Stop kicking my seat and a lewd reindeer games

On a recent trip back east, I was traveling alone with the Little Nugget on a plane bound for the promised land when the gentlemen in front of me reclined his seat all the way leaving me, my burgeoning 6.5 month belly and toddler little space to breath let alone move. About mid-flight, he turned and asked me if I could get my kid to stop kicking his seat. I apologized profusely and then fought back the tears (because everything makes me well up these days including that blasted Christmas Shoes song they insist on playing on the radio. Why after six years of hearing it does it still make me cry, I'm unsure but it does and that, in itself, is embarrassing). Here's the thing: the Little Nugget wasn't kicking his seat but due to my increased size and a toddler sitting on my lap, every time we moved or shifted position, one of us bumped his seat. I should have been more conscious of my every movement but that is difficult to do when his headrest was practically in my lap. I did not share this revelation with my annoyed fellow passenger but the look on his face when I stood with my very pregnant self holding a toddler was pretty sweet.

In all of our numerous travels since the arrival of the Little Nugget, I've not run into any real problems with fellow passengers; this was the first. Oh, LN was "that" baby on a plane once but we did everything we could to keep him from screaming bloody murder from rocking to shushing to feeding to bouncing and when exiting the plane a kindly grandmotherly lady said she appreciated how hard we were working to quiet our baby and that said a lot. That, too, made me cry. Anywho, since we are well into the travel season, I thought I'd pass along some good tips and tricks I've picked up in my 26+ airline trips with the Little Nugget since his first flight at eight weeks.

First, let me say that my travel tips do not include travel by car. This is strictly air travel. The current location of our domicile does not lend well to road trips so we are frequent fliers all the way (minus the first class upgrades and snappy suits). The longest road trip the Little Nugget has ever endured was 2.5 hours and that was with three adults in the car to entertain him. To all of you road trippers: good luck and godspeed. Additionally, we started traveling with the Little Nugget when he was eight weeks old and since then he'd probably logged about two dozen round trip flights. He's now 19 months so we have yet to travel with a full-blown toddler and that might be another beast but up to now, this is what has worked for us:

1. Overpack: I know this is every male's nightmare suggestion but I don't mean packing 14 pairs of shoes for yourself or your child (although combined, that's not too shabby) or packing every adorable outfit in his closet. No, no, I am referring to your diaper bag or whatever chic carryall you tote around and manage to carry an obscene amount of stuff in. Stock up on diapers, wipes, formula/milk/water, snacks, meals, books and a change of clothes (for the real youngins). If you're scheduled to travel on a two hour flight, remember you'll be at the airport early to check in plus you'll have to wait for your bags when you arrive (unless you carry everything on which is awesome and I want to know how you do it) so you're looking at at least five hours (depending on how long your trip to and from the airport is) which more than likely includes two meals, multiple diaper changes and countless readings of Brown Bear, Brown Bear. BUT this does not include delays or extended flights because of busy air traffic patterns.

I once had to wait in the Detroit airport for six hours longer than I had anticipated and searched every newsstand and snack shop in two terminals and ended up paying $4 for a diaper because I'd finally run out and the Little Nugget was having a productive afternoon. To say that forking over $4 for one diaper was a painful experience is an understatement but it had to be done. Airports aren't the most baby/kid friendly environments. Formula is extremely hard to find, diapers are 1 million times more expensive (I don't do math so that's a general estimation) and there aren't tons of options in the pureed or finger foods division unless your child is going to survive on Goldfish alone (see item 2). Be prepared, you'll thank yourself.

Also, I always pack: Motrin, nail clippers, a thermometer, nasal aspirator (the really good one they give you at the hospital) whenever we travel. If you get to the point of needing a thermometer, nasal aspirator or Motrin, you need it right then and don't want to have to go searching for the closest CVS and I guarantee you airport snack shops do not offer nasal aspirators in their offering of goods. And little kids' nails grow amazingly fast, so just throw those in the bag as well.

2. Your child can survive on Goldfish for a day. So, let's say that you are traveling and your sweet little bippy is refusing to eat any of the nutritious food you brought for him and will only eat Goldfish. In fact, the only thing that will keep him from melting into tears is a constant stream of Goldfish. First, thank your lucky stars that you've found the thing that will keep him happy. Second, keep him happy! So, he's consumed his weight in Goldfish? He's out of his element, there are weird smells, even weirder people trying to get up in his grill and tell him how cute he is and he is experiencing serious sensory overload. Give him a break and pass the Goldfish.

3. Traveling with baby gear. Until you've traveled with children and all of their stuff you cannot possibly understand why bringing a car seat, a stroller, a huge suitcase, a bulging diaper bag, etc. is remotely necessary and you look at all of those families wrestling with the above mentioned items and say to yourself "I'll never look like that". Maybe you won't but maybe you will and then won't you feel like a heel? Be kind to your kid-toting fellow travel. It might be you one day. I digress....most airlines allow you to check one baby item free of charge. I suggest checking the car seat because it is huge and cumbersome and won't likely fit through the X-ray machines and that freaks TSA out. Plus, few of them actually fit in the ever shrinking airplane seats so check it and forget it. Also, buy a cheap-0 umbrella stroller to plane-side check. The huge travel system strollers are exactly that...huge and if something happens to the umbrella stroller, you're out $40 instead of hundreds of dollars. Plus, you can hang a lot of stuff on the stroller as you traipse through the airport and that is a definite bonus! With that said, the first thing you should put on the X-ray machine conveyor belt is the stroller so it's the first thing that comes out and you can strap your nugget in while you wait for the rest of your stuff to come through and likely have to redress. Plus, it will make you look like you know what you're doing. SCORE!

4. Make use of the family restroom. Okay, I have to make a little announcement here: the family restrooms in airports are NOT a quiet, private place for men to spend 30-45 minutes doing whatever it is that is done in that amount of time in a public restroom. During my six hour layover in the Detroit airport, I had to endure highly offensive smells after a gentleman had exited the restroom on several occasions. There is no need to subject my child to that. That's what the men's bathroom is for: use it. Additionally, while changing the Little Nugget's diaper, an impatient and childless man kept knocking on the door wondering what was taking so long. Seriously? Unless you have a condition that prevents you from being either a man or a woman, thus the need for a unisex bathroom, and this condition also prevents you from having any kind of patience, please do not ask me what is taking so long. For the rest of you traveling with children or aging parents in wheelchairs, the family restrooms are roomy (to hold all of your bags, strollers and kids) and you can change diapers, use the facilities all without one of you having to keep the little one from licking the toilet bowl in a crammed stall.

5. Get over your germaphobia. I'm a recovering germaphobe, especially in public places. The only thing more disgusting than an airport floor is your eight month old crawling on it or you 18 month old putting his mouth on one of the chairs at the gate (check gag reflex). I tried to bring a blanket for the Little Nugget to sit on on the floor but why sit when you can crawl? Why crawl when you can walk? Why not touch a trash can and then stick your hands in your mouth? Carry some handiwipes and hand sanitizer and do what you can to contain some of the more groddy explorations (like in the family restroom) but recognize that the more energy your tyke expends in the airport is less energy he has to expend on the airplane.

6. Entertainment. For little ones, bring silent toys. Do not subject other passengers to a pingey version of the Itsy Bitsy Spider whining from a plushy spider toy or a telephone that lights up and says "Hello! Hola! Let's call Grandma!" Let's be honest: those toys are annoying. I'm annoyed by those toys in the comfort of my own home when I have to hear it 100 times a day. Even if you can turn the sound off, leave them at home. Little kids (under two) know what toys can do and they don't understand why it is okay to turn it on sometimes but not other times. Bring lots of books (quiet ones that don't have sound effects), a favorite stuffed animal or little toys that can easily stow and go. For older kids with Leapsters and other such toys turn the sound off. This goes for adults playing games on their Smartphones. You are not traveling in a vacuum, be courteous to your fellow passengers which leads me to my final point...

7. Be courteous to your fellow passengers! What I am about to say might be shocking, but some people don't have children and don't understand that sometimes your very own sweet as pie little cherub acts in ways you cannot explain or thwart. If that shocked you, the next part is going to blow your mind: some people don't even like children. It's true, they don't even like your adorable child who is smarter, sweeter and more well-behaved than other hooligan children. With that in mind, realize that not everyone wants to entertain your child or talk to him or thinks it's cute when he screams "poooooooop!" on the plane. Keep your kids to yourself. If you let them walk around the airport with you, keep them from treading underfoot of other passengers. And don't let them touch other people's things. This is a great time to introduce the theory of private property.

You are in charge of your brood while traveling and this includes keeping the kiddos entertained and their behavior in check. Do not rely on a flight attendant or another passenger to tell your child to stop running up and down the aisles. I once sat behind a family on a plane with three young children. The mother was clearly exhausted and was trying to keep the older ones entertained. The dad was editing a presentation on, of all things, parenting while his youngest daughter (maybe 3 years old) kept climbing out of her seat, running in the aisles and bothering the passengers around her. The dad looked over a few times and told her to stop but that didn't do much. Several flight attendants came by and asked the girl to sit in her seat to which she said "no" while the mom and dad said nothing. The dad told the little girl to go to the bathroom with her mother and she refused. Twenty minutes later, as we were getting ready the exit the plane, the father realized that instead of going to the lavatory with her mother, the girl had gone to the bathroom in her seat and I'm talking the kind of bathroom activity that one can get e.Coli from. Gross. He got very angry and told the little girl how bad she was but she was quite proud of herself. He didn't mention it to the flight attendant when he exited the plane. I, however, did mention it to the flight attendant so she/he wouldn't be subjected to a nasty surprise and maybe spare the next passenger from sitting in what the little girl left behind. I, though at the time childless, was utterly appalled. I would like to think 98 percent of the rest of the population would have also been appalled by the parent, the child and the parent's lack of parenting. Don't let this be you.

Also, smile and be friendly with airport/airline staff. My mama always said you'll draw more flies with honey than with vinegar and while you don't want to be swarmed with flies, put a smile on your face and be gracious when someone offers to help or has checked you in and given you a seat by yourself.

On a completely unrelated note, while traveling through my neighborhood this morning, I came upon this:

This is awful and not at all Christmasy. This is the home of two teenagers who's "friends" often TP their house and I can only assume are responsible for this. This is a perfect reason for why we will never have any type of animal lawn ornaments....or teenagers.

I'm domestic...who knew?

As of late, I've been thrice accused of being quaintly domestic. I say accused because for most of my life I would have taken offense to this and, in all likelihood, still do. Do I bake things from scratch? Yes. Do I wear an apron while doing so? You bet your bottom dollar. Do I try to keep the house clean? I do; but do I like cleaning? Hardly. Not a day goes by where I don't wish for my home to clean itself or for a cleaning lady to show herself at my front door and scrub the hardwood floors until she can see her reflection in them. What a glorious day that would be. When I maintained jobs prior to the arrival of the Little Nugget, I took my jobs seriously and this is no different. Since I’ve taken a hiatus from the mainstream working world, my current jobs include child rearing, nutritionist and chef, teacher, maintainer of home decor and health provider, just to name a few. Why not do those jobs well, right? This is what I am talking about!

Now, I will say that last week the Husband came home in the middle of the day completely unannounced (Who authorized this? Not I, my friends, not I.). Anywho, when he breezed in the door, I was sitting on the couch in my stretchy pants, watching HGTV while finishing my lunch consisting of mostly grapes. The Husband took in the scene and announced that if this was what staying at home looked like, he was all about it. Immediately, I proceeded to inform him that this was NOT the norm and I'd already fed the Little Nugget breakfast, dressed in clothing appropriate to be seen in by members of the community, taken the Little Nugget to music class, fed him lunch, cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors, changed into stretchy pants because I intended on working out (which these days, I'm counting the intention as a medium calorie burn) and sent some emails and it was only 1 o'clock. After I ranted through the list I may have said something about sticking that in his businessman coffer but my recollection about that is fairly foggy.

With all of that said, I spent most of yesterday baking a most delicious apple pie from the Houston Junior League cookbook, Peace Meals, for my bimonthly Dinner Club. There I was, the picture of modern domesticity in my maternity skinny jeans (not to worry, the irony of a maternity skinny jean is not lost on me. And while nothing but my ankles is remotely svelte these days, I have to highlight my smallest--for the time being--feature) and turtle neck with a apron and knit slippers, listening to Pandora on the iPad while slicing apples and putting in "pinches" of this or that. I made a pie once before in my life and am pretty sure I used pre-made crust but it was not a memorable pie and I blame that on the pie crust, not the fact that in all likelihood, I probably botched the recipe. Anywho, the Big as Texas Apple Brandy pie is quite a project but it is delicious and would make a most lovely centerpiece on your Thanksgiving dessert table. Warning: if you are trying to watch your figure during this holiday season then proceed no further. The very reading of this recipe will cause you to have to log an extra 30 minutes on the Elliptical machine. Additionally, do not serve to your Uncle Howie who is celebrating 12 years sober this Thanksgiving. He will remove from his will and curse your name while dialing up his sponsor. With that said I present to you the Big as Texas Brandy Apple Pie recipe:

Crust
3 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 pinch mace (who has this in their kitchen? Use allspice instead)
1 1/4 cups butter
1/2 cup shortening
1/4 cup brandy, chilled
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
1 egg

Filling
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1 1/2 tbsp cornstarch
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp allspice
4 Golden Delicious apples, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced (I peeled them, then cored them, then cut them in fourths and sliced the fourths pretty thinly)
4 Granny Smith apples, peeled, coded, and thinly sliced (I peeled them, then cored them, then cut them in fourths and sliced the fourths pretty thinly)
1/4 cup brandy
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
1 tbsp butter, cut into small pieces
1 egg yolk

Crust:
1. In a large bowl, sift flours, sugar, salt, baking powder and mace (allspice).
2. Cut in butter and shortening with a pastry blender until pea-sized clumps form (I didn't even know what a pastry blender was but lo and behold I had one! It came with my electric hand mixer and the Little Nugget loves playing with it which is why I found it under the island. Additionally, I’d recommend letting the butter soften a bit otherwise the blender will send the flour flying...not that that happened to me...)
3. In a small bowl, whisk together the brandy, vanilla and egg.
4. Pour the egg mixture into the flour mixture and blend together with a fork until the mixture is moist and holds together.
5. Turn the dough out onto work surface and divide into two halves.
6. Sprinkle with flour and sugar to coat.
7. Place each half on a piece of plastic wrap and flatten dough to form two discs. Wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking (Make the dough the day before and let it hang out in the refrigerator overnight).

Filling
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Remove dough from refrigerator and let warm to room temperature.
3. Butter and flour a 12 inch pie plate and set aside.
4. In a medium bowl, sift together the sugars, flour, cornstarch, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and allspice
5. Put apple slices in a large bowl.
6. In a small bowl, mix brandy and vanilla. Pour mixture over apples.
7. Add three fourths of the flour mixture to the apples and toss to combine.
8. Place a sheet of parchment paper on a work surface and sprinkle with enough flour and sugar to coat lightly (you can also use plastic wrap but parchment paper works like a dream).
9. Place one disc of dough on parchment and place another piece of parchment on top. Roll out the dough between the parchment to form a 14-inch circle.
10. Peel off top layer of parchment paper and flip dough over the prepared pie plate.
11. Peel off remaining layer of parchment and trim edges of dough to one inch; reserve trimmings.
12. Sprinkle the remaining flour mixture into the bottom of the pastry lined pie plate and then fill pie plate with apple mixture, mounding the apples in the center and dot with butter.
13. Roll out the second disc of dough between the parchment and follow same process as above.
14. Lay the dough over the apples and cut 3-4 vents.
15. Trim edges to one inch and seal by crimping the edges.
16. Brush the top of the pie with the reserved egg yolk and, if desired, attach decorate shapes made with crust trimmings (roll out trimmings and use a cookie cutter to make shapes).
17. Sprinkle the top with sugar.
18. Place pie on a baking sheet to catch any overflow (and there will be overflow) during baking.
19. Loosely cover pie with aluminum foil.
20. Bake for 1 hour.
21. Reduce oven temperature to 375 degrees and continue baking for 50 minutes.
22. Remove aluminum foil and bake for additional 10 minutes so pie turns golden brown.
23. Serve warm with ice cream and eat your heart out!

Keep it classy

It's been a long time but I've been percolating on a few things and while at the dentist yesterday, today's topic was fortified by the comments of two witting ladies. First, I will say that I discovered when I was pregnant with the Infant (who really isn't an infant anymore but he's still a cute little nugget which is how I will refer to him henceforth) that the verbal restraint shown by most in polite society goes out the window when speaking to a lady sporting a baby bump. For example, take the perfect stranger asking if I was planning for a traditional (I will not use the word she used) birth or another kind of birth. Or the man who rested his hand on my rotund midsection and left it there while continuing regular conversation. Gross.

Prior to becoming the size of a Shetland pony, if anyone had asked me anything about any part of my body covered by a modest bathing suit, I likely would have called the police because surely the person could be cited for lewd conduct and I would have avoided said person like the ebola virus, but once I was in the family way it was like I was surrounded with people who's manners had been attacked by the ebola virus and turned to mush. And I assure you that it does not stop once you actually have the child. Eventually it just switches to comments about your child and your apparent inability to properly feed, cloth, discipline or get the baby food stains out of white onesies which all clearly reflects your complete failure as a parent. The worst part is that these comments aren't uttered by the male species who, bless their hearts, just don't know any better but they come from the mouths of mothers themselves. For shame, baby mamas, for shame.

So while at the dentist yesterday, one of the dental hygienists was kind enough to take the Little Nugget around the office while I had a little checkup and when she returned him to me she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! How much does he weigh?" When I told her he was a 25 pounder she proclaimed to have never carried a heavier child and surely I had back problems. One of her co-workers chimed in that she knew a three year old who only weighed 27 pounds which, I assume, was to serve as evidence that my child was indeed a porker. Now, I happen to know that the Little Nugget is right in the middle of the bell curve for weight and is therefore completly average. But what struck me is that both of these women were mothers and felt it was their duty to inform me that my child was indeed not normal.

Now, I've put together a short list of all of the things that either I've heard from perfect strangers/people I know (and used to like) or friends have reported to me that should NEVER be repeated to another mother from now until the end of time. Spread the word.

To the pregnant lady:
1. Should you really be eating/drinking/holding/looking at that?
There are no shortage of pregnancy books out there and reading the Internet is enough to scare anyone to pieces so the added questioning of choices made while pregnant is just unnecessary. And do I ask you if you should be smoking, drinking Pepsi and eating pork rinds? I didn't think so.

2. Do you plan on having natural childbirth because it is so much better for the baby?
This makes drug-loving women like myself want to start the epidural right then and there. So I guess that means the answer is no.

3. Whoa, you are HUGE!
No woman wants to hear these words EVER unless she is a female body builder named Darla. It is quite likely the woman has a mirror at home or realized her own girth when she tried to pull on her elastic waisted pants that had clearly shrunk in the wash. She knows. Tell her you've never seen a more radiant pregnant person and hope she is feeling as great as she looks. She will love you and not include snarky comments about you on her blog.

4. When I was pregnant, I ran seven miles everyday and only gained 15 pounds.
Congratulations! I have to go waddle off that chocolate cake I had for lunch.

4. How far dilated are you?
Unless you would ask this of a non-pregnant person, do not ask it of a pregnant person. At this point a woman's modesty is almost completely depleted and will be completely shredded shortly when she enters the hospital for the actual birth so let her hold onto one last little bit of it by not asking her about the state of her private business.

Actually, that is probably a really good rule to live by: if it would be socially inappropriate to say/touch a non-pregnant person, odds on favorite that it is socially inappropriate to do it to the child-bearing among us.

To the mother:
1. You only breastfed for X days/weeks/months/years? Didn't you want your baby to thrive?
No, as a matter of fact, I put my baby on the failure to thrive track from day one. You mess with the bull, you get the horns.

2. How old is your baby? That's the biggest X month old I've ever seen. OR He's a BIG boy for X months. OR My friend's baby is the same age and only half that size.
Some babies are big. Some are small. Some are short and some are tall. Don't worry, I hear the tsk-tsk'ing under the breath implying that somehow I am to blame for his sizable size and I'll be the one to blame when he grows up to be a contestant on the Biggest Loser but honestly, he's a baby. If my four year old is 75 pounds, then you can scold me. Feel free to comment on how smart he is or how advanced he seems. Every mother on the planet will welcome comments about how her children are well above average.

3. My kids never did that.
While I do realize the power of selective memory, your kids did do that and it likely made you want to crawl under a rock when they did just like I want to right now. But thanks for the pick me up!

4. I read that feeding your kid cookies/crackers/juice/milk/parsley/ jicama sets them up for low SAT scores/D's in Spanish/minimum wage jobs/losing their retirement?
Look, there's a lot of information out there and some would lead us to believe that unless we all eat organic ginger root, mankind is headed for certain demise by 2020. If I spend my life reading every scary thing about raising children, I would surely go nuts. But as for the D's in Spanish, I guess he didn't watch enough Dora the Explorer.

This is just the tip of the iceberg people. Pandora's box has been opened and the darned thing just won't close. Let's do our part to eradicate poor manners toward pregnant people and mothers today! Write your congressman.

Closet horrors

This evening, I decided to take control off my closet which, over the past few months, has turned into a hodge-podge of clothing from various seasons which organized by neither type nor color. Order needed to be restored STAT. I also recently watched a show on obsessive hoarding and I am scared to death of becoming a hoarder. I have zero hoarding tendencies but how can I be certain that one day I won't wake up and burrow through the mountains of clothes and papers to find my child? You can never be too careful. I was also in search of items to donate to the Junior League consignment shop and thought, while I consider myself a mostly fashionable girl, surely there would be a thing or two that had overstayed its welcome in my closet. What I discovered in my very own closet nearly brought me to tears and it is with a heavy heart that I bring these items to your attention. Perhaps a public shaming would be cathartic but, maybe, just maybe, it will put your mind at ease when you go through your own closet and find similarly horrific or even less offensive items.

Now, I also happened upon those items that I'll likely never wear again but with the type of hope that sent this country into the hands of the Democrats, I tucked them away for safe keeping on the chance I could ever squeeze into them again. The label on that box reads: Small--as in you must be small to open this. Sigh.

Back to the bad stuff:
1. A black tube top that was so small it looked like it would barely serve as a neck warmer let alone a top. I cannot recall exactly when I purchased said piece of cloth but I assure you it was not in this decade. For shame.

2. White 2" inseam shorts. Really? When would I have possibly had an excuse to wear those? There isn't one.

3. A too-big Maxi dress. It was too big when I bought it but perhaps I thought I'd grow into it. I haven't. And I'm barely 5'4", Maxi dresses make me look like a pup tent with a head. Cognitive dissonance? And how.

4. A bolero sweater type thing (not a shrug). I think it was a gift but, if it was, it was a gift years ago and should have been donated to a good cause all those years ago.

5. A SHRUG! Made of metallic-gold thread. And it was kind of crocheted. There are no words.

6. White leggings. WHITE LEGGINGS? Are you kidding me?! I want to become a hermit. I must also confess that these were purchased within the last year. I KNOW! Before you judge too harshly remember that I did bring a child into the world within the last year and that clearly messes with one's decision-making and, apparently, tastes.

There were also some less offensive items that I'm sure someone will find appealing and perhaps my tragedies will be someone else's treasure. Or perhaps they will provide inspiration for a future blog post for some unsuspecting consignment shopper.

Jean diapers...yes, you read that correctly

Just when I thought the diapering market was all shored up and couldn't possibly withstand the introduction of another niche product, Huggies stepped up to the plate. A few months ago, Huggies' introduced their Limited Edition Denim diapers. I'm not kidding. Perhaps you've been subjected to their television commerical or you've visited the website which showcases a mini Danny Zuko looking too cool for school in his denim duds: http://www.huggies.com/en-US/promotions/jeans. In case there was any doubt in your mind, the Infant will NOT be sauntering down the street in a diaper, let alone a denim diaper.

The only reason I can see that they deemed them "limited edition" was to give the impression of exclusivity and we all know I love a good bit of exclusivity but I draw the line at jean diapers. Apparently for this grandfatherly gentleman at Babies R Us, denim diapers were EXACTLY what he was looking for and perhaps afraid they truly were "limited," bought them in bulk. I need to believe that his son or daughter graciously thanked him for the gift of the denim diaper and quickly made his/her way to the store to return them. Let me, at least, have that.

Get into my van

I have to share a story with you that didn't happen in Kansas and didn't happen to me but it did happen in one of my favorite states, Maine, to one of my kinfolk, my little sister, who we'll refer to as Lil' J. It had me laughing so hard I thought I might herniate a disc and I hope you, too, will find it as enjoyable minus the sciatica.

So, Lil' J is working at the same summer camp we both worked at in college and where I met the Husband. It's an all-girls, residential, 7 week camp located in Maine. Think of the camp in the movie Parent Trap, the first one, not the second one with Lindsay Lohan before she starting accessorizing with SCRAM bracelets. It's a glorious place to spend a summer.


Lil' J went to camp early to help get organized for the summer and was working in the front office before pre-camp started. Pre-camp is when all of the counselors arrive and learn about camp operations, set up their respective activity centers and learn the camp lingo (Greenie=bathroom; Bubbie=person who inspects bunks after clean-up and removes candy contraband; Ognog=old girl, new old girl talent show). One morning, Lil' J's boss, Nancy, asked her to run some camp-related errands. Lil' J took a camp van and rolled out.

Before returning to camp, Lil' J called Nancy to see if there was anything else she needed to do while she was out. Nancy told her that there was a wicked (I sound like an authentic Mainer!) storm moving in and there were some counselors that had signed out for a run and Nancy asked Lil' J to pick them up on her way back. Lil' J made her way back to camp and came upon two girls running on the road. Since Lil' J didn't know the girls she was supposed to pick up, she assumed these two girls running on the Maine backroads near camp were the ones she was supposed to round up so she pulled over, rolled down her window and said, "Hey, girls, sorry to interrupt your run but Nancy said there was a thunderstorm rolling in and she asked me to pick you up and take you back to camp." The girls hopped into the van and Lil' J began driving back to camp. As they drove, the conversation went a little something like this:


Lil' J: Sorry to have interrupted your run, you really looked like you were in the zone, but Nancy was really worried.
Runner #1: Umm...who is Nancy?
Lil' J (a little perplexed): Nancy M. Our boss. The lady who hired you to work at TLC.
Runner #2: We don't work at TLC.
Lil' J: Wait...WHAAAAAT?
Runner #1: We work at Fernwood.


It was at this point that Lil' J realized that she had just abducted two young women by inviting them into her mildly creepy 18 passenger van (this was the point in the story when I made several unladylike snorting sounds as I was overcome with laughter). With the thunder and lightning already booming around them, she offered to drive them to Fernwood (a different camp a few miles down the road) but they declined and asked to be let out of the van on the side of the road. The last she saw of them, they were running at a full tilt away from her van and for a moment she felt slightly ashamed but quickly recovered and wondered why the heck they got in her van if they didn't even know who Nancy was?! Seriously!

She pulled herself together and made her way back toward camp. She happened upon another runner and rolled down the window and asked if the girl worked at TLC. The runner confirmed her status as a TLC employee and again, Lil' J invited her into her van. The girl hopped in and Lil' J began to think it was just far too easy to pick up camp counselors in the backwoods of Maine. I think this serves to illustrate that we need a refresher course on not getting into vans with strangers, especially if you don't know Nancy.

Slurpees and pegging your jeans

I retrieved the latest Real Simple (RS) magazine from my mailbox yesterday and was excited to cozy up with the latest RS-identified trends and glean other information I didn't know I needed to know until I read it. Now, RS is my kind of magazine these days. It doesn't boast scandalous taglines on the cover like: "So you made out with your boss? No problem!" or "What does your underwear say about you?" or "107 New ways to seduce your man TONIGHT!" (seriously...can there really be 107, let alone 7, "new" things that those magazines haven't covered in previous installments?) or any other equally mortifying large print title you might find among the saucier mags. I can read Real Simple in a public place without wondering if the guy across from me at the airport really wonders if I made out with my boss or has any thoughts about my under pinnings.

My mag of choice includes items I find interesting like mini home improvement projects or crafty ideas, home decor, fashion articles, reviews on the best tooth whitening toothpaste, recipes, how to fashionably organize one's home, cleaning product reviews, and those human interest stories that rip your heart out and break it to pieces. Upon review, a few of those items sound hardly more interesting than dry toast but what can I say? On occasion, I've been known to be a fan of dry toast.

Back to the crux of this post... I was only a few pages into the mag when I came upon a most glorious piece of information: the 7-11 Slurpee is celebrating its 44th anniversary in July. Now, this is cause for celebration. In fact, I will be celebrating this special 44th anniversary much the same as I celebrated the 43rd and most of months in between by visiting my local 7-11 frequently and forking over the $1.39 for a refreshing, and always appropriate, Coca-cola Slurpee. In fact, participating 7-11's will be giving away free 11 oz. Slurpees in honor of this momentous occasion on July 11 (how fitting). Let us all take pause to think about what the Slurpee has meant to us through the years. Let us raise our coned cups with spoon straws to 44 more years.

This post is going to make a hard right down the road of things that shouldn't be, but apparently are. Fresh from my 44th Slurpee anniversary high, I came to the "guide to fashion" page where 1/4 of the page was devoted to step by step instructions on how to peg one's jeans. And the blurb was titled: Cuff your jeans stylishly. Stylishly? You've got to be kidding. Yes, when I pegged my jeans in 1992 when I was in the seventh grade it was indeed stylish but I'd like to think as a society, we've progressed stylistically and my horrible recollections of middle school attire could remain safely in the past. It is 2010, my friends, and I'm proud to say that I know now what I wish I'd known back then: pegging is ridiculous and does no one any favors.

The pegging article made me think of several other fashion abominations from my tragically fashioned youth that I do not want to see make a come back including:

1. Hypercolor: do we really need a blatant illustration of where people sweat? No thanks.

2. Dropped-waist jeans with pleats

3. Acid wash

4. Bangs, half teased backwards and half teased forwards

5. Pants with skirts attached. To this very day, I cringe when I think that not only did I own the skant (skirt-pants), I owned two pairs. And I loved them.

Bathing soups and feral cats

Pool season has begun in the Plains and not a moment too soon because it is hotter than a cow pie in August. Of course, before the chlorinated oasis opened, the hunt for this summer's bathing soup was on. (My darling six and four year old nieces refer to bathing suits as "bathing soups" and it is just too cute for words.) Since bringing the Infant into the world, I've decided that my bikini days are long, long gone. Not that I haven't tried. Oh, I've tried some old two-piece soups on in the privacy of my own home when the Infant was napping and the Husband was out earning the Benjamins so no one would have to witness the horrors. It was just me and the mirror and we both should have known better. It made me long for the days when donning a bikini meant it was summer time and the world was my oyster. Don't get me wrong: I never truly rocked the two-piece but I was young and blithe. Now, I'm old and am more civic-minded; therefore, for the sake of our township, I will be sporting the one-piece soup this summer. You are welcome towns people.

Finding a tasteful, yet not overtly mumsy, swim soup that doesn't cost more than a trip to Target (seriously...how does anyone get out of that store without spending $100?!) is much more challenging than it sounds. I came across a Lands End catalog--I know what you're thinking "Lands End?! My mom shops there!" but bear with me--only to find that they have branched out from slightly dowdy mummy-wear to young, hip mummy-wear with a new line called Canvas. It's like a girl-on-a-budget's JCrew and the line is really basic at this point but they have swim soups that aren't terribly dowdy: http://canvas.landsend.com/canvas/?cm_re=core-canv. I purchased one and have been very happy with my selection. I don't think it to be overly mumsy, although the Husband did ask me what time swim team practice was. I've asked him to limit his assessments of my fashion choices to "Looks great!" or "I don't know how you do it, but EVERYTHING looks totally awesome on you." He said he'd work on it.

So, now that my swim attire is all taken care of, let's move onto the Infant. You'll be happy to know that he is not wearing the pink Ariel the Little Mermaid swim pants that I accidentally purchased this winter when we went to the dreaded water park. I passed those onto a mother of a wee girl and purchased some seriously masculine Nemo and Tiger swim pants. Nothing screams "MAN!" more than a cartoon tiger with a spring in his tail. But because I cannot allow the Infant to splash about in nothing more than a swim pant, (Speaking of pants-less babies walking the streets, I am both intrigued and repulsed by the limited edition jean diaper by Huggies. If you do not know to what I am referring, simply watch the ad on YouTube. Be forewarned: this just isn't right. Huggies ad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ0M9CBEkw0) I purchased some swim trunks for him that claimed they were sized for a 12 month old. It wasn't until I dressed him at the pool that I realized my son would not be sporting swim trunks this summer, rather, he'd be rocking swim jams. Poor little thing looks like a mini hoodlum.

On a completely unrelated note: there is a feral cat that is squatting on the deck chair on our back porch. It is gray and mangy looking and it rubbed itself on my leg yesterday and I had to take a shower afterward. It looks like it needs to eat a sandwich but if I feed it, it will never leave and, at this point, I just can't commit to cat ownership. It screams at night and, so help me, if it wakes up the Infant we're going to have to deal with this the way we dealt with things on the farm and, in the words of my father, have a little "come to Jesus meeting".

Rat tail sighting...seriously.

Today, while making my way through the mall on a mission to return some items, I spotted a woman at the Piercing Pagoda whose 'do warranted a double take. I admit, at first, I was unsure the individual was indeed female. I only saw the back of her head and thought for sure that: 1) the rat tail was eradicated in 1986, and 2) prior to 1986, most of the individuals sporting the tail were males. Piercing Pagoda lady completely upended both of my theories: it is not 1986 and SHE was sporting a mangy looking rat tail. Moreover, her bangs were platinum blond and the rest of her hair was jet black. I don't think any of this was an accident: she was intentionally sporting a rat tail and we all know the intentional rat tail is the worst kind there is. Now, let's be honest, there's been a time or two in our own lives when something went terribly awry in the stylist's chair and you walked away with Farrah Fawcett wings, a mullet, a mushroom, or a helmet, none of which you actually requested by name or implication.

I remember back in 1996, Friends was the rage and I, like every other high school girl in America, wanted Rachel's long layers. I had the long, shoulder length hair necessary for such a 'do and brought in pictures to show my stylist. An hour later I sat staring into the mirror at someone with short, two-inch layers from the crown of her head all the way to her shoulders. This was NOT the Rachel; this was a feathered mullet. It was all I could do to choke back the mixture of horror, bewilderment and panic that inched its way up my esophagus. I composed my young self and made it to the car before bursting into tears. I had to sport that stinkin' mullet for three months before it finally grew out enough to fashion into something less mullet-like. It was awful.


It was quite clear to me that the situation on the back of the Piercing Pagoda lady's head was nothing like the Botched Rachel Cut of '96. If I hadn't been in such a state of shock, I surely would have snapped a picture to post but my world was in the middle of being rocked so, alas, no picture. I will try to pull myself together next time and get the photographic evidence.

An open letter to Toyota

Dear Japanese makers of cars:

I applaud your efforts with the witty "Swagger Wagon" campaign to reinvent the minivan's, specifically the Toyota Sienna's, image. I admit: I propagate the stigma against the minivan. It likely stems from my years in high school driving a tan minivan with faux wood paneling. I assure you that driving a minivan into the school parking lot does nothing to improve your social standing. I digress. Your commercials attesting to the coolness of the Sienna minivan are both creative and humorous, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4, but I fear you do not know what you are up against.

The soccer moms toting their broods to music lessons and swim practice are not the problem, it's the fringe group of the minivan driving population that is ruining it for everyone. For example, today while refueling at a local petrol station, I witnessed a 65+ year old woman wearing a dangerously low-slung strapless bathing suit, very short shorty shorts and flip flops paying the cashier (what happened to "no shirt, no shoes, no service"?). Suddenly, four cop cars pulled up outside along with a fire truck full of EMTs and I thought for sure they were there to arrest this woman and cart her off to fashion prison. They walked right past her and started attending to a guy standing in front of the rotating corn dog cookers who was feeling faint. I'm no medical expert but I'd blame the ghastly looking sausages that had been slow-cooking on those hot rollers for who knows how long for his feelings of faintingness but that is neither here nor there.

The lady with the barely hanging on bathing suit strode out the door before I could issue a citizen's arrest and climbed into her vehicle. Imagine my surprise to discover she was not driving a bright red Firebird but a light blue minivan. The last I saw of her she was driving away, sans seatbelt, munching on some Doritos and looking quite naked. There is not a compilation of lyrics and sound editing that could bring any cool to that situation.

I also wanted to make you aware of this:
Yes, it is indeed a midnight blue, low rider minivan with tinted windows, pimped out rims and a spoiler.

I wanted you to know what you are up against. For every dollar you spend on your positive image campaign, another dollar is spent on airbrushing a lioness and her cubs to the back doors of a midnight blue minivan. Good luck and Godspeed.

Virtual regards,
Call Me Alise

Pre-emergent

There are many things I was not at all familiar with before I became a co-homeowner. What need did I have for knowledge of what "being in escrow" meant (to be honest, I'm still miffed by that one), sump pumps, radon, lawn irrigation systems, and hardwood floor maintenance? Armed with knowledge I've gleaned from the always accurate Wikipedia, I pretend to know exactly how to prune a rose bush, eradicate fruit flies, care for delicate antiques and patch holes in the wall but all of these things I can do in the privacy of my own home without being told I'm doing it wrong by someone who is much wiser than I. That all came to a screeching halt today and I was exposed for the fraud I am by Henry, the friendly lawn man at my favorite garden center.

Here's what happened:

This spring, I decided that I would take over all of our lawn and gardening maintenance and by all of our lawn and gardening maintenance, I mean I intended on doing more than our previous maintenance plan which basically included mowing. Luckily, the Husband had no qualms with my hostile take-over of our yard work. This should have been a sign of things to come but it was not.

I was confident I could construct beautiful gardens in our backyard and have the most lush, green yard that every neighbor would envy as they drove slowly past our yard realizing they would soon come upon their own mediocre lawn and be faced with their own grassy shortcomings. Yes, I would work my magic and it would be as glorious as I had imagined. The only problem was that I had no magic. I knew nothing about lawn care and my history with plants was nothing short of murderous.

My parents got me a subscription to a local gardening publication which made me feel slightly more confident. In the February issue, there was a whole article about how to have the best lawn ever. It wasn't a terribly long article and laid out a lawn maintenance plan that seemed relatively easy. All I needed was some pre-emergent, not cut the grass too short and I was good to go. I had no idea what a pre-emergent was but I figured it wouldn't be difficult to find at the garden center so armed with my paltry understanding of pre-emergents, I headed to the garden center. It was at the garden center that I met Henry and where my lawn maintenance ineptitude was blatantly exposed.


Henry, being an older, kindly gentleman with glasses and a lot of enthusiasm for grass asked if I needed any help finding anything. I told him I'd been reading about lawn care and I was taking over our lawn maintenance this year. He told me he thought it was really wonderful I was taking such an active role in my lawn care and said that most people just throw stuff on their lawn and don't even know why they are doing it. Gulp. I tried to backpeddle saying that I just really read one article and I wasn't even really sure what it all meant so I still had a lot to learn but I really thought I needed a pre-emergent and I had a dandelion problem. Henry shook his head. Pre-emergents (much like their name implies) take care of weeds before they present themselves so my dandelions would require something else perhaps a post-emergent? Henry again shook his head and gave me the scientific name of three products that would most likely get rid of the dandelions. I was slightly bummed that Henry wasn't finding my lawn care humor very entertaining but, like I said, he was older and kindly and I wasn't going to hold his seriousness about weeds against him.

Clearly buying my lawn care expertise charade, Henry asked what type of grass I had in my yard. I looked at him thinking surely he was kidding but he was not. Sure, I can tell you the characteristics that would make a certain cow more favorable than another and can identify almost every purebred dog breed by sight but identify a type of grass? No dice. I ended up telling Henry our grass was green and not prickly. Since that didn't narrow it down for him, he informed me that Kentucky Bluegrass was really popular in the area and I probably had that. It sounded good so I went with it.

As it turns out a pre-emergent is just the beginning. Henry outlined an entire plan including fertilizer application, grub control, irrigation, seeding and winterizing that would take place over the next six months. Six months?!!?!? Multiple applications of various concoctions??!?! And I thought a pre-emergent would take care of everything. So, so naive.

In a month I will return to the garden center and seek out my man Henry and sheepishly admit that I did not commit the lawn care regime he laid out for me to memory and I, again, need to tap into his infinite wisdom of all things grass and weed related. What I thought was going to be easy-pezy is not going to be easy at all. I suggested to the Husband that he could have all of that responsibility back. He said he'd think about it and then he chuckled. I'm doomed.

Rent-A-Sheep

It has been many moons since my last post and it has all been for lack of good substance to post about. I know, I know, surely life in the plains provides plenty of good writing material, right? I mean, Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a whole series. But alas, I've come up a little short.

It took me leaving the fine state of Kansas to bring me back to Call Me Alise with a story to tell. Whilst the Husband was traversing the globe being an international businessman, the Infant and I headed east to the land of my people: good ole Virginia. Spring in the Shenandoah Valley is one of my favorite times of year. We are spending the week with my parents, GG and Pop-pop, on the farm and upon our arrival, the fun times began to roll.

GG and Pop-pop love when the grandkiddies come for a visit and want them to get the full farming experience since all hail from wonderfully metropolitan places like Washington, DC and Kansas City (ha!). They arrange horseback riding lessons, duck feedings, rides on the tractor, chores and other fun rurally inspired activities. This visit was no different.

Shortly after arriving on the farm, the Infant and I settled in on the floor to toss around the very blocks I played with as a little whipper snapper. My parents said they had an errand to run, hopped in the pickup truck and left in a plume of dust. About 20 minutes later, they returned and said they there was a surprise waiting outside for the Infant. I hear the surprise before I see it and cannot help but laugh. There, standing on deck next to Pop-pop, was a young sheep. His name is George and he's a rental.

I may have mentioned to GG and Pop-pop that the Infant is particularly fond of his plethora of toy sheep. For some reason, we have accumulated roughly a half dozen stuffed sheep at home on the range and the Infant likes crawling around with one in each mit or wrestles them into submission. He loves them! So, GG and Pop-pop thought surely the Infant would get a kick out of a real, live sheep. They borrowed George from a neighbor up the road whose kids raise market lambs. For those of you who are familiar with the term "market lamb," do not fret: George is a family pet and is not likely bound for the auction block. In the meantime, George will remain on our farm frolicking about in the grass while the Infant squeals at him or tries to eat the grass himself. At the end of the week, our rented sheep will return to his proper home to join his wooly brethern.

P.S. The Infant may be the youngest mutton buster on the block but what he lacks in experience, he makes up for in style and charisma.

Costumed crusaders

I have relied on my college education to help me acquire gainful employment, work out complex statistical analysis (ha! Just kidding, Professor Robert E. Lee--not joking--tried his best but couldn't turn me into a statistical wizard) and provide a good foundation for understanding the world around me. Until recently, I thought my alma mater had given me everything I needed to go out into the world and whip up a mean editorial or communications packet, but I'm beginning to think she failed me.

As a marketing minor, I thought I understood the marketing beast (even though the Husband did complete most of my senior level marketing class homework...let's be honest...I had no business being in that class) but, lately, I've been confounded by what seems to be a widely accepted form of guerrilla marketing here in the Kansas City metro area: the costumed street stander.

It all started last summer. I was driving home when out of the corner of my eye, I saw what appeared to be a woman wearing a banana costume on the side of the street. Thinking this was surely a mirage, I did a slow drive-by and confirmed that it definitely was a woman in a banana costume. She was holding a sign advertising the crazy (hence "bananas") low prices of the produce at a nearby grocery store. Naturally, my first thought was: how many bananas must this grocery store sell in order to pay for a banana costume? I called the Husband immediately to report the banana lady sighting and, of course, he didn't believe me. I recall his exact words were: "There's no way there's a woman in a banana costume on the street. You are making that up." I knew I needed proof so I pulled a U-turn and did another drive-by with my camera poised and ready to capture a photo of the banana lady and capture it I did.


A few weeks later, I was cruising around when I spotted a person in a chicken costume holding a sign that read: Eat at Granny's. I have no idea if Granny's specializes in chicken or if the chicken costume was the only one on sale at Marvin's Costume Emporium. From the menacing glare of the chicken, I took his message to be more of a command than a suggestion. For the record: I did not eat at Granny's nor do I have any plans to eat at Granny's, menacing chicken or not.


Apparently this trend of employing costumed characters to inform Kansas' traveling public of low prices on bananas, generally irritated non-water fowl and other products is not limited to the summer months. As tax season rolls around, Liberty Tax has taken to employing individuals to don crudely constructed Statue of Liberty regalia and wave to passersby on the street. No matter the temperatures, these Lady Liberty impersonators brave the elements to let us know that Liberty Tax wants so badly to do our taxes that they will pay people minimum wage to dress in drag on street corners. My particular favorite Liberty Tax guy wears a black ski mask and doesn't wave. I'm actually not sure if he was hired by Liberty Tax or if he just held up the liquor store on the corner and is trying to blend in with his surroundings to evade police. Curious.

And just this week I was making my way to the dentist's office when I pulled up to a stop light and witnessed a Liberty Tax guy engaged in some seriously risque dancing on the street corner. Had the Infant been in the car with me I would have shielded his eyes to protect his innocence. There was so much gyrating and pelvic thrusting, I had to wonder if he could be cited for conduct unbecoming of a national symbol. Had I not known about Liberty Tax's costumed campaign, I may have thought this individual was selling something far more salacious than tax services.

I cannot help but wonder how many people are persuaded to buy bananas, eat at Granny's or get their taxes done by Liberty Tax because one of these costumed crusaders convinced them to do so. And this practice seems so pervasive that I wonder if maybe I missed something in a Marketing 101 class that predicted that all marketing roads would lead to costume marketing. I may as well have gotten an online degree.

The hills of Kansas

I know what you're thinking: "Hills? Kansas? Such things do not exist." But I am here to tell you that they do exist and we just so happen to live on one. Typically, this wouldn't be worth mentioning; however, when a wintry mix descends upon us from the heavens, as it is today, the trials and tribulations of having an incredibly steep driveway make themselves all too present.

So, this morning started off like few mornings have since the arrival of the Infant. The little nugget didn't wake up until 8:45am. Don't think I didn't take advantage of that and catch a few extra zzz's myself because I did. Now, I did go in and check on him several times to make sure he was still breathing (he was) but even sleeping in until 7:45 beat the heck out of the 5:45 wakings earlier this week but that is neither here nor there.

Upon waking this fine Friday morning, I see that it is indeed snowing but the ground is barely covered. I needed to run a few quick errands and had a limited amount of time before the Infant would need to return to his sleeping quarters. From my window the roads (meaning the one in front of my house) looked fine so I packed up the Infant and headed out into the snowy abyss.

My first indication that this might not have been a good idea was when I pulled out of the driveway and proceeded to slide down the rest of the hill in my vehicle, blowing through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. We didn't T-bone anyone so I breathed a sigh of relief. I parred down the errand list and didn't stray far from home. Upon returning to the homestead it had snowed at least four inches and the driveway was covered. I proceeded to do what I always do when the driveway is covered in snow: rev the engine and try to make it into the garage without hitting the house. I got about half-way to the top before spinning the tires and slowing sliding backwards. Undeterred, I backed up, trying to get a running start, and attempted the climb again...and again...and again. At one point, I was completely sideways. I felt a little like Austin Powers when he tries to turn that people-mover cart around in a small hallway. Finally, after a good half dozen attempts I decided that maybe shoveling a path for each tire would be all I needed to get up the hill. I parked on the street, left the Infant in the car listening to NPR and began to shovel. In record time, I had semi-cleared two tire paths and topped them off with salt. I returned to the car and backed up the hill to get enough speed to make it up the driveway and wouldn't you know it: I made it half-way up and slid all the way back down AGAIN. All that physical exertion for nothing! Finally, I threw in the towel, parked on the street, unpacked the Infant and trudged up the driveway on foot.

I knew what had to be done: total driveway snow removal. I put the Infant down for a nap and bundled up in my winter woolies. It was me v. the driveway and this time, I would emerge victorious even if it resulted in another herniated disc. It was still snowing but if I didn't take charge now, it would just get worse. I started at the top and shoveled and shoveled and shoveled. After all of my shoveling, this is what my driveway looked like:

CRIPPES!

I realize that tomorrow I might not be able to lift my arms and will probably hobble around holding my back like a little old lady. I blame all of these shenanigans on the hills of Kansas.

Clean carpets

After several months of intending to get our carpets cleaned, I finally made it happen earlier this week. When we moved into the house last February the off-white carpets looked fairly decent but two of the bathrooms are carpeted (what is up with that? Almost every house we looked at when we were in the market to purchase had carpeted bathrooms.) and I found that incredibly repulsive. Bathroom floors should be constructed out of something that can be doused in powerful chemicals to remove any traces of human DNA in any form like a nice tile or perhaps even a laminate, but carpet? I don't even want to know what lurks in the fibrous material that blankets the floor of our upstairs bathrooms. I get the willies just thinking about it. Bleh.

While the carpeted bathrooms had me keeping my gag reflex in check since we bought the place, I didn't think about the rest of the house until the Infant became mobile. The knees and sleeves of his clothes would end up covered with an ugly brown film after a day of taking laps around the house. As if this weren't enough to motivate me to get a carpet cleaner on the horn, the final straw came when I examined the Infant's feet while he was jumping in his Johnny Jump-up. The kid had "fair feet". Let me explain:

When I was but a young lass, my siblings and I would show our animals at the Rockingham County Fair every year in late August. (If you are unfamiliar with what "showing" animals means, it means you and a bunch of other people with the same breed of animal stand in a ring while an expert in that particular breed judges your animal and decides who's animal has the best characteristics of the breed. It's like a beauty pageant for cows, pigs and sheep and it is awesome.) We usually showed sheep and Jersey cows which meant we had a spot or two in the dairy barns for our cows to eat, sleep and chew their cud for the week of the fair. There were many other families that also housed their dairy cows in the dairy barn including the May sisters. The girls were older than us and had about a dozen dairy cows they brought with them to the fair. Unlike me, they were true farm girls. They slept with their cows, didn't mind being dirty and walked around barefooted. Even as a youngster, I was completely repulsed that these girls would traipse about the manure covered floors and washing stations without so much as a flip-flop on their feet. As you can imagine, their feet seemed to be permanently stained black and I can only imagine that one swab from those tootsies transferred to a petri dish would yield all kinds of colorful bacteria. From that point on, we referred to dirty feet as "fair feet". And this is what my child's feet looked like. I could no longer stand idly by while the Infant's feet became a hot, dirty mess in my own home.

So, I did some research, asked around and settled on a local carpet cleaner that promised to restore my carpets to an almost-new finish. On Monday, the carpet cleaning gentleman showed up with a bevy of tools and chemicals to blast the stains out of carpet. As you may know, I'm a big fan of chemicals. I even have a shirt that reads: I ♥ Chemicals. It's a bold statement but one I believe in. I was hoping that my home would be filled with a nice clean chemical smell but I was disappointed when it ended up smelling like the soap one may use at a do-it-yourself car wash. You know what I'm talking about, the pink stuff that looks good enough to eat but smells kind of like a public restroom. Luckily, the smell dissipated within a day.

When the carpet guy was finished, I took a look around and was thoroughly impressed with the results. Nary a stain was visible and I wanted to hug the guy but thought that might be awkward since we'd just met a few hours before. I sat down on the floor with the Infant telling him how great crawling around would be from this point forward because he wouldn't have fair feet anymore and his clothes wouldn't be covered in filth. Apparently unimpressed by the cleanliness of our home or maybe because he felt more comfortable in the filth, the Infant proceeded to spit up on my newly cleaned carpets. Sigh.

And we're walking...

The Infant is now a walking (with assistance) machine. He cannot be stopped. We can only hope to contain him.

The surprise

I have a confession to make: I think I might be a jerk. After careful deliberation, I've concluded that, given the evidence, a jury of my peers would find me to be of the jerky variety. This revelation has been quite disturbing since I consider myself a relatively nice person and believed that others thought the same thing. Oh, and to make matters worse, despite what I thought last week, my husband is not the least bit jerkish and tolerated my snarkiness for a whole week only to reveal that he was indeed, awesome. Let me give you the back story:

A few months ago it was decided that the husband and I would indeed exchange Christmas gifts. Sometimes we take a trip and call that our gift to each other or we gift each other with something for the house but this year I thought we should do gifts. The husband and I discussed this and agreed on the gift giving venture. I busied myself with securing a sweet gift or two for him and assumed he was doing the same.

So, Christmas rolls around and Benny K opens his gifts from me and is delighted which is the best part because I really hoped he'd like what I'd selected and he did not disappoint; however, look as I may (oh, and I DID look), I couldn't find a single gift that read: "To: Alise, From: Your loving husband." When this was brought to his attention, he claimed he didn't know we were exchanging gifts which made me want to wallop him a good one and then he claimed he completely dropped the ball and didn't get me anything. To say I was saddened and mildly annoyed would be an understatement. I couldn't believe that after six years of marriage, my unbelievably awesome-at-giving-incredibly-thoughtful-gifts husband had become a complete dud of a gift giver and I was not shy about bringing this to his attention. I'm pretty sure at some point I said things like: "It's not so much that you didn't get me a gift, it's that you didn't even THINK of getting me a gift" and "I guess I'll just have to get myself something" and the doosey: "This is unacceptable and I just want you to know that we will not be continuing this pattern in the future." I was not interested in hiding my displeasure and I certainly wasn't holding much back. Secretly, because I know what an awesome gift giver he typically is, I kept thinking surely he was kidding and there was a surprise right around the corner. New Years came and went and still nothing. I realized I had to let it go. Hope may win you a presidency but not a Christmas gift doth it bring.

So, we returned to Kansas (which welcomed us home with 9 degree temps and seven inches of snow and ice) late Saturday night and everything was normal and then Sunday morning, I went down to the basement to fire up the tele to watch The Soup and when I turned around I saw it: someone had broken into our home and done a complete room makeover on my creative space. In what used to be my chaotic sewing/craft room was order, organizers, a ribbon holder, shelves, plastic tubs, a thread organizer and a new embroidery sewing machine with a big red bow on it. As it turns out, it wasn't a B&E, but it was the husband who spent the week before Christmas building two new built-in desks, a cutting table, a sign that reads "Jean Jacket Fridays" (my fledgling creative label), building shelves, painting and making many trips to JoAnn Fabrics and Home Depot. He also enlisted several co-workers and friends to help him pull off the surprise. I had been longing to organize that room since we moved and dreaded going in there because it the disorganization was mind-numbing but devoting more than 15 minutes to a project isn't so easy to do with the Infant lurking at the bottom of every staircase and sticking every electrical cord in his little mouth. And here it was, the room of my dreams which the husband kept concealed for more than a week to let me discover it on my own all the while enduring several serious tongue lashings from yours truly.

I did feel mildly guilty for chastising him all week for his lack of Christmas gift but at the time, I thought he was totally deserving. Hindsight is a kicker.

BEFORE: The husband actually cleaned out the room (thank goodness) before taking the before picture but this gives a good idea of what he was working with.

AFTER: Here she is in all her glory!

My first project: the embroidery sewing machine is nothing short of awesome. It threads itself, cuts the thread for me and does about 60 different stitches. It is everything I've always dreamed about having in a sewing machine and yes, I dream about those things.