Ask and ye shall receive
/
Because of the roaring demand from the likes of Celia Fae (and because she makes me laugh so hard every morning), I have added a portrait of myself to the sidebar. It may not remain there for long as I rather hate staring at myself unless I'm looking in the mirror having the eternal debate of "Bangs?" or "No Bangs?" But because you internets were so nice (and some of you nice without seeing me), I decided to oblige. There I be.
Anyway, probably won't post much in the next few days. I'm off to New York City with some of my long lost best girlfriends. And to my BFFs who couldn't come: Bridget, Cindy, and Jackie - we won't be having any fun without you. I promise. No broadway shows, chocolate souffles, fake purses in Chinatown, or frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity. No, siree. No fun at all. We will just be jogging, eating tofu, and cleaning graffiti off buildings in the Bronx. Just think of us doing that and maybe you'll be glad you couldn't make it. Anyway you slice it, you girls will be sorely missed.
So have a great weekend, all. I'll be back on Monday with loads of pictures (of me jogging, eating tofu, and scrubbing graffiti, ahem!) and can't wait to catch up with all of you. I'm outta here!
Anyway, probably won't post much in the next few days. I'm off to New York City with some of my long lost best girlfriends. And to my BFFs who couldn't come: Bridget, Cindy, and Jackie - we won't be having any fun without you. I promise. No broadway shows, chocolate souffles, fake purses in Chinatown, or frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity. No, siree. No fun at all. We will just be jogging, eating tofu, and cleaning graffiti off buildings in the Bronx. Just think of us doing that and maybe you'll be glad you couldn't make it. Anyway you slice it, you girls will be sorely missed.
So have a great weekend, all. I'll be back on Monday with loads of pictures (of me jogging, eating tofu, and scrubbing graffiti, ahem!) and can't wait to catch up with all of you. I'm outta here!
Flirting over the canned peas and macaroni
/
Today I was strolling up and down the aisles of my local grocery store. I kept meeting the same person in the middle of each aisle. Every time I passed this man, he smiled up and me and said, "Hello, pretty lady."
Which, thanks to my most thoughtful son telling me all that is wrong with my fine self, I was needing today.
With each passing aisle, and each passing compliment, my self-esteem soared. See, McKay, SEE? Strangers tell me I'm pretty. I can't be ALL THAT bad.
But our little game ended when I heard him say the exact same thing to another store patron. Sadly, it was not a trim, cute soccer mom that drew his attentions away from me. It was a balding, elderly man wearing a pink shirt.
Next time our carts passed, I eyed him more carefully.
He is mentally challenged.
And I, unfortunately, am still ugly.
Which, thanks to my most thoughtful son telling me all that is wrong with my fine self, I was needing today.
With each passing aisle, and each passing compliment, my self-esteem soared. See, McKay, SEE? Strangers tell me I'm pretty. I can't be ALL THAT bad.
But our little game ended when I heard him say the exact same thing to another store patron. Sadly, it was not a trim, cute soccer mom that drew his attentions away from me. It was a balding, elderly man wearing a pink shirt.
Next time our carts passed, I eyed him more carefully.
He is mentally challenged.
And I, unfortunately, am still ugly.
Is it possible that I'm not as attractive as I think I am?
/
McKay (or who shall now be called the Son Who Gets Cut Out of the Will) asked me what appeared to be a purely philosophical question yesterday.
"Mama, if you could change anything about the way you look, what would it be?"
I was thoughtful for a moment and then said, "I'd probably get rid of all my freckles."
His face scrunched up in a REALLY, THAT'S IT? kind of look. I took a deep breath and asked him the question that sends men everywhere running for cover: "WHY, what do you think I should change about my looks?"
And he answered me, internets. He actually answered THAT question.
"Well, I'd make your eyes bigger. And your nose smaller. And your ears bigger. And you have too many freckles on your neck. And maybe you could have better hair."
Umm, yeah.
Clearly, he has not yet learned that when a woman asks ANYTHING about her looks, size, face, hair, clothes, eyebrows, muffin top, weight, freckles, or pinkie toe, you reply with, "Why no, honey, you're perfect just the way you are."
Because I am, you know.
And there's nothing like a nine-year-old boy to make you suddenly so insecure. Do I have a big nose? Are my eyes small and squinty? Are my ears too small? Can ears be too small? Yes, I know the freckles are a problem. But my hair? Is it really that bad? What else is wrong with me? And look, LOOK, at my behind. It's HUGE. I'm like a tank walking around with all this girth. And all this flab around my waist? I'm like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. And what about my feet. I have horrible feet. And I hate my eyelashes. They're so ugly. Why do I have to have these bird-like arms? I hate my mouth, too. I'm a freaky, mutant animal, I tell you. THAT'S WHAT I AM - AN ANIMAL. I'm hideous. Look away, lest I burn your retinas with my Quasimodo-esque face. I'm SO UGLY!
After my womanly tirade is over, The Husband sighs, looks up from his football game, and calmly replies in that Pavlovian way all husbands should, "Nah, you're perfect just the way you are."
He at least was brought up right. Can't say as much for his son.
"Mama, if you could change anything about the way you look, what would it be?"
I was thoughtful for a moment and then said, "I'd probably get rid of all my freckles."
His face scrunched up in a REALLY, THAT'S IT? kind of look. I took a deep breath and asked him the question that sends men everywhere running for cover: "WHY, what do you think I should change about my looks?"
And he answered me, internets. He actually answered THAT question.
"Well, I'd make your eyes bigger. And your nose smaller. And your ears bigger. And you have too many freckles on your neck. And maybe you could have better hair."
Umm, yeah.
Clearly, he has not yet learned that when a woman asks ANYTHING about her looks, size, face, hair, clothes, eyebrows, muffin top, weight, freckles, or pinkie toe, you reply with, "Why no, honey, you're perfect just the way you are."
Because I am, you know.
And there's nothing like a nine-year-old boy to make you suddenly so insecure. Do I have a big nose? Are my eyes small and squinty? Are my ears too small? Can ears be too small? Yes, I know the freckles are a problem. But my hair? Is it really that bad? What else is wrong with me? And look, LOOK, at my behind. It's HUGE. I'm like a tank walking around with all this girth. And all this flab around my waist? I'm like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. And what about my feet. I have horrible feet. And I hate my eyelashes. They're so ugly. Why do I have to have these bird-like arms? I hate my mouth, too. I'm a freaky, mutant animal, I tell you. THAT'S WHAT I AM - AN ANIMAL. I'm hideous. Look away, lest I burn your retinas with my Quasimodo-esque face. I'm SO UGLY!
After my womanly tirade is over, The Husband sighs, looks up from his football game, and calmly replies in that Pavlovian way all husbands should, "Nah, you're perfect just the way you are."
He at least was brought up right. Can't say as much for his son.
What not to use for a belly ache
/So I'm back. Survived the visit from both in-laws and parents. Did more than survive, actually. Had a great time. My kids have some pretty great grandparents. Missed my little bloggy world though.
One night this week, my mother-in-law and I are chatting on the couch. Hannah comes in, moaning that she has a tummy ache. We had just eaten at the World's Largest Chinese Buffet, and truth be told, I had a tummy ache, too. Being the excellent, lazy mother that I am, I sent her up to retrieve a bottle of Tums. I describe it to Hannah as "That thing you always think is candy and I never let you have? Go get that."
She is upstairs rummaging for a few minutes and comes down empty-handed. She just can't find it. She asks what letter it starts with. I tell her it has a big T on it. So she heads upstairs again.
Then, she comes downstairs with the biggest box of this you can buy:
"Is this it, Mama?"
That does start with a T.
And it may be until she actually needs one of those herself before she forgives me for laughing so hard.
Belated swap thanks
/I have been at least a month overdue in thanking Nicole, my swap partner, for the fantastic package she put in the post for me. If you don't know her already, please stop by her blog. It is like thumbing through the pages of Blueprint or Domino. She is an amazing photographer. Her pictures are just gorgeous. She is even offering photography classes, and I pout every time I read about them because I live too far away to go. I am so glad I got to meet her. Please pop over and give her a look. She's a doll. And a keeper. Thanks, Nicole!
