Tag Archives: Favorite Posts

You Really Can Get Anything at Target

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On Friday, I had a very odd experience at Target. Please don’t stop reading if you think this already sounds boring. I promise it’s not. And there is nudity involved.

I – like every other good suburban mom – use Target as a one-stop shopping resource when I need a variety of items that are not usually found in one place: diapers, socks, light bulbs, margarita glasses, Goldfish crackers…what have you. But I must admit that it has taken me a long time to allow myself to consider buying my own clothing there.

I first tried to dip my toe in that water when I was pregnant with my first son and heard all of the hype about how fantastic the Liz Lang collection was. Apparently the Target near my work at the time was periodically attacked by locusts, because it looked like a war zone and the maternity section offered only a few pairs of black pants (none of which were in my size), some metallic “evening wear” ensembles and about 50 purple t-shirts. I didn’t return.

I was eventually drawn back by the promise of nice but inexpensive clothing for my children. But I resisted their women’s apparel for years based on the premise that I felt uncomfortable buying my own clothes in the same store that sold Halloween costumes for dogs.

This past summer, I got over myself right around the time I walked by an Isaac Mizrahi display and couldn’t deny it any longer. I had to admit it. I saw things. I liked them. And I heard the actual words reverberate in my head, “oooh – that’s cute.”

My first purchases were mainly tops, and since I can usually buy a shirt without trying it on, I never actually had to use the Target dressing rooms….Until Friday. I saw a dress. I loved the dress. I had to have the dress. But the idea of bringing it home and it not fitting sounded unbearable. Or more accurately, I was there without any children and was feeling less lazy than usual – so I sought out the dressing room. Here is where things get weird (and partially nude).

As I entered my dressing room (noting how clean and roomy it was by the way), I was surprised to see that there was not only one – but two mirrors in the space so that I could have both a front and back view of myself. This is pretty impressive for a store that sells dog food.

I quickly took off my own clothes and tried the dress. I was excited – I really wanted it to fit. And it did! It looked great. And forgive me for this minor tangent, but I actually saw it worn by a star’s fourteen year old daughter in a copy of Us Weekly from last week that I finally got around to reading on Saturday. This tells me two things. First that I have a youthful sense of style and second that I am woefully behind on my tabloid reading.

I took off the dress and triumphantly tossed it on top of my purse. No need to put it back on the hanger – I was taking it home! Then my cell phone rang. Since I was on my lunch break, I assumed it was work. I grabbed the phone and right before answering, I caught sight of something that stopped me in my tracks. I saw a full, flourescent lit view of my backside clad in only underwear. And not underwear that resembled a bathing suit either – I mean there was very little left to the imagination. It was disconcerting to say the least.

Now I’m not going to get into an unproductive critique of my various physical flaws. In fact – I’m pretty comfortable with the size I’m wearing these days. But after 36 years and two pregnancies I am not going to be visiting the MTV beach house anytime soon. I look my age. And I look like a mom. But at the very least, I would rather not look at my bare backside.

(That’s it for the nudity – so if you’re still bored, you can stop reading.)

After this moment’s pause, I answered the phone. It was my Uncle Dick. I don’t know if my Uncle Dick has ever called my cell phone before – or my home phone for that matter. I usually talk to him when I’m at my parent’s house.

If there is one thing that I wouldn’t have imagined doing ever in my lifetime – it’s chatting with Uncle Dick while I’m naked in a Target dressing room. But – you know, it was good to hear from him and all.

Apparently, he called to tell me that he’s been reading my blog (Hi Uncle Dick!) and he really likes it. This was actually quite touching since I didn’t really think that many of my family members (aside from my parents and brother) had been following it.

But he wasn’t just calling to give me compliments. He was calling to give me an idea for something he thought I should write. Something he thought could be really big.

I’ll have to leave it at that for now, since this is getting kind of long. (I know – cliffhanger!) But tomorrow’s post will continue where I’m leaving off. Until then, you’ll just have to be satisfied with the image of me staring with horror at my cellulite while brainstorming about blog posts with my Uncle Dick.

Bad Press Is Good Press

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When I wrote yesterday’s post about living big, taking chances and standing behind what I choose to say online, I didn’t expect to be faced with such immediate public consequences.

Before I had a chance to even think about what I would write next, I was given a clipping from a local paper that actually quoted me out of context AND made me sound like a suburban princess.

Every day my husband picks up The Washington Post’s free Express paper and reads it on the Metro. So does a woman that works with him (Hi Alicia!), and she saved us the Lookout Online page from July 30th. We were at the beach that week, but I still tried to get out a quick post (for a themed week of confessions) from the nearby inernet cafe each night. Who would have thought that one of my flaws would be picked up and then picked on.

This particular confession was that I have a hard time remembering to bring my eco-friendly shopping bags into the store, and as a result, have accumulated a bit of a collection.

Here is the piece that was published as part of the “Blog Log”:

“I HAVE 20 Whole Foods grocery bags in [my] trunk. I never remember to bring them into the store with me, so I continue to find myself buying new ones. I could just use the paper – but it’s now a matter of principle. That was the point of buying the first one.”

THEBIGPIECEOFCAKE.COM HAS CASH TO BURN NOT JUST ON GROCERIES FROM WHOLE FOODS, BUT APPARENTLY ALSO ON HER BAGS FOR THEM.

This paraphrased quote implies that I have tons of money because I sometimes shop at Whole Foods. I didn’t realize that I needed to clarify that I buy specific things at Whole Foods – not everything. Of course they left out the part where I say, “but when I go to the regular grocery store I use their plastic.” Wouldn’t one assume that calling the other option “regular” means that I go there, um, regularly.

Anyway – to get defensive and overexplain myself would be completely losing sight of my new devil may care attitude toward living online. So I will just say, “thanks Washington Post Express – I appreciate the plug.” Even if it wasn’t accurate.

If You Can’t Take It, Then Don’t Bring It

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This is something that I often hear myself saying to my daughter when she tries to wrestle with one of her brothers, and then ends up crying and wanting to be held and soothed. The fact that she’s not quite two years old makes me a little sympathetic – but I also know that this is a life lesson she needs to learn. She can’t always win, and she has to know that this is okay. And that she should keep trying. So far, she does keep trying – and I love seeing that. I wish I had been more like her growing up. In my usual late-to-the party-style, I’m only just starting to do this right.

I recently heard from a good friend and previous co-worker that my blog came up at the weekly directors meeting. Obviously I did not spam myself out to everyone there – but I do keep in touch with a few people. One of them brought it up to another one in the meeting. You know – in front of male V.P.s with whom I’ve only ever had professional relationships. Because of course they are the first people I would want to read my posts about my husband’s slovenly habits or see that I actually said “once you go black…” online.

My initial reaction was to be horrified by the idea that one of them might actually look me up (and I’m sure that at least one has). But then I remembered that I don’t work there anymore. I don’t write negative things about that organization or the people that work there. And even if I did, what are they going to do – fire me? Why would I care what they think if I don’t keep in touch with them? What kind of power do these people – or any people – have over me?

When you set up a website with your name on it (your real name), then you have to be okay with anyone reading it. I’m sure that primarily women are reading my blog – but that doesn’t mean men can’t read it too. And I can’t assume that everyone that visits my site is a friend. There are just as many new visitors each day as there are return visitors. And most of them are strangers. I’m sure some of them are men and I know some of them are perverts. And yes – a handful of them will probably be people that I used to know.

So it’s really all or nothing. If you want to put yourself out there, you have to stand behind anything you say. There is always the option of using a pseudonym, but I think even that has its complications. You can’t fear what people think about you. You have to be willing to be associated with what you write. By anyone.

I spent most of my formative years being cautious. I tended to have very close friends in whom I knew I could confide. I could be myself with them and I didn’t censor my thoughts or feelings. But to the rest of the world, I stayed neutral. I didn’t seek out the spotlight and didn’t break the rules. I actively tried to be (for lack of a better word) safe. And on the few occasions that I was forced to take a chance or try something “scary,” I found any failure or rejection devastating. I wasn’t ready to risk that. That part I knew. I knew that I couldn’t take it.

But now I can. Now I can say what I want. In the out loud voice. Online. I am not outrageous or crude – but I don’t censor myself either. I have taken a few chances (my husband is still mortified about my posts about Mormon bloggers) and I’ve even had to experience a little hate mail (regarding my SUV). But I can take it.

I don’t regret the person I used to be. But everyone can change for the better. I used to think I was nice – but now I think I was just scared. And as a result, I made myself small. The fear will never completely go away – but now I really can take it. So it feels good to try to be big. Notice I didn’t name my blog The Small Piece of Cake. I’m finally ready to take some chances in life.

And if I get hurt? I can take it. So bring it.

Parenting Skills at Their Best

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I try to limit the potty training references since I have some readers without kids – and one of the perks to not having children is NOT having to spend your day talking about poop. So I’ll warn you now that it IS going to come up in this one. And it’s not going to be pretty.

On Monday evening, I arrived home alone with the kids. Chris had to drive separately that day, and as usual, he had metro problems delaying him by at least an hour. Now, I am home with alone with the kids quite a bit since Chris has to travel for work. But I’ve been finding it increasingly more complicated since the twins ceased to be blobs (that’s right all you Angelina haters – babies do start out as BLOBS) and have joined their older brother in his daily mission to make me a lunatic.

Actually, it’s been a while since anyone would call George and Eleanor “blobs” – but in the recent past, they were far more sedentary. Approaching their second birthday, they are now a force to be reckoned with, and taking your eyes off of them for more than a minute can result in nothing short of global thermonuclear war. Or at least a toilet paper trail from the bathroom that circles the first floor ten times.

The first half hour was a whirlwind of the usual chaos – a blur of kids playing, crying and climbing on furniture while I tried to make dinner, get the daycare bag emptied and start lunches for the following day. It’s impossible for me to remember the exact sequence of events up until the first minor crisis – but that that pretty much sums it up.

Once everyone was busy eating dinner and watching (surprise, surprise) yet another Wiggles DVD, I ran downstairs to change a load of laundry. Suddenly, I could hear Oliver calling to me, “Mommy! Mommy!” But it didn’t sound like he was upset, so I yelled, “just a minute” a few times until I was done. When I came upstairs, I realized that he was calling me to let me know that he had to go potty. He is really only 75% potty trained and still needs help getting through the process. So all I could do was hustle him into the bathroom as quickly as possible and hope that he could at least “finish” on the potty.

Though I was fairly sure he was done, I settled him on the toilet anyway and then ran to answer the phone. It was Chris. He was calling to let me know that he was still stuck on the metro and would get back to me once he was in his car. At this point, my half naked son walked into the kitchen to announce that he wanted ice cream. I asked if he was finished on the potty and then realized that not only was he finished, but he had the subject matter smeared all over his rear end (must have happened when I was pulling down his pull up). I instructed him to “stay right there” (which he didn’t) while I ran for the wipes. Then the phone started ringing again. I ignored it.

While I was cleaning off my three year old, I heard little voices coming from the bathroom. Great! Now the twins were in there, and most likely throwing things into the toilet. After another directive for Oliver to “stay there” (which he didn’t) I ran to find the twins and was relieved to see that they were only trying to climb onto the sink and not anywhere near the toilet. “Okay – everybody out!”

Once I got Oliver clean and busy with an activity, I saw that it was time for the twins’ bath. They raced up the stairs yelling “water!” and happily scampered into the kids’ bathroom. While simultaneously running the water, getting the twins undressed and blocking them from the tub until they were in fact naked, I saw that I was going to have a big problem on my hands… George must have run into his bedroom at some point, and was now clutching his blankie.

George is obsessed with his blankie, and I spend quite a bit of time tricking him into letting go of it so I can throw it upstairs while he’s distracted. I thought I had accomplished this when we got home, but my efforts were foiled by his wily reconnaissance. Now “Linus” wanted to bring the blankie into the tub with him. He is a toddler, and neither willing nor able to listen to reason. And since his current vocabulary consists of “car, truck, train, bus, more and thank you,” there was no point in trying to engage him in discussion about it. I had to forcibly remove the blanket and put him into the water kicking and screaming.

Eleanor splashed happily while George wailed and tried to climb out. I just washed him off quickly and then set him free to reunite with the blankie. Knowing that he had left the bathroom and could, that very minute be peeing all over the second floor, I rushed through Eleanor’s scrubbing. George and his blankie returned within minutes and I was just in time to stop him from throwing the paperback that he was aiming at the water. This was the final signal for bath time to be over, and against Eleanor’s vehement protestations, I pulled the plug. Within seconds I had two naked toddlers in Oliver’s room (where we have all of the bedtime books). One was crying (Eleanor) and one was trying to sneak out the door (George). I closed the door, placed myself in front of it and started stuffing them into their pajamas.

At this point, Oliver decided to come see what all of the commotion was about and tried to open the door. After a few seconds, I realized that he couldn’t get in, and that’s when it hit me: the door was LOCKED. The previous owners installed the door knob to Oliver’s bedroom so that it locked from the outside. I gratefully took advantage of this when we moved Oliver to his toddler bed, and found it comforting to know that I could lock the door and not worry about him wandering the house while I slept. But it never occurred to me that I could get locked in with him on the OUTSIDE.

Never one to panic, I responded to Oliver’s increasing anxiety with comforting promises that I would “fix it” and a lot of the ever popular, “in just a minute.” All the while, I was running through possible action plans. Climbing out the window was not an option since it would be a three story drop, but I thought a neighbor might be outside. So I opened the window and started calling for help. No dice. Everyone was inside their air conditioned homes.

Meanwhile, Eleanor sensing the terror in Oliver’s cries to get in, started crying even louder – which in return increased Oliver’s anxiety. George was furious that I had closed the window (because, you know – that was so much fun), and started crying as well. Great – now I had thee screaming children.

I considered trying to break the door down, but after one half hearted attempt, accepted the fact that I was not the Incredible Hulk. Then I remembered that there were a few wire hangers in Oliver’s closet. DUH – all I had to do was to use the end of a wire to poke the little hole in the door knob and spring the lock. Chris showed me how to do this in our old apartment when I used to worry about Oliver accidentally locking himself in the bathroom.

Within a minute, I had a red-faced, hysterical Oliver in my lap and equally upset twins climbing all over us. Once I had everyone somewhat calmed down, Oliver started dragging us out of the evil room that had kept us away from him for the TEN MINUTES that this drama probably took to unfold. I knew that only one thing could snap everyone out of their hysteria. So I asked, “hey – who wants ice cream?” And then all was golden.

While the twins should have been settling down to sleep and Oliver should have been preparing for his own bath, we sat around the kids’ table exclaiming over the miracle that is ice cream while traumatic events quickly disappeared from our blessedly fickle short term memories.

Good times.

Why I Hate Being a Truck Driver

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Now that I’ve got your attention… I don’t really drive one of the big rigs. I drive a Ford Expedition. SUV owners are either saying, “Eh – My Tahoe is just as big,” or “Oh yeah – my Explorer is quite big enough, thank you very much.”

The truth is – I’m just not a “big car” person. They don’t suit me. I don’t know how to gracefully enter or exit them, I can’t park them to save my life, and if I didn’t have a little alarm that lets me know when I’m getting too close to something behind me, I would have taken out any number of trees and bushes by now.

Obviously this truck was not my choice. After almost a year of cramming three car seats across the back seat of Chris’ Jeep Liberty, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we really needed something roomier. Like any other proper suburban family, we initially discussed minivans. Chris was very against this idea. He practically broke out in hives at the thought. But I could have cared less. I’m not much of a car person in general.

I think my disinterest in cars was cultivated early when as a teenager, I drove a 1985 used “Red Renault Alliance.” I put this in quotes because that is generally how people referred to it: “the Red Renault Alliance.” Here is a picture:

My parents purchased this when I got my drivers license so that I could drive myself to school (at the time I had a very inconvenient public transportation commute from Capitol Hill to Georgetown). My father seemed to believe that I was incredibly lucky to have my own car to drive instead of sharing theirs. I of course, knew that “lucky” better described my friends who were getting new Suzuki Samurais and Cabriolet convertibles for their sixteenth birthdays. Seriously though, I now agree with my father. Upon the Red Renault Alliance’s demise just two short years after we bought it, my brother did have to share a car with my parents. Which in his sixteen year old opinion “sucked.”

The next car that I had was purchased after I got my first job out of college. It was a little blue Toyota Tercel. And in my own twenty-two year old opinion, it “sucked.” But it was all I could afford. And after the dramatic explosion/car flipping/burned feet drama of the Red Renault Alliance, I was not interested in buying anything used. My tiny Tercel had vinyl seats that burned the backs of my legs in the summer and no power steering. This completely destroyed the amazing talent for parallel parking I developed in my parents’ crowded Capitol Hill neighborhood. But just like the Red Renault Alliance, the Tercel was not a status car, and I continued to view cars as simply a means of transportation.

Eventually, I had other larger sedans (Saturns, a Camry), but my interest level never increased. I liked driving a shiny new car, but had no inclination to actually maintain it.

When I met Chris, it was clear that he wasn’t not a car person either. In fact, when I first started dating him, I always drove. His car was a hand me down from his grandparents. I don’t remember the make, but it was white with maroon interior (I believe his friends called it the “maxi pad”) and it had started emitting fumes that made him light headed after about 15 minutes of driving. He moved on to a very basic Jeep Cherokee and shared my apathetic attitude toward maintenance.

So fast forward eight years, three kids, several mediocre cars and a suburban commute later…and we were at a loss as to what we wanted. One weekend, Chris went out to test drive some minivans he had researched online, and instead came back with this:

I was speechless. It was huge. I had to step up onto a running board in order to hoist myself into the front seat. This was by far, the biggest vehicle that I had ever tried to drive. But it’s now been over a year, and like anything else, I’ve gotten used to it.

Reasons why I hate driving it include the following:

Like I said, I’m terrible at parking it. And I don’t even mean parallel parking. I walk out of the grocery store and locate my car by looking for the big truck parked on a diagonal. No matter how carefully I try to get into a space, I usually end up crooked or right up against one neighboring car and a mile away from the other. I’ve even been keyed! And I often end up with some man trying to help direct me in – like those airport guys on the tarmac helping planes pull up to the gates. It’s just humiliating.

Additionally – I find that people are mean to me. Maybe they see my big truck and think that I have an aggressive personality to go with it. All I know is that I have the hardest time getting people to let me change lanes in traffic. It’s like they’re in their little economy car thinking, “Oh no you don’t, you big gas guzzling bully – you’re not cutting in front of me.” If only I could install a sign that said, “I am not driving this car by choice – I have too many children to fit into an environment-friendly compact car.” I doubt anyone would care. They’d probably just key my sign.

Finally, we just don’t match. I don’t look like a big car person. Not only is it not my style, but I don’t have the attitude to pull it off. I’m not particularly petite, but I’ve seen tiny girls climb out of trucks bigger than mine looking like they own the parking lot (they, of course can park without taking up two spaces). This will never be me.

So what car SHOULD I be driving? Most would answer this question with their idea of a dream car. Something eye catching, fast, vintage, expensive… But I’d rather spend the money on my house or a great vacation.

Someday my children will get their drivers licenses, and they’ll be the ones envying their friends with fancy new cars. That’s right – they’ll be driving whatever junkie jalopy we give them. And they’ll be damn lucky to have it!

Peeping Toms and Sex Perverts in Thailand

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In a recent conversation with my good friend Anastasia, we were discussing our new blogs. How much fun we were having writing them, how much we appreciated the comments and e-mails from our readers (of whom a few aren’t even pre-existing friends – yeah!), and how disconcerting it is to know that people find our sites while conducting searches for topics related to excrement and deviant behavior.

I have already mentioned that someone found my blog in a Google search for “how big is a piece of poop.” That makes me wince every time I type it, read it or just think it. Why would someone want to know that – and what does that mean anyway? Okay – I guess I don’t want to know what it means…but I definitely have concerns for the person that would conduct such a search. What is wrong with them? Don’t they have anything better to do with their time? I can only assume that it would be a toss up between creepy Google searches and journaling about what they’ve seen through holes they drilled behind the ladies room toilets at work. Visible shudder.

But Anastasia has had to endure an even worse assault on her own PG-13 sensibilities. This happened one day when she noticed that one of her viewers was located in Thailand. Feeling intrigued, she clicked on the link to see what he/she/it viewed (which post attracted the attention of this reader from such a far flung land?) Before she even got that far, she was faced with the news that this new fan located her website in a Google search for “girl butt sex.” No actual time was spent reading her blog, it was (thankfully) unsubscribed from further related searches and there have been no return visits since the first. The obvious question is, “which post did THAT search pull up?” Ah – of course. It was the one titled “Golden Girls Kick Sex and the City’s Butt.” (This was one of her first posts, and after the “sex/butt” related search occurred she changed the title.)

Anastasia’s blog, The Gift is a record of her daily musings, most of which tend to cover topics such as women’s roles in society, career, family and marriage. Where on earth does “girl butt sex” figure in? All it took was some random key word combination. And as someone who is very familiar with Anastasia’s writing, I am now fairly certain that no one is safe. Even those of us that are actually trying to keep it clean.

The frustrating part of this is that Anastasia would have loved to write about it – and she’s a great story teller. But as a fairly high profile person who would like to maintain some level of anonymity, she can’t. If she actually puts “girl butt sex” on her blog, who knows how many more perverts will come looking for her…

Of course – there are also plenty of innocuous searches that have linked to us. Those for The Big Piece of Cake have included: “funny Mormon rules” (obviously in response to my posts over the past two days), “purse cakes” (sorry ladies – cupcakes are about as fancy as I get in the baking department), “Darth Vader underwear” and “big size underwear” (resulting from the pictures I posted of Oliver’s ridiculous Target brand Darth Vader and Yoda big boy pants), “big cake for mom” (aaawww – so sweet), “woman pushing a fully clothed man into a pool” (no woman involved, but Oliver and my dad spent hours doing this on our Key West visit the other week), and “Gina Davis pregnancy” (related to my celebrity pregnancy post – and Gina Davis, by the way, is about as PG-13 as you can get).

So with the exception of poop-obsessed deviants, I guess I haven’t had it that bad. Of course, now that I’ve said “girl butt sex” at least four times and included “sex pervert” in my post title, that may soon change. Well, bring on the sex perverts from Thailand. I’m far from high profile, and they won’t bother me as long as they don’t linger. But this whole experience has left me feeling somewhat soiled – and my overactive imagination will most likely have me checking the bathroom walls for peep holes in weeks to come.

Mormons Are Funny

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I recently discovered a blog written by a woman who, without fail always makes me laugh. Loudly. Sometimes for a long time. And usually sporadically throughout the day when something she wrote pops into my head.

I have been wishing that she lived next door so that we could become the kind of friends who drop by for no reason other than to tell each other funny stories about the other neighbors. It’s obvious in her writing that she’s quirky, irreverent, a laugh a minute…and Mormon. So here is where any Mormons that may be reading this are either perplexed as to why I’m surprised OR insulted and consequently vowing not to read another word of my offensive post (let alone anything else that someone as ignorant as me might have to say). But truly, I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just admitting to having had some vague preconceptions about Mormons being so focused on their religion that they might tend to take themselves a little too seriously to be SO DAMN FUNNY. Okay – so here is one of my favorite posts from Every Day I Write the Book:

This Is How I Really Feel About Our Hamster

Hamster, I look forward to the day that I casually walk past your cage and you are dead. I would never kill you outright; neither will I suffer when you inevitably, irrevocably pass away from neglect. To be sure, we have provided life’s necessities to you: food, water, a clean cage. I don’t hate you–what do you think I am, some kind of monster? No, but I don’t love you either. No one really loves you and that’s your fault. Here are all the things you have failed to do when we brought you home and entered into the two-way promise of pet ownership:

Be charming

Learn tricks

Endear yourself to us in any way

Show any signs of sentience

Have any redeeming qualities whatsoever

Not stink

What gives, Hamster? I refuse to get into some co-dependent hate/hate relationship with you. Your self-defeating behavior sickens me. You have no sense of delayed gratification or appreciation for normal bio-rhythms–stuffing your face with all your food immediately and running incessantly on your tread mill in the middle of the night. If you could purge after you binge, would you? Stop right there–I can’t do this with you.

Sometimes I imagine simply flicking you out into my backyard to be swooped up by a passing bird of prey. But frankly, to die in the noble clutches of a soaring hawk is too good for you. This is how I really feel.

Even my husband was cracking up when he read this. And his usual reaction to my request that he read a good blog post involves heavy sighs and put upon expressions. But this is one funny Mormon.

Chris (my husband) says that she is probably a “Jack Mormon” which according to him means that she drinks on the sly. I think that Mormons would find this more offensive than my ignorance of their talent for comedy. But Chris grew up in an area of Phoenix, AZ where he was one of the few non-Mormon kids in his class, at least until high school when they moved to a different neighborhood. And he feels that this makes him fairly knowledgeable about the Mormon culture (for lack of a better word). He said they are generally very friendly and kind, almost unbelievably wholesome in their sense of family and community, and incredibly close knit (making sure that even the least athletic Mormon kid was picked for a team before choosing a really good non-Mormon player). And apparently there are some who do break the rules and drink – they are called Jack Mormons.

My guess is that Kacy is just naturally funny and doesn’t need a cocktail to make people laugh. My only complaint about her blog is that she doesn’t post often enough (only about once a week). But this may be due to the fact that she has ANOTHER blog with a group of other mostly very funny Mormons. It’s called Light Refreshments Served (I think one of them is actually a professional actress/comedian, and it looks like she has her own blog, Oh Judy!). Not all posts are supposed to be funny – and okay, I’ll admit that most of the Mormon references like “mission”, “Ensign“, “gospel doctrine class” and “Young Women” go over my head. But just like in any other blog – the writers are telling stories – stories about their lives, their families and friends, the things that are important to them. And yes – many if not most of those stories happen to be totally hilarious (I especially love “Kacy’s Neighborhood Watch” installments).

If there are in fact, any Mormons reading this – I hope that you’ve stuck with me this far and appreciate the fact that I’m really just poking fun at myself and basically recognizing that I need to take my head out of my ass. I don’t like it when people make assumptions about me – so this is just another reminder to myself to “do unto others.” (Do Mormon’s use that one? I only have significant religious experience with Catholics – and that sentiment big with the Catholics.)

So this is my shout out to the funny Mormon ladies. Check them out when you need a good laugh. It’s my new preconceived notion about the Mormons – they’re all about the jokes.

Please Dance Responsibly

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Well Chris is out of town again – so I’m back to BUI. Not as bad as last time – but I was a little shocked when I saw the dent I made in that wine bottle. This time, I’m putting it away before I can finish it. And I made sure to eat something substantial before sitting down to write (no off color, out of character innuendos – and I know that a few of you are disappointed).

But that one too many glasses of wine made me think about another “interesting” effect that too many drinks will instigate. One that I didn’t mention last time is the well known phenomenon that I think we can all relate to. Too many drinks make us all just a little too confident on the dance floor.

Just picture yourself at that wedding, college reunion or any celebratory event that usually includes an open bar. You start out the night catching up with old friends, hesitantly approaching people you don’t know well or haven’t seen in a long time, and possibly even doing a little restrained dancing along with the rest of the group. But fast forward about two to three hours after you’ve been too busy talking to eat the dinner that was seemingly whisked out from under your nose minutes after it arrived. After you’ve moved past the cocktail you ordered for yourself, to the less desirable one that someone else ordered for you, to the wine glass that seemed to be refilled every time a server visited your table, to the rounds of shots that you would never in a million years have accepted if you hadn’t already consumed the equivalent of your typical month’s alcohol intake. Now you are not only happy to be there but well aware of how happy everyone else is that you are there. You are quite possibly one of the most sought after conversationalists present and you are now ready to show your admirers that you are far more than just a pretty face. You are an exceptionally talented dancer.

That’s right. We’ve all been there – and some of us have been unfortunate enough to be documented in pictures and video. As fun as it is at the time – as great as we think we look at the time – we all know that once the glitter is gone and the fluorescent lights are on, we just weren’t as fabulous as we felt.

How often have we cringed when we woke up “the morning after”? Very few of us have the strength of character to either stand by our electric boogaloo moves or to withstand the character assassination from our nearest and dearest via digital photo eblasts and YouTube footage. But here’s to those who march to the beat of their own inner DJ. They somehow never look dorky. And if their moves don’t convey mad skillz, their enthusiasm encourages those around them to join in the fun.

As for those “mornings after” – well, I’ve had many. I will be the first to admit to having the Footloose urges that a few drinks tend to inspire. And while I do cringe a little, I also try to remember the fun and the lack of inhibition. Living in the moment offers a thrill that we rarely allow ourselves in daily life. And it helps to be able to laugh at yourself (even for people like me who take themselves very seriously).

I remember once making plans to meet up for drinks with my friends Nancy and Maureen on a Friday night shortly after I returned from my honeymoon in 2000 (when we were 28). We agreed to meet at J. Paul’s in Georgetown. It was a central location with good atmosphere and a restaurant if any of us needed to grab dinner. It was always packed, but not too crowded. We had a great time catching up, and after a few drinks (and no dinner), decided to move on to another bar for another drink. Next stop was Mr. Smith’s – again, not too crowded and conducive to conversation. This is where we probably could have called it a night, but we were having SO much fun that we just had to move on to a third bar. And what is across the street from Mr. Smith’s, but everyone’s favorite (at least at that time) post-college bar, The Griffin Room at The Guards. We walked in there like we were 23 again – just more sophistocated, with better clothes. After ordering some very cheap gin & tonics, we took a moment to enjoy the ubiquitous “everybar” music and check out the scene.

Having graduated from Fordham in New York, I have great nostalgia for Frank Sinatra classics which at that time had not quite infiltrated mainstream DC nightlife (or at least not the just-out-of-college crowd). I can’t resist the urge to dance to this mainstay of my college bar experience; and The Summer Wind could be considered the mother ship for me and all of my fellow alumni. The minute I heard those opening notes I began to search the room for a dance partner. And as soon as I spotted him I knew he was the one. Too much hair gel, obvious Italian heritage and a black leather jacket – he was exactly what I needed. He was just the guido I was looking for. In all of my liquored up bravado, I marched right over and said, “You’re from New York. You like Frank Sinatra. Come dance with me.” And he did. He asked me how I knew that he was from New York, and I tactfully responded that he was very “urban” while most DC natives were more conservative. This seemed to please him, and I blissfully spun and dipped knowing that my friends were right there with me doing the same.

After that, everything went downhill. No idea what happened to my Italian friend, but we subsequently spiraled down into a haze of current pop music and groups of Eurotrash players. But surprisingly, I made it home at a respectable hour – and with some aspirin and late night food, avoided the expected hangover. Having graduated from considering any wild night a great time to suffering pangs of mortification for the slightest memory of exuberance – I was fairly pleased with my ability to dance at The Griffin Room without making an ass out of myself (even if I didn’t remember very much of it). Then about a week later, when Nancy and I were driving to see Cirque de Soleil, we talked about what a fun night that had been. I remarked upon how we had managed to be so silly without doing anything embarrassing. That was the exact moment that the song Who Let the Dogs Out started playing on the radio. And then it all came flooding back. The circle dance, the moves, the strutting. Oh – the humiliation… Well what can you do? We just laughed.

But some people throw themselves into dancing regardless of whether they have been drinking or not, and they have my utmost respect. My father is one of these people. Anyone watching him dance will say, “he is fantastic!” He certainly looks like he can dance. He has moves, he has fancy footwork, and he twirls his partner in very intricate rotations around the dance floor. But the truth is – my father is a loose cannon. He doesn’t follow any set dance steps, so his partner has no idea what to expect. He loves to do complicated things involving pretzeling of arms and whipping motions that send his partner ricocheting in all directions. This was a source of great concern for my mother when it came time to pick a song for our father-daughter dance at my wedding. I was a bit windblown by the end – but we managed to make it through without any injuries.

Once at my cousin Kristin’s rehearsal dinner, he almost killed her grandmother. Mrs. Sharon is Kristin’s mother’s mother (my father is her father’s brother), so we didn’t know her well. But anyone could see that she was an extremely elegant and dignified woman. There was a pianist and a dance floor at the event; and when dinner concluded, my father asked Mrs. Sharon to dance. I was sitting next to the dance floor with Chris and my mother and we watched with great trepidation as my father tossed the sweet lady around in something that resembled a lively jitterbug. Toward the end of the song, he pulled out one of his signature moves of spinning her out and then back in, but somehow lost hold of her hand in mid fling. Then everything went into slow motion as we saw her turn about three times in a trajectory aimed directly at the dining tables. Three seconds later she was under a table. All we could see were feet sticking out from under the beige linen.

Later, my father said that all he could think was, “oh god – please don’t be dead.” But moments later, the poor woman popped up to give everyone an “I’m okay,” wave. They then returned to the dance floor in a more subdued attempt to save face. Once the wheezing laughter had stopped and we were wiping the last few tears from our cheeks, the song ended. And as my father and Mrs. Sharon passed by, we heard him say, “let’s take a breather.”

So whether you reserve your best moves for the open bar events or proudly display them whenever the opportunity presents itself, think before you frug. If there is a videographer present, walk away from the light. Beware of friends bearing digital cameras. Your dancing never looks half as good as it feels so why ruin it with documentation. Truly, it’s all fun and games until someone loses their integrity doing the Electric Slide.

Darth Vader Underwear for Five Year Olds

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Or at least that’s the size my giant three year old wears. Just a little something I’ve been meaning to post… Black background, light saber blazing, cape billowing in flames. Awesome. And totally age appropriate. I had to buy it (besides – it was the only underwear in his size at Target). And of course, I couldn’t resist the photo op. That’s right – I’m the best mom EVER.

Kate and Oliver’s Excellent Adventure: Part I

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6:30 a.m. on the flight from DC to Miami
Bars Should Have Umbrella Strollers

I just walked into a parallel universe. Upon our 4:45 a.m. arrival at Dulles Airport, Oliver and I were both half asleep and more than a little anxious (as I’ve mentioned before, that’s just the way we are). All of the expected obstacles were there: the juggling act with bags and a stroller, the long lines, the tight time schedule, and of course the fact that even though we called yesterday to verify our seat assignments, my three year old and I were not seated together.

I kind of knew this would happen since we didn’t buy our tickets at the same time, and they were reserved on such short notice. But THAT IS WHY we (meaning Chris) called to actually talk to a person at American Airlines who could verify that we would be seated next to each other. Not across the aisle, not in adjoining rows, and not at opposite ends of the plane.

With a flight at 6:00 a.m. and check in lines wrapped several layers deep, I opted for self check in. So I was electronically informed of the problem. I was able to fix our seats for the connecting flight from Miami to Key West, but didn’t have any luck with the first flight. This is where I can’t get anyone’s attention for 20 minutes and then when I finally do get a frazzled ticket agent to look at me, I receive the kind of customer service that makes people pull out hunting rifles and start firing at will. Right? WRONG. The cheerful (at 4:45 a.m. no less!) and accommodating “Sharon G.” not only seemed interested in helping us, she didn’t say, “excuse me ma’am, please let me finish talking,” once. Alas, there was only so much she could do for us. Even Sharon G. could not find us seats together. The best she could do was to seat us across the aisle so that we could “ask another passenger to switch with one of us.” Oh Sharon G., you are so naïve… People traveling this early in the morning have their own agendas and priorities. And they’re cranky. I wasn’t willing to risk things not working out and have Oliver, who can change moods on a dime, have a grand mal seizure when he saw that I wasn’t sitting next to him. Besides, my neighbor had the same experience recently, and not ONE person on her full-size passenger plane would acknowledge her problem, let alone help.

So the one glitch in the process was that regardless of how much Sharon G. would have loved to charter a private jet for us, we had to pay to upgrade to first class. As you can imagine, I was devastated. Seriously though, I wouldn’t normally waste money on something like that – but I didn’t see any other option, and the upgrade charge was only $90 per ticket. I know, that’s not insignificant – but in light of the fact that we were willing to pay a lot more than we did for the reasonably priced tickets we bought, I considered it a wash. Since this upgrade fee would be higher if done by a ticket agent, it needed to be executed at a self check in station. And to put a cherry on top of what was already one of the best air travel check in experiences I’ve ever had, Sharon G. came around the counter and performed the seat reassignment for me. The world needs more people like Sharon G. I am going to write a letter to American Airlines. And I’m completely serious about that.

So far, Oliver has been an ideal companion. It’s kind of like traveling with a good natured drunk person. He’s a little out of it, but happy to follow wherever I lead. He can be a bit loud at times, but he’s also easily distracted by the action around him and utterly enchanted with any redirection I throw his way. He slumped in the umbrella stroller during the entire seat assignment process and I had to check him a couple of times to make sure he hadn’t passed out. There was a mild fracas when he had to relinquish his blankie at security (as in “give me my keys man – hey, I want my keys!”). But I was able to whisk him through quickly enough to avoid a full blown panic attack. He was generally happy enough to just sit in the umbrella stroller and go with the flow. With all of the check in hoopla, we boarded the plane minutes after arriving at the gate. And when we got to our seats, he flopped down and gave me a big goofy grin that basically said, “I love you man.” Yeah – aside from the initial confusion, it was pretty seamless. Makes me think that bars might want to invest in large umbrella strollers for their patrons who are saddled with dead weight drunk friends to carry home.

10:00 a.m. on the flight from Miami to Key West
Back Up In the Air, Please.

Okay – so it is actually closer to 11:30 a.m. now. But that flight was so short that by the time I thought I could take out my laptop, it was almost time to put it away. It has been a year since we last made this trip to see my parents. Oliver is currently splashing in the pool with my Dad. We’re going to the hospital at 1:00 p.m. to have lunch with Mom. She should have seen her cancer doctor by then – in fact he arrived on the same flight we did.

The first flight was absolute heaven until the moment we were told to turn off all authorized electronic equipment. I knew that when I informed Oliver that we would have to put the Wiggles away for a while, he would be most distressed. And if you’d call five minutes of hysterical screaming “distressed” then that pretty much covers it. He simply could not understand why I would pull the plug on Captain Feathersword like that. It was so uncool! In between exclamations of “Wiggles!”, “On please!”and “Boat!” – I decided it was time to be a responsible parent and end the madness. So I tried giving him candy. He must have been really upset, because he will usually come running if someone two floors away whispers the word candy. But he was so irate (that I thought I could BUY him like that!), he wanted nothing to do with the lollipop. Finally I managed to get him interested in the fact that we were landing, but that kind of backfired when he decided to associate landing with the end of his Wiggles viewing. So then he started pointing his finger in the air and yelling, “back up in the air! Please!” (though in between sobs it sounded more like, “back-gasp-up-gasp-air-gasp-please!”). Finally, the excitement of landing was just too much. All of those tiny houses and cars – how could he stay mad? He kept yelling, “uh oh – watch out!” to the innocent bystanders since it was quite obvious that we were bearing down on them. At this point, I offered him the candy again (why not? It was out.) and he said “Oh, a lollipop!” – like he hadn’t just thrown in my face minutes before.

Our next flight boarded fairly quickly after that, but I don’t even know if it would have mattered. Oliver was back to looking comatose in his stroller with his blanket wrapped around his head. Travel is exhausting. But he perked up when he realized that we were getting on another plane. That must herald the return of the Wiggles. Yeah planes!

Our connecting flight was on a prop plane – but NOT a puddle jumper. I will never fly on a cessna again – that was like being in Herbie the Love Bug. No, it was one of those little American Eagle planes. So this was also very exciting. We got to ride on a shuttle (look at ALL the planes!) and then walk up stairs (we LOVE stairs!) to get onto our little plane. As we all started boarding from the back of the plane, the pilot instructed us to sit in “the middle.” Since our seats were already in the middle, this worked for us. I guess they REALLY didn’t want anyone in the front of the plane because a formidable looking flight attendant was standing sentry at the threshold of what I assume must be “the front.” She very sweetly told everyone that they could really sit wherever they wanted since there were many empty seats (as long as we remained in the middle damn it).

Actually, our flight attendant was very nice and made a point of saying hello to Oliver before politely asking me to do a better job of tightening his seatbelt. But what was probably most interesting about our flight attendant is that she was (for lack of a better word), a tranny. That is to say that she was a man either going through transition or fully transitioned to becoming a woman (I’m not presuming that you don’t know what a transvestite is – I’m just trying to be specific about which direction the transition was taking). ANYWAY – I have to say, I just love Key West.

Oliver made a valiant effort to rally for round two of the Wiggles, but he started falling asleep as soon as we were in the air. I perused Us Weekly until I thought it looked like it was okay to use the computer (must have missed the announcement), and had just barely read through some things before it was time to shut down again. Poor Oliver, I had to shake him awake when we landed, and he was very anxious about where we were and what my Dad wanted with us (he’s still little – so when people are out of context, he doesn’t always recognize them right away). And he looked fairly stricken when we pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house (because you know – I might leave him there). But the minute he could see through the front door, he was home. And so am I. I don’t blame him for being apprehensive about landing in this initially unfamiliar place. He doesn’t know what to expect here. And neither do I. We don’t know what the doctor will say – but we know what we want him to say. We are past hoping for the best case scenario – but we’re now praying that it’s not the worst. But for the next hour or so, we’ll splash in the pool, enjoy the sun and rediscover all of the things we loved when we were here last year. For now, we’ll just live for now.