Spiderweb Cookies revisited

It's that time of year again, interpeeps.

No, not the time of year where we finally pull out that naughty french maid outfit and decide to hooch it up at the PTA party.

It's the time of year where we raid our children's trick-or-treat bags and steal all the good chocolate.

Don't even pretend you don't do it.

But I just made these today, as per our annual tradition. If you want the recipe, see the post I did on it last year. You won't be sorry. They are so, so good.

Is it Monday yet?

Hi, there.

No time to chat for the following reasons:

1. The kids are home from school today.

2. I have 1,873 things to do, but will not get to any of them. See number one for questions on this.

3. High School Musical opens today and I have a six-year-old girl who cannot stop talking about Troy, Gabriella, and Sharpay. She is literally clinging to my legs, begging to see it RIGHT. NOW. (the child is clinging to my legs, not Sharpay, in case you were wondering).

4. I have two boys pouting in the basement, praying to be left home from the movie in which the characters sing and dance spontaneously, which, apparently, is a fate worse than death, according to them.

5. I have a child with virtually no long pants, and cold weather is now upon us.

6. I have another child who had outgrown his church pants and cannot fake button them another Sunday.

7. I have no milk in the house.

8. I am in dire need of a McDonald's diet coke. See all of the above for reasons on this one.

9. I have foolishly promised the children some pumpkin carving today. Oh, how I hate that sticky, gooey mess that lives inside the pumpkins. I can just feel it squishing in my fingers right now and I'm already grossed out.

10. I will soon have a gigantic mess of pumpkin innards to mop up off my floor.

Happy Friday, all.

Driving me crazy

Something that has always been interesting to me is the vast differences when driving in other states. Sure, we all live in the same country, we all get fat at McDonald's together, and we all cheer for the Red Sox (at least those of us with good taste, anyway). But when it comes to getting behind the wheel of our cars, we become something else entirely.

So, I thought I'd take this chilly fall day and share my thoughts on local drivers in the states we've lived in. Hopefully, it will help you, if you ever find yourself in any of these places.

Utah:

In Utah, if you want to change lanes, don't put your blinker on. For, you see, a blinker doesn't signal your desire to change lanes. It actually means the vehicle in the next lane over should immediately speed up, in order to prevent you from getting in front of him. Do not be surprised when you see lots of middle fingers pointed your direction in Utah.

But take heart, for when you arrive at your destination (likely the church Halloween party), you will discover the other driver is actually in your ward. You can thank him personally for the nice, friendly greeting he sent you on I-15.

Minnesota:

Minnesotans brag about being "Minnesota Nice." That definitely doesn't apply to driving. What you most need to be wary of is the chain smoking, coffee chugging, big haired old lady. She WILL run you down in her pink Mary Kay Cadillac. These are hearty people used to living in an inhospitable frozen tundra eight months out of the year. They know how to drive on a sheet of ice without fear. There is no mercy on the road in Minnesota.

Boston:

Boston is a scary place to drive. The drivers there have decided that the vehicle trying to make a left-hand turn onto a busy street actually has the right of way. There's no law that says this, but they have declared it so, and everyone does it.

And if have the gall to NOT stop your vehicle in the middle of the street to let them turn left (you know, because that seems like the safest thing to do when going 40 mph), they will pull out anyway. They will ram your car, yell at YOU, and miraculously not pronounce the letter "R" once.

Washington:

Seattle drivers were a wee bit obsessed with the carpool lane. So much so, that it was a pretty frequent occurrence to see a single driver in that lane, with a blow-up doll in the front seat. I was actually pulled over once for driving in that lane, but not given a ticket because I had my two small children with me, who were not visible in their car seats. When driving in Seattle, beware any old clunker plastered with Kurt Cobain stickers. The driver is undoubtedly hopped up on Starbucks, has not showered in a week, and would probably ram your car if he saw you using a styrofoam cup.

California:

Oy. California. Your best bet is to go 40 miles per hour OVER the speed limit, and drive defensively to avoid any accidents. Because chances are, you'll be the one to hit the Bentley, and they've definitely got more money to sue you with. Trust me when I tell you, the last place you want to be is between a giant pimped out Hummer, driven by a hungry anorexic woman, and her Botox appointment. She will crush you. And she will not care.

Missouri:

Missouri drivers are unlike ANY I have seen anywhere else. They don't actually go the speed limit here, they go S-L-O-W-E-R. It is SO ANNOYING. I am no speeder, but when I'm the fastest one on the freeway, you know something is wrong. The people here drive like every day is a leisurely Sunday drive. They look, this way and that, slow their car down to check out the homes, trees, dogs, and sky. I am doomed to be forever behind a slow car here.

So, internets, what are the drivers like where you live?

I am blogger, hear me roar

I was contacted recently by a PhD student who is writing a thesis on, of all things, blogging.

He randomly contacted about 500 bloggers and asked for help in filling out a survey. The questions were targeted primarily at a person's motivation for blogging. I was eager to help him, envisioning my brilliant answers paving the way for a groundbreaking thesis.

I imagined it impressing his professors - so much so - that they would seek me out personally in order to dig deeper into the great, vast, intellectually superior territory that is my psyche. There would be a bestseller book written. The Today Show would be calling. I would have my moment in the sun.

Yeah, I know. Came down off that cloud real quick.

But it did give me pause to reflect on my motivations. Why do I blog? Why, after almost two years, do I still do this thing? Why do I log onto the internet and prattle on about my everyday life for friends, family, and strangers to read?

There is a part of me that does it so I don't feel alone. Knowing, at this exact minute, there are thousands of women across the country, doing exactly what I'm doing, makes me feel part of a greater cause. It makes it easier, somehow, to laugh at cleaning spaghettios off the ceiling, or dealing with the sick kids, knowing that others are doing it, too.

Because maybe, if we had to deal with it all on our own? We'd just go with our instincts, let out the crazy, and break down sobbing. Or take it out on our husbands because they innocently went to work instead of spending the day covered in a child's throw-up. But suddenly, there is an outlet for the crazy things that happen. And then it all somehow seems more manageable because of that.

Reading blogs also plays a role. Once in a while, I read a blog that makes my struggles seem small in comparison. Tears have been shed when I read about someones baby girl being diagnosed with cancer, or someone longing for babies that just don't seem to be coming her way. I feel a kinship with these women and feel blessed by their ability to share their stories with the rest of us.

I laugh daily with old friends who have moved away, and it is as though we still live in the same town. I see pictures of their kids and feel connected to their lives. This, too, is why I blog. These women are hugely important to me, and they are part of who I am. It's nice to not have to let that go, just because someone moves away.

I also blog so my kids will have a daily record of what they did and said. I do not look at it as a replacement for my journal, but a photographic supplement. The words in my journal will not be read by them until long after I am gone, but the blog? They can read that right now. They can know that even when they were hard, and even when I wasn't as good of a mom as I could have been, that they were loved.

The simplistic beauty that is our ordinary lives has been captured out loud. And to me, that is priceless. It's those everyday things that get forgotten. They were not scrapbooked or recorded until now. And lately, I find myself wanting to remember those things most of all. This is the good stuff. The sick kids, the spilled milk, the embarrassing stories, the silly time at the breakfast table. It's what is building our character, and shaping our lives.

I blog because I have a voice. It is not a voice that many people hear, but that does not make it any less important. Years from now, when I am old and gray, I want someone to know that I mattered. I want to feel that my life was lived well, with tears and with happiness. I want to remember the good days, the bad days, the struggles, and the ordinary perfection that was our little life.

I always want to remember what made me who I am.

We've all got a voice. The key is letting it out. I say let it out, blogging sistas. Let it out.

[Oh, and let us not forget that it's also a nice outlet for mercilessly mock your brother.]

The basic brown tee

Yesterday, my brother Daniel made a comment which I would like to address here. You see, he falsely accused me of wearing the same brown t-shirt in several different photos.

What he does not understand is that it is possible for a person to own multiple brown t-shirts.

I know he happily spends his days in a wife beater tank and dingy sweatpants (and who are we kidding, probably even wears them to work), but I feel it is my duty as his sister to help him see the possibilities open to him. He CAN own multiple shirts, even in the same color.

I know, right? It's like living dangerously.

Plus, I'd like to introduce you to my all-time favorite t-shirt. Internets, meet the basic tee from H&M.

They come in every color imaginable, fit snug and comfortable, and the best part? They are ONLY SIX DOLLARS. Which probably explains why I own at least ten in every color.

I have tried the $40 t-shirts from every store out there. And you know what? I always come back to my H&M tees. They fit just the way I like, plus they're long enough to cover the tramp stamp that I have across my lower back.

Okay. Well, maybe I don't have that. But if I did, it would cover it up nicely at those PTA meetings.

And guess what? If they wear out (as six dollar tees are prone to do), you can buy like 19 more. Because they're cheaper THAN SEEING A MOVIE.

So, Daniel, mock if you must. And be sure and stay tuned tomorrow when I model my 14 different black H&M tees.

Because spending a morning taking pictures of yourself for spite? Totally a worthwhile and productive endeavor.

A little photo mishap that he will live to regret

Let's say you are taking family photos in your backyard. You get a wild hair and decide to take a few shots of just you and your Husband. You know, because you don't have many of those.

You have the camera ready to go on the tripod, and the remote in your hand.

You both smile, and the shutter clicks.

Well, what happens when your middle child, unbeknownst to you, decides to sneak himself into the picture?

This, my friends, is what happens:

Looks like it's cropping for this photo. Unless we want to commemorate the dive Chase took?

No, I don't think so.
But I'm a fair minded person. And I've always thought that the punishment should fit the crime.

So here's a little shot of him that I'm sure he'd rather have buried in the archives for all eternity: I know. I'm such a mean mom.