we took up the offer to stay over. It was a short and fun adventure with the Redington crew, but it worked out because Ruth lost her second tooth while we were gone and only we had the special gold coins. She’d dropped it in the yard and left a note and drawing.

The kittens loved dad. He’s like the cat whisperer. I hope he told them they’re getting evicted to the garage next week after their surgeries. Mom got scolded by the girls for yelling at the cats. I don’t blame her though, they’re so obnoxious, but they’ve helped confirm that I will never get a baby animal ever again.

The night before, we turned on some 60s music and had a dance party. Mom likes to remind us that she grew up during the best decades of music.

And when mom read a chapter of their book and skipped over a few lines, Annie called her out. The era of jumping over sentences to speed up the book is over and we all grieved the loss.

Thanks for babysitting Grandma & Papa.

8 june 2018

Jun8

I said, You guys. It’s just me and three of you. Please just listen to what I say and don’t go nuts.

So we went to the Splash Pad, which on the scale of venturing out solo is like a 2, but you just never know. And honestly, I always expect the worst, especially hauling Gertie around. I should’ve known there’d be no issue though since she and water are best buds.

Right off, they found “Camille” in the plants. She’s the lady bug that I somehow convinced is the same one they’ve been seeing since last year when they had to send her back into the garden. They were so worried about her, but ended up reuniting this spring. How amazing that she remembered where they lived and even visited them at the splash pad. What a great gal.

Ryan and I have a few fun things coming up this summer. One of which is leading a new small group through our church. I really never thought we would, but the stars have aligned with another couple to get one going. And, after taking a year off to rest on Sunday evenings (which I absolutely needed and was thankful for), we’re ready to jump back in. You can get kind of eyes-glazed-over when you hear them say over and over while urging people to join one: We’re not a church with community groups, we’re a church made up of them. But now I fully understand the need to have a constant small circle around you.

I’ve only shared with a few people, and not even with my family, but about a month ago I had what I think was a nervous breakdown. Ryan had to come home early every day for almost a week. I was incapable of doing much beyond a simple meal: (think pb&js for dinner). I spent most of the week crying: in bed, in Gertie’s therapy waiting room, with her therapists, in the shower, at dinner. During nap/movie times, I would walk around the backyard sobbing and praying for help. From my core praying. It was probably the scariest it’s ever gotten. I guess in the midst of the news recently, I should add that it never got to a point where I was worried of what I’d do, but I wonder what it would’ve looked like if I didn’t have that single thread of communication directly to God, the frailest of threads that was somehow strong enough to keep me upright.

Afterwards I casually shared that experience with a friend and she asked me why didn’t I reach out to her. She would’ve been the first person called too. I can share the deepest of my neuroses with her and there’s no judgement. We’ve done online bible studies together. She is a children’s pastor for goodness sakes. So why when I hit bottom did I not call? But I do know why. For someone, and maybe you’re the same way, it’s hard to ask for help. I want someone to just know without me having to explain everything. I want them to proactively send me a text. I want them to show up with a dinner (because everyone knows that’s a mom’s holy grail, a pre-made meal). Even Ryan said that he does me a disservice because whenever anyone asks about us (alluding to life with Gertie), it’s always positive. It’s always, “Great! She’s continuously improving! Hooray Tada!” And while I can see his point of only sharing the good news, it also isolates us from help when we need it. On the flip side, it’s helped me learn what I need to look for and do for others.

This is why we’re excited to start back in with a group. To have people who keep up with us (and us them) weekly, where no one will be expected to cold call a friend from ground zero. Where we can see the progression of a snowball going down hill and either all stand in front of it mid-descent or rebuild it after it shatters at the bottom. I so understand now why these face-to-face relationships are important.

And just to update, I feel really good right now. Another friend mentioned that trauma and the brain go through cycles, showing its recurring face like clockwork. Is it related to when Gertie was born and all that followed? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had a little to do with it. But in the aftermath of everything a month ago, I feel different. I’m starting to be intentional. I am repeating to her the same things I say to the others: I am proud of you. You are a good girl. You make me happy. And she does. She really does, if I’ll just let her. But I do feel it happening. Her personality is coming out and I find myself laughing a lot at her.

Here she is stringing two “words” together (don’t mind her stained shirt). Two words/sounds in a row are a critical step in speech. Yesterday, when Ryan came home, I carried her out to meet him and he said “Hi Gertie!” and she responded without me cueing her a clear “Hi Dada”. Today, at the splash pad a girl came up to her little fountain and said Hi and Gertie said Hi back. To understand conversation, the back and forth. We are so hopeful.

Ryan has been amazing at giving me the evenings to run. And while I can’t do anything but gain weight, it has been very therapeutic mentally for me. Those evenings have been, along with my monthly meeting with a mentor, and then our book club that’s been meeting for the past six months. It has shoved me back into reading, where now I want to do nothing else at night except read. A friend’s therapist told her that reading activates the same part of the brain as hypnosis so is a great way to “self-medicate.” But the book clubs! We’ve been choosing restaurants/flavors relating to the books and it’s so fun. I love the different personalities and we’re at the point now where no opinion goes unsaid (I kicked that off with my book choice that no one liked, ha!)

Our first night. When I made everyone wear name tags and answer an ice breaker question. That lasted one time.

And Ruthie has already asked when we can do a book club together. The other night she wanted to lay in bed with me while Ryan worked in the living room. So she got her reader books, I got mine and it was so comfortable and exactly what I’d hoped to do with my child. I told her once she gets into 2nd or 3rd grade we’ll start it up.

How To Almost Wreck a Bike AND Your Marriage

Mar16

Once a month, Ryan and I are able to go out on a date thanks to a group of friends who take turn watching everyone else’s kids. If there were ever a time I wish grandparents lived nearby, it’d be now. But they don’t, so we circle the date on the calendar several times with a red marker and stare at it longingly through the mound of poopy diapers and incessant whining.

It finally came around this past weekend and as we all walked to the building, Annie kept asking “Happy? Happy?” Why yes, Annie… You must’ve seen my grin from three blocks down. I swear I love ya, but go on now. Play with your friends for FOUR HOURS. Yes!!!

As soon as neither were looking, we snuck out the door, raced to the van and headed to a nearby town for a little bike ride. A tandem bike ride. And for some reason, my mind immediately went to the word tantric whenever I said tandem. But I justified it and thought, hey if Sting has the stamina for 7 hours surely I can also ride for an hour.

We showed up at the bike shop, cute, in love, smiling as the guy oiled up our bike. He asked us if we needed helmets and we cackled at that silly question. Of course not, can’t you see we’re in love and riding as close to each other as humanly possible on two wheels? Only non in love people wear helmets. So he rolled the bike out and off we went.

We got this far from the building before our first full-on fight broke out.

Like growls-from-the-depth-of-your-bowels fight. If you’ve always wondered how low your voice can get while still remaining a woman, sit on the back of a tandem bike. Romance, giggling, and flirting quickly fly out the window when only one person has control of the steering wheel AND brakes. Good God! No literally, good God please save me….and we hadn’t even left the parking lot yet.

We did several circles before venturing out into the downtown area to hit up the trail. Ryan wanted to ride on the sidewalk to I guess make sure that anyone who hadn’t seen us swerve our way out of the parking lot, to have an up close and personal experience with our front wheel. I convinced him to ride on the street though because a) a bike lane is there for a reason and b) I wanted to get hit by a car.

After many hisses and screams later….from the car drivers avoiding our inability to stay within the bike lane, we finally made it to the trail. We’ve walked this trail many times and didn’t think anything of it. Until we approached the first of several hills that we’d conveniently forgotten about. You know when you’re cresting the top of a roller coaster and are powerless to stop it, all the while knowing there’s a 3% chance you’ll be the only person to eject from the seat 90 mph into the funnel cake stand? Yeah.

I took a deep breath and only quietly begged and pleaded to brake more, to not swerve, and to quit leaning so far this way or that. But with each person we passed (somehow we did remember to ring ring our little bell), my begging got louder and louder and reached it’s highest when up ahead we saw a sweet little girl on her pink bike riding towards us…and I knew. I knew she was going to crash. Ryan rang the bell, we zoomed forward like a game of chicken, he rang the bell again, she looked up and crash there she went down in our lane.

To our right was a straight shot down the hill, to our left more walkers. Mr. Oil Luber’s words came back to me “If you need to stop, you better start braking long before you need to. You’re like a semi, it’ll take a while to slow down.” At the time, I was too busy wondering if he was really calling me a semi or not, but now I got it. Holy crap girl, Mooooooooooove!!!! I yelled as Ryan started braking. Somehow, some way we managed to slow down enough to look like we were casually biking along, enough to smile at the girl’s mom and give a jolly hello before picking up too much speed right afterwards.

We swerved around several more groups and Ryan apologized for his insane bell ringing saying “Sorry, we’re barely in control here.” Nervous laughter by everyone.

But I tell you what. This was a great team building exercise, because before we got to our turnaround point, I started closing my trap and trusting that Ryan had control of us. And then I was able to look around and enjoy myself. It wasn’t entirely peaceful, but it became fun and we started laughing instead of barking.

So much so, that I wanted a pic of us on that darn bike. We stopped and waited for the man up head walking toward us. He seemed nice and I asked if he could take our picture.

He looked straight ahead and kept walking. Sure, he was wearing headphones but I know he could feel us staring at him.

Don’t worry Orangie McGee, we got that pic. A girl down the way took one. Well not exactly. Her friend said ‘yes’ and then made her take the photo. Why was everyone afraid of taking our picture?! And then we looked at the picture she took and saw the reason.

Ryan apparently took the whole tantric word misuse a little too far. He said he’s going to return those jeans, and not because they puff out in the worst places, but because the puff measurement wasn’t doing him any favors.

Later we walked by a wedding and hoped we were in the background of photos.

After busting our buns to get back before the store closed, I wandered around and saw this upcoming race ad in the window.

If I weren’t 7 months along by then, I would’ve totally made Ryan do it with me. “Bonus cards for blasting clay pigeons” ….in the middle of a bike ride. So random…Yes, please.

Afterwards we got a bite to eat. Our goal was to take as long as possible at the restaurant since we’re normally rushing and feeding other mouths and not sinking into our chairs. Ever.

Step 1 was to order our drinks without feeling pressured to also order food at the same time in fear of the two little ticking time bombs exploding. In fact, we ordered drinks, she came back with them, and we asked her for another few more minutes to look at the menu. Holla!!!!!!

We placed our order and I didn’t really notice what Ryan got. When he told me, and then said the price:
the most expensive thing on the menu. Whatever, I know those extra minutes before she came back were spent weighing pros and cons.

I remember when I turned 21 and my sisters came down to celebrate. We all got margaritas, but my oldest sister was pregnant. The bartender put lemonade in a margarita glass and sugar around the rim. So I asked our waitress to do the same. I wanted to feel sassy!!

Meh. I couldn’t tell which was the water. Sassiness fail. Luckily I had several other drink options to fall back on.

Yikes. We were thirsty after our ride.

It was a fun night for sure. And no joke, I think our marriage got stronger because of that bike. Next date night though, we said we’re going to find a place and just sleep for four hours. We’re exhausted.

When I had a mullet for a day….

Feb13

I think it started with a college photo I uploaded to facebook.
That hair.

Whew! And you know I thought it looked good. It was easy to style too, even when I had to use Carmex after the gel ran out, which was pretty much all of the time. And even though it’s now clear that I was pushing the porcupine-skunk boundary to the max, that hair still resonated with me as I uploaded it.

Get out of your funk it said. Do something!

So when both girls were asleep at the same time, I took a shower, brushed my hair forward into a ponytail on top of my forehead and hacked away. No hesitation, no worries, nothing. I’m a cocky son of a gun during the scariest moments.

And why shouldn’t I’ve been, when I’ve got this before/after photo to gaze into:

(Source)

Yep, no need to worry. And look she even got some new specs that magically appeared after cutting off that tail. This is the gift that just keeps on giving, folks. One cut and you’re a knockout.

And then I looked up.

Wait for it….

What the.

Nailed it.

Look at how that gray hair glistens. You can take the girl out of the skunk, but you can’t take the skunk out of the girl.

I quickly ran back into the bathroom and redid the whole process. You know, because more of something is always a good thing? And as I was leaned over the sink about to take the next cut, I heard Ruthie yell at the top of her lungs “I’ve got to go POOOOOOP“. Oh yeah, we’re on day 9 of potty training. Not even two weeks. My response?

“Yeah, go for it Ruth… Your mom’s taking care of an emergency.”

I quickly cut my hair and ran down the hall before even looking in the mirror. She ended up doing everything right, making it into the potty chair, and we had our usual discussion of what animal the poop looks like. She’s the one that started it, I just rolled with the punches. This time it looked like a bunny rabbit. Yeah, cool Ruthie, I gotta go.

I ran back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

What the.

I mean, I guess it did look sleeker.

And look at these layers!

No comment.

No, literally. No comments were made. Not even from my 2.5 year old, who is now trained under threat of expulsion that she shall scream “I LIKE YOUR HAIR” when mom comes out of the bathroom for an extended period of time. Because we all know I don’t spend the minimum quota of time required with a brush.

But nope, not a word.

I think she would’ve rather been sent packing into the wilderness and find wolves with better manes than this thing that is currently her mom.

So back to the bathroom I went and I just took the rest of my party hair in one hand and hacked away. It was pretty much Les Miserables all over again.

Though no one paid me for my locks.

Annie tried her best to photobomb the photo to protect your eyes, but I was too fast.

And then it really went down hill because I started day dreaming about my life with this haircut.

Do I tilt my head to counter the diagonal line of the cut in the back? But what if my head stays like that? I would forever be in mid-valley girl head toss.

No.

Should I walk with Annie in front of me at all times, blocking the jagged layers?

But when she’s 16, she’s gonna be heavier, so no that wouldn’t work either.

What if I try to be a hipster and act like this was intentional and you’re actually not cool for having a symmetrical hairstyle..

No. And I think insulted the whole hipster community.

Then I walked through the room and pretended to be a bystander glancing at me.

My raw reaction was the push I needed….

FINE, I’ll go to an actual hairdresser.

Ryan came home and I scooted out the door faster than you could say “…and maybe you should look into highlights…“

I didn’t know where to go, so I drove down the main strip looking for “Walk-ins Welcome” and, aha! I spotted one. Ooooh, and it was so cute too. In an old little home with a handmade “We’re open!” sign in the window. I pulled around the back away from the front windows.

Because… well, because I was driving Ryan’s car. The one he just got in a wreck with. The one with no muffler where it sounds like a freight train bearing down the road. The one where if I pull down the shade thing, all the fluff and dirt from the past 15 years falls on your face. Normally, I’m totally okay with all those quirks, especially if I can hop out with my hair straightened and full-on makeup. But not this night. Nope, I was a ball of self-consciousness. So when I pulled behind the cute little hairdresser house, my stomach sank when a hidden window appeared on the rear wall.

A window where three hairdressers were hanging out.

When I parked, they looked. All of them. And they continued looking. I looked back. We stared at each other for a full minute before I raised my hand in a semi “Yeah… what are you looking at, my HAIR???” move and stuck out my chin. One girl raised her hand back at me and did the same thing.

Oh, man, it is ON, I thought. How dare they laugh at my haircut when I am coming to them for help. Well, they’re not getting my business.

And I reversed out of that parking spot. But because I was driving a stick and because I was a ball of nerves, I stalled. So I had to restart the car and then peel out of the parking lot.

Good riddance, I thought. On down the road I went, refusing to acknowledge that I’d over-reacted. Denial is bliss, especially when truth can be drowned out by a bad muffler.

…and then I saw it. “Hair….And All That Jazz”.

HECK. YEAH. I swerved into the parking lot, but it was Closed.

Dang. It. I had visions of them putting a sequined cloak around me and quietly singing, “Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat tat” while snipping away.

Ah well, on I drove and finally came to a no-big-deal salon in a random strip mall. But what drew me in was that no one was seen in the salon itself. Dead is probably not the adjective most people want associated with their hair salon, but for me it’s a perfect one.

I walked in and out came this guy that smelt of a too-short smoke break. But he was soft-spoken as I rambled on about my episode.

Little did I know that I was about to have the best hair cut experience of my life. Not even joking. He made one gentle comment about the unevenness of the back and then that was all. I think he might be my hairstyling soulmate, because I hate chit-chatting during a hair cut. He let me sit there with my eyes closed as he slowly worked around my head. When his co-worker came back from her smoke break, she asked him several yes/no questions that he must have responded with nodding or shaking his head, because he uttered not a word and my peace was uninterrupted.

I left feeling shaky like I had just gotten a massage. It was wonderful.

And since I still had the keys and time alone, I headed to a store that I always have to rush through with two kids in tow: Hobby Lobby. When I heard a little toddler scream bloody murder and throw a tantrum, I smiled at the frazzled mom and continued on my slow… slow… slow stroll down the aisle.

Hi. This is me without kids staring at crafty things and home decor:

But let’s take a look at the new do that Smoke Break McGee did for me.

What a happy accident.

Aisle of Doom

Mar17

Let me put it this way. Ryan and I have been EATING THIS GIRL UP lately. As soon as we pick her up out of the crib in the morning she points to the door and demands in her garbled jabbering to be taken downstairs, she points to her bottom and yells POOP when she’s done the deed, and she has adopted my “oooooooh!” reaction to anything and nothing in particular – saying it in a song-song way to make the recipient of said “ooooooh!” feel worthwhile. You know, things like the jar of cinnamon in the spice cabinet, or when I pull out a new crayon color, or if there’s poop in her diaper.

Yesterday was a gorgeous day. Did I take photos? No. But we played in the volleyball sand pits and buried each other’s feet, we went for a long morning walk, and then played on the jungle gym at the park. Another girl was playing there as well and Ruthie pounced on this potential new friend. This she has also adopted from me as I find myself lunging for various girls after church on Sundays. Today was no different and I pounced on a cute expectant mother. Here was my intro:

[Bee-lining my way to the victim] “Hey!! I feel like we should bump bellies!!!! [And then proceeded to imitate the footballer chest-bump-in-the-air move.] Ryan and I aren’t stalkers, but we did spy on you and your husband with binoculars while out to eat at the same restaurant last week. And, oh yeah, my name’s Carolyn, nice to meet you.”

If she’d had holy water in her hand, it would’ve been dumped on my head. It sure is hard girliefriend dating in this day in age.

Anyway, back to Ruthie and the girl. As Ruth followed her around, I heard the girl’s dad say in Spanish, “Friend (how cute is that? Calling his daughter friend), Play with the little girl, okay?” I made a comment in English but he didn’t respond, so I thought this might be my chance to break my almost two years of not speaking Spanish record, and as we were leaving I said something about how cute his daughter was and Ruth liked following her. And he responded! Maybe I should stick to pouncing on spanish-speaking fathers instead of girlfriends.

That came out wrong.

Wait.

If that came out wrong in english, I wonder what the hell I said in spanish to that guy. No wonder he responded.

And now I’ll go put a dollar into our cuss jar because I’m trying to stop. Ruth says ‘shoes’ in a way that is so eeerily close to the other s-word (shiiiuuuzt) that I’ve finally decided I have a problem and need to correct it before I can no longer reassure everyone that she is in fact saying Shoes.

But oh Miss Ruth. She’s been described as intense the past few days by a panel of two judges. It’s an appropriate description too. Cases in point: With the windows open last night, she heard her next door neighbor outside. She immediately started yelling jibberish very loudly, very intensely, bringing us her shiiiuuuuzt and pointing to the door. In the middle of this chaos, her eye caught the computer screen that had Elmo’s face on it and she stopped in the middle of yelling to sing the Elmo song (very demurely and softly) and then went right back to yelling. When they were outside, my neighbor said she saw a cat and started yelling, Cat Maow Maow Maow Maow (then looked up) Moon! Moon! Moon! Cat. Maow Maow Maow.

Holy multi-tasking to the psycho degree. She is living up to her middle name Margaret. My grandma was a busy bee and I can still picture her deliberate walk to wherever she was going. From just the kitchen to the sofa, even. Every movement was intentional and well, intense.

In other news, Ruth is afraid of our vacuum. So I deliberately took her down this aisle just get to see her get jazzed up. Aren’t I horrible? It’s like Nightmare on Vacuum Street. Better not sleep, Ruth.

Actually, it’s more like Nightmare on Ruth’s Clothes Street. If she looks like that, imagine what I must have been wearing.

Ah, it’s fun to have a built-in friend. And I sure can’t wait to pounce on her in the morning.

Les Mis

Feb8

Hi. I’m an addict. A Les Miserables addict. From the moment I saw the trailer for the movie, I started playing Les Mis songs to Ruth every day. And then I’d cry and she’d comfort me by bringing over my shoes. That’s her way of showing love: bringing you your shoes. I wish she’d bring over chocolate chip cookies, but I’ll take what I can get.

So since my mom also cries at the soundtrack, we made plans to see it over Christmas break. She admitted that she actually didn’t want to see it with anyone except herself, but my sister and I still forced her because that’s how we are. No bringing shoes from us, apparently.

Ryan took a photo to commemorate the occasion. This is mom’s stressed smile, but at least now i understand why she wanted to be alone. That’s a big bone.

We met up with Amy at the theatre. She had arrived a little bit earlier and knew it was us because the car door opened and I jumped out before the car stopped. I get excited. Sue me.

We bought our tickets and I asked the guy in the ticket line to please take our photo. He looked up and was literally half-blind with cataracts or something.

So I immediately launched into how actually I really need to go to the bathroom and man, that line for the popcorn is so long, maybe we don’t have time for a picture because HOLY COW is that someone sneaking in?!? Look!

And then we ran through. Ugh, I hate myself.

I’m glad we got there so early though, because the theatre was packed.

Mom analyzed all of the seats and decided this was the best one. The only thing we didn’t do was stake an American flag into the cushion.

Finally we settled in. The matriarch and her servants. Mom was still nervous with anticipation… and because we took the dog bone away.
As we’ve discussed before, all of us Wewers have some sort of type-a in our blood. The level of it depends on who is around us. If it’s just me and Ryan, then look out folks, I can go overboard. However, if another sibling is in the room, I can relax a bit because I know they’ll take care of business.

Someone’s gotta take care of business and I get tired of that someone always getting a bad rap. Those that float along can only do so because the type-a’s pave the way. Right? RIGHT?

Cough.

But it is nice to float, I have to admit, and I can do so with my family. So it made me chuckle when my mom asked me if the angle from my seat was satisfactory.
Uh, yeah. Pretty sure I can see the screen.

But she wasn’t convinced. So we moved further inland, bringing our imaginary flag with us.

And I marveled at my new angle.

If we hadn’t moved, I’m sure I would’ve hated the movie.

But I didn’t. I’ve already seen it four times. It is fantastic, and can I whisper this without being lynched? I like it better than the stage production.

Please see it. Please. Your husband will like it too, I dare ya to try. At the very least, you’ll be happy that you’re not watching it with a type-a person. Go float to the theatres, people. Now!

A Good Saturday

Nov19

I love me a full day. Granted, ‘full’ could be also construed as watching a Survivor marathon 8 hours straight, so please feel free to define it any way you’d like.

But today I felt productive: both in chores and quality time.

Everyday we officially wake up to this little lady staring at us. I say officially because it’s only the last couple of hours that she’s in bed with us. Yes, I’m still breastfeeding. And yes, I have moments where I want to chop off my breast Amazon woman-style just to be done with it, but most other times I enjoy holding this growing girl in my arms.

So when she wakes up at 5:30 for her early morning feeding, I stumble back into bed with her and we sleep for a couple more hours, if we’re lucky. She wakes up, yells at both of us mamamamamadadadadada, then Boo (minus the K), and I reach down for a couple books for her to read as we close our eyes a little while longer.

Some days we have energy, others we don’t.

This day we did, so Ryan fixed us his homemade sausage, cheese, and egg mcmuffins. Protein points for this pregnant lady.
I literally could eat those all day long, but controlled myself and managed to squeeze a day’s worth into a morning meal. I took over breakfast duty to let Ryan and Ruth watch Saturday morning cartoons, which consisted of (what else?) He-Man & She-Ra the movie.

Ruth just wanted to read. That’s all she wants to do now. She’ll pick a book from the shelf, hand it to you, then scoot backwards into your lap. No matter what I’m doing, I stop to read to her because if there’s one activity I want her to enjoy, it’s reading. No batteries, no electricity, no controllers needed. Just you, the printed page, and preferably something to eat. My mom remembers holing up eating buttered popcorn with a book in hand when she was younger. It will take me less than a nano second to continue that tradition. Because, really, the only qualification needed for a family tradition is buttered popcorn.

So while Ruthie read by the sunshine, I hung out laundry in the sunshine.

To be able to still hang out clothes in mid-November is wonderful.

I had vintage laundry cart that I’d wheel up and down the line. It looked like this:

(source)

But the cloth was coming apart and it was hard to transfer clothes easily from the dryer, across the living room, to the vintage hamper. So I’d have to use a regular platic hamper to make the transition. One thing I hate is having several different things that do the same job. So after searching online, I found this guy:

(Source)

I want it if only to have an excuse to wear a jean on jean ensemble. Whomever has me as a secret santa, this is available for just $40 more than our max budget of ten bucks. Go ahead, splurge.

After I got a little sun on my face, I plopped chicken into the crockpot to cook for the day.

After it’s done, I use the bones and fat along with left over vegetables to make broth overnight. After straining it Sunday morning, I was able to get 10 cups out of the deal. Two birds, one stone. Lovely.

After a morning nap, the family drove to The Dollar Store because we were on a mission. I wanted to start a family tradition each Thanksgiving of volunteering, but Ruth is not old enough to scoop soup out without a baby spoon. And I can’t imagine the agony of being hungry only to have your food ladled 1 teaspoon at a time.

I thought we could do something else in the meantime. We chose to participate in Operation Christmas Child. You fill up a “shoebox” with toys, sanitary items, etc, attach a label with the age and sex of who you are buying for, and drop it off at various locations. The label also has a bar code that the company scans so you can track where your package is going.

Since there were three of us, we had three shoeboxes, one for each of our sexes and for the age range closest to us. 1 male: 10-14 years, 1 female: 10-14 years, and 1 female: 2-4 years.

Ruthie was a blur of excitement as we shopped for her girl.

I had absolutely no idea what to buy the boy. Ryan said, “Don’t worry, I got this.” And promptly came back with an armful of boy games. I nixed the snot rockets, but everything else was solid. Even though Ryan would be a perfect dad for girls, I still hope he gets a little boy someday. He would be so excited to build and destroy with a mini-him.

Ruthie, in the meantime, really only wants a green apple and she’s happy. Not quite into destruction… unless it involves spaghetti.

I’ll give you three seconds to spot my belly button. Go.

We arrived home after buying a ton of items only to have it total to much less than expected. Gotta love the dollar store. And gotta not love walking in and seeing that you never plugged in the crock pot. Ah, the trials of a homemaker.

It almost ruined my day. Almost.

But luckily we headed to the park and that always perks me up.

Ruthie thinks she’s a big girl playing on the slide by herself. Don’t you dare try to help her either. And Lord help us if another kid shows up, because then Little Miss Show Off comes out to play. A boy joined her in the playhouse and she at first stood there, repeating ‘Hi’ a thousand times. He didn’t notice. So as he hesitated at the slide entrance, she got a determined look on her face, basically pushed him out of the way, and slid down.

Do you like how we never take her out of her pj’s? I mean, if we’re all in pj’s then we’re just a really cute mitchy-matchy family, right?

Besides, after our park jaunt, we went home and immediately all took a nap. So basically we’re just super prepared.

When we woke up, dinner was made and kombucha was drunk. By Ryan, at least. It’s not advised to start drinking kombucha regularly if you’re pregnant. It’s really good for your digestive system, but it detoxes your body, so you don’t want the detox to think the foreign entity trying to grow in your uterus is not supposed to be there. If you’d already been drinking it regularly, I guess I’ve read it’s safe.

And since Ryan’s stomach was troubling him the past couple weeks, what better timing to force him to start!

I mean, look at this!! Doesn’t it look yummy???
Mmmmmmmm, pulling out the mother. Tasty!
You don’t eat the mother. Save it for your next batch. With each batch a new mother is grown. You can see in the first picture there are several mothers floating at the bottom. Pretty appetizing.
But for how much they’re going for in health food stores, it’s nice to see I can get a good batch out of only 4 bags of tea, water, and sugar. Amazing.

So after Ryan choked it down (although he did say it tasted like apple juice), we played with Ruthie, hiding Cookie Monster in various places for her to find.
Thankfully she’s a serious child. And finding cookie monster and pulling off his head was serious business indeed.
The day felt long, like mid-summer-it’ll-never-go-dark day. And we needed that, big time.

Hunkering down before the holiday storm. And I couldn’t ask for a better pair to spend it with.

Socialite

Mar7

Not. But for a second this anti-social girl was getting into the swing of things. Like, having face-to-face conversations with multiple people within a short span of time. It was weird, like I had friends or something.

Like S. Who was one half of the duo during our Emily Post, “Can I offer you a cigarette after the salad course”, test. She passed. She would’ve passed even if she’d declined too, but got extra points for being a good sport. You can read about it here.

Ruth and I met up for lunch at the darn near cutest little restaurant. Heirloom is its name, great food is its game. They try to use as much local organic food as possible. That, along with bread baked in a flowerpot, water in the cutest carafe, and the nicest owners around, it made for a memorable lunch.

Wanna know what else was memorable? Trying to nurse Ruthie in front of a guy at the picture window while holding down the jacket/nursing cover in 300 mph wind. Yeah, that was awesome. I’m sure he got a show.

But, being handed a travel guide by the owner that dear S created made up for it. I told her she should autograph it and give it back to the owner. That will be worth money one day!

My other favorite part was admiring their vintage mid-50s home with pretty much everything still in tact.

The little stove stole my heart. But then Ruthie threw up on their kitchen floor and it was time to go. We know how to make an exit.

We also had some family over where we watched about 3 million youtube videos trying to find the scandal on The Wizard of Oz set, along with finding compilations of other scandalous images in various Disney movies. I was already biased against Beauty and the Beast to begin with, but these other clips just helped me spread that gag reflex to the other ones.

No, instead I’ll have her watch something more wholesome. Like, The Real Housewives.

I have a love affair with Fridays. They’re my go-to day for inviting people over. You can stay up late, sleep in the next day and still have the rest of your weekend. It’s amazing.

We’ve been lucky with most of our dates, in that we end the night eager to set up a second one to hang out. Other couples, well one in particular, decide that in order to avoid going out with us again, they need to move. Like, to Florida. Like, in two weeks after said dinner. Hopefully it wasn’t because I served our food on old-school cafeteria plates, because I consider these my china. It doesn’t matter the reason, because whether they want us to or not, we’re going to be popping up in sunny FL for a beach date.

One couple, however, I was extremely nervous about meeting. “Meeting” because we never actually met in person. Long story short, J is a blogger at Hotchabyrd, and we have a mutual friend. The friend suggested she read my blog. So she read it, left a few comments that made me laugh hard gut laughs, and then we slowly worked up the courage to set a date. As we live in the same town, it shouldn’t have been a big deal, right?

Wrong. I was terrified. This girl is funny. Real funny. And funny people make me nervous.

So we agreed on a sushi night with my native american sushi dishes (wrap that one around your brain) and vintage sake cups.

They were my only source of solitude throughout the process, those cups. Well, if I act like a dork, and she is appalled, at least I have my sake cups was my mantra throughout the day leading up.

When they arrived, her husband gave me a big hug. This gave me the courage to attack his wife as she walked through the door. I poured us some sake, we cried as it burned down our throats, and then began talking.

And talking.

In fact, the conversation lasted for 6 hours straight. Not bad for a first double date.

We hit on some of her “Things to talk about in case it gets awkward” list (even though it didn’t get awkward). My personal favorite, “Enjoying being AWAY from other people.” I don’t think we discussed that one. But now I wonder how it would’ve been brought up if that was her last ditch effort for a topic.

[In the middle of complete silence] So, don’t you just hate being AWAY from other people?

[pause] Yes. Please go.

I mean, how do you respond to that?

Anyway, we did some of our talking on the deck.

Her husband riffed gently on the guitar as we warmed our feet by the fire. It’s why I want R to learn the guitar, if only for that background music.

I even felt comfortable enough to do my “Take a photo of me while I act like I don’t know what you’re doing so I can prove that I indeed exist” stance.

That one is crucial to me. If I can act my unnatural natural self around you, you’re in.

And they were. Totally in.

All I know is that by the end of the night, J broke out house shoes she brought in case she felt comfortable, we’d planned a weekend trip, I shared the most random of random personal stories usually reserved for date #250, R fell backwards in a chair and got stuck in the corner, D serenaded us with his musical talents, and we all agreed that a good time was had.

[raising a glass] Here’s to blogs and their aid in making new friends.

Just don’t drink sake with that toast. It’ll burn.

Carthage Thrifting

Jan25

Well, there went our budget for the week, but oh my it was worth it. I got some fun things and didn’t talk baby talk once the entire day.

I asked an old coworker of mine, N, to escort me around some thrift stores. She ended up being our chaperone. For the thrift store and me, I mean. She made sure I didn’t get too grabby with the store’s body and helped the store open up a bit more and show me its silly side.

I wasn’t only excited about thrifting, but also to get out like a normal human being for a day. Well, kinda normal. I did have my breasts unashamedly exposed on a highway so I could pump in order to return to being normal for the next 3 hours.

No one noticed though. I think everyone we passed could feel me boring my eyes into the side of their heads saying Oh I just dare you to look, my friend. So help me, if you even move your face one iota to the side…

You know how you get that subconscious feeling of danger every now and again? Sometimes it can come on so strong that you just keep looking forward and keep on keeping on. I’m pretty sure that’s what they felt and stared straight ahead.

We finally arrived and ran into the shop.

N, luckily, also likes to take her time browsing, so I didn’t feel rushed or like I was holding her hostage. My kind of thrifting experience.

This first store rocked it. We dove in and didn’t come up for air until 3.5 hours later. Awe-some.

There were many things I talked myself in and out of throughout those hours. For one, this band hat. My goal (once we’re out of The Shack) is to create an attic space, complete with old wardrobe, mirror, and mannequin, sofa etc. for a dress-up corner and this hat just about made the cut.

Six months ago, I wouldn’t have blinked. But now that we’re trying to stick to a budget and have bigger plans for our moulah, I eventually nixed it. Maybe next time I’ll pick it up.

N found many things too.

Like this old pastry cutter and a paper-mache Santa that lit up. I watched her wheel and deal for that one. We literally ran around like chickens with our heads cut off and every once in a while would see the same thing at the same time and take in a huge gulp of air before grabbing it.

It’s nice to be surrounded by people who get the same sort of joy out of similar things as you do. It’s also nice to watch people get excited about different things than you too, but nothing beats a shared passion.

After that shopping extravaganza I was starving and brought out our lunch.

PB & J’s, lemonade, popcorn, nuts, and fruit. Next week, at The Mobile-Homemaker, I’ll be showing you how to bake the bread used for these sandwiches. Just a plain white bread, but R & I both enjoy it.

You can’t really tell, but it’s oh only 28 DEGREES FREAKING OUTSIDE.

The conversation was short and we hopped back into the car to make another stop.

Enter Doris.

She was manning the front desk and, I believe, owned the place. Within 10 minutes of us walking in, she literally made us take several things for free.

I knew she was a girl after my own heart when we asked for her photo and after taking it, insisted on seeing how she looked. Yes, we thrifters are all vain.

I picked up some wool socks (R and I are addicted) and a piece of artwork that knocked my (wool) socks off, along with some other things.

We stopped at a couple more places before heading home. The drained feeling of exploring and searching and squealing and buying makes for a laid-back ride home. We chatted, I soaked in the setting sun, and stared out at the rolling fields.

I was happy.

But nothing is as exciting as when you arrive home and get to show off your wares. Most of the time R just laughs and he didn’t disappoint this time. Except he threw in some head shakes and “What the heck is that” questions.

My absolute favorite buy of the day, and I can’t even tell you how much it was because Doris just said $5 for everything (and I had a good pile going…) is this artwork:

What the.

I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. It grabbed me, spun me around, and dipped me. So you know I was in love.

This deserved a prominent place in The Shack.

And there she be. Right above our french press that we use every day. So now every time R wants coffee, he’ll have the pleasure of soaking in that glittering beauty of a print.

This is one happy mama.

Reunion

Jan11

Saturday night our little family went to a reunion. Our (home)birthing class reunion. If there’s one way to become close to someone, watch Peruvian women squat out their babies for 30 minutes.

I think I’ll start using that as an ice-breaker at parties. Hi, nice to meet you. Hey, take a look at this video…

Friends will be lining up at the Shack, I’m sure of it.

Here are the kidlets, along with their papas and a few Chucky-looking dolls behind them. The two on the left were born within 24 hours of each other as well as the two on the right. Our class put J, the midwife, through the ringer.

Speaking of her, here she is!

She was the teacher of our class and we all walked away with so much knowledge. The class was held on four saturdays for about 3 hours long.

But besides the education, we walked away getting to know some seriously funny folks. Like, I would double over as far as a pregnant lady could double over, funny. That was during the class, though, when we’d snicker like a 12 year old if someone said vajayjay. Or like when we were asked why a women gets shaved while in the delivery room. And someone answered, “Tangles?” Ah, yes, we were all back in 6th grade and loving it.

So I wondered how it would be after the fact. When we’re not joking about how the guys shouldn’t massage your wife during labor and expect it to lead to anything. Or hearing the men verbally high-five each other upon finding out that having sex can actually help induce labor naturally.

Those were all funny moments. But what about now? Oh my word, yes.

We all had different birthing experiences.

One lasted 35 hours while another only last 90 minutes. (Can we pause and try to imagine that? Yikes.)

One couple took a walk together under the moon and another ran around cleaning tubs and toilets (us).

I had my baby on my bed and another had hers squatting in the hallway. One gave birth in the water, and the other was on her hands and knees in the living room.

It was FAScinating. Yes, sometimes we were serious while listening to each other.

But for the most part, we looked like this:

I pretty much guffawed the whole night. Didn’t even talk to anyone. How are you, Carolyn? Bahahahaha! Ehhh, okay. Good to hear you’re well. How’s your baby? Tee hee hee hee.

I mean, good grief. Get a room with the jokes, Carrie.

In other news: Ruth was introduced to several friends. She, again, licked her chops as if she were going to devour them in apparently the only first impression she gives potential buddies.

We lasted as long as the little tykes would let us and then headed home. But not without first planning another get together at, guess where, THE SHACK for some games and more baby talk.

And yes, there will be laughter too. Yes, indeed.

Weekend Recap

Jan9

We had a whirlwind weekend, with family visiting, reunions to attend, and alma maters losing. I was worn out come Sunday night. But it really doesn’t take much to wear me out anymore. Just getting the mail is cause for a 2 hour nap. And don’t get me started about using the letter opener. Whew!

I did manage to squeeze in a game of scrabble with the parents, though. The weather was beautiful, so we opened up the windows and sipped on coffee. It felt like springtime and after years of denying it, I’ve finally admitted to myself that I am a Spring lover. More energy, more spunk, more liveliness. Can’t get enough.

I think they rigged the letters so that I’d come out with S N O B. Maybe I should quit teasing them about seeing my life flash before my eyes when they forget this or can’t remember that. Naw, I’ve convinced myself it keeps them young. They probably didn’t slip in O B O E, though, because they knew I’d subject them to a rendition of one of my favorite movie lines in Amadeus: And then high above, an oboe… or something like that, I can’t remember. Go rent it, now.

But don’t watch it with me, I’m warning ya.

I’m the mob boss of movies-that-i’ve-already-seen watching. If you so much as glance at the popcorn bowl and not look at the screen, you best be ready for the array of verbal bullets shot at you. Are you watching? Why aren’t you watching? You’re not watching. You need to see this part for the next part! Fine, hurry and take a sip of your coke, but your eyes better be glued to the screen, so help me.

I’m not proud of it, but can literally not stop myself. My mom likes to remind me of the time when we all watched Inception over Christmas last year. No one understood what was going on, but were afraid to turn to look at me and ask any questions for fear of my wrath. Then, when the movie was over, they did turn around to say something to me and saw I had left the room at some point during the film to go to bed. So the whole movie was them spending inordinate amounts of energy sitting still, facing the screen, and not uttering a sound.

Sorry.

Let’s see… what else did we do. Oh, I know.

We stared at Ruthie’s Chubby McChubberson’s legs.

She knew I was putting her on display for this photo. Lucky for her a circus performer hasn’t travelled through asking for her to join, because I think I could make some big bucks off of those rolls.

Come right up and see the newest attraction ~ The Thigh-Baby! This baby is literally turning into a thigh, folks… Watch the rolls take over her body in front of your very eyes!

Dolla Dolla Bills, yo.

Alrighty, what else. We did a two-stop extravaganza to watch KSU lose to UofA in the Cotton Bowl. Sigh. We do love our Wildcats. First, we popped into R’s brother’s place “Uncle Favorite”, as he calls himself, and listened to Ruth scream bloody murder for 45 minutes. She must have already seen this football game and was mad that I had gone to the bathroom in the middle of it. Just like her mama, I’m so proud.

We quickly bundled her up, stuck a pacifier in her mouth, and drove to my brother’s house. Remember the weather? Yeah, it was taken advantage of as we sat around a fire watching the game outside. I ran into the backyard and stopped short because, I don’t know if M noticed or not, but there was a homeless person that sat down to warm himself. That guy on the right, see him? I guess he wasn’t hungry, just needed a place to watch the game, so I went back inside.

But he followed me! I was about to run to the car for one of the Blessing Bags when I realized it was just my dad… in about every random piece of winter clothing he could find. I must get my style sense from him. Thanks, man.

All in all, a good solid weekend.

We did one more thing over the weekend that excited to talk about… a reunion of blossoming friendships. And blossoming babies. Too fun.

Who let the freak out? (aka, my first night out since Ruth)

Nov1

Last Friday we went to a masquerade ball. It was our first night out by ourselves since D-Day, or I guess it should be called R-Day.

And actually, it probably really was like D-day for everyone else. No one saw the Carrie-bomb that was about to be dropped on them. It was like I was 16 all over again, attending a senior’s party. Only this time with cleavage. And a boyfriend. And no braces. And a girdle on. And no job. And – okay, I better stop while I’m ahead.

But I’m probably a good 1% cooler now than I was in high school. Thank you milk production. Man, if I had only known then that all I needed was a baby. I could’ve had better fitting tops and my own MTV show.

Ruth was terrified of us. Or she can see into the future.

I literally acted as if I had never been let out of the house before. Letting my mouth, feet, and hands (I’m a gesticulator) run wild.

Couldn’t help it, though. First off the place was fantastic. Above one of our little downtown shops, in a space that was about to be renovated into apartments. The walls were cracked and crumbling, antique-y chairs were used as a lounge, mason jars with lights were used to illuminate. Ah, loved it. The juxtaposition of velvet chairs, wood floors, and crumbling walls? Candy for the eyes.

courtesy of someone on facebook

I forced people to dance with me (The band was awesome. Is there anything better than acoustic versions of Snoop Dog & Violent Femmes?), I about karate chopped a guy’s head off with my excited hand gestures, and completely put my foot in my mouth several times. The scariest moment came when I saw D, my midwife’s assistant, at the party. We hugged and another girl asked how we knew each other.

“How do we know each other? Well, she looked down there for 4 straight hours.”

And I may or may not have used the word hoo-haw.

Just keeping it classy, folks. Keeping. It. Classy. High school Carrie had edged me out at that point.

courtesy of someone on facebook

But, can I raise a glass of vino in my honor for one thing, though? When the time came for the crowd to get into the inevitable large circle, so we can break out in the middle with our favorite early 90s moves, I did not, I repeat, did not do The Carlton. Talk about self-control. Because that had been haunting me since J’s last shindig.

You know The Carlton, don’t you? Everyone knows The Carlton.

It was pretty much my first time meeting everyone, and much to R’s horror, I whipped out The Carlton. In an 80s prom dress. And high freaking heels.

Do you see what’s coming? Literally two arm swings in I landed wrong and had to stumble out of the circle in shame. We quickly left afterwards.

courtesy of someone on facebook

Not this time, though. I held back in spite of the possible redemption and R was proud. So I immediately said or did something to make him shake his head. Can’t let him wonder if I’ve changed for the better for too long.

And wouldn’t you know it, I ended up hobbling my way out to the car anyway.

Girl hasn’t worn heels (let alone dance in them) in what seems like ages. But the blisters were well worth it, my friends. Well worth it.

Picnic

Oct18

Ruthie was gracious enough to invite us on a picnic outing over the weekend. The weather was absolutely gorgeous. We packed up a lunch and then about 15 other bags full of random things that were never needed. It’s trial and error right now, trying to figure out the least we can get away with while towing a 5 week old.

I was intent to stay on that blanket for as long as possible. Could you blame me? Check out the color of that sky. Perfect.

I was in charge of getting lunch together while R played with Ruthie. Egg salad sandwiches, cheese and crackers, apples, celery with peanut butter… oh and a jumbo sized bag of Tootsie Roll pops. I fear I have an addiction.

At some point in my teenage years, I must have run into a dealer on the street who opened up his trench coat and revealed hanging tootsie roll pops. “The first one’s free, girlie.” And the rest is history. I’ve been waking up at odd hours of the night to eat them and then disposing of the evidence so R doesn’t know. Not like he’d care. In fact, the only person who is going to care is my dentist. I have my first appointment since having Ruth in a few weeks, and I think there’s about 300 cavities living in my teeth. Two of them found love and have since started a family.

So with a pop in my mouth, I started to spread the egg salad.

And then something flutter by me and landed nearby. Oh, just a leaf… Yay Fall, I thought.

And then I looked closer.

And then I looked at R.

No.

Please, God, no.

The dreaded booger sucker and R was knuckle deep with it.

“Sorry, it’s just not working,” he said. “It won’t suck them all the way in. So I have to find some way to dispose of them.”

And by disposing of them, he means attaching them onto leaves and then throwing them into the beautiful gentle breeze.

So that it can drift its way right next to my lunch-making station.

I looked at the leaf again and dry heaved. They say that, as a mother, you don’t get grossed out by your kid’s excretions. Well, whoever they are, are wrong.

Fricken disgusting, Ruth. Use a kleenex.

That booger sucker must have also sucked out Ruth’s energy because she immediately zonked out.

So what did we do on a wonderful day outside? Watch a dvd of course. We’re crazy about Mad Men and had a few episodes left to watch. Ruth didn’t mind. Next time, we’ll fly a kite we swear.

You see? She really didn’t care. Look at her mouth. When it’s all pushed out like that, she is happily dreaming away.

Probably dreaming of better skin, from the looks of it. We’re in week 3 of baby acne and it took zero seconds before R brought up the classic pizza face commercial below.

We still love you, Ruth. You’re a beautiful before photo of a Clearasil model.

After our romp in the hay with Mad Men, R pulled out our financials to work on for next month. As soon as he said, “finan…” he heard snoring and looked around.

What.

It was Ruth’s fault.

Apparently being hip is not a requirement.

Oct11

I don’t know how I snaked by. Unless it means that only mamas with hips can join. In that case, I was a shoe-in. In fact, I’m sure there’s an email in my inbox right now requesting that I be the spokesperson for that group of mamas with hips. If that were true, though, I don’t think the current clipart is appropriate.

Either which way, I’ve joined this local group.

It’s confirmed, people, I’m hip. So you can stop sending me emails on how to up my cool factor. It’s already been achieved. After I read the acceptance, I strutted around The Shack pointing and winking at everything.

Then I looked at Ruthie and she gave me her ‘I can see through you and you’re not as cool as you think’ look. Oh yeah, Ruth? Well, for your information I’m now a hip mama. Eat it. So she did. And after 15 minutes gave me the look again.

Whatever. I’ll show you.

But before I walk through this nerdy wardrobe into the Chronicles of Hipness, let’s take a look at my past life. My past awkward life.

Like how I forced R to participate in Thrill The World with me and another couple. It was a bid to try and have the most number of people dance the Thriller at the same time. People all over the world did it. See? I’m not alone. We showed up for the practice and were swarmed by 14 year olds.

If you want to watch the video, here it is. Don’t hate. We spent the day leading up to this at an Oktoberfest festival. It took me nano seconds into the first lager to forget the steps. My friend, J, and I are on the left side (I’m in the black dress and she is in front of me in pants and small jacket.) T & R are on the right, (T wearing a tuxedo shirt and R right behind him.) R’s favorite part is the high-five they did at the very end.

Or what about the time I slipped on stairs in college, landed on my back, and laid there as a high school tour walked by? That will never happen again. Because I’m hip now, ya’all. (maybe I should quit saying ya’all, then.)

If you’re interested in getting a glimpse into my disturbing psyche, in which I obsess over a graceful girl all through class and then try to emulate her, click on the photo. It will take you to the post.

And talk about disturbing. Me, in the woods, with a Jane Austen book. What would Jane think? And why would she be walking around with a copy of her own book? I don’t know, but she was cool… why couldn’t me reenacting mesmerizing looks not be? Well, that’s in the past now. I’ll only be throwing around hip looks from now on, which means I may or may not acknowledge you now that I’m several notches higher.

Click on the photo if you’re into the neuroses of a jane-aholic and would like to be hypnotized by my captivating stares. You’re getting very sleepy….

Upon being accepted into this group, I started looking around at the various meet-ups and found one that would fit Ruthie’s age. I remembered R’s word of advice: “don’t just throw all your cards out there at once, Carrie. Let people know you’re nice and then drop the weird jokes on them.” So I RSVP’d for an event, and told myself to write something short and sweet. Don’t always try to go for the laugh, Carolyn. They’ll get to know you soon enough.

I’m screwed.

Me, me, me

Oct3

I had a really nice birthday. Even little Ruth slept well the night before. Wait, no, I take that back. No she didn’t.

I remember thinking, “Happy Birthday to me” at 3am and wondering if little miss fussiness would settle down so I could get some sleep. Those days are gone.. not the staying up late apparently, but definitely the crashing until lunch.

It was a hard night.

But around 7:30, I stumbled into the living room to lay on the couch for any zzz’s I could get and realized that R was fixing me breakfast. He had only a few minutes before going to work, so I grappled for some toothpicks to keep my eyelids open and shuffled to the table.

This is R’s dream breakfast. No color. I grabbed my nearest fake plant, blew off the dust, and took a shot. I cannot not have color on (or near, at least) my plate.

And then I saw the card that had “Yo necesito un Caroline” on it. This harkens back to my days working in the insurance industry, having file incoming claims. I was on the spanish-speaking queue. Remember when I made a complete and utter fool of myself on that queue with the spanish language, as well as telling my class in college how delicious penis pasta is? No? Read my blog post on it, here.

Well, I joined the company as they were just implementing that group of employees (side note: I accidentally wrote ‘groupo’), meaning there weren’t very many of us. Anyway, I was on a call with a nice older lady and we got disconnected. Later, a co-worker came up and said that he finished the claim, but she kept asking for ‘Caroline’. That she needed Caroline. I was the only Carolyn that spoke spanish there, so he figured it was me.

After telling R this, he starting saying it every now and then. He added ‘un’ which doesn’t really make sense, but I never corrected him because I thought it was cute.

Long story short, the card made me smile.

We made plans to meet up for lunch that afternoon. He originally offered to bring food home, but I reminded him of our pact. Our “we will not be prisoners of Ruth” pact, and decided to go out.

I have to get used to taking her places. I don’t want to be scared or anxious or stressed out. Just go with the flow and take your time, is what I tell myself. So far it’s worked pretty well.

We had a nice lunch and showed her off to his coworkers that were meeting at the local coffee shop. We didn’t stay long, because I needed to get home and clean. We were having company that night!

R , T and their two little ones came over with food (and drinks and plates and utensils and napkins – everything!) in hand.

I was taught how to use the Moby wrap and little S helped me blow out the candles. This wasn’t the last we’d see of his mom, though…

Because she was starring in the local production of ‘Little Shop of Horrors” that following night!

Again, I took a deep breath and said “I am not a prisoner. I am not a prisoner.” Now, this was a tricky decision for us. It’s almost like bringing a baby to the movie theatre (don’t worry, that won’t be us) and I won’t be hauling Ruth to a major production of Hair anytime soon, but I felt like this venture wasn’t going to leave me crying & depleted from disgruntled patron’s dirty looks.

We sat literally right next to the door for a quick exit and I made sure to leave (only twice!) before she started to get fussy. Success was had, my friends.

I did miss the first scene that R was in because Ruth was hungry, but caught the rest. The production was very funny and I was so proud of our little theatre.

Afterwards, Ruthie and I attacked the actors (mostly R) and got our photos with her. Ruth was really impressed as you can tell. She was just trying to act cool, I think. Don’t let this photo lie, though. Literally as soon as we got into the car, the cries started and only stopped after ten minutes of a particular Weezer song on repeat.

Saturday we slept on and off, forgoing the Apple Festival in favor of rest and relaxation. Next year, Ruth. Apples galore.

My brother-in-law and his wife asked us over Saturday night along with another couple to play dominoes. Lots, and I mean lots, of singing was sung, laughing was laughed, and jokes were joked.

A cake was brought out, and let’s all take a moment to see how bright that darn cake was. Seriously, how old am I??

I managed to blow them all out though. I attribute that ability to my labor breathing practice. I knew those 12 hours would come in handy!

Thank you all for a really nice birthday. Hopefully my wish will come true: getting a good night’s sleep.

I’m a Natural

Sep28

…at nursing in public. My first venture was at my brother’s house a couple weekends ago.

I mean, look how at ease I am. Can’t you tell by the look on my face? And that color does wonders for my jeans.

Ruth tends to disagree. We constantly find her with a scowl and biting her finger in disbelief that she’s stuck with us.

Tango with Arañas (minus the rose)

Sep7

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…. well, I’m still shamin’ on you because no way am I gonna let an 8-legged creature make me feel bad. You got me once in college when I stepped on your furry back, thinking it was a sock on the ground. And you almost got me the other day too. But you didn’t. No, not this time. Hah, not this time ole buddy ole pal.

But I still reacted in a way that would’ve puzzled even the most talented of horror film actors.

It was the first of a series of beautiful mornings, so the hubs and I woke up early to eat at Einstein Bros. There’s only one in all of Arkansas and, yes, we drove 20 minutes to wine and dine there. I had a coupon, surely that offset the gas? I didn’t care, actually, because in KC we literally lived within walking distance of one and, man, do I crave those shmears.

Before leaving, we went out back to try and make nice with our four-legged friends. If there’s one animal that God surely put on this planet to provide for us, it’s the cow. All they do is eat and sleep; and we are lucky enough to enjoy it’s juicy bounty of meat & milk without danger or much effort. I love them.

But they weren’t lovin’ on us that morning, so R turned to leave.

And nearly walked into this garden spider. It is so hard to show how big it is, but I do have witnesses who saw its sister. This one was tucked neatly behind the rabbit hutches, safely out of my line of sight and my foot arches. So I bravely laughed in its face for trying to scare me, and called upon its ancestors in a ceremonial dance of triumph over it.

It just sat there. I took that stance as fear, wanting to stay as still as possible in the shadow of such an angry human. Little did I know that fear was not what I saw, but arrogance.

It knew what was about to happen. And just sat there. Staring at me. Laughing on the inside.

I was still tap-dancing my way through the Shack, sauntered out the front door, and started down the steps. Oh happy day! Tra-la-la-la-la…

And then I saw it. Backyard spider’s big sister had spun a web halfway down the steps. Across the steps. On top of the steps. In fact I think it actually created steps on its web to lure me onto them. I don’t know how I kept my front-heavy body from toppling over it, but after a quick blackout session, somehow I ended back up on the deck.

And then grabbed my breasts and stomped my feet like a 3 year-old, all the while letting out a low guttural growl.

Really?

Is that how I react when confronted with my fears? Grabbing my chest? What exactly is that going to do besides protect me from becoming an Amazonian woman. Please, I’m not looking to fight with bows and arrows anytime soon. And stomping my feet? I guess at this stage in the pregnancy, it might actually cause a big enough tremor to topple an enemy, so I’ll let that one slide. Barely. Really, a low growl? The only time that actually works is if someone is coming near my plate of food.

R must have felt the minor earthquake and came outside. I no longer could talk, but pointed and grunted at the spider’s trap. He chopped off one end of the web, allowing it to fall back away from the steps.

If I could’ve hopped over the railing to the car, I would’ve. But instead had to walk the far side of the steps, white-knuckling the wood all the way down.

Halfway into our bagels and shmears, I forgot about Big Sissy the Spider.

And then we came home to find her missing. I refused to walk any further until the spider hunt was over. It didn’t take long, because guess where she ended up? Right next to my deck chair, where I’ve shared many laughs and thoughts and fears and innocent moments this past year. Right. next. to. it.

I shook my head slowly and glared at her. How dare you. Little did you know that I’m a mama bear now and will do anything to protect my … deck chair? You got that right, Big Sissy. My deck chair. So you best back that thing up.

If, in that moment, I could’ve become an amazonian woman and cut off my right breast to shoot it with a bow and arrow, I would’ve. But then R touched my arm (which made me jump because I thought it was another sister spider) and read to me about the garden spider. One insect they eat are grasshoppers. And since our front yard has become the latest Hedonism Resort for those jumpy creatures, I reluctantly agreed that it should stay.

So here I am, having to endure this big spindly thing mere inches from my favorite sitting spot and watch it eat its prey. After it’s done, it drops the carcas to the deck. So not only am I an undertaker to these mummies, but also a counselor to those still living. I sat and watched a grasshopper stand off to the side staring at the latest casualty. Was it a family member, a friend? I don’t know, but it sure looked grief-stricken.

Now let’s all hold hands and sing ‘Circle of Life.’ I’ll karate-chop you if you lay a fake spider on me though. Just a warning.

My Weekend, in Bullet Points

Aug29

To sum up:

Packing up the car for a couple nights at Beaver Lake with my siblings and sister’s friend
Making a pit-stop at Tontitown winery to listen to music with R’s friends
Within 2 minutes of meeting, asking one of the girls in the group if she’d take photos of my homebirth. (I couldn’t help it, she made the fatal mistake of showing me photos of her work: Aus10)
Accepting her polite refusal
Spending the next 20 minutes assuring her I’m not a weirdo.
When trying to make a great first impression, telling the group that because of my feminist/ women’s studies days in college, R doesn’t think a boy would survive in my womb. Therefore, he’s almost positive we’re having a girl.
Spending the next 20 minutes assuring everyone I’m not a weirdo nor a man-hater.
When introduced to the singer, who happens to be R’s boss’ brother, squealing like a groupie.
Spending the next 20 minutes assuring everyone I’m not a weirdo, man-hater, nor a groupie.
Leaving the winery and heading to Beaver Lake, singing Weezer songs at the top of our lungs.

Seeing our sweet cabin in the woods.
Thanking my brother and sister-in-law for saving the beds for us, instead of asking us to sleep on the couch.
Sharing the baby drama that no longer is, PTL!
Only getting up once in the middle of the night to use the restroom.
Stumbling over everything in my path on the way to said restroom, and waking up everyone in the living room.
Hanging out in the lake on baby inner tubes because that was the only pool item available at Walmart. Wait. I take that back, we did find a small swimming pool that we debated on buying. We were pretty sure a hole in the middle of it would be perfect for this belly.
Getting a red forehead.
Laughing.
Talking.
Listening.
Grazing on all the food in the kitchen.
Getting described as “petite” by my sister, and realizing that it has taken me being almost 9 mos pregnant before anyone on the face of this planet has ever called me petite.
Playing spoons and getting out in the first round every time.
Dancing and singing to “I want you to want me”
Getting out of breath within 3 seconds of dancing.
Putting head between my legs so as not to faint.
Repeating this sequence for the duration of the song.
Crashing at 11:30 with sunburnt bodies and more wrinkles.
Using the bathroom only once again during the night.
Waking up the house again due to stumbles.
Early morning & quiet ride to church.
Talking pregnancy with the 3 billion other girls my age that are also due within the year. Do not drink the water, N & A.
Taking a two hour nap in between movies once we got home.
Not even looking at the laundry hamper until today.
Just looked at it, and deciding to forget about it.

All in all, a good time.

Bluegrass, Carnivores, and Cankles

Aug22

R and I had a great day on Friday. He took the day off, which quite honestly surprised me, to hang out together. I was always so protective of my vacation time, only wanting to use it for something special. So for him to use it as an excuse to run around with little ole me? I was flattered.

And we had fun too.

Just as much as bowling with my nephew and nieces the weekend prior.

It had stormed all week, including the day they arrived, so we popped into the local bowling alley.

They were really impressed.

The alley is quite fancy as you can see. I told them I took them there so they didn’t feel so uncomfortable after hanging out at the luxurious Shack. You need to bring yourself down to your guests’ comfort level, you know. And the Shack really just sets the bar way too high.

Before I knew it they were off to my brother’s house the following day. It was a whirlwind of movies, pizza, guitar playing, chalkboard drawing, and There Was An Old Lady That Swallowed a Fly singing.

L later asked if they wore us out.

That’s not a loaded question or anything… But yes, I was exhausted (I sat my big bum on the couch the whole time – how could I be so tired?) and thankful there was a only a singleton in my belly and not triplets.

So R took Friday off…and we had to start the day off right.

I had leftover buttermilk that needed to be used soon, so made some pannycakes. Easy since I’d already mixed together a big batch of wheat pancake mix a while ago and stored it. Now I just have to add an egg and milk for a batch. This, with leftover ham and scrambled eggs. Happiness.

Right now, I am literally eating as if I were in high school again: Non-freaking-stop, without the metabolism. Or the sports. It’s to the point that I imagine peeing as my workout regime and get very excited when it’s been a particular busy day in the bathroom.

So I polished off my plate along with whatever R didn’t eat and headed out. We first had to stop and pick up a craigslist purchase which R is so proud of, and which I will write about later.

After that pit stop, onwards to Eureka Springs.

They were having a Bluegrass festival! And the best part? It was free.

I packed our lunch in a cooler which R lugged for a mile until we found a seat. The park is right in the middle of downtown, and is not so much a park as it is a paved square with lots of benches.

We found one in the shade facing away from the stage, looking onto the street. This was fine, because is there anything better than people watching? Or people falling? One person tripped on their way up to give the band a tip and I could not stop laughing. Later I felt bad, but not after I got a good gut laugh out of it.

Sorry, can’t help it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. Ask my mom, she’s taken the brunt of it before. And, yes, I laugh when I do it too. Settle.

R dug around the cooler to see what was for lunch. Then dug around some more. And then dug around some more.

“Uhm, where’s the meat?”

“Oh, it’s tomato & spinach pasta with a side salad of tomato, mozzarella, & basil. Great for a hot summery day, yeah?”

“I guess so.”

Folks, I’m married to a carnivore. Meat has to be somewhere on the plate otherwise the meal is incomplete. (Side note: I have made a great black & pinto bean burger that has gotten two thumbs up. Hurray!) But to be honest, for the most part I’m the same way. Especially since reliving my teenage youth, I can’t get enough of meat.

So we ate what we had, all the while R’s stomach grumbling for more protein.

I tried to divert his attention by looking at our surroundings. Eureka Springs has a great downtown, with winding roads and old store fronts.

We enjoyed watching the myriad of people walking by as well as those driving.

And then I noticed that everyone in a car would pause in front of me and Ryan to look up at us. Our bench was set higher up than the street, on a wall, allowing me to look down my nose at everyone figuratively and literally. It was perfect.

Or so I thought.

Until I realized that the very comfortable position of putting my feet on top of the cooler allowed every passerby full viewing up my skirt.

If they’re gonna be all up in my business, at least bring along a razor. You know my fear from last week’s post.

I scrambled to cover myself up and frantically looked for an excuse to get up. The bathroom in the hotel next door was starting to look might fine.

And that’s when I found it.

The stairway to heaven. No, not this stairway.

The stairway that led to this view. Complete, I might add, with misters.

I quickly plopped our things down and grabbed some seats while R bought us drinkie-poos. It’s always so lovely drinking my O’Douls in front of everyone’s glaring stares. Oh settle down, people, it’s non-alcoholic.

[Side note: For all my pregnant mama friends, the best non-alcoholic beer I’ve had to date is… wait for it… Busch Light. Can you believe that? I felt like I was in college again! After I had gained the freshman 15 of course.]

This was the best part of our day. We relaxed and talked and got misted upon. I could have sat there for hours, but R’s stomach was grumbling louder than ever. And there’s only one cure for that.

Ribs, baby.

I sat back as R attacked his plate. It was straight up Jurassic Park and I was (finally) the slim-necked herbivore with my plate of greens watching T-Rex go to town.

In less than 5 minutes dinner was eaten, and we were headed back home.

I rested what used to be my ankles on the dashboard the whole way back.

Great, great day. We were asleep by 8pm.

Nothing better.

Hangin’ Tough… 20 years later.

Jul23

…and the New Kids on the Block are still… rocking it? That doesn’t sound right at all. They’re at least still dropping to their knees for passion-filled love ballads. And 20 years later, I’m old enough to get a good laugh out of it.

We started our fancy night out with a bite to eat as my mom debated with the waiter on the similarities between Lady Gaga and Madonna.

I ate for four and then we were off to see the BOYS.

… and apparently the only boys that attended the show were those singing. Wait! I do see two boys in the photo, and they’re hanging on to dear life to their girlfriends. But mostly it was a 30-something girlfest.

Hang on, I take that back…

I sat next to a feisty group of early 20-somethings and asked if they remember New Kids back in the day. They said, “No.. we’re here for their latest album. I mean, it’s not like we’re in our thirties.” And then they dry heaved after saying such a disgusting word.

Me? I was happy. I love being in that bracket.

So after laughing at my young compadres, I took a look at the stage. What the…

Exactly how far up are we? All I know is that I was short of breath and it was snowing.

And then out of nowhere a lady with tickets for better seats showed up and handed them out to our section.

Hot Dog!

These old fogies were excited!

Especially the two die-hards: my sister-in-law and mom. I was sandwiched between them and it was almost a scene out of a Night at the Roxbury. I was bumped all over the place by those dancing hips.

<—- D, getting close-ups

P, getting close-ups —->

Me, in the middle, getting close-ups of them getting close-ups.

I turned to see what L was up to…

But she was busy searching for a “I just watched two straight hours of boy bands and survived” support group.

I do have to say, though, that it was a lot of fun hanging with the girls and laughing at the boys.

Even Baby Collier had a good time. So much so that I wasn’t woken up at 3am for my nightly “snack” (which most people would call a meal.)

Thrifting

Jan15

I always love to point out how much I hate to shop. And I do… for new things. Give me access to pre-used, bargain deals, then my mouth salivates at the thought of going store hopping. It’s to the point where I can’t even stand being in regular stores, because I think, “Oh I’m sure I can find a better deal on this.” or “Who would pay that much for this?!”

In effect, I’ve become a snob. A reverse snob, I guess.

There’s a thrift store trifecta that I hit every time I’m in the neighboring town. Even if it’s for a quick run-through due to limited time, I cannot not stop. They all help satisfy my different needs, so the steering wheel literally takes on a life of its own and plops me right in front of the door. It can’t be helped.

First stop, Goodwill.

Here I get clothes, books, bric-a-brac, and occasionally a piece of furniture.

It was at this place that I landed on a pile of discarded Eddie Bauer sweaters. If you know me or R, then you know of our love affair with EB (or Ed, as he likes us to call him.)

Then onto the Salvation Army.

Here you can find a great piece of furniture and bric-a-brac. The clothes are still too pricey (can you believe me!?), and the kitchen ware is slim.

Okay, I’m not a complete imbecile.. where I refuse to buy anything new. It’s just become a knee-jerk reaction to question the need to pay such inflated prices. I mean, yes, I will buy new and unused underwear. (However, I did buy and wear a vintage 1940s swimsuit for a summer. Discuss.)

A hairbrush? New. (This has especially been cemented in my head after working in an elementary school where those insects whose name rhymes with ‘mice’ tend to congregate. Shudder.)

If I were to jump out of a plane, then yeah, I’d pay extra to make sure the parachute was new and in working order.

See? I’m not demented.

The last stop on the holy trinity trail is just a generic THRIFT STORE (per the sign). I found this puppy while getting lost one day.

It feeds my do-it-yourself projects, my kitchen ware, knitting, and occasional piece of clothing.

It was there that I bought these bushel baskets. R thought it was a great idea, since we have an orchard not growing anywhere near us. (He never appreciates my purchases).

And who could forget the great book buy of 2010: a Gardening Encyclopedia set. The cashier rang up each book at 25 cents when I thought they’d be a dollar. Will I read them? Probably not. But I saved almost $14 people.

And I love how they look in our eames style TV stand. We found that curbside in our old KC neighborhood and I made R carry it three blocks home. You know, instead of me running ahead to get the car. I was afraid it would be snatched.

Yes, I am that person. A dumpster-diver.

There, I said it. I’m a dumpster-diver and I love it. During my sister’s annual neighborhood large-item pickup day, she and her husband would grab a six-pack, sit in their screened porch, and make fun of my fellow divers.

They don’t understand.

Then what about the Shack’s mini, almost microscopic wine (and champagne?) cellar. With my $4 wine rack and $2 carafes. I bought the carafes back when we lived in KC and they were next to 12 mini wineglasses of the same decor. Those glasses still haunt me to this day. Why I didn’t buy them, I’ll never know.

I think I didn’t want everything to be mitchy-matchy. I still get queasy about mitchy-matchy, but in this case I would’ve come to love the matching set eventually.

Note Klimt’s and my mutual friend, Judith, gazing longingly for a glass.

And then my ‘Medicinal Plant’s’ poster. At the checkout line, a lady said that she was this close to buying it.

Half of the fun is the competition. There are not several of these in the store, with more in the back storage room. It’s a one and done deal. Who knows when you’d see it again, if ever. So you have to grab fast if you like it, because others are just as quick.

For the record, I have no idea which plants these are, as they are all written in the latin names. I know one day I’ll see something outside that looks similar and then end up with poison ivy on my tongue.

But when you live in a Shack with limited storage, you have to be creative. So when I found this 60s (maybe earlier?) laundry basket, I immediately thought where it could go.

In front of our kitchen window, where I am desperately trying to revive my grandma’s plant. Remember? I said I’d baby this one forever here. Turns out I’m a liar. It’s hanging on by a thread. Sorry Mary Margaret. I’m trying.

It also holds the cute set of vintage mixing bowls, one of which holds our compost goodies.

You need storage, Carolyn? Then voila! That little guy opens up to find all of my awkwardly sized bottles. These have been stashed randomly in the kitchen, bedroom, and who knows where else.. so it pleases me to have them all in one place.

The Shack’s wallpaper & white linoleum, on the other hand does not please me. Oh well. I’m blessed to have a roof over my head.

Happy Thrifting everyone!

Just in case you were wondering..

Nov29

Here are some dos and don’ts of deciding to camp while attending a dance workshop on a blistery cold & windy weekend.

Yeah, go ahead and pack a really yummy healthy lunch. Some no-knead bread, a jar of carrot juice, maybe even some avocados.

And, sure, why not make a cozy fire to sit around.

Yes, of course use your new cast iron skillet skills for supper that night. You know, the ones you learned at this class. Only, try not to get a flat tire.

But do not.

I repeat, Do Not….

only pack skirts to wear, because you want to “look cute”. You will freeze your ass off and you’ll also get such a bad cold that it will threaten your Food Network getaway with a girlfriend the following weekend.

Just in case you were wondering, that is.

Kansan Girls Visit

Oct21

This photo at the top of White Rock Mountain is proof that we are not still hiking at this very moment.

My friends, S & L, came down for a weekend visit a couple weeks ago, and I still have bug bites as memories. They visited The Shack, we went on a hike, and then played board games until 1 in the morning. A pretty well-rounded time I must say.

When I found this hike, I saw the outlook at the top and knew this was the one. It wasn’t too far south, and you could still get some good views.

Little did I know that you literally had to call upon the native american navigational skills you’ve been studying, because there were moments when the trail disappeared. What, you didn’t study them? Neither did I, and a broken record of “Are you sure this is the trail” questioning ensued.

What. I was nervous! Two of my friends took time away from their busy lives to visit and then I lead them into the woods never to be seen from again?

L registered our names at the trailhead while reminding us what to do if we encounter a bear. I don’t know where I read that you’re supposed to scream, trip your neighbor, then run; but it seemed like sound advice to me. So I dismissed everything L read.

It was kind of warm that day and I was happy to have worn shorts, silently gloating over that fact as S & L changed into pants.

And then it started. Or ended, I guess I should say. The trail, that is.

It ended.

And we had to eyeball our way to what looked like a white rock on a mountain. That meant going through bushes. And bushes. And thorny bushes, and kinda thorny bushes, and not thorny bushes.

My legs got tore up, people. And every so often I would turn around and see…

two smiling faces going through any sort of foliage with ease.

Those smarty-pants.

[let me pause here for awkward laughter as I say, “no pun intended” but you really know that I meant to say the pun and suddenly realize that you’re required to make some sort of noise, so just do a muffled golf laugh and avoid eye-contact]

ahem.

It eventually got so bad, that after finding a map of the trail, yet not being able to decipher which way was north, we took to turning S into a sundial to figure it out.

We kinda just went forward and hoped to see a white rock somewhere. We’d even take a white flower, at that point. Anything white, in fact and we’re followin’ ya.

What we found in the meantime was a nice waterfall….

With remnants of someone’s campfire, complete with homemade chairs. There were only two, so S rolled a couple stones together and formed a third.

We decided to take a breather and snack on fruit and a sip of wine, cheersing to our inate ability to identify plants. For instance, the extremely rare reese’s pieces plant, along with the more common purple gobstopper flower. I know, we’re pretty savvy.

We hiked on and enjoyed streams of sunlight.

Then eventually found a spot to eat our lunch before hiking our way to the main overlook.

On the rock wall, we noticed engravings of various places and the distance away from there.

We followed the arrow and looked up.

Ah, there it is.

Take a deep breath and imagine sitting with your legs dangling on the other side of the wall, and a breeze blowing through your now slightly wet hair. I could’ve sat looking at that view all day.

But we couldn’t. We had to get to our little cabin in the woods before sundown. We don’t know what happens after sundown in these parts.

But I do know what happens at the cabin after sundown. Did someone say hot-tubbin’ time? More exciting than that was forcing L to wear my vintage 1950s swimsuit which I unfortunately did not get a picture of.

Forget Ralphie’s shotgun, the bra on this bathing suit could shoot your eye out. And who knows, maybe it did at one time.. because I’m pretty sure a pistol could have clear, level aim through those puppies.

The night was rounded out by a wine board game, which solidified the fact that I should not get into the wine business. S & L tried their best to help me…

Game card: “What color of wine are you drinking?”

Me: I dunno. Lemme see…. wait… it went down too fast. Ask me again.

But having Anne of Green Gables playing in the background solaced my hurt pride.

The next morning we narrowly escaped getting murdered by Garmin, as the road he took us down turned into a dry river bed. Seriously. But with S’s help, I did a 40 point turn and we made it out.

All-in-all a relaxing weekend with the girls. Thank you so much for visiting, I had a wonderful time!

“It’s (still not) my birthday” month

Sep28

This entire month, I’ve been planning (and not planning) things, using my birthday as the excuse. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t think it will ever arrive, it’s taking so long.

It kind of reminds me of a friend, who will remain nameless, that literally told me of the conception of her child the day after said event occurred. It felt like she was carrying that kid for years. Who knows, maybe she did, because he came out as big as a three year old, I swear.

Speaking of which, is it possible to give birth to an 8-yr old? That’s what I would like to do once the C & R family starts growing. I love that age.

But anyway, back to me. (oh Lord, am I now stealing the spotlight back from the twinkle of a twinkle in my eye?) My birthday. I’ve been using it as an excuse for everything.

Like when I forced some friends on a pontoon boat. It’s my birthday.

Or when I reached for that second brownie. It’s my birthday.

Or when tagging along while my bro-in-law was buying his bday gift, I bought the same thing for mine. It’s been a month and I still haven’t worn them. N, on the other hand, wore them out the door and into Starbucks where everyone asked him where he uses them. This is literally an hour after the purchase, so we had the pleasure of watching him lie to the general public on “the best” places to wear them. “Well, I normally use them canoeing, but they’re also very comfortable to work out in as well.” Oh, it was priceless… and it was also my birthday, you know.

Or when unable to find the remote to watch a movie, asked R to please press play because if he hadn’t heard already… it’s my birthday.

Or indulging myself with a 50 cent pair of salt/pepper shakers because they are reminiscent of R and me. It’s MY BIRTHDAY.

Or sleeping in that extra 15 minutes and forgoing the Shaving of the Legs. Leave me alone, it’s my birthday.

Or going to a scotch-tasting with a co-worker and realizing that I really can’t fake making a face when drinking it. I tried to cover it up by smiling extra hard when the guy came by, but it only resulted in him thinking I actually liked it and thus giving me a little bit more the next round. The irony here is that as each round increased in liquid amount, so did my liking of it. My head the next day did not. However, it was my birthday, so I let it slide.

And lastly, having a Wuthering Heights experience on the shoreline of Rhode Island.

Thank you for the birthday surprise trip, R.

And still, it is not my birthday yet. Even I’m annoyed. I hope we do nothing, because, you guessed it… It’s my birthday (tomorrow).

Beware of Freckles.

Sep15

We were supposed to go to this a month ago. But it didn’t happen.

It was a Dutch Oven Workshop at a nearby state park. We woke up early on a saturday morning, actually put on work-out clothes and did a workout (as opposed to putting on work-out clothes and then heading to a breakfast joint for bacon and white gravy), boiled up some hot coffee for our thermos, and hit the road.

Literally 2.5 miles into the drive, R asked me to hand over the thermos for a quick drink. I laughingly said, “Maybe you should watch the road. Remember what happened the other night?” and then, feeling guilty, I gave in and gave him the lid for sip. He took his eyes off the two lane country road and..

BALUMP.

The tire popped.

I sat there sitting in the nearest driveway telling myself to schedule a massage asap or there was going to be a warrant out for little miss carolyn.

You see, a few nights prior we had visited some friends for dessert and on the way to their house another incident happened. A “I’m glad no children were riding their bikes along the sidewalk” type of one.

A right-hand turn into their neighborhood caused R’s head to slightly face me. In doing so, the freckles on my legs caught his attention. And if any of you know R, you are quick to realize that he cannot do more than two things at once. So why not test this theory while driving a one ton piece of machinery, shall we?

He saw the freckles and proceeded to lean over to point out each of them with this right index finger. He repeated “freckle, freckle, freckle, freckle”.

And I looked up at the same instant our car hit the curb, and then hit the grass next to the curb, and then the sidewalk next to the grass next to the curb.

R was still pointing out freckles. It wasn’t until I screamed that he jerked the car back onto the road.

Now our already dirty, no-muffler-because-it-still-runs-fine-and-we-don’t-like-spending-that-extra-money-on-that-car car makes a weird scraping sound anytime we make a left hand turn. Great.

Thank you melanin.

So our flat tire happened on the way to the first class and they offered to move us to the second one the following month.

And here we are. Only two other couples attended: one from South Africa, the other from Texas. We slipped into the back and I spied the menu on the board.

Ahhhhh yeaaaaah. (Side note: Does anyone else remember the show were two guys would rub their bums in chocolate pudding while saying Ahhhh yeaaaaah? Or am I the only one who gets that visual every time.)

Well, anyway, if pudding had been on the menu, I probably would’ve had to reenact that skit for the class, so let us all bow our heads in thanksgiving that it was not.

Each couple paired off to do a dish. R was stuck with me even though when asked if we all wanted to stay with our spouses, he responded without glancing “Is she watching me as I answer? Then, fine.”

‘Preciatecha, R.

(Remember? That was the first Arkansas slang I heard when we moved down here. ‘Preciatecha. Another since moving to a smaller town: “So-and-so is a mess.” I’ve discovered this can be used as an insult or affectionately. With the wide range of uses, you can imagine how often it’s thrown out there and for some reason it takes all that I have to swallow a low guttural growl each time it’s said. I know what you’re thinking….. I’m a mess.)

R and I tackled the Charley Bread which was a basic corn bread recipe with a can of creamed corn added.

Hello!

Mama hasn’t been fed this good in a looong time! And by long, I mean since about 8 that morning. Each meal seems like eons since the last…and my mouth was beginning to water, especially every time they opened the peach cobbler lid to check on it.

R checked on our bread and it was coming along nicely. We used the stacking method of heating the dutch oven which threw the time to cook it off. So it ended coming out around the same time as dessert. No one complained.

And then we all sat down for our picnic in the woods. R and I chatted it up with the park ranger, because he graduated from K-State too! What a small world.

It was a good class, I’d take another one. We ending up buying a dutch oven from them and we’re so excited to put it to use.

If anyone has any tips or recipes, I’d love to have them!

Watering Hole

Aug17

On down the road from The Shack we noticed cars parked on the side. As we passed, we craned our necks to see what was down there but only caught a glimpse of this dirt road.

So one day we decided to find out what was going on…

Bathing suits – check.

Towels – check.

Leaving Carolyn in the dust while the roommates get caught up in conversation – check, check, and check.

We turned the corner at the bottom and was immediately greeted with a nice mural.

R practiced his best whud-up stance in case the muralists decided to get unfriendly. You know, because doesn’t every gang hang out by creeks in rural Arkansas?

But guess what – No gangs! Only a wonderfully cold watering hole with rope swing included. People had their chairs, their drinkie-poos, and picnics packed. What a nice surprise, especially during this heat wave we’ve had.

Y is for Yawn.

Jul19

Definitely not for Young. Last weekend, our local casino hosted a live concert for Eve 6. Hello 1998!

The roommates and I looked at each other, debated, and then agreed that if it were even just 5 years ago, there would be no question about going folks. So now we have to go whether we want to or not if only to prove that we have just as much energy as we did back then.

The concert kicked off at 10pm which in college was the time we would have just started getting ready. I was ready for the local-breakfast-joint portion of the night by 9:45.

We hung in there for the night, occasionally yelling how absolutely Young we all are, had a couple cocktails, played a few hands of blackjack and even ate breakfast at the casino itself.

When we got into the car, exhausted, we felt like we really lived up to our college days.

And then we looked at the clock. It was barely after midnight.

Sigh.

Moving on to a new phase in our lives, I guess.

Contra Twirling Fix

Jun20

R really does have an adventurous spirit and game to try most anything. Thank goodness too, otherwise being bossy wouldn’t be as much fun.

A co-worker had mentioned that she attends a contra dance once a month in Fayetteville and suggested I go. Well, it only took a few months to find the time to attend one, but last night R and I finally did.

My face positively hurts today from smiling so much. It was like my Jared Haase smile times a hundred. You remember the smile. It still haunts me.

I was pondering what to tell you to not do if attending a contra dance. Oh, how about wear an all white outfit with no second layering and then sweat like you’re in a sauna. Everytime someone put their hand on my back, I felt them pull away like it’d just been burned.

So while learning the actual dance routine, a conversational routine started to emerge…

[hand jerks away from my back]

“I’m so sorry. I never sweat like this. I don’t even have sweat glands.”

[he smiles apologetically for so obviously showing his repulsion, but then realizes that my sweat caused a one person wet t-shirt contest (which I STILL lost, damn genes) and returns hand to my lower back.]

“it’s okay, I know I’m disgusting. Please don’t shut me up in an dungeon somewhere a la Buffalo Bill”

[his eyes widen and then immediately twirls me over to the next victim whether it was time to or not]

And then it just repeats. Embarrasingly so.

I finally figured out how to stop that line of conversation.

And then the tale of the father-son duo.

They. were. awesome.

I first turned to dance with the son (in the photo below) who is half my age and literally half my size. I smiled sweetly at him, thinking that the more mammoth of the two of us would have to lead.

Um no.

He grabbed my hand, took hold of my back and twirled me like he was trying to start a fire on the floor. I have never. I repeat, never been spun so fast in my life. The first time I kind of just stared at the blurry faces going by and when he let go so I could dance to the middle of the circle with the rest of the girls, I literally stumbled over my left foot and skidded to the center.

No one made eye contact with me, which as everyone knows is much more embarrasing than if they had only laughed at me.

The next time I was more prepared and stared at his face the whole time. I noticed that he never quite looked back at me, but instead was watching the rest of the group and I finally realized it was so he knew when to spin me out to the next move. Professional. I was impressed.

Then the dad asked me to dance. Here we fricken go again. It doesn’t look like we were going fast in the above photo, but I was hanging on for dear life. It was so much fun.

Notice the Jared Hasse grin. And sweaty face.

I managed to catch R in action too. He really improved by the end of the night. I think I just might make a dancer out of him after all.

We both agreed that we are going to insist that our sons know how to lead on the dance floor. Shouldn’t that just be a basic skill learned by all men?

After three straight hours of dancing, we were exhausted. As we were putting the chairs away, the duo who were playing (a fiddle and a banjo — loved it), played a nice waltz. I was asked to dance and, really, what better way to end the evening than with a slow waltz.

This is definitely going to happen again… because I’m already coming down off my twirling high.

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