Category Archives: Big Piece of Cake

Friday Fiction – On Monday: This One’s Kind of a Bridge

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This is starting to be a once a month thing…when I planned to make it once a week. So easy to back burner something when you’re really just doing it for yourself.

And I have no illusions about that. Seriously – how many people with blogs are interested in reading each others’ fiction? They’re too busy scanning each others’ poetry so they can leave a comment that sounds like they give a…well – you know what I mean.

But for the three of you who seem legitimately into it, and of course, Mom – I’m back and I’m REALLY going to try to do this one a week.

SO – we last left off with Vivi and Ivy heading upstairs to (respectively) take an aspirin and put on some warm clothes. I found that I needed to put in some technical details for context, so I used up most my allotted post space on that. It may be a little boring – but a good writing exercise I guess.

Want to catch up? You can do so HERE.

As they walked from the elevator to Vivi’s door, they discovered something unexpected. They shared a balcony.

Vivi lived in apartment 5B on the West side of the St. Sebastian. And as it turned out, Ivy and her family lived in 5B on the East side.

The St. Sebastian was split down the middle with a separate entrance on either side of the most hideous piece of modern art that Vivi had ever seen. Honestly, if she had been a resident at the time that particular piece of garbage was installed, it would have been the first and only occasion that she ever gave two hoots about what that bunch of wind bags on the board had to say. But ugliness aside, it hid the mailboxes and served to dissect the building into an East and West side, each with their own elevators.

Apparently, the girl had her own quick mind and practical streak, because the first clear statement she articulated was that if they shared apartment numbers, then they must share living room balconies.

Each apartment had two balconies. One tiny one off of the master bedroom, and one larger one off of the living room. And the living room balconies were stationed at the center of the back wall of the building. Since the East and West sides of the St. Sebastian were mirror images, the balconies were connected and only separated by a thin plaster wall. There was even a slim space between the wall and the railing where one could slip though. While not privacy friendly, it was necessary for the East side residents to be able to reach the fire escape stairs attached to the West side balconies.

Vivi had no idea if Ivy knew anything about why their balconies were connected, but she had obviously noticed that they were. And this led her to the conclusion that she could probably just walk over to her own balcony door and enter her apartment.

Unfortunately, it seemed that her parents were far more responsible than she expected, and the balcony door was locked.

Vivi would be lying if she claimed that she wasn’t disappointed. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on her couch for a cat nap. It was part of the Sunday ritual. Brunch with champagne and then a nap.

And then a phone call from Mama in which she would be required to explain yet again why she had forsaken her God, because she would only be truly at peace with her late husband’s death if she started going to church again and stopped wasting time with those fancy boys who were an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. But that was neither here nor there. Champagne and naps were a luxury to be enjoyed. And Mama’s lectures were just a reality that Vivi learned to tune out long ago.

Who knew what Mama would make of this. She was not exactly known for her rapport with young girls. In fact she would probably do anything to get the child off her hands. Possibly knocking on other neighbors’ doors or perhaps calling Child Protective Services.

But Vivi wasn’t Mama. Regardless of her decision to skip the having kids part of her marriage, she truly did love children.

I’ll pick this back up on Friday and HOPEFULLY, I’ll manage to make it a weekly thing again.

OH – and I’m over at Style Key West today talking about Anne Harwell and what a star she is. Come by and say hello!

We’re Number Seven! We’re Number Seven!

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Remember this?


And remember how I asked you to vote for me?

My site was nominated for The Blogitzer!

And then I let that button languish on my sidebar from months on end and kind of forgot about it altogether?

Well guess what? I didn’t win.

Shocker.

BUT I am actually on the short list which is just about the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me blog-wise. I mean – in a popularity contest for people who write really long posts kind of way.

The Blogitzer isn’t one of the bigger, more sought after categories like Best Humor Blog (meaning not for people who only make themselves laugh) or Hottest Mommy Blogger (as if!). It may not get as much attention as the others, but I like to think of it as more of an “indie” category. Lower budget and fewer viewers, but…hmmm – okay, forget that track. Let’s just call it “exclusive.”

Would this make me like the seventh most popular cheerleader or the seventh most popular kid in the Chess Club…?

Either way, I WIN (seventh place).

WE’RE NUMBER SEVEN! WE’RE NUMBER SEVEN!

(If you wanted to see the full list of winners, go HERE. You’ll find The Blogitzer almost at the end – between “Most Obnoxious Blogger” and “Worst Blog of All Time.” So thrilling to be rubbing elbows with the blogging elite.)

Rookie Mistakes, Crazy Talk and Being For-dick-a-less

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Okay. So I’ve been a mom for over four years now. Pushing five. And I’m pushing forty myself. I babysat my ass off when I was a teenager (and much later into my twenties than is considered normal). And I actually remember quite a lot about about being a kid myself.

Yet – none of that seems to matter. I still make rookies mistakes, I hear myself spouting bizarre statements with earnest sincerity, and on occassion, I act like a complete tool. All regarding my children of course (shut up Chris).




I’ve had some real winners lately, so I thought I’d post a random sampling today.

First the rookie mistakes. All of that experience with small children under my belt, and I still:

Leave a full and OPEN bottle of bubble bath sitting next to the tub while I duck out to grab the shampoo.


Buy bath markers (Why do I keep doing this? It’s like I have amnesia every time I browse the bath aisle at Target, “OH bath markers – that looks like fun!” sigh)

Leave the house without diapers even though my three year old twins are only 50% potty trained.

Leave an open jar of peanut butter on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

Assume that if I don’t hear a peep from the kids for a long period of time they are playing nicely, and enjoy the little break from the chaos (because we all know what I usually find when I go looking for them…)


Leave an open jar of Vaseline on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

Leave an uncapped tube of toothpaste sitting on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

(I also have amnesia about the kids getting into everything that should be far out of their reach. And I do a lot of laundry.)

Then there are the crazy sounding things I say without a hint of irony:

Hmmm. That’s strange…I can only think of one recent one. Maybe it’s like that amnesia thing above and I’m just saying the same crazy thing over and over without realizing that I’ve said it before. Anyway – here it is:

We NEVER pee on people.

Hold on…I just remembered a couple more:

[When one of them wanted to help me bake cookies] “Okay – you can help…but you have to wear underwear. It’s like – my only cooking rule.“

[George loves to play in our sliding door closets] “Come on George! It’s time to go. No more playing in the closet – we have to leave. No – I’m serious – it’s time. Get out of the closet now. I said now. I said come OUT of the closet George!“

As for acting like a complete lunatic…I think my personal best was a debacle at nap time last month.

First, I should explain that George and Eleanor still need their nap. They are complete monsters (I mean more than usual) when they skip it.


But they went through a phase of refusing to settle down and sleep. During that time, they would just play in their room.

This would have been fine if they played quietly and acheived some modicum of “rest.” But they didn’t. Whatever I heard going on one level up sounded like a scene from Fight Club. They literally shook the house with their…whatever it was they did.

And the worst part was that what they were doing seemed to involve taking off all of their clothes, including their diapers. And having accidents. On the floor. Like puppies.

I seriously thought I was going to lose my mind, and eventually, I kind of did.

I decided it was time to lay down the law – no more Mr. Nice Guy – the madness would end.

So you can imagine how well that went.

First, I told them very calmly and quietly that if I heard one more sound from their room, they would be in A LOT of trouble. And they were to keep their diapers ON. If I came upstairs to find naked children and wet patches on the carpet, there would be spankings (a punishment I rarely enforce but often threaten).

They just laughed at me.

I closed the door, thinking “yeah – we’ll see who is laughing the next time I’m up here…“

Minutes later when I felt the first sonic boom, I was up the stairs and in their room, ready to show them who was boss. I yelled and fumed and made my scariest face possible. All while re-attaching diaper tabs.

I then gave them “one more chance” (because I’m a soft touch) and promised spankings the next time I had to come upstairs.

They just laughed at me.

And of course it was less than 10 minutes before I returned for a little demonstration of tough love. THIS time it was no more Mr. Nice Guy.

Which ended up being true when I saw how they had ripped apart the room. Their crib mattresses (on the floor as we still need to get them toddler beds) were over turned and sheets and blankets lay in heaps. The CD I had put on was skipping and the lamp was on its side. And of course, they were naked.

They saw my fury – and they just laughed at me.

I very calmly and quietly told them that it was time for spankings. And each of them got one very hard smack on their bare bottom. Unheard of from their previously gentle and soft spoken mother.

There was howling and unintelligible toddler cursing as I re-diapered and dressed them. But by the time I made my way back out of the room, I heard something that made my blood boil.

They were laughing at me.

Knowing that you should never approach a child in such a rage, I closed the door and waited until I felt that rolling boil return to a slow simmer. Then finally when I thought it was at a safe room temperature, I returned to the devil spawn.

I found them gleefully trying to rip curtains off the window. And that’s when the whoop ass can was opened. I didn’t spank anyone, but I raged and bellowed and pulled every single object out of that room.

First removed the entire curtain rod and tossed it into the the hall. Then I repeated the process with every book and toy I could find. Then came the sheets and blankets. Then the mattresses.

The twins watched in silent astonishment as I dragged the table, lamp and CD player out as well, and then finally pulled a clock off the wall.

I left the room completely bare (not too difficult of a feat since it’s a tiny room without space for a dresser – but still).

Then I walked out, leaving them in their diapers to either sleep or entertain themselves for the next hour.

This time they did not laugh.

In fact, they cried for a long time, and it took all of my willpower not to go to them. Instead I waited until they fell silent. Then I crept back in and put blankets over their sleeping potato bug bodies.

And I felt like a terrible mother.

Later when they woke up with no sign of resentment or remorse, they watched as I put their room back to rights. They commented on the various items and showed me where to put them.

When I put the clock back up on the wall, George said, “mommy throw the clock?“

And I had to kind of laugh at myself. I mean – what purpose did that serve anyway? I punished them by denying them their clock? Ridiculous.

So I said as much: “Yes George, that was ridiculous. I won’t take down the clock again.“

George repeated “For-dick-a-less?” And a new Hood family word was born. Because they often refer to things as being for-dick-a-less.

“But what about the diapers?” you ask. “Do they still take them off at nap time?“

No – they don’t. But it took one more outrageous act to stop that practice:


For-dick-a-less…but effective.

Like Somebody’s Mother

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This year, I realized that I haven’t worn a one piece bathing suit since I was twelve years old. And it’s not because I’ve been living the good life, giving the cast of The Hills a run for their money in the bikini department.

It’s simply because no matter what dress size I’m wearing, I always look a little less bad in a two piece. I’m short waisted and I tend to carry any extra weight in my hips and thighs. And I’ve found that covering my stomach just draws more attention to that.
Even post pregnancies – I’d rather show a little stretched out abdominal skin than wear a bathing suit that doubles for a neon arrow pointing to my cellulite. And even more importantly, I kind of don’t care anymore.

Back when I was a teenager and cellulite was just a twinkle in my genetic code’s eye, I really did care. I wore a bathing suit for no other reason than to get tan, and would only remove my shorts while in a horizontal position where gravity was much kinder. If I wanted a magazine that wasn’t within arm’s reach, I would get dressed before getting up to retrieve it.

Okay – that last one is a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the idea. I was a perfectly normal looking, exasperatingly self conscious and self absorbed young girl. And that’s when I chose the lesser of the two bathing suit evils.

Only once in in the past 20+ years have I even considered a one-piece. It was a summer in my early twenties and I was about to stay with my eight year old cousin for a week while his parents were in Europe. Knowing that I would be taking him to the pool every day and possibly be expected to engage in activities such as diving for quarters and Marco Polo, I felt it was a good time to put practicality before vanity.

One of my roommates had just gotten a super cute, albeit pricey one piece from J. Crew. It was very simple and black, and I thought it would probably be the most flattering option that I would find for myself. So I asked her if I could try it on.

Nothing prepared me for the realization that hit when I did. I stared in horror at how the fabric accentuated the curve of my hips and the roundness of my bottom. How I seemed to grow extra body parts below my waist line – ones that moved as I twisted around to get a better look at my backside. The effect fired childhood memories of my then hip level views of the women surrounding me at the pool and the beach. And I gasped, “oh my god! I look like sombody’s mother!“

Because that is the exact image that came to mind: one of those moms getting wax paper wrapped sandwiches out of coolers and donning big straw hats to protect already lined skin from further damage. One of those frugal home stewards who didn’t waste money on expensive bathing suits, and instead just picked something serviceable up from a bargain bin.

So that was that for the one piece idea. Being practical was one thing, but being mistaken for my eight year old cousin’s mother was another.

Now I am so entrenched in motherhood that the memory of that reaction perplexes me. What was so awful about looking like a mother? I mean, I technically WAS old enough to be a mom… But I felt so young then – and “mother” conjured up images of graying hair and sensible shoes and long afternoons of discount shopping. No matter how little sense it makes to me now, it sounded old to me then.

Being in my late thirties, I’d like to say that I could now care less about how I look in my bathing suit. But that wouldn’t be true. In my heart, I’m still lamenting my not-so-slender legs and kicking myself for an under appreciation of that teenage body when I had it. But…

I do care less. I’m too busy running after my small children, and I’m in pretty decent shape as far as the mommies around the baby pool go. And the truth is, no one else really cares.

And THAT has been the body image epiphany of my life. No one cares. I can look great for me or not so great for me, and all anyone else is really going to notice is that I’m a mom.

I’m either carrying a child on my hip or yelling at them to stop splashing. I’m digging through my bag for Goldfish crackers and wrapping shivering little bodies in towels. I’m taking pictures and pushing strollers and searching for lost Thomas trains.

I look like somebody’s mother. And it has set me free – free from that ridiculous egomaniacal fear of how my body is perceived.

I’m serious. At the beach last summer, I actually ran a good distance through a crowd to reach my four year old son who was wandering off into the surf. This from the girl who once said, “jog in my bathing suit? I don’t even stand in my bathing suit.“

Now I bend over to help build sand castles and ignore the inevitable stomach rolls that ensue. In front of cute life guards no less!

Because guess what? They don’t care! I’m now old enough to be their mother. A thought that makes me almost giddy with relief.

So when I realized that our family membership to the YMCA with access to an indoor pool would probably call for the purchase of a new one piece bathing suit, it didn’t give me a moment’s pause. Sure – I still think I look better in the bikini, but I also think it would be a bit out of place in a lap pool.

The result was a major milestone in my long journey to becoming a mature adult with well placed priorities. Putting aside old swimwear prejudices, I happily acknowledged the fact that I really do look “like somebody’s mother.”

I finally bought a one piece bathing suit.

And I bought it at Costco.

Okay, So I Started a New Style Blog

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I know that there is this idea floating out there among my friends and family that I have like 100 blogs. Actually – I only have two, this site and Wishing True (where you will find a copy of this post today). The As Good As Cake site is just a page for giveaways and reviews – so I consider that to be part of The Big Piece of Cake.

Sure I had that Underdogs site for a big – but it fizzled. So yeah – two blogs. That’s it.

Until this week.

Because I have now added Style Key West to the list.

My parents live in Key West and own a great home furnishings shop and design service, and they are now expanding with an online store (still under construction at the moment).


I’ve been trying to convince them to start a blog to help drive traffic to the online store, and they finally agreed! The decision was contingent upon my availability to help set it up (they’re creative people and not so techie – unlike me – snort!) So I put together a little blogspot for them as a start:


And I will be writing one or two posts for them each week in addition to their own. The site will focus on their shop, their design work, their daily life and the party island that they call home. It should be a fun blog since they are some of the most interesting people I know.


My mom has amazing taste and has a long history of putting together beautiful spaces on small budgets in addition to the high budget work she’s done for her decorating clients. She’s also the sweetest, most beloved person I’ve ever met. Everyone falls in love with Jo Coveny.


And my dad is a real character (maybe one of the driving forces behind their move to Key West?) His lifelong hobbies include wine tasting, breeding hibiscus flowers, landscaping their homes (without formal training) and songwriting. He even wrote a musical. I mean – who does that?! Anyway – life is never dull with Terry Coveny.


So I would LOVE it if you would help support this new endeavor by subscribing to their blog, following them, tweeting about it, forwarding the link to your design-minded friends…telling your own parents… Whatever. Any traffic they can get would be fabulous and a wonderful start to building their own social networking community.

Here is the link to the first post I wrote for them: An Introduction…

Since then, mom has posted some pictures of their home and a huge Dachshund Walk (seriously – a wiener dog walk – only in Key West) that just took place last week. Future posts will cover happenings in their shop, interior design projects they’re working on, lovely online finds, crazy stories about their life in Key West, ideas for DIY projects and ways to use color in your home…and who knows what from there – but that’s what we’ve discussed so far.

It should be a fun read. So make sure to visit Style Key West. And come back often!

One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for a Family Pathologically Unable to Take a Decent Group Picture

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Last year, I featured some pictures from a failed holiday card photo shoot. It was attempted right before we left for holiday cocktails at our neighbors’ house.

This year on New Year’s Eve, history repeated itself.

I looked at my children all dressed up (forget about dressed up – they were all DRESSED!) and thought, “okay – it’s go time.“

I herded everyone over to the Christmas tree, frantically kicking shoes, toys and unidentified objects out of the shot, and then proceeded to ask, cajole, bribe and threaten them to “stand still and look at me!“

It was a complete disaster as usual…











…but I was able to get ONE semi-decent picture of them:


Sadly, I had to make them sit – so the backdrop is the not-so-prime real estate at the bottom of the Christmas tree. Very few ornaments are featured there, and they’re all ones that I don’t mind losing to a stray karate kick or airborne toy.

And to add insult to injury, Eleanor looks like she has a Celtic cross growing out of her head (ornament courtesy of a wedding we attended in 2001 – continued best wishes to you, Cathleen and Sean!) Her princess crown from Target helps, but I may have to attempt some Photoshop editing.

All in all, I’m thrilled and expect to see even more improvement over the 2010 holidays. Who knows – maybe we’ll actually send out a holiday card. A girl can dream…

Who Do I Want to Be in 2010?

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I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions. The ones I would make, I do make every day. “I’ll start the diet tomorrow…I really have to stop yelling so much around the kids…I need to turn off the computer and spend more time building block towers…“

And none of them are easy.

But the eve of the new year always makes me a little introspective, as any ending-beginning does. So I find myself thinking about the kind of life I want to have and the kind of person I want to be.

When my daughter was born, it was the end of only worrying about little boys and their wants and needs. And it was the beginning of my tenure as a role model for what a woman should be.

In fact, the day we found out that one of our twins would be a girl, I told my husband, “well, you’ll never hear me complaining about being fat anymore.” When he asked what that had to do with anything, I explained that I intended for my daughter to grow up in a house where women spent more time developing healthy eating and exercise habits than bemoaning the unfortunate body type that a cruel fate had given them. While I couldn’t shield my daughter from the inevitable insecurities and poor body image issues so integral to the experience of a teenage girl, I could at the very least do away with that attitude at home.

I said that I wanted her to be too busy being and doing and achieving things to worry about the circumference of her 15 year old thighs.

Then a light of recognition flared in my husbands now glassy eyed expression and he said, “oh yeah – I totally agree. We’ll get her involved in sports as early as possible.“

Now that Eleanor is three, we can start thinking about what sports she might enjoy, but I’d like to think that my endeavors to refrain from the fat talk have contributed to the groundwork for her positive future self image.

And really, as they’ve gotten older, I’ve made many changes in my own life in an effort to be exemplify the qualities that I’d like my children to have.

A pretty major one has been my concerted effort to stop taking myself too seriously. It’s a trait that runs deep in my family, this tendency to grow a stick up our posterior every time we are the butt (pun totally intended) of a joke or are made to feel ridiculous in any way. In general, I have a very good sense of humor and can even laugh about embarrassments from the past. But in the heat of the cheek flaming moment, I do tend to bristle. I don’t like to feel silly.

This is a struggle. But when I see my very intense three year old son rigid with fury, I double my efforts. I want my kids to be more light-hearted than I was. Where I’m just learning to get over myself already, I want them to do that as a matter of course.

And like all parents, we make the daily attempt to not use bad language, to show good manners and to be kind to others.

We do pretty well with the swear words, though we’re far from perfect. Last week when I started to explain who “the baby Jesus” was, my four year old proudly exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” Like, “oh yeah. I know that guy…you always talk about him when you’re pissed off at us…” Awesome.

It was surprisingly easy to institute please and thank you, but manners and consideration will always be difficult concepts for little guys. With three kids who have only just barely shed their toddler status, our house is a place where “excuse me” means “get out of my way” and “share” means “gimmie that!“

So I think I’m in a constant state of resolving to be better. And I don’t think I need a new calendar year as motivation.

But.

I do look back in the process of looking forward, and I do think about what I’d like to change. While we make choices every day, it’s nice to have a benchmark – an official day to take stock.

When I think about who I want to be in 2010, I think about some of the choices I’ve made. The ones think I’ve made well and the ones I’d like to rethink. And of course, the new ones that come with age and experience.

Now that I’m a mother, so many of my choices are influenced by my children. I want to be a better person for them. I want to be comfortable and confident in my own skin. I want to have a good sense of humor – even when it is at my own expense. And I want to put kindness and manners before principles and justice. I think that all of this will benefit them as they watch me navigate a life that will be their future.

And deciding who it is that I want to be comes down to these choices.

So when my children pull all of the sheets out of the linen closet making a huge mess for me to clean up, I’ll choose to let the anger go let them play “ghosts.” When I feel bad about the way I look, I’ll choose to get over it and take everyone to the park. And when I feel like tossing a defiant three year old into their room for the rest of the century, I’ll choose to admire their forays into learning to make their own choices.

I’ll always choose to appreciate each day I spend with them.

These are my choices to make. And I will choose well.

I choose happiness. I choose joy and laughter. I choose forgiveness and gratitude. I choose kindness and understanding. I choose love.

And I choose myself.

I will prioritize my life and how I live it. Because by choosing to be a better me, I’m choosing them – my children. And doing my best for them is the most important choice I’ll ever have to make.