Halloween Preview

Today we got to do a "dry run" of the Halloween costumes, wearing them to a super fun party for Thomas' classmates. Thomas' costume is pretty self-explanatory -- Arghh! -- but Megan's might need a little hint or two. Give up? She's Annabeth Chase, a character from the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series, in her demigod camp tee shirt and NY Yankees hat of invisibility. (She made her own tee shirt based on the book's descriptions and a fleeting picture in one small supplement to the series...)

Don't they both look cute??

Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

There's a neighborhood cat that has adopted us, and it is without a doubt the cutest, sweetest, most friendly kitty that has ever used our yard.

The first time I saw it, I opened the door to shoo it off the fence. Instead of running off, it hopped down and came running up to me, tail held high, eyes bright, little furry face all open and sweet.

It started coming up to the back door and tapping on the glass, peering in as if to ask, "Hey, friends, can you come out to play?"

Thomas began announcing the cat's apperances with a gleeful, "Kitty! You're here!"

When we are out in the yard, Kitty would appear like magic, joyfully running with the kids and nudging us to pet him. Thomas loves the cat running with him, but he's not sure he likes it... they race each other and kitty does a sort of herding motion to get in front of Thomas. The touch sends Thomas in a high-pitched screech of mingled delight and shock, followed by giggles that ring out across the neighborhood. The giggles are contagious -- and watching the two of them, you are convinced the cat knows Thomas has special needs and is reaching out to him in his own special way.

After a few weeks of calling the cat "Kitty," I decided we should come up with a name for him. We ran through a bunch of choices and settled on "Murphy," which he seems to like just fine... or at least as well as whatever name he was given at his true home. Of course, he comes to Murphy as much as he came to Kitty, but that's beside the point.

Last week Megan announced that she knew the boy who actually owns the cat, and that that cat's name was "Junior." The boy lives behind us, and he's the one who will toss the ball with Thomas, playing a sort of catch over the fence, but who calls Thomas "Jack." I pointed out Thomas has a perfectly good name, and he could call him by it, but the boy -- C.J. -- said, "Well, he likes Jack." We were glad to know where the kitty lives, but after a few moments, we decided we'd continue calling him Murphy rather than Junior... because, well, he likes it!

The Stash

If you have kids, you have a calendar that has something written in every square, often in color-coded inks to keep track of multiple family members' commitments and appointments and obligations. Weekends especially have cryptic notations of numbers and abbreviations: 2 -4? @ Cardles -- dessert! or A overnight? here? And if you are anything like our family, there's at least two birthday parties a month to make a note of, buy a present for, and attend... between three other activities. I know it's fun to take a child shopping for a gift they want to give a friend (hahahaaha, sorry, I couldn't write that with a straight face!!) but I can't think of a fresher hell than to stand in the aisle of our local WalMart for an hour, talking my kid out of the latest plastic bit of trash (at only $34.88! Such a bargain!) or reasoning with them that if they wanted that item for themselves, they should consider putting it on their list, not whine at me while we are attempting to secure a gift for the friend whose party you may very well miss if this continues, missy!!! (oh... sorry.)

To keep my sanity, and stay under the CPS radar, I've developed what I call The Stash. The Stash is a small hoarding of gifts, suitable for boys or girls, ready to snatch up, wrap, and haul out the door to another party. I stock up on perennial favorites when I spot them on sale: games, books, puzzles. I'm especially fond of board games, the more classic the better. We've given out Mancala games to everyone we know; ditto backgammon, chess, checkers, and Chinese checkers. We have also given out a ton of Gamewright card games (www.gamewright.com), which are fun, quick, silly, and just the right size to tote along to Grandma's, or on an overnight. I stock up on family favorite authors like Sandra Boynton (baby board books), Rosemary Wells (picture books) and whatever current favorite is going for the age level our kids are now... often through the kids' school book orders, so the class gets credit, and I shop from my dining room table!

The best part? Most of us know that the latest piece of plastic garbage lasts about as long as the first set of batteries, then dies a slow death behind the couch, under the dresser, or rolling under the seat of the car. But games and books enjoy many levels of life... the learning, the playing, the teaching to others, the discovery after an absence... Oh, and double bonus! They are totally easy to wrap!

Well, We DO Look Alike!

Today I was inspired to discuss first names with Thomas, who at age 7 is still a little sheltered due to his autism. I began by asking if he knew Mommy's name, to which he responded, "Mommy? No!" as if the idea of Mommy having a name was ridiculous in the extreme.

I informed him it was Juliana, and then went on to give him my full name -- Juliana LeRoy. He repeated it, somewhat, and I moved on to his Daddy's name: Matt. This name was familiar to him, because our best friends have a Matt that Thomas adores -- Uncle Matt. At this point Thomas's train tracks once again called all Thomas's attention, so I called it a day on the name lesson.

When my husband came home, I decided to try out our newfound knowledge by prompting Thomas, "Hey, buddy, do you know Daddy's first name?"

Thomas looked up from his trains and replied, "LeRoy."

Er, close! I reminded him that that was Daddy's last name, and that Daddy's first name was ... and here I mouthed, "Mmmm-aaaa-- ttttt."

Thomas just shrugged, so I went on to my name: "Okay, do you remember what Mommy's name is, buddy?"

Thomas's head lifted in a heartbeat. THIS one he KNEW! "Auntie Cari!"

Now, Auntie Cari is Uncle Matt's wife, and she and I have been accused of being sisters before -- "You even have the same expressions! It's totally eerie!" -- and Thomas has confused us before, with both of us in the same room.

That time Cari was at our house and I was showing her something on my laptop, which was set up in "my" place at the dining room table. Thomas wandered in and idly went over to lean against Cari's leg as he asked, "Mommy? I can...?" All of a sudden it dawned on him that this WASN'T Mommy, and he drew back with a quick, "Whoops! Try again!" and he fairly flew around the table to lean against my lap.

Yep... I've said it before, and I'll say it again: this boy is worth the price of admission! LOL

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Tomorrow's my weigh in day for Weight Watchers, and I have a feeling I won't be exactly whooping it up when I see the numbers. I could be wrong, but let's just say Pepperidge Farms is not exactly diet food...

For the last couple of weeks our very energetic cheerleader WW leader has been exhorting us to "exercise our self-control muscle" (here she shows off impressive arm muscles, toned to perfection) and to attack the week with a positive attitude. I think I'm going to have to claim a sprained self-control muscle... LOL Oh, well... there's always tomorrow!

Speaking of tomorrow, I heard a great quote on My Name is Earl the other day...  Earl says, (I have to paraphrase here, but it was something like this... ) "The good thing about paths is even when we stray from them, they're always there, waiting for us to get back to them."

Back to the path! Do not stop at Pepperidge Farms!

Easter Points

I mentioned here that I am currently doing Weight Watchers, and that I'm doing a fairly good job of staying within my 22 points for each day... Then came Easter.

In one day I racked up 40.5 points, and that was with being GOOD!! That's nearly twice my daily limit, blown in ONE DAY!!

Holy guacamole! (And no, it wasn't guacamole that did me in: it was the spinach artichoke dip! LOL)

Good thing I still had a lot of bonus points to use!!

The Iced Tea Incident

I had a glass of iced tea today, and I realized it was the first I'd had since The Incident. I guess the trauma is mostly over, then... but I still check my straws.

Maybe I should explain.

This happened a year or so ago, but it seems like just last week. The weather was hot, and I decided to make a pitcher of iced tea. I set out the big glass jar full of water and tea bags and let the sun do her stuff, knowing that that afternoon I'd have a nice tall glass of tea to cool the hot day down. When the tea was the perfect color, I brought the big jar in and emptied the used bags into the trash. I let the tea cool a bit on the counter, and then poured the whole container into a pitcher for easier pouring. Finally I filled a glass with ice, poured tea in to the brim, and tossed in a brightly colored straw: Perfection!

That first sip is always the best, isn't it? The rush of flavor, the tantalizing coolness, the subtle scent of warmed tea leaves... But this sip was wrong. There was something in my mouth, along with the tea. Something... odd. Something with edges...

A piece of plastic from the straw, perhaps? A chip of glass, from the sun jar, or the glass somehow? Whatever it was was sharp -- I felt a sting on the tip of my tongue. On a sudden instinct I spit the mouthful into the sink, and watched in silent horror as a spider scuddled out of the tea puddle.

Repeat: A spider. In my sink. In the tea puddle I had just spit out, and had just been in my mouth. And it had bit me on the tip of my tongue!

I admit freely that I let out a combination shriek/holler, but I had the presence of mind to not swear, as the children were home. There may have been some reference to God, but it was meant as a prayer, as in "holy God, what the heck was that spider doing in my MOUTH?!"

Megan heard me and came running: "What, what?"

To properly do this, you have to say this out loud, with your tongue held slightly sticking out between your teeth: "A spider! It bit me in my tongue."

This came out (if you did it right) like this: "A 'piduh! I' bi' meh i' meh tun."

Naturally Megan couldn't comprehend this, as I was saying something garbled by an injured tongue, and besides, who in their right mind expects to hear words like that?

I tried again: "A 'piduh! I' wuh i' meh i'd tea! I' bi' meh! On meh tun!!"

I had the sudden horrified thought that I didn't even know if this was a poisonous spider. It had bit me on the tongue, which could swell up if it was poisonous, right? I couldn't very well call 911 and say a MAYBE poisonous spider bit me on my tongue, and they should hurry over in their cute uniforms and rescue me... but, on the other hand, my daughter couldn't understand what I was saying and she was right in front of me, so I could point to the extended tongue and gesture to the sink where the spider was; how was the 911 operator going to get my garbled message? But if I waited, and it WAS poisonous, and I got all faint and stopped breathing, and it was too late, would 911 even know what was happening?

I was home alone with the two kids, and I was going to die a horrible death right in the middle of my kitchen while a stupid tea-drenched spider was racing around pissed off in my own sink. That is an irony I didn't want to be a part of, thank you very much. I inverted a glass over it and called my husband's cell phone.

Matt was in the gym, and his phone was in his gym bag, tucked in the locker. The message was as follows: "Hi. I' meh. I go' bih i' the tun by a 'piduh. I'h okeh, buh I don' know i' the 'piduh wuh poi-di-nuh. Call meh."

I tried my best friend's cell, and thank God she was there. "Hi. I' meh. I go' bih i' the tun by a 'piduh. I'h okeh, buh I don' know i' the 'piduh wuh poi-di-nuh. I' I pa' ou', wi' you ca' 9-1-1 an' tell the' abou' the 'piduh? I' i' the sink."

My best friend, being a mom and teacher, understood me even though the words clearly didn't make sense. "A spider bit you on the tongue?!"

"Yeth! On the tun! I' wuh in my tea."

"It was in your tea? How did it get in your tea?"

"I don' know! Mehbeh the straw?"

Cari promised to call 911 if I became comatose or something, and she and I tried to figure out what kind of spider it was. I held the phone to my ear and stared at the pissed-off little eight-legger racing around the circle of my upside-down glass. It was brownish, but so was the tea. It was ugly, but then all spiders are. It was medium-littlish. It didn't look like a black widow, which I do know... but there are so many other kinds, it could be ANYTHING.

My tongue stung -- it was right on the very tippy tip that the bugger got me -- but thankfully, there seemed to be no gigantic swelling or losing of conciousness, so Cari and I decided I was mostly fine. (She did call to check on me about ten minutes later, just to be sure. She's a very, very good friend!)

When Matt came home, he was properly horrified on my behalf. There were several "poor Sweetie!s" and amazed shaking of heads. The episode was now an hour or more behind us, so we had perspective. He scrutinized the spider, which was now quite dead in its little tea-bath prison, and pronounced me "probably fine."

About an hour later he was out front, and he called me to him. There was a small spider on the front window ledge. "See, this is just a common grass spider," he told me. "That's probably what got you."

Au contraire. I was bi' i' the tun by a 'orrible, ugly, sneaky dead 'piduh, and it wasn't common at all. When it is in your mouth, it is very UNcommon indeed, thank you very much.

To this day we don't know where the spider came from, or how it got in my glass of iced tea. Maybe it hitched a ride in on the sun tea jar? Or maybe it was in the glass already, and I didn't see it as I poured my tea in? Or could it have been in the straw itself? To be on the safe side, we've made it a habit to check the straws before sticking them into drinks from that point on... and whoever checks always calls out cheerfully, "Nope! No spiders in this one!"

Quotes from just this morning...

Megan was packing to go spend the night at Grandma Jeane's, and I asked her to tell me what clothes she was taking along.

"Well, my Girl Scout pants and that shirt I got when I was in the Sugar Bears; you know, with the sleeves like capris for your arms?"

Translation: her tan jeans and a baseball style top with 3/4 length sleeves.

A little later I reminded her to finish her quesadilla as it was almost time to go, and Megan looked at me with a regretful expression.

"Mom, I hate to say it, but from here your hair looks a little wild."

There was no malice, or snottiness, or anything other than an observation -- a thought flitted through her head and she let it fall out her mouth.

(And by the way, my hair was a bit wild-looking... I let it dry mostly naturally, and it had a bit of a bounce thing going on. I bent it into shape with a curling iron before we left, so as to not concern my nine year old. :) Much...)

Excuse me while I go see if I have any capris for my arms upstairs. :)

Field Trip

It's cold and windy and very, very wet outside, and all I can think is, please, please, please, clear up soon! Clear up and stay warm and still and dry for at least a few weeks -- long enough for us to get through the upcoming field trip! Please, please, please?

I spent the morning sewing two long, full skirts for Megan -- she's about as big around as a minute, and tall, so I am revamping adult sized skirts to be a tiny bit shorter and a lot bit smaller around the waist. :) She'll wear a linen-colored top over the skirts, and drape a shawl across her shoulders, and tie a sash around her waist. (Her shawl is a length of lavendar material with embroidery -- I think it was meant to be a tablecloth, but she LOVES it, so it doesn't matter.) I am also sewing a patterned sheet in half, to make a shawl for me, and tacking my two full skirts together to be a unit. (Megan's outer skirt is patterned, and the under skirt is a vibrant green color; my underskirt is gray silk and the outer skirt is serviceable denim. I will be cooking during this trip, so I went with the least flammable!) I bought the outfits at one of our local Goodwill stores -- in the swanky town just north of us, where the winemakers and other ritzy folk donate their gently used goods -- and our costumes are pretty doggone cute, even if I do say so  myself.

But please, please, please, can the weather cooperate for us? I'd hate to hide our costumes under raincoats and ski pants!

Ball Magnets, Sports Injuries, and Why I Can't Play Tennis

On EmbassyWife's most recent post she relates a story about going bowling and getting pretty dinged up doing it. I can so relate!

I am not gifted athletically. In fact, I am so the opposite of gifted, there isn't even a word out there to convey the oppositeness. (Is that a word? Oppositeness? Well, whatever, just bear with me, here...) I don't have a fierce competitive streak about getting some little ball into some little basket, net, or whatever else they call the goal thingy, and frankly, sports aren't fun if you are trying desperately to not be noticed and made to play. Even though I made it a goal to be as far away from the ball and/or herd chasing the ball in whatever sport we were forced to "play" in P.E., I still managed to be hurt in just about every sport known to mankind. Heck, even as a spectator I've been injured... more than once.

While attending a basketball game in high school, I started feeling a little punkish. I was coming down with what turned out to be strep throat (the worst my doctor'd ever seen -- he backed away and threw the stick down, calling to all his staff to come see this, hurry! -- but that's another story...) and I was getting feverish. I got up to get a drink of water, carefully making my way down the bleachers, and along the rows of people watching to the edge of the gym to get a drink at the fountain. On the way back I was walking along, and suddenly I was three rows up, laying across some startled laps, my head ringing. Apparently a ball had come out of play and slapped me so hard upside the head it sent me flying into the bleachers.

Baseball and softball have so many stories, I'll just tell the one: On the last day of seventh grade, we had to play 2 hours of softball because it was finals week. We didn't dress down (or up, or whatever they call it when they made us change into tee shirts and shorts) and so I was wearing a cute skirt, lightweight sweater set, and sandals in the least-hit-to section of the field (behind third base, I can't figure out if that's right or left field...). A grounder comes my way... I reach down to get it and it hops up viciously and slams me in the center of my face. I bled so much they went for a wheelchair to get me to the office, but I rallied and went on to the second period of the day, where I took an English essay test on The Red Pony. I was crusty and pale and still a little dazed, but by God, I knew where the curveballs were in English class!

Badminton, or badmittion, or whatever... We were in the gym for this session of P.E., and space was at a premium. We were partnered up -- doubles, I believe they call it -- and my partner was a great friend of mine named Robert. Robert was (and still is, I'm sure) a lefty, and very, very exuberant. If we had a team name it would have been the Galloping Gigglers, or the Laughing Losers, but we didn't care... We spent all of P.E. period laughing and missing most of the shots at the whatchimacallit -- birdie? -- losing every match we played, and having a blast. Then came the game where my beloved partner thought he had a shot at actually getting a hit, and he screamed, "I've got it, I've got it!" and swung the racket in a wide arc. There was a crunch, and then a slam, and then I was blinking up at the ceiling of the gym, ringed by my classmates' faces. The plastic birdie lay just next to my ear -- he'd missed it, naturally -- and yet I heard chirping and tweeting and a funny ringing rushing sound. That would be conciousness returning, by the way. It takes a good while to get all the way to the surface. After that disastrous display of non-athleticism, my coach wouldn't let me have a partner for the next section of P.E. -- tennis. He also decided having balls hit back to me might prove problematic, so I spent several weeks serving alone in a tennis court, while my classmates were doubled up into teams. I can serve like you wouldn't believe, but God help me if a ball came back at me!

I tried skiing, and the first lesson went very well. I was the only one in my group who could get up from a sitting position on the snow, mostly because of my babysitting experience (I could get up using just my legs to power me, having my hands and arms full of kid). They gave us this day-glo badge to wear around our necks, signifying we were beginners, and the other skiers moved out of our way because we clearly didn't have a clue what we were doing. Getting on the lift was a challenge, and getting off made me break out in a cold sweat, but once I was headed down the hill I realized I was in deep... doo doo. The snow plow thing they had assured us would slow us down? Yeah, not so much. I got going faster and faster, and in the dim recesses of my mind I heard a far-off sound like a wail: "Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" Turns out it was a purely involuntary reaction my body  made as I careened down the hill at breakneck speed, obviously out of control, obviously going to crash in a horrible "agony of defeat" sort of  moment. Sure enough, I biffed it. Big time. Too bad it wasn't captured on YouTube or something-- it was something to behold! There were cartwheels, slamming, rolling, more cartwheeling, and a final thud that left me with the faint taste of my own eyeballs in the back of my throat. I landed right under the lift, from which I heard horrified gasps, nervous laughter, and then a young man's aghast voice: "Man! Did you see that skier biff it? Dude!!" Indeed. I picked myself up, and spent a quarter hour gathering my parts -- ski up here, pole over there, mitten way down there -- and making my way to the chalet for hot chocolate.

Over the years I developed one great defense mechanism, to the delight of my brothers: If I sense some object coming at me, I can swat it out of the air about half the time. They used to wander through the living room and abruptly scream, "Think fast!" and toss something at me -- a pillow, a set of keys, a ball of some sort -- and I'd duck and swat. In eighth grade this "skill" came in handy during snack break, when a container of orange juice came hurtling out of the sky at my head from the far side of the center quad. The guffawing teens who'd pitched it hollered the familiar, "Think fast!" and i went into pure kinetic memory mode. Without a thought I did this slow motion Wonder Woman batting motion --- wa wa wa wa wa SLAM! -- and the o.j. was deflected to the ground, where it bounced up and into a trash can. Somehow I managed to act nonchalant, like of course I meant for that to happen, and I turned to continue the conversation with my friends, but the stunned silence of the quad rang with that "did you see that?" disbelief I'm used to hearing as I come to.

New Year's Party

A good friend just had the second annual New Year's party, the third week into January... It's too busy around the real holidays, and everyone has too many committments already, so she just planned it for a few weeks into the new year and went from there! The party is held in the middle of the afternoon, and the weather was beautiful, so the windows and doors were thrown open to bring the light and fresh air inside. The living room had plenty of comfy seats to choose from, and there was a table full of yummy foods to munch on as we visited with one another, catching up from a year ago. Jeane had champagne on hand, and we toasted the new year, and the upcoming administration, with clinking glasses and hearty cheers.

Jeane had several "renewal" activities for us, too.

Last year we wrote down what we'd like to have in the coming year, then sealed up our wish in an envelope. Saturday we opened the time capsules and read our old desires, then added this year's wishes. Each of us left our sealed envelope with Jeane, to hold for next year's party (which we agreed was more fun to have a few weeks into the year, so we set the date for January 23rd, 2010.) If you had something to get rid of, you could write it down and shred it -- a highly satisfying activity for several gals -- as a way of getting rid of them once and for all.

We drew angel cards, with words to guide us for the upcoming year. My word last year was "expectancy," and this year I drew "humour." (LOL)

We also could do a brief Tarot reading, drawing one card and having the meaning read to us from a book. My card was the Two of Wands, which means something I've been working toward will come to fruition, in two weeks or two months. When the gal doing the reading asked me if I had any projects, I told her about my search for an agent. She got very excited: "My goodness! She's going to get one! She's going to do it!" I nodded, because card or no, I'm working very, very hard toward that end, and I will not stop until I DO get it! Then my friend Jeane mentioned my upcoming birthday, and everyone got all excited -- "Oh, 40! You're going to love it! This is going to be a great year for you!"

Yes, it is! I'm expecting no less, and laughing all the way!

A Fresh Start

I was wandering down my favorite aisle in a big box store, lusting after all the new calendars, day planners, and organizational tools when it hit me: I am buying into it AGAIN!

"It," of course, is the grand idea that I can be organized. I can have an up-to-date day planner and be ahead of the game! I can have all my information right at hand, every day! This year, with this system, I will be organized!!

Ha.

I should join a twelve-step for paper products. I'd have to get a cute folder for the handouts, and probably a new journal for all the discoveries about myself I'd make, and a calendar for keeping track of meetings...

DISNEYLAND DAD

In our house we have a running joke about which parent gets to be the "nice" one. Matt will take the kids to Funky Monkey (a pizza/game parlor aimed at the younger folk) and let them play for those infernal tickets they then exchange for small pieces of plastic junk... I will hand the children the remote, rather than keeping it secreted on top of the fridge... You know, tame stuff. We wink at each other and joke, "See, I get to be the Disneyland Dad here!" but in the end, we're both the rule-making, rule-following parent.

The "Disneyland Dad" phrase was meant to talk about those non-custodial parents who have short visitations with their children. They don't have to set the rules, enforce the rules, or even acknowledge the rules... for the few hours or days that they see each other, anything goes. Pizza for breakfast? Sure! Ice cream before lunch? Why not! Stay up to 2 AM to watch a SpongeBob marathon? Of course!

My brother is a non-custodial parent, and he is Disneyland Dad to the max. His idea of a fun outing with his kids is to take them into Powell's Sweet Shoppe (a candy store that is too amazing to be believed -- think Willy Wonka  meets Toys'R'us and you're halfway there), turn them loose, and let them pick out a handful of candy... which they then get to eat, regardless of time of day, naturally.

For Christmas we have my brother and his kids come over on Christmas Eve, and we exchange gifts. This is his opportunity to have Christmas with his kids, so he gives them something totally cool each year. Last year it was roller blades, all around... this year, we went from rolling to rocking.

Jason gave his three kids electric guitars, with amplifiers.

Jonathan got a brown one, with rock'n'roll swirlies on the front. Hannah got a pink one. And Alex got a "flying V" red one.

With amplifiers.

The kids are 10, 9, and 7, and they live with their mom, grandparents, and great grandmother.

Now, the kids had been asking for one of those guitar games for a gaming system, and they are rather musical. Jason said he thought the real guitars would be more educational than the pretend version, and he's probably right. It would have sounded better if he hadn't had a tendency to grin as the kids attempted tuning their new instruments, but maybe it was a facial tic.

We were bringing the kids home after the Christmas Eve festivities, and I got to warn Sarah about their new aquisitions. "Jay got them all electric guitars," I said brightly. "With amplifiers."

There was a silence on the other end, then a weak, "Wow."

"Yes," I repeated, "wow. They are very excited about them."

"Wow," Sarah said. "Electric guitars?"

"With amplifiers," I agreed.

Luckily for everyone involved, it turns out that there is a small device that allows each musician to plug in headphones to play their guitar... Maybe Jason knew that when he bought them?

Nah!

NOT QUITE UP TO SNUFF

It's like one of those word problems in fourth grade math: To get one decent picture of four people, how many photographs need to be taken?

Show your work.

The answer this year was ten. I've included a few of the "not quite right" shots so you can get an idea of why we didn't choose these as our card...

For the real "winner," check out the den -- my front page!

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Things we are thankful for:

Megan: My family. God. My life.

Thomas: Tom and Jerry. Christmas. Lightning McQueen Piston Cup.

Matt: Four day weekend with my family and my to-do list.

Juliana: Matt, Megan, and Thomas. My writing. Naps!

May your Thanksgiving celebrations be full of good food, good company, and good memories. May there be laughter, joy, and restoration in your life, today and always. And may the spirit of thanksgiving continue on past this day set aside to remember your blessings, to color your life with gratitude.

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That's My Boy!

Last night Matt and Megan went up to our regional park to practice casting, and Thomas was happily playing in the backyard with a plastic Cool Whip tub, a pan full of water, and some colored chalk. I was in the house, keeping half an eye on him and half an eye on a book. It was a perfect system -- until there was a thudding crash from the patio.

I looked up and saw my son staring at the house, his hands up to his face in a classic "whoops, you caught me" expression. The wooden patio table was curiously on its side, two legs splayed neatly in front of it... completely removed.

On further investigation, the legs had not only been removed, but the screws, bolts and washers were neatly in the Cool Whip container at my son's feet.

Dumbfounded, I looked at Thomas, and he offered the whipped topping tub with a slightly apologetic shrug: "Here you go, Mom. I'm sorry I broke the table."

Luckily it wasn't broken; the table was fine, once we got the legs reattached.

My husband was informed when he arrived back home, and he tightened the bolts so that they couldn't be turned by a seven-year-old's fingers any more, and then we laughed about the method our son had used to collect the hardware. You see, that's exactly what Matt uses to collect the hardware when he works on a project -- an old Cool Whip or margarine tub.

The torch has been passed.

Now THAT'S Fashion!

My husband stumbled across a site today he knew I'd enjoy. Sure enough...

http://loudmouthgolf.com

Go ahead and check out pants -- American fit AND European fit -- then go to the customer pictures. Be prepared to be horrified and amused!

LOL

Don't Get Between Me and My Meal!

I am sort of addicted to a frozen entree, and I am going through some serious withdrawls. For two weeks now the store has been out of this particular item, and then -- THEN! -- my beloved husband, the Love of My Life, the Father of My Children ATE MY LAST ENTIRE BOX!!

It's my fault.

I told him how yummy they were, and he suggested he try one. I agreed; yes, he would like them, and they'd make good lunches for him to take to work. I told him there were only two left, stressing this as I let him know I'd still share (because I'm just that kind) and then I took our daughter to two Taekwondo classes.

All through the classes I could picture my happy self munching on one of these, warm and tasty and utterly satisfying... I hurried Megan along in the getting her flip flops back on process and drove home with single-minded focus... The minute we got home I dove into the freezer and lifted two other varieties out of the way, searching, searching, my heart sinking as I realized... the box was completely gone.

"You ate my quesadillas? Both of them?"

Matt nodded, trying to figure out why I was staring at him, round-eyed with disbelief. "You said you had two..."

"Two in the box. Each one is a serving. You ate BOTH?"

Matt's eyes widened. "Oh. OH. Sorry! I thought you had two boxes..."

I stood there forcing myself to regroup for a moment, talking myself down from the edge. "No. I had ONE box of TWO quesadillas."

There was a small silence.

"Do you want me to run out and get you more?"

I shook my head dismally. "They're out. They've been out. For weeks now..."

I tried really hard not to want to throttle him, but doggone it, I was fantasizing about the damn things for the entire day!!

Sigh.

I settled for another entree, which was good but wasn't the one I'd been coveting, and sent Matt a slightly forgiving smile. (He hadn't done it on purpose, but still --!)

The mucho delicioso entree? Smart Ones Chicken and Cheese Quesadillas. Each serving (AHEM!) is 4 points, and it is totally satisfying. I discovered them three weeks ago and could totally live off them every day of the week.

If I could find them in stores, and hide them from my husband, that is...

Steady Progress

All the paying attention to Points and being good are paying off... I'm down 9.2 pounds in four weeks~! Swimsuit season, here I come!

Muffin Top Update

So I want to apologize right up front if this is too much information, but I am too doggone excited to not share.

I've been doing Weight Watchers for two weeks, with decent success. The first week I lost 1.8 pounds, the second 4.4 -- for a total of 6.2. (They did the math, not me, so I'm reasonably sure it's right.) Hearing the numbers yesterday was a big boost, but it's what happened later that night that really got me doing backflips...

I noticed the back of my underwear was sort of sticking out of the top of my jeans much more than usual, and I couldn't figure out why. Then it dawned on me: it was slacking up because there was less to contain!!! So all these days of working my butt off being good... has really worked my butt off!!!!!

Like I said, it may be TMI, but I couldn't keep it to myself. Hee hee!