Do They Make Margarita Popsicles?

Internet, I present to you our forecast for the next 7 days:

Welcome to the surface of the sun!

The entire summer has been like this.

I'm starting to believe that God hates me.  And all of the Midwest.

What other explanation is there?

Flash Dance

Proving that no accessory is off limits to Paige.

"Look at deez boots! And dis hat!"

After getting completely dressed, Paige asked "what weapons come with this costume?". 

She was very dissatisfied when I replied "your feet".

This is NOT the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

My sister-in-law, upon reading my blog from yesterday, sent me THIS photo today.

I would name her "Dottie". 

That, my friends, is a bunny AVAILABLE FOR SALE at this very moment.

Which was either very sweet of my SIL, or very cruel.

One of those.

And on an entirely different and un-related topic, I was perusing Pinterest this afternoon (it has SO become my guilty pleasure) and I kept seeing pins relating TO CHRISTMAS.

I kid you not.

There are people out there (LOTS OF THEM) who are currently thinking about CHRISTMAS.

AREYOUKIDDINGME?

At the very moment I was viewing those pins about advent calendars and holly wreaths and festive pumpkin pie bites, it was ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE DEGREES outside my window.

In the shade.

Just... what is wrong with people?

Cure For All That Ails You

I had a crummy day today.

A pet bunny would make everything better.

Of course it would.

Dear Paige

Dear Paige -

You came downstairs this morning tousle-haired and pajama clad wearing one high-heeled shoe and one bunny slipper.

You simply couldn't decide which to wear, so you wore both.

And last Friday you wandered into the kitchen carrying not one, but THREE purses and a magic wand.  You dictated a grocery list to me (pasta, sauce, macaroni, suckers), then tucked it neatly into (one of) your purses and announced you were off to Homeland. 

Then you walked out the back door.  With your wand.  And your purses.  And your list.

I stood there watching you out the window wondering if I should call Homeland and tell them to expect a demanding three year old.  I wouldn't put it past you to walk all the way there. 

I find myself a bit intimidated about parenting you.  You are the little girl I wish I'd been.  You do not worry.  You do not hesitate.  You dive right in to everything. 

I love this about you, but I wonder what sort of example I can possibly set for you.  I'm a look-before-you-leap sort of person.  You?  Not so much. 

How will I parent someone so different from me?

You are such a girly girl. 

You insist on wearing princess dresses and fairy wings on most occasions.  Which is odd, as you have not watched any princess movies.  Or fairy movies for that matter.  Is this whole princess thing just seeping into you through, what, the water?  Or perhaps is it the very air you breathe?

The other day you wore your princess dress WHILE fighting your brother's friends with a light saber.  You had to halt the battle TO STRAIGHTEN YOUR TIARA.

And what's amazing is, those boys WAITED on you. 

I hope this is a metaphor for your life.

I cannot wait to see what you become.  My little sword-wielding tiara-wearing girl. 

Love,
Momma

Still.

.

I woke up at 4:20 this morning panicked about the fact that I hadn't heard from the principal of William's old school.  I wrote her a letter (via email) last week explaining that we would not be back for the 2011-2012 school year.  And she never responded.

Probably because, oh I don't know, SHE'S BUSY RUNNING A SCHOOL.

And yet, my brain was so distraught that I was forced to GET UP at the ungodly hour of 4:20am and RE-WRITE the email in case she didn't get mine from last week.

What the heck, BRAIN?

As a result of my early morning freakout, I spent the rest of today in a sort of fog.  Which meant that I really wasn't very productive.  I'd start a project, and then wander off halfway through only to come back hours later to find things like a half-empty dryer or a partially unloaded dishwasher.

But the fog also turned out to be a good thing. 

I was still today.  I was too tired to be busy.  And being still allowed me to just BE.  And it made me really appreciate my little children.  They were just like they always are - funny and sweet and delightful (and sometimes aggravating) - but today I was still long enough to notice.

At one point, Paige wandered in with a gigantic make-up brush in her hand.  One I'd donated to her "peetend" box (full of fake jewels, plastic high-heels, and even a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff).  She asked me to sit down so she could "make me up".

I sat cross-legged on the floor facing her with my eyes closed while she brushed my cheeks, my forehead, my chin while whispering things like "just a little more here" and "hold vewwy still momma". 

I could smell her sweet breath.  Her tiny fingers gripping my chin to hold it at just the right angle.

I held very still indeed.

Scenes From My Weekend

Fun Found

I was asked recently what I enjoy doing for fun.

And I couldn't think of one single thing.  Not one. 

Which felt so sad to me, because I consider myself a pretty happy person.  I'm always laughing.  I always see the events in my life through the prism of humor.  Because, let's face it, life is funny most of the time.

Apparently, funny is easier for me than fun.  I couldn't think of an ACTIVITY that I did for fun.

In fact, I wrote about it here.  I wrote about how I didn't do anything for fun.  WHICH IS SO IRONIC, because it has occurred to me (more than a week later) that I like THIS - writing!  I love it.

I wish I could say that this epiphany came to me as if in a dream, but in truth, I realized it after reading this quote from a man who LOVES computer programming (go figure):

"The pleasure of making things that are useful to other people." Seeing other people take delight in what we've created, or benefit from something we've done, is enormously satisfying.


Ok, so I cannot actually prove that this blog is useful to anyone other than me, but I have been told (on more than one occasion even!) that someone laughed at something I've written.  Sadly, they are usually laughing at ME.  But hey!  They "took delight in what I've created", even if it was at my own expense.

And I think that's fun!

It only took me TEN DAYS to figure this out.  *Sigh*

Cereal Killer

The above photos are evidence of HISTORY BEING MADE.

I realize that, to the untrained eye, the photos are simply those of two young children eating their morning cereal.  And to that untrained eye, I would say YOU FOOL! 

Those, my friends, are  photos of my seven-year-old child eating cereal and milk TOGETHER IN THE SAME BOWL.*

I'll wait here while you pull yourself together.  I know this is big news.

What's that you ask?  Did he not like milk?  Oh yes, he likes milk.  And he likes cereal.  But before today WOE BETIDE if you try to put them together in the same bowl.  My boy.  He is a quirky one.

What made him change his evil ways?

Two words: Cap'n. Crunch.**

We randomly bought a box of "sugar cereal" at the store the other day (Dave is a bad bad influence!), and we refused to let the children eat it dry.  Apparently, the lure of the Cap'n was too strong for my little buddy.

You might want to mark this day on your calendar.




*Yes, I took pictures of my kid eating cereal and milk for the first time.  In fact, I took MANY.  I only chose the best 3 for this blog.  You are welcome.
**Why oh why do they intentionally misspell words on items that are clearly directed at children?  This is so confusing to my newly-reading child.  As if it wasn't bad enough that they're trying to kill my child with diabetes and Yellow Dye #5, now they're actually trying to directly kill his brain VIA THE BOX.  Sheesh!

Hare Today Gone Tomorrow

Internet, meet Domino.

My sister-in-law and niece came to visit me today.

And with them, they brought their newest family pet: a one-month old baby bunny.

When they brought it through the door in its wee little cage, the kids and I completely lost our minds.  I don't even think we greeted our human guests.  We just went wacko over this bunny.

And I would love to say that I stood back and let the children ooooh and ahhhh over this little creature, but in all honesty, it was all I could do not to KNOCK THEM OVER so that I could get to it myself.

At one point, I intentionally distracted William and cousin Emily with video games so that I could have that tiny critter.  I had no desire to share him.  None whatsoever.

This bunny, y'all!  MY GOSH this BUNNY!  He is SO TAME!  He just crawls up and nuzzles under your chin and LAYS THERE.  He lays there while you gently stroke and stroke and stroke his fur until all your cares are washed away.

I'm telling you right now, this is the ANSWER for major depression, anxiety, or any other mood disorder.

THROW AWAY YOUR PROZAC and just get yourself a bunny.

See? Don't I look almost DRUGGED?  Prozac!

Although, I *do* suppose a pill doesn't require as much upkeep as a living thing.

BUT STILL! DID YOU SEE THAT BUNNY?

If my husband had any love in his heart for me AT ALL, he would buy me one on his way home from work tomorrow.  *Ahem*

Wookie Here!

Poor Paige.  Her playtime typically revolves around Legos and trains and race cars.  Bless her, she *is* the younger sister to a much older brother.

She wants to play with him so badly, she's willing to forgo all things pink and instead play with Boy Things.

Which is why I was not surprised this morning when she wandered into the kitchen and exclaimed that she had a favorite Star Wars character.

I assumed she was about to tell me it was Princes Leia, because hello(?) she's a PRINCESS with a GUN how cool is THAT?

But instead, Paige said her favorite character was Chewbacca.

Why?

"Because I "LOVE" his purse!"

Don't we *all* love a good cross-body bag?

Oh yes.  The Wookie Purse of Ammunition.  The new fashion trend.

Pants on Fire

Paige told her first big lie today.

I walked into the kitchen to discover the (mostly empty) dishwasher was running.  I knew immediately what had happened: Paige LOVES to push buttons.

Except, when I asked her about it, she DENIED it.  Over and over again I'd ask, and she'd answer "nope, wasn't ME!".

Which, "HELLO?", I am not stupid, nor do we have a button-pushing ghost around here. 

The more she denied, the more upset I became.  I finally asked her to sit in her Naughty Chair until she was ready to tell the truth.  I explained that pushing a button was wrong, but lying is REALLY wrong.  I talked to her about the importance of telling the truth.

But, she never did.

SHE NEVER DID!  She was able to look at me with pseudo-innocence and LIE.  OVER AND OVER.

Which just freaked me smooth out.

1. Is she *that* afraid I'll be angry?  Does she feel she needs to lie to avoid, what? a beating? screaming? What does she think is going to happen to her?
2. OMG I'm raising a LIAR.  And a confident, cool-as-a-cucumber LIAR.  What's next? SERIAL KILLING? 
3. OMG I'm a terrible TERRIBLE mother who is raising A LIAR.

I released her from her Naughty Chair Prison only to make her go to her room and not come out until it was completely clean.

She went.  She cleaned.  She came out and went on about her day.

SHE NEVER ADMITTED IT.

And now I'm starting to wonder if we DO have a button-pushing ghost.

Or did *I* start the dishwasher?  Did the dog?  Is he tall enough to leap up and push that button with his wee little nose?  Maybe?

See? This is exactly why telling the truth is important!  Because LIES make the rest of us QUESTION OUR SANITY.

Hair Brained Idea

The entire episode I'm about to describe to you occurred for two reasons:

1. My husband started a new career a year ago and our budget is, what is the word? Oh yes, I remember, TIGHT.
2. My hair has spent so much time in the pool and the sun that it has begun to look blonde.  Which will never do, as we all know I'm a redhead.  And I have the temper to prove it.  And the freckles.

So in light of our budget constraints, I have done nothing about the color of my hair.  Even though it's driving me crazy that it's so dull and dry and BLONDE.  And I've done nothing mainly because I think (thought) that the coloring of hair should ONLY be done in the salon by a professional.

I mean, we wouldn't perform BRAIN SURGERY at HOME using a KIT from TARGET, now would we? 

Of course not.  We'd leave it to the professionals.  And yes, I'm implying that hair coloring and brain surgery are on the same level.  What's your point?

But after weeks of hair dissatisfaction, I finally tiptoed into Sally Beauty Supply thinking I'd just ASK (what's the harm in ASKING?) about at-home hair coloring.  They seemed knowledgeable.  They steered me away from a bright orange shade I was fingering toward one that was only one shade brighter than my current color.

And so I bought it.  OMG! I couldn't believe what I'd done! I bought at-home hair color! 

The total purchase price (for color and a plastic bottle and gloves and a shower cap) was $14.73.  My salon charges something around $150 for a professional coloring (and rightfully so, seeing as they are PROFESSIONALS and all).  But still, that's a $135 savings!

Next I called  my mother and begged her to come and perform at-home brain surgery apply the color for me.  She gulped audibly, and then agreed.

Is there any limit to the things mothers will do for their children? 

After spending an entire morning sitting in a chair and praying to the beauty gods, I emerged with, well, here, I'll just show you:

Yep.  My hair is exactly pretty much the same color.*

Turns out my original hair color is Golden Copper #742.  Exactly.

At least I only paid $14.73 to learn this lesson.



*In all fairness, it is a bit redder around my face (which is where it had lightened significantly).  Baby steps, people.  Baby steps.

Fun? What is *That*?

William is starting first grade in a few weeks at a new school.  And we aren't the only new kids.  In fact, this particular school has existed for many many years at another location, but will be expanding by opening a second campus in North Oklahoma City (closer to me).  So in some sense, all of the parents and students feel like "pioneers" at this new campus. 

And in the pioneer spirit, some of the "veteran" moms (those whose kids attended school at the old campus last year) have arranged several play groups so that we newbies can get acquainted.  It's very sweet.

We attended our first play group today at a local historical museum.  There were replicas of indian tee pees, life-sized plastic horses laden with pioneer gear, and a whole miniature frontier town square complete with general store, bank, and jail house.


Hey Paige? Jailbirds don't cry.


While the kids ran about trying on pioneer bonnets and cowboy hats we mothers sat nearby chatting (and in my case, hoping desperately that none of those bonnets or hats had been worn recently by someone with LICE - because we all know how I feel about that).  At one point, a "veteran" mother turned to me and asked (quite innocently) "So, Rita, what do you like to do for fun?"

I just stared at her.  Blinking.

My gosh, I have NO IDEA what I like to do for fun.  NO IDEA.  But what kind of person cannot think of ONE FREAKING THING they like to do for fun?  Huh? 

I cast around wildly in my mind trying to think of SOMETHING.  ANYTHING.

I mean, I enjoy eating.  Does that count? Man oh MAN eating is fuuuuuuun.   I realize many women would say "I love to cook", and to them I would say "good, because I love to EAT, we are a PERFECT TEAM YOU AND I!".

And I like to read.  But I haven't actually read very many books lately because, you know, I read BLOGS and TWITTER and FACEBOOK (Which do not count as reading. No they do not.).

I finally gave up, shrugged my shoulders and said I didn't have time for fun because I spend my life wiping bottoms and folding laundry.  I said it in a joking way.  As joking as a PATHETIC, FUN-LESS person can be.

Bless her heart, she tried to laugh, but I have a feeling she's going to say an extra prayer for me tonight.  For that poor woman who cannot remember what fun is.

Snuggle Bunny

Last weekend I held a newborn baby.  I mean *really* newborn.  Like, hours old.  When I took his little body into my arms I swear to you I spontaneously began lactating again (fully two years after Paige stopped nursing).  My gosh, the POWER of a newborn baby on the old Mommy Hormones.   I was weak in the knees.

And then he started to cry and all of a sudden my knees got a whole lot LESS weak and I handed him straight back to his mother.  And I skipped back home to my own children.  My big children who do not pee in their own pants.  And can get themselves a drink of water when they need one.  And? THEY SLEEP. All night.  Every single night.

I love having big kids. 

I also dread teenagers.  But *that's* a whole 'nuther' blog post.

I came home from holding that newborn baby and gushed to Dave about the whole experience.  I described his wee little nose and his paper-thin fingernails half the size of peas.  Ugh.  So SWEET Icannotstandit!

I expected Dave to get that terrified look in his eyes and REFUSE to even discuss any more babies.  But, apparently, he knows that we're on the same page about the whole baby thing (we're SOOOOO done).  Instead, he said "get in here and look at THIS".

I obeyed, following his line of vision outside to our sidewalk where there sat, crouched in a corner, a newborn baby BUNNY.

It was a bit bigger than a chicken egg.

Now THIS is my kind of cute.  I caught that bunny, pet it, and sent it right back outside to its momma.

Just like that newborn baby.

Which is as it should be.  Because I am SOOO done. 

Did I already say that?  Well, IT BEARS REPEATING.


ps. Don't worry, I consulted both my mother AND Google before handling that bunny.  He (or she?) was big enough to be out foraging on our lawn, and therefore old enough that its mother would not reject it in the nest if it were handled by a human. 

Fifteen Degrees in Fifty Minutes

It has been over 100 degrees in Oklahoma for the past TWENTY ONE DAYS.  Every day I watch the weather forecast and gawk at the endless nature of this heat wave.

I actually asked someone the other day if a person could suffer from a sort of *reverse* Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Because this sunny weather is totally making me depressed.  Much like the winter blues for those up North.

I think it is entirely possible.  For one thing, most of our activities are done INDOORS to avoid both the heat, and a painful sunburn.  I swear I came back a little pink after checking the mail yesterday.  It's outrageous.

And then there's the expense of trying to cool a home to a relatively reasonable temperature.  Last month our electric bill was $400.  I shudder to think what it will be this month.  In an effort to keep things cooler, I've shut all the blinds and closed all the curtains in the house.  Which means we are existing in a tomb. 

My GOSH it's depressing.

I tell you all of this so that you will understand my joy. My GLEE when, late this afternoon, ACTUAL CLOUDS rolled in.  CLOUDS that shaded the sun.

I might weep at the sight of them.

And then? THEN?

The temperature started dropping. 

First, I noticed that we were in the nineties.  Sadly, this was actually noteworthy.   It is usually WELL above 100 at 4pm around here.

But it kept dropping.

Into THE EIGHTIES.  I was so shocked I took a picture.  Of my thermometer.

It's blurry. Shaky hands.  I was *really* excited.

Yes.  I realize this means I have officially gone 'round the bend.

Oh but then I posted that picture on Facebook such was my delight.  And lunacy.

And then it began to rain.  Big drops the size of silver dollars at first, and then a deluge.  I had to resist the urge to strip down nekkid and dance in the streets.

But I couldn't, because, as Paige put it "Momma, you might get *stung* by *lighties*".  Or struck by lightening.  Whatever.

At least I wouldn't have gotten a sunburn. 




p.s.  During the storm the temperature got all the way down to 80 degrees. 
p.p.s.  Yes.  I took a picture.

I've lost my mind.

Delicious

One of my dear friends became A GRANDMOTHER today.

She's exactly 5 years older than me and SHE IS A GRANDMOTHER.

*I* can hardly believe it.  You can imagine how *she* feels.

Also? If you call her "grandma" or "granny" she will kill you with her bare hands.  Her bare granny hands. 

You can call her SuSu

As she was showing me the (oh, 6,000 or so) photos of her new baby, she said "OMG I just want to put his whole HEAD in my MOUTH he is SO CUTE!".  And he was.  Very cute.  Edible-y so.

Moments later, Paige approached Susan and asked to see pictures of the baby, but before she crawled up on Susan's lap she was sure to say "But SuSu, I do NOT want to put any baby's head in MY mouth".

Apparently, eating babies is just not her thing. 

Oh well.  More for me.

Head Under Heels

See these shoes?

They almost killed me today. 

But let me back up and start at the beginning.  Today I dropped BOTH of my children off with a friend.  Or perhaps we should call her AN ANGEL STRAIGHT FROM HEAVEN.  Because she gave me my first child-free ALONE hours of the entire summer. 

And it's been a long summer, y'all.

Don't get me wrong, my children are lovely.  They are well-mannered (mostly) and they get along with each other really well.  So normally we'd be having The Time of Our Lives.  A Summer to End All Summers!

Except the weather here is something akin to living on THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

So we've been spending a LOT of time together cooped up indoors avoiding, you know, SOLAR FLARES and RIVERS OF LAVA.

Wait.  I got off on a weather-is-killing-me tangent.  We were talking about shoes, weren't we?

So, I dropped my kids off with (God bless her ever-lovin' soul) Lisa and headed out to cross eleventy-million errands off of my list.  The bank.  The dairy store (milk), the post office.  And? The shoe store.

Mecca.

I received some birthday money from my in-laws (thanks P&A!) and decided I'd like some of them there fancy-pants gladiator sandals.  Because that's what all the cool kids are wearing, yes?

I have no idea. 

So I went to DSW.  A big 'ol warehouse-y shoe store nearby, where I wandered the aisles at a leisurely pace (with no kids! YAY!) trying on shoe after shoe without a care in the world.

Which was how it was that I found myself trying on those platform jobbies pictured above.  I did not in any way intend to BUY them, but they were SO CUTE I couldn't help but try them on.

I wandered over to the full-length mirror (a short distance away) and admired the shoes for a moment.  Then I walked back to where I'd left my (comparatively matronly and practical) shoes.

And that's when it happened.

I lifted one leg up with the intention of unfastening the buckle, except that, apparently, my remaining leg was not prepared to handle all my weight while precariously balancing on that (albeit cute) but very HIGH and UNSTABLE platform.

And so I fell.  All the way to the floor.  IN THE SHOE STORE.

Oh and it gets worse.

The sales clerk and another customer SAW ME AND RAN OVER to laugh in my face help me.  And because of the way I'd fallen (with one leg tucked under me, and one stretched out in front of me), and because I was wearing a dress, well, they all saw my panties.  My big middle-aged suburban housewife panties.

And so, because I was humiliated (the panties were BEIGE, y'all!), and because I'd actually really hurt myself (my wrist! from catching myself!), well, I cried.  Not a full blown boohoo, but still.  There were tears.

I did that thing where you jump up real fast and pretend that you're just fine and that you actually MEANT to do that.  Except that I was struggling like a baby deer on an icy pond because 1) I'm old, 2) I was hurt, and 3) I was still wearing the (godforsaken) shoes.

I think I blacked out after that.  The next thing I remember I was on my way home wearing my matronly flip-flops and wondering what had happened to my wrist.

Strangely, there is a pair of gladiator sandals in my possession, so I must have had the presence of mind to make a purchase.

Pain and humiliation are no reason to come home empty-handed. 

Lunacy

All I see is dust.  Everywhere.

Ok, Internet, you are going to think I am completely nuts, but... I... um...

I think the full moon is making me clean my house.

No! Hear me out! STOP LAUGHING AT ME!

I noticed it some time after William was born.  The nurses in the delivery room told me that they always see an increase in patients during the full moon.  Of course I scoffed, because REALLY? The MOON makes women go into labor?  Ridiculous.

So after that I'd notice the full moon and be all "ooooh, I suppose there's a line at labor and delivery". 

Sometimes I can be a little mocking.  And sort of a jerk.

So anyway.  Months (years?) later I became frustrated at myself because sometimes I was so motivated to clean and organize and scrub.  Almost like I was possessed.  Other times, I couldn't talk myself off of my comfortable couch no matter how moldy and disgusting my home had become.  My on again/off again motivation was baffling to me.

And then somehow I noticed that I was all energetic and motivated around the full moon.  But then I CAME TO MY SENSES and blew the theory off.  I mean, making women have BABIES is one thing.  But lunar influence making me DUST THE BOOKSHELVES? Puh-leeze.

Instead, I chalked it all up to hormones.  That was it.  I mean, the female cycle is roughly the same as the lunar cycle.  Probably something about my ovaries was making me NEED to organize my socks by color.  Yes! OVARIES.

Except, it wasn't hormones.  My cleaning frenzies did not in any way follow my monthly cycle.

But they *DID* happen with SURPRISING REGULARITY during the full moon.  What? The dang thing can control TIDES, you don't think it can control my need (NEED!) for all of my tee shirts to be lined up facing the same direction in the drawer? HMMM?

You know what this means, don't you? Well, clearly, I AM A WEREWOLF.  A very tidy, hairless werewolf who - instead of attacking innocent people in the dead of night - simply cleans the grout in the shower with a toothbrush, alphabetically organizes the spices in the pantry, and irons everything in the closet.  Twice.

The next full moon is on the 15th and I'm thinking of going outside and HOWLING! But, I have a feeling I won't, because WHO HAS TIME FOR HOWLING WHEN THERE'S ALL THIS DUST! 


*Oh, you're laughing now.  But you just wait.  Next time you feel compelled to vacuum behind your refrigerator you are TOTALLY going to check and see if there's a full moon. 

If You Can't Take the Heat

On the plus side, the lake water is warm.

All winter long I read blog posts from my friend Shannon in Minnesota and thought "Why would anyone live in a place where it's snowing 9 months of the year?".  Her words made me feel smug that I live in a place where there are four distinct seasons, and the winters are not really harsh. 

I should have known. The universe has a way of beating the smug right out of you.

It's been over 100 degrees in Oklahoma for going-on 6 weeks now.  And the humidity is hovering around 1,000,000%.  Miserable is not a strong enough word to describe this weather.

Last winter, I remember thinking about what a hassle it would be to live in a snowy climate.  All the bundling of coats and scarves and gloves and boots.  Not to mention the struggle of herding kids through snow banks and slippery sidewalks.  What a pain!

But it turns out, when the weather is over 100 degrees, certain preparation is required too. Even a trip to the grocery store requires a layer of sunscreen and an extra swipe of deodorant.  My clothing choices no longer have any effort toward fashion.  Instead, I wear as little as possible without going completely naked.  I haven't worn pants in WEEKS.  The idea of fabric touching my legs is abhorrent.  I'm wearing cotton sun dresses day after day after day.

And sweating is something I've just gotten used to.  I sweat all day long.  Even inside the house.  A typical home air-conditioner is built to cool a house about 20-25 degrees cooler than the outside.  Yes.  Do the math.  That makes the INDOORS roughly 80 degrees.  Not exactly cool.  And we have a $400 electric bill this month for the priviledge of living in our 80 degree house.

But hey!  It's not *all* bad.  I haven't mowed my lawn in almost two weeks.  The heat has made the grass completely stop growing.

*Sigh*


*I should point out that this summer is one of the hottest on record in Oklahoma.  It's not *always* this bad.  I'm sure Shannon would say the same about her 9 month winter in Minnesota.

Water Baby

My teeny tiny itty bitty newborn baby* girl learned to swim yesterday.

Without floaties. 

*UNDER* water.

I believe this makes her a genius.



It also makes me a nervous wreck.  But that's neither here nor there.


*Ok, so technically she turned three a month ago, but STILL.

Merit Badge Fail

Who needs cake when there's creme brulee?

The holiday weekend isn't officially over.

But so far, Friday evening I celebrated my Birthday.  Neighbor Susan and Mr. Susan joined us.  Which turned a "lovely dinner with my husband" into an Official Party.

Par-Tay

And then Saturday, Dave and I  left town to go to a wedding.  I packed a lovely dress and (exceedingly uncomfortable but very fashionable) high heels.  I also packed my hot rollers in order to achieve a Lovely Wedding Hairdo. 

Oh, and my girdle.  My lovely dress required a bit of industrial trussing.  Most likely due to excessive consumption of birthday creme brulee.

The wedding was in Texas, near where my brother-in-law lives.  He was kind enough to let us stay with him the evening of the wedding.

Dave and I arrived at Bradley's home on Saturday afternoon just in time for me to change into my Lovely Dress (and Spanx) and construct my Lovely Wedding Hairdo, only to find that the air conditioner isn't working properly.  His house was a (face-melting) 80 degrees.

And then?  I find out the wedding we're attending IS AN OUTDOOR WEDDING.

It was 103 degrees on Saturday in Texas.  Eeep!

So I unplugged my hot rollers and cobbled together a Pitiful Wedding Up-Do.

And then I went and stood in my brother-in-law's freezer until it was time to leave for the (OMG OUTDOOR) wedding.

My GOSH it felt good.

The wedding turned out to be lovely.  And worth every single sweaty second.  And I don't think anyone noticed that my girdle was soaked in sweat.

Well, that's not entirely true.  *I* noticed my wet-with-sweat Spanx.  Which were still decidedly wet when it was time for the reception.   But since the reception was held indoors (where there was thankfully airconditioning) my wet girdle was also growing very COLD.  Hoo boy my hiney was chilly!

But don't you worry about my hiney.  You see, I'd planned ahead!  I packed dry panties into my tiny little wedding clutch.  AREN'T I SMART!  I am the Girl Scout of weddings!  I need my Panty Merit Badge!

I discretely excused myself to the restroom during the reception where I intended to perform the ol' panty swicheroo.  But, as I stood there in the stall faced with the choice of enduring the rest of the evening in wet (COLD! So very COLD!) Spanx or putting those soaking Spanx in my adorable little purse.  Well, I just couldn't do it.  I love that purse, y'all!

Which is how it was that I sat in a wet, cold girdle for 4 hours on Saturday evening.

I never did look to be sure, but I suspect my hind-end was all raisin-y by the end of the night.  As if it had been in the swimming pool.

But hey! My *purse* was dry. 

Priorities people!