September 2006 Archives

Another reason I'm in love

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Because they're going to break hearts someday.

A show update: The new television series I filmed for called "We Live Here" premieres this Sunday at 7 p.m. CST (double-check for your time) on the Fine Living Network. The first two episodes are New York and Las Vegas; my St. Louis episode is to air sometime towards the end of October. I'll let you know as soon as I get the date.

From The Management: to the lady at Target

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The reason we are writing is as follows: Last week while standing in a very long line at Target, you cast several very hateful glances at 22-month-old Ewan, who had accidentally bitten his tongue and was crying from the pain. Perhaps if you were a more attentive mother to your own two daughters (May we inquire as to whether or not they inspired the Bratz line?) instead of focusing your efforts on trying to dress as one of them, you would possess the ability to differentiate between a child's cry of pain and one of ample brattiness. It was reported to us that you not only glared extensively at said child, but rolled your eyes at him, sighed excessively, and made not-so-subtle comments at his expense. You behaved as though his cries of pain robbed you of a quiet checkout line experience; the result of your absence from your Broyhill sofa and that afternoon's Dr. Phil repeat. An investigation is underway to find out if this was the true cause of your dissatisfaction.

Your behavior was first noticed by the child's older five-year-old brother, who brought it to the attention of his mother by saying "Mama. That woman doesn't like us. She's looking mean at Ewan."

Therefore, it should have surprised no one, least of all you, when after quietly observing your actions towards her children Ewan's mother faced you and exclaimed loud enough for the entire store to hear: "HIS EXCUSE IS THAT HE'S A BABY. WHAT'S YOURS?" We advise you to behave in a more courteous manner next time and to save your harsh criticism of a crying child for the privacy of your vehicle. We The Management have audio, video, and photographic proof that your children cried in their infancy.

We also regret to inform you that while certain brain-addled executives in the fashion industry say that leggings are "in style," they are not. Especially on women over thirty-five years of age who wear them under denim mini-skirts. The only thing lacking from your outfit was body glitter, a side ponytail, and a tight t-shirt with some pseudo-clever quip silk screened across the chest. Excuse us; you were wearing that last one.

Thank you,
The Management

From The Management: to the lady at Target

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The reason we are writing is as follows: Last week while standing in a very long line at Target, you cast several very hateful glances at 22-month-old Ewan, who had accidentally bitten his tongue and was crying from the pain. Perhaps if you were a more attentive mother to your own two daughters (May we inquire as to whether or not they inspired the Bratz line?) instead of focusing your efforts on trying to dress as one of them, you would possess the ability to differentiate between a child's cry of pain and one of ample brattiness. It was reported to us that you not only glared extensively at said child, but rolled your eyes at him, sighed excessively, and made not-so-subtle comments at his expense. You behaved as though his cries of pain robbed you of a quiet checkout line experience; the result of your absence from your Broyhill sofa and that afternoon's Dr. Phil repeat. An investigation is underway to find out if this was the true cause of your dissatisfaction.

Your behavior was first noticed by the child's older five-year-old brother, who brought it to the attention of his mother by saying "Mama. That woman doesn't like us. She's looking mean at Ewan."

Therefore, it should have surprised no one, least of all you, when after quietly observing your actions towards her children Ewan's mother faced you and exclaimed loud enough for the entire store to hear: "HIS EXCUSE IS THAT HE'S A BABY. WHAT'S YOURS?" We advise you to behave in a more courteous manner next time and to save your harsh criticism of a crying child for the privacy of your vehicle. We The Management have audio, video, and photographic proof that your children cried in their infancy.

We also regret to inform you that while certain brain-addled executives in the fashion industry say that leggings are "in style," they are not. Especially on women over thirty-five years of age who wear them under denim mini-skirts. The only thing lacking from your outfit was body glitter, a side ponytail, and a tight t-shirt with some pseudo-clever quip silk screened across the chest. Excuse us; you were wearing that last one.

Thank you,
The Management

And I cook for CHILDREN part II

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How to Make Spawn, the Image Comics hero.

This is ridiculous. Do not look at this while you are eating anything. Because dang, Gina. I'm a really good cook and an even better baker, but last night, GAH. So:

Begin by making beef stew.

Allow your toddler, who's drawing on the storm door with a blue window marker, to distract you by rubbing his drawing off with his face.

You holler "EWAN. Stop it!" and when he turns around he looks like Baby Smurf.

Spend an inordinate amount of time wiping off The Baby.

Return to the stove, lift the lid to the pot, and scream. Congratulations! You've succeeded in scaring the holy crap out of yourself with your own cooking!

The stew is supposed to have the appearance of burnt flesh. Or George Hamilton. It should be taut. If it is not, go and occupy your time with something because it is no where near burnt enough.

Remind yourself "This is food, this is food" over and over as you set the table, bent on not wasting five dollars of beef.

Laugh inside as your five-year-old starts to cry when he sees what's for dinner.

As you play chicken with your five-year-old to see who will take the first bite, decide that it really is awful and end up making grilled hot ham and cheese sandwiches.

Be sure to tell your mother that you're taking her OUT to eat Saturday for her birthday.

Happy birthday Nana.



(And I Cook For CHILDREN Part 1)

And I cook for CHILDREN part II

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How to Make Spawn, the Image Comics hero.

This is ridiculous. Do not look at this while you are eating anything. Because dang, Gina. I'm a really good cook and an even better baker, but last night, GAH. So:

Begin by making beef stew.

Allow your toddler, who's drawing on the storm door with a blue window marker, to distract you by rubbing his drawing off with his face.

You holler "EWAN. Stop it!" and when he turns around he looks like Baby Smurf.

Spend an inordinate amount of time wiping off The Baby.

Return to the stove, lift the lid to the pot, and scream. Congratulations! You've succeeded in scaring the holy crap out of yourself with your own cooking!

The stew is supposed to have the appearance of burnt flesh. Or George Hamilton. It should be taut. If it is not, go and occupy your time with something because it is no where near burnt enough.

Remind yourself "This is food, this is food" over and over as you set the table, bent on not wasting five dollars of beef.

Laugh inside as your five-year-old starts to cry when he sees what's for dinner.

As you play chicken with your five-year-old to see who will take the first bite, decide that it really is awful and end up making grilled hot ham and cheese sandwiches.

Be sure to tell your mother that you're taking her OUT to eat Saturday for her birthday.

Happy birthday Nana.

(And I Cook For CHILDREN Part 1)

What happens when we dont have our kids

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Chris and I attended a friend's wedding over Labor Day weekend at Tower Grove Park. Fall is my favorite season and I'm perpetually out-of-doors, so the fact that the wedding and reception were outside was icing on the proverbial cake. I had my first carriage ride; I've lived in St. Louis my whole life and never once rode any of the carriages.
I stuffed my face beside none other than the mistress of retro fashion herself, Annamarie von Firley (also Doug's sister). If you read Bust you'd recognize her; she was written up a couple months ago.

After a few glasses of wine our friend Jay, whose band The Pedestrians played the reception, somehow convinced me to do bgv's on their cover of "Stepping Stone." Chris took video on his Treo and I'm doing everything in my power to prevent him from secretly uploading it to YouTube. SHUT UP. You will not see it. Absent were the traditional, kooky reception music and in their stead we cut a rug to songs from the Cure, the Clash, etc. I'll take awesome 80s bands that start with "C," Alex.

Our friends had one of the coolest novelties I've ever seen at a wedding; they rented a photo booth and offered free photos to their guests, one strip for the guests to keep and one for the bride and groom. Needless to say, the photos grew insane, but decorous still, over the course of the evening. At one point Annamarie employed her trapeze skills and attempted to perch herself at the top of the frame.

What follows below is evidence that Chris and I would have been lovely guests at the Mad Hatter's tea party.

What happens when we don't have our kids

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Chris and I attended a friend's wedding over Labor Day weekend at Tower Grove Park. Fall is my favorite season and I'm perpetually out-of-doors, so the fact that the wedding and reception were outside was icing on the proverbial cake. I had my first carriage ride; I've lived in St. Louis my whole life and never once rode any of the carriages.
I stuffed my face beside none other than the mistress of retro fashion herself, Annamarie von Firley (also Doug's sister). If you read Bust you'd recognize her; she was written up a couple months ago.

After a few glasses of wine our friend Jay, whose band The Pedestrians played the reception, somehow convinced me to do bgv's on their cover of "Stepping Stone." Chris took video on his Treo and I'm doing everything in my power to prevent him from secretly uploading it to YouTube. SHUT UP. You will not see it. Absent were the traditional, kooky reception music and in their stead we cut a rug to songs from the Cure, the Clash, etc. I'll take awesome 80s bands that start with "C," Alex.

Our friends had one of the coolest novelties I've ever seen at a wedding; they rented a photo booth and offered free photos to their guests, one strip for the guests to keep and one for the bride and groom. Needless to say, the photos grew insane, but decorous still, over the course of the evening. At one point Annamarie employed her trapeze skills and attempted to perch herself at the top of the frame.

What follows below is evidence that Chris and I would have been lovely guests at the Mad Hatter's tea party.

Not unlike "Falling Down"

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Liam and other kids "played" with water guns at the big homeschool co-op luau. Make no mistake; these are not "squirt" guns. Kids nowadays laugh at the notion of a "squirt" gun.

Now they're called water guns or "water blasters." Do you know why?

Because one shot can douse my entire right pants' leg, deflect off of that and soak a five-year-old boy who tried, unsuccessfully, to use me as a shield.

One blast from Liam's gun can fully soak a boy up to eight years and a girl who was totally cool with getting blasted until her pigtails got wet then SCREAM.

They had no mercy.

Not unlike "Falling Down"

|

Liam and other kids "played" with water guns at the big homeschool co-op luau.

Make no mistake; these are not "squirt" guns. Kids nowadays laugh at the notion of a "squirt" gun.

Now they're called water guns or "water blasters." Do you know why?

Because one shot can douse my entire right pants' leg, deflect off of that and soak a five-year-old boy who tried, unsuccessfully, to use me as a shield.

One blast from Liam's gun can fully soak a boy up to eight years and a girl who was totally cool with getting blasted until her pigtails got wet then SCREAM.

They had no mercy.

I can tell that we are going to be friends

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It's almost 11 p.m.
I have two baskets of laundry yet to fold, one of them big enough that it could take me in a barfight. It taunts me when I walk past it. There's a load of darks still in the dryer.

My bedroom is a disaster. Clothes are strewn about the bed, which isn't made - my mother is reading this at work and cringing right now because to her, admitting that your bed went unmade all day is akin to confessing that you wear dirty underwear.

My floors are clean, my bathrooms are clean, if only because, as the only girl in my household, I refuse to let the boys completely overtake everything. A cloud of dust follows them like Pig Pen from "Peanuts."

I need to start the dishwasher, but this being the first time I've sat down all day in a non-excremental manner, I AM NOT GETTING UP.

There are wooden alphabet blocks scattered across the living room floor. Chris might step on one of those because he never looks where he's walking. I'm still not getting up, though.

Liam began kindergarten today and we conducted our first K5 lesson.

It was wonderful. Teaching him is like running outside after the first snowfall of the year to your smooth, blank, white yard. There isn't the intrusion of one single footprint, handprint, or dog print.

Because of this, the laundry doesn't matter. That big basket can suck it. The blocks all over the floor barely register in my consciousness.
Liam had his first lesson. And he rocked it.
I rocked it too, I think.

The years of researching, the previous year of preschool practice, all of it geared for this very day were worth it. I know that I had a good day and I know that I have beginner's zeal. I know that there will be hard times, days where I'll want to hang myself with my fancy bedsheets off my deck, days where Liam's attention will crumple, days where he won't catch on so quick, days where he'll be frustrated and I'll be frustrated and he'll shout how he does "not like learning very much at all!" Like last year, when A Beka said I should teach him cursive and I was all "Okie-dokie" because I was stupid. Now I know better. But there will still be those days.

But it's the days like today that help me move on through.

He could teach you, but he'd have to charge

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Remember the yard? Of course you remember the yard. It was no longer a yard; it grew to such a size that is developed its own personality and required proper address, such as The Yard.

Lo, The Yard was mowed:

And it was good:

Yes, our yard is really that green and no, it doesn't have anything at all to do with the latest version of Photoshop.

Mike and Brian even took a poll. We have decided to pay the neighbor kid to mow it when Chris can't, may God have mercy on my dollar-wasting soul. You all got into Chris's good graces with that suggestion.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and pop some Aleve because this new schedule is totally kicking my bass.

I can tell that we are gonna be friends

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It's almost 11 p.m.
I have two baskets of laundry yet to fold, one of them big enough that it could take me in a barfight. It taunts me when I walk past it. There's a load of darks still in the dryer.

My bedroom is a disaster. Clothes are strewn about the bed, which isn't made - my mother is reading this at work and cringing right now because to her, admitting that your bed went unmade all day is akin to confessing that you wear dirty underwear.

My floors are clean, my bathrooms are clean, if only because, as the only girl in my household, I refuse to let the boys completely overtake everything. A cloud of dust follows them like Pig Pen from "Peanuts."

I need to start the dishwasher, but this being the first time I've sat down all day in a non-excremental manner, I AM NOT GETTING UP.

There are wooden alphabet blocks scattered across the living room floor. Chris might step on one of those because he never looks where he's walking. I'm still not getting up, though.

Despite all of this, Liam began kindergarten today and we conducted our first K5 lesson.

It was wonderful. Teaching him is like running outside after the first snowfall of the year to your smooth, blank, white yard. There isn't the intrusion of one single footprint, handprint, or dog print.

Because of this, the laundry doesn't matter. That big basket of clothes is untouched. The blocks all over the floor barely register in my consciousness.
Liam had his first lesson. And he rocked it.
I rocked it too, I think.

The years of researching, the previous year of preschool practice, all of it geared for this very day were worth it. I know that I had a good day and I know that I have beginner's zeal. I know that there will be hard times, days where I'll want to hang myself with my fancy bedsheets off my deck, days where Liam's attention will crumple, days where he won't catch on so quick, days where he'll be frustrated and I'll be frustrated and he'll shout how he does "not like learning very much at all!" Like last year, when A Beka said I should teach him cursive and I was all "Okie-dokie" because I was stupid. Now I know better. But there will still be those days.

But it's the days like today that will help me move on through.

He could teach you but he'd have to charge

|

Remember the yard? Of course you remember the yard. It was no longer a yard; it grew to such a size that is developed its own personality and required proper address, such as The Yard.

Lo, The Yard was mowed:

And it was good:



Yes, our yard is really that green and no, it doesn't have anything at all to do with the latest version of Photoshop.

Mike and Brian even took a poll. We have decided to pay the neighbor kid to mow it when Chris can't, may God have mercy on my dollar-wasting soul. You all got into Chris's good graces with that suggestion.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and pop some Aleve because this new schedule is totally kicking my bass.

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