If that's not love, what is?

"Do you love me?

Do I what?
Do you love me?

For twenty-five years I've lived with him,
Fought him, starved with him,
Twenty-five years my bed is his,
If that's not love, what is?

Then do you love me?
I suppose I do.
And I suppose I love you, too.
It doesn't change a thing, but even so,
after twenty-five years,
it's nice to know."

You know that song from Fiddler on the Roof where Tevye asks Golde if she loves him? And she rattles off a list of chores she has done for 25 years that proves her love?

I think I finally know just what they mean.

See, my husband is not the flower-sending kind. Don't get me wrong. I have gotten them. Just not on a regular, everyday basis like I think I should.

My husband is not the foot massage giving kind of guy. I think my ugly, knobby feet might actually disgust him. He's more the type to try massaging OTHER parts, if you know what I mean.

And my husband definitely is not the "Surprise! I bought you a sparkly new diamond ring for no reason!" kind of guy (unlike some lucky girls - hi, Emily!)

But I do know that he loves me.

How do I know? Because he builds me things like this, of his own accord and design, knowing just how much I need it in my life:

A giant, wall-sized bulletin board, covered in a pretty red-checked fabric. Divided into three sections, topped with crisp white wooden letters, clearly, and oh-so-neatly, denoting each kids' spot.

He knows the piles of papers that come home from the school need to have a home. And he knows that their current home (which is piled up on my desk) makes me crazy. So, he spent a whole Saturday last weekend putting this together for little ol' moi.

In addition to that, he gave up his lifelong dream of having a man cave downstairs and put wainscoting on the walls in the basement, knowing full well he'd never get to hang that rifle, Danish flag, and beer keg lid on walls as pretty as these.

So does he love me? I suppose he does.

Although, if he ever wanted to send flowers or big, sparkly diamond rings in addition to the house stuff, I wouldn't necessarily refuse them. You know, because I'm just so nice like that.

Thanks, baby.

After almost 15 years together, I suppose I love you, too.

God bless refined sugar

Several weeks ago, a reader named Tracy (hi, Tracy! Got a blog yet?) sent me her favorite brownie recipe. And because I like you, internets (and am constantly striving to fatten you up), I am going to share it with you.

Plus, we made and ate two pans of these in one week, so surely it is not fair that I get fatter while you do not.

Here now is what I have dubbed 'Tracy in Iowa's Sell-Your-Soul-to-Satan-For-One Brownies.' May your thighs have mercy on your soul.

Mix up a batch of your favorite fudge brownies. From a box, because surely no one makes brownies from scratch anymore, right?

Bake according to the directions, and allow to cool. When cool, spread with your favorite cream cheese frosting. Mine is the kind in a can because I'm just so lazy homespun like that.

Be sure to lick the knife clean when you are done. This is CRITICAL to the success of the recipe.

Then take 1 cup peanut butter and 2 cups chocolate chips. Melt in the microwave until smooth and creamy (took me less than a minute). Add 3 cups Rice Krispies to chocolate mixture and spread over the cream cheese frosting layer.

I know, right?


Then pop the entire pan into the fridge to speed up the setting process. Heaven forbid one should have to actually wait for them to be ready on their own. THAT would be a sin.

Then hide them from the kids, and be sure to eat at least four. Preferably six. If you eat half the pan, I promise to hold your hand through your next Weight Watchers meeting. If you don't, then I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.

Thanks, Tracy. Send me any more you've got because, clearly, this getting fatter thing seems to be working for me (at least in my neck, anyway).

What? You still here? Get thyself to the kitchen and start baking. Now!

Gracias, mine interpeeps

How much do I love the internet today?

So, so much.

You sure do know how to make a girl feel good. Even you lurkers that decided to come out and play. I thank you. From the bottom of my very short-haired heart. I think next time I'm feeling bad about myself, I will whine about it here, and wait for you all to make me feel pretty again. Seriously, thank you. Your kind words meant a lot to me. I am just blown away by all of it.

Now onto other non-hair related things (you mean the world doesn't revolve around my hair? Shocking, but true).

Yesterday was the first day of school. A buzz of energy, the kids got all ready in about six minutes, and then sat around waiting until it was time to go. When the time finally arrived, there was some moaning as they lugged their school supplies to the bus stop, which I was absolutely no help with. I mean, someone had to be snapping pictures, right? Who else will document these milestones?

Once at the bus stop, I forced them to endure the gratuitous, cheesy smile pose that moms everywhere are snapping this time of year. Backpacks on, freshly scrubbed faces, new clothes. Note to self: Must get more creative for next year. I'm thinking headstands on backpacks, human pyramid, flame-thrower in the background. Something.

McKay had a lot more anxiety and nervousness about this year, which surprised me. Poor kid could hardly eat anything for breakfast because his stomach was all in knots. Lucky for him, I ate enough for the two of us. Just trying to keep the universe balanced and all that (or so I'm trying to tell my thighs).


Hannah was definitely the most excited, "Aboutstartingfirstgrade! Ohmygoodness!! I'minfirstgradenow!! I can'tbelieveI'mfinallysogrownup!! I'minfirstgrade!!!" And that's exactly how it sounded all morning, I kid you not.
Chase was hardly nervous at all - telling his usual round of jokes, searching the ground for frogs, and asking how soon it was until lunchtime.

But in the end, only my baby girl looked back.


But only for a second, and then she was gone. Leaving me, my checkbook, my novels, and daytime movies all alone.

Whatever shall I do?

"Shelby was right, it DOES look like a brown football helmet"

All right, because you asked for it. Here is my new, unplanned hair. I still don't like it, but have at least managed to stop crying whenever I look into a mirror.

Pros of having short hair:

• Not spending 25 minutes with a blow dryer every morning.
• Not having to sweep up large piles of hair in the bathroom every day.
• Less money spent on shampoo and product means more money that can be spent on shoes.
• I could pose as a man and do undercover work, should I ever so desire.
• On hot and humid days, my neck isn't nearly as sweaty.
• No more ponytail headache.
• Much more interesting bed head in the morning.

Cons of having short hair:

• It's short.
• It's really, really short.
• It accentuates my fat neck (just ask the stylist from hell).
• I don't know how to style it very well.
• I am tempted to really tramp up the cosmetics in an effort to draw attention away from my hair, thus giving me a new look - drag queen in a bad wig.
• Hannah still telling me how ugly it looks.
• Having EVERYONE notice and comment on it is really embarrassing.
• Every other commercial on t.v. is for hair products, demonstrated by models with long, flowing locks. Who mock my pain on purpose, I know it.
• And I can do absolutely nothing about it.

P.S. Know the name of the movie where the title comes from? If you do, we are meant to be BFFs. If you don't, find out and rent it today.

Apparently I just don't speak hairdresser

Yesterday I made a mistake of colossal proportions. Ignoring the begging, pleading, and whining of the Husband, I proceeded, with my stubborn mind made up.

Girls, I am telling you now. Listen to your husbands. Sometimes, they just might be right.

I had decided that the time had come for me to cut my hair. And not just trim a little off the ends, but really cut. my. hair. It has been varying degrees of long for about the last six years.

And humidity and long hair? They don't get along so well.

I was tired of it and ready for a change, but also not wanting to go too short. So, for the last several weeks, I have been perusing websites, magazines, and people-watching in search of my new hair. One lucky day, I found it. It belonged to a girl who was innocently walking around the City Museum with her kids. Unbeknownst to her, I was stalking her hair, snapping away with my telephoto lens like a paparazzi. I had pictures of every angle of this hair, lest there be any confusion when I went in.

I need to pause in the telling of the hair story to tell you that I have not found my hair "person" here in St. Louis yet. I have gone in a few times for trims, but never really felt like I had found my stylist. Just haven't found that special someone. And if you're anything like me, this is a relationship that MUST be just right. It requires almost as much thought and prayer as choosing your spouse.

You know it's true.

So, armed with my arsenal of pictures, I made an appointment. The day arrived, and I excitedly headed in, ready to meet the new me.

Well.

The stylist I had blindly chosen did not agree with my hairdo of choice. She flat out refused to give it to me. Then, in a move I'll never fully comprehend, told me I was too old to be able to pull it off. Oh, and that it would accentuate my fat neck.

Excuse me?

There are a lot of parts of me that I will agree are fat and jiggly, but up until that moment, I was fairly confident my neck wasn't one of them. I should have gotten up and ran from her chair right then.

But the coward that I am, I stayed right there. And with a few thousand flicks of her scissors, she gave me her version of the haircut, which in no way, shape, or form resembled the one I was looking for. I left the salon in tears. My hair was not only A LOT shorter than I wanted, but I looked like I had a giant poofy bell taking up space around my head, ringing as I walked. It was HORRIBLE.

Calling and sobbing to the Husband did very little good, as he had advised against cutting it in the first place. To his credit, there were no "I told you so's," but we all know how well the men deal with the tears. They really don't know HOW to deal with them.

So, I frantically ran to my friend Mindy's house, tears streaming, and hair-bell ringing. Thankfully, Mindy is someone you can count on to be brutally honest, but in a kind, loving way. And with a hug and a diet coke, she handed me the phone and the number of a male stylist, the likes of which I should have seen in the first place.

A few hours later, lots of laughs in the second salon at my botched job, and my hair is as fixed as it can be. It is, unfortunately, really, really short. So short, in fact, that I am not in a mental place where I can even take pictures of it yet. In a few days I might be ready, but not today. I'm still working on coming down off this ledge.

Which would probably be easier to do if Hannah would stop telling me just how ugly it is, you know, every eight minutes or so.

By the way, she's for sale. Cheap. And she comes with a lifetime supply of polly pockets. Any takers?

The only bright rainbow in this cloudy hair storm? At least I found my new hair person. If only I'd found him a few hours earlier.

Picking the collective brain of the internet

After a weekend spent ignoring my family reading, I finished a few days ago. [And I will only say that I liked it, was mildly disappointed in the anticlimactic ending, and would rather have had a little more written detail about the you-know-what that was going on ALL OF THE TIME, apparently. Stupid young adult audience. Spoils it for the rest of us.]

Anyway, I am left with just one question.

Now what do I read?

I have been on a reading frenzy ever since our catastrophic vacation. I have sped my way through all of Philipa Gregory's Henry VIII books (and loved each and every one of them. I may even be a little in love with crazy Henry now. I know. Don't tell my boyfriend Edward. And certainly don't tell the Husband).

I have devoured this, this, this, and this in the last few weeks alone, among others.

But I find myself at a loss. Browsing my favorite online bookstores is not netting me any inspiration. What should I read next? Where can I focus my near-obsessive personality?

Certainly not my husband and children. Oh, no. Not them. They wouldn't know what to do with themselves.

So, I look to you, dear interpeeps, to help me in my time of need.

What are your favorite reads? What have you read lately that you loved and could not put down?

Please tell me another book or series that I can become addicted to. Give me some more reason to ignore my laundry, dirty bathrooms, and children [as if blogging weren't enough, right?]

Right. You know what I'm talking about.