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.

Two New Additions

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This Christmas, we had a couple of exciting new additions to our dining room.

The first was a present from my mom. This pretty little chandelier:




She really hated the admittedly ugly lighting fixture that was up when we purchased the house three years ago (sorry – no before pics – never occurred to me to capture its hideousness on film). I never cared for it myself, but when pregnant with twins, moving house and chasing after a 17 month old, one can only focus on so many home improvement projects…

The other gift was from me: a charming oil painting from Lisa Hirst, whom I’ve featured here before.



She’s beeen a favorite of mine for months and it makes me so happy to have one of her pieces in my home.

We actually got another painting from my brother, but I’m going to do a separate post on that tomorrow. So check back then!

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.

Fairlyte Hand Painted Interiors

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Speaking of Lobster and Swan… (I mentioned the site in my last post)


That’s where I found this wonderful artist, Melissa White of Fairlyte.


Her “fresco secco” technique reflects old, cracked and aging walls. After plastering on a flexible surface, various methods of distressing the surface are employed to make it appear appear time-worn. The final piece is either left dusty and matte or finished with bee’s wax for a rich, shiny patina. Finally the piece is mounted onto a box frame ready to hang or use for lining furniture and walls.


She draws inspiration from vintage and historic designs “from across Europe and as far as Japan.“


How I would love to own one of these… For now I’ll just file them away in my list of dream purchases.

The Well Dressed Home

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I completely forgot to tell you about the best giveaway I won on coco + kelly a couple of months back. But this post on Lobster and Swan reminded me.


The Well Dressed Home by Annette Tatum is by far one of the most beautiful design books I’ve ever seen. It’s like the sugar frosted French pastry to your typical baguette of a coffee table book. Just paging through its loveliness is like an act of decadence. And the copy I won is SIGNED (I have a bit of a thing for signed first editions).


The topic is personalizing your living space so that it reflects your fashion and style sensibilities. And the photography would inspire the least style minded reader.


It’s not uncommon to hear a differentiation between “being into fashion” or “being into home interiors” but personal design taste really has to encompass both. What you choose to put on your body and what you put around it are so closely related.


Especially since both are terribly challenged by the amount of money you have to spend. Possibly one of the biggest reasons why many choose to just give up and not even try.


In the end, it takes more than a few days to dress a home, and for most it can take a lifetime. But the process of collecting treasured things and developing personal style can be enjoyed just as much as the end result of home dressed to the nines.