Are You My Mother?

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Remember that virtual dinner party from way back when? (No? Well check the link if you want to know what I’m talking about.) I’m slowly making my way through the list and I have another “virtual guest” visiting The Big Piece of Cake this week.

Anna from An Inch of Gray is my very first blog crush. I happened upon her site months before I started my own blog, and immediately fell in love with her humor and candor. The first post I read was an absolutely beautiful tribute to her mother. I became her first stalker.

Luckily – I didn’t scare Anna away with my enthusiastic commenting, and we’ve actually gotten to know each other in “real life” (as it turns out, we live in the same area).

Thank you Anna for inspiring me to start my own blog and not getting a restraining order once you found out that I live within 10 miles of your house.

Are You My Mother?

I look older than my husband.

Growing up, I was always told I acted older than I was and I liked it. I hovered on the fringe of adult conversation, hung out with grown ups, and, as I reached my teen years, dressed “older.” My best friend and I would wear pencil skirts, high heels, blouses and pearls to high school to project an air of sophistication.

When I lamented the fact that I didn’t look like quite grown-up enough, my mom told me to be careful what I wished for. She said that girls who matured later often still had cute, girlish figures in their 40’s, while those who matured early often flamed out. I didn’t know anyone still used the phrase “girlish figures” anymore, but I did listen. My mother was a buxom homecoming queen and I guess she’d seen her share of pubescent pixies blossom later in life.

The high heels and wool suits followed me to college, however, and when I started teaching high school to kids who were in some cases less than 5 years younger than I was, I was happy to look as mature as possible.

Now I wish I could turn back the clock. My husband, Tom, looks the same as he did in high school. No signs that his thick black hair is going anywhere, or going gray for that matter, while I’ve been covering my roots since age 18.


Getting a little thick around the middle? Not Tom. And his Italian heritage shows nary a sign of wrinkles on his face. And seeing his dad still romping around in short shorts at age 70 with his trim young body (did I just write that??) is like looking into a crystal ball. Tom is not aging. See that wedding picture up there? He hasn’t changed. One. Bit.

And me? Decades of sun-worshipping, and not a few instances of zit-picking have started to reveal my true age. Aversion to exercise and fondness of Girl Scout cookies haven’t helped either. Please don’t think I’m fishing for compliments here. It’s not that I think I look OLD, but I do look my age. My other half just isn’t keeping up his end of the bargain.

I’m just going to hate being one of those couples. I think of friends of friends I met recently. The husband looked so young I thought the wife was his MOTHER. Yikes. We’re not there yet, but the future looms large. Hello? George H.W. and Barbara Bush?

Sure, the former prez was tottering a bit at the recent inauguration ceremonies, but that’s probably because he hurt his leg jumping out of an airplane or something. His face remains tanned and unlined whereas hers has been, ahem, grandmotherly, since the early 70’s. The 1970’s, not her 70’s.

If Tom gets a sports car in his 50’s it won’t even look like a mid-life crisis, but I’m screwed no matter what I do. If as I age I try too hard to look young next to him, I’ll end up a desperate, grasping cougar. But not trying at all seems like just pulling on my comfy pants, crawling under the covers, and throwing in the towel.

Not that that sounds so bad. Could someone pass the Thin Mints?

Me, Me, Me, Me and Me

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Auds at Barking Mad is doing a great giveaway right now. A $250 gift certificate to Target! I don’t know about everyone else, but we are really feeling the effects of this recession – and that gift certificate to Target would buy a lot of diapers….(yes – my two year old twins are still in diapers, what of it?)

The only requirements are to post the badge (see my sidebar – the badge will link to “the rules”) and list your own five favorite posts. This means five posts that YOU wrote, so no worries about offending the readers that you didn’t pick or guilt over “tagging” people. This really appeals to my sense of vanity – which is vast (when I’m not focused on self loathing).

Anyway – here they are:

1. Kate and Oliver’s Excellent Adventure: Part 1 – I wrote this just a week after I started my blog. I had just found out that my mother’s cancer had come back (this time in her brain) and within 24 hours of hearing the news, flew down to Key West with my three year old, Oliver. I wrote the post in two different segments during the trip and after our arrival. I had about three readers at that time and it had ZERO comments. I think it deserves another look – so if you feel so inclined…the link is above.

2. Please Dance Responsibly – Again, written in the early days of The Big Piece of Cake. I love this one because I tell a story about my Dad that is legendary in my family. I think I could write a whole blog devoted to my father – he’s a character…

3. Make Mine a Double: Part One and Make Mine a Double: Part Two – I know, this would technically be two posts – but they’re two parts of the same story so I’m counting them as one. The birth of my twins was rather eventful (starting with the fact that my water broke while I was getting my hair cut). It’s a lot funnier in retrospect…

4. Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl – This makes me happy when I read it. And it reminds me of who I once was and who I want to be.

5. Is Nothing Sacred – This post started out as an idea to compare my kids to gremlins and use pictures from the movie, Gremlins to illustrate my point. But it ended up being more than that. It was one of those mind dump posts that makes you think you should write that way more often.

Runners up include pretty much everything listed as a “favorite” on my sidebar. I would have included a post last week titled Special Needs, but I just wrote it last week, so I decided to leave it out. I’m also pretty partial to my post on tattoos and piercings last week, but mainly because I just love that Elvis impersonator story so much…

If you’re interested in doing this – contest or not – I would be interested to see what other people consider to be their best. And honestly, I think I’ve used up all of my giveaway karma with a HUGE win the other week, so I’m not feeling particularly competitive about this one. Good luck to everyone that plays!

Lord Almighty, I Feel My Temperature Rising

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Do you know that I got FORTY comments on my Special Needs post? That’s like twenty more than I usually receive. Who knew that I would be such a hit being all serious and stuff…

So I thought that it was only right to follow up such a triumph (which it is for those of us with only about 20 regular readers), with something just as thought provoking. Something that really speaks to the reader. Something close to everyone’s heart: tattoos and piercings.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m a little bit of a prude. Not a self righteous prude of course – but more of a “hoping no one will notice when I cringe every time they reference their unusual sexual preferences” kind of prude. And because I’m so hopelessly prissy, I tend to be a magnet for innuendo and embarrassing conversations with semi strangers.

Maybe it’s a primal kind of thing. Like predators sensing fear, these uninhibited types sense my prudishness and go right for the jugular. Not through malice of course – but like magnets, they are inevitably attracted to my utterly opposite nature.

Probably the best example of this was an experience I had at a wedding almost five years ago. The wedding was that of my husband’s friend from work. A very funny and intelligent guy who took great pride in his blue collar roots. He rode motorcycles and abhorred ties. His bride was a lovely girl who called herself “frou frou” and her own background “country.” She was a doll and we liked them both immensely.

And along with this colorful combination of lovebirds, came a just as colorful group of friends and family to fill the seats at the party. The party itself was planned to exclude all of the formality so common to many weddings. This was the bride’s second marriage and she claimed that as long as she got to wear a pretty white dress, her only concern was that everyone relax and just be themselves. And be themselves, they did. At least in my corner of the room.

There were uncounted tattoos peeking out of shirt collars and sleeves, jackets and ties were quickly tossed onto chairs, and Uncle Joe’s long black hair fell out of its braid and into flowing waves down his shoulders as the night progressed. As the music played and drinks were poured, the various gatherings of friends began to scatter and mingle.

Work friends with preppy haircuts talked microbrews with pony tailed biker types. And most of the women crowded onto the dance floor to join the bride as she boogied to the ubiquitous reception music play list. I’m sorry – but no matter how much of a music snob a girl claims to be (which I don’t), they all flock together when the DJ plays I Will Survive. Especially when there’s an open bar.

The event truly peaked when the 90s boy band song faded into something a little more techno though. Or at least it sounded techno at first. As the dancing women slowed their steps and glanced at each other with confusion, we all realized that the new music seemed to be the theme from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Now the DJ did look a little weird, and the suppressed laughter so obvious in his expression made this even more likely. But suddenly the tempo changed and Elvis’ Burnin’ Love blasted through the room. And then two Elvis impersonators burst through the doors, gold capes flashing as they charged onto the dance floor.

They gyrated their way through a full set of Elvis’ best loved Vegas performance numbers and ended the show to thunderous applause. There may have even been an encore. I’m not entirely sure since I think I may have passed out from laughing so hard. They weren’t the best Elvis impersonators – one was a little too tall and skinny, one was a little too short and plump – but they made up for this with enthusiasm. Oh yeah – and the best part? They were the mother and father of the the bride.

I apologize for derailing a bit and losing track of my original topic, tattoos and piercings. But I find it impossible not to talk about that night without referencing the Elvis impersonators. It was quite possibly my favorite wedding moment. Ever. As much as I’m very traditional in my own life, I thoroughly enjoy the pageantry of someone else’s wedding Elvis impersonators..

But back to the point of this scene that I’ve painted… There were a lot of characters at this event and it was fated for me to find myself in unlikely conversations with several of them.

Chris already knew many of the guests from a barbecue that he attended in the recent past, and made sure to introduce me to all of them. Chris is what many people like to refer to as, “The Mayor.” He just has to meet and greet, and is genuinely interested in everyone. So of course he’s a big hit wherever he goes. He is not a prude.

One woman we talked to for a long time had a giant scar on her chest in the shape of a snowflake. I had never seen anything like this before, and she explained that it was a kind of body art much like a tattoo. Without the ink, it appeared to be white. So really, the snowflake theme was a good choice – I mean as far as scarification goes.

Then I found myself in another long conversation with a couple. Initially, they appeared fairly conservative, him in his suit and her in her old school Laura Ashley floral. But then they started talking about their many tattoos and piercings. And I’m not kidding when I say “many.” Just like the typical tattooless person usually does, I inquired about the pain that is involved and exclaimed over how much one would have to endure for “a sleeve.” Apparently, they were willing to suffer for their body art.

It wasn’t lost on me that they were just as amused by me as I was by them. Putting myself in their shoes, I imagine that it must have been very much like talking to a sweet little old lady: “And now how many tattoos do you have dear? Gracious! You’re practically covered in flowers. It’s like a little garden on your back – how lovely.”

So we enjoyed each other’s differences as we enjoyed our fifth drink, and then the subject turned to piercings. As her husband left us to retrieve round number six, the flower covered lady leaned in conspiratorially. “Once I got bored with ink, I started experimenting with piercing,” she said. I shuddered internally as, of course, I remarked upon the pain involved in that. She claimed that it was completely worth it. Especially the one she got “down there.” She laughed, “I mean, I love my husband, but now I really love my husband…”

As I felt my entire head light up in flames, the much loved husband returned with the much needed drinks. Once he was caught up on our current topic of discussion, he admitted that he did not have much interest in piercings for himself, but was very happy with his wife’s experiments. I scrounged for something that I could contribute to this, but only came up with, “well that’s very interesting. And what is that kind of piercing called again?” [I vaguely knew it had something to do with royalty.] In unison, they responded “clitoral.”

“OH!” I sputtered, “it’s called what it is. For some reason I thought it was called something else.”

“You’re thinking of the male version – the Prince Albert,” he said.

And then I fainted dead away from mortification and had to be revived with smelling salts.

Just kidding. It was at that point that Chris walked up and asked what we were all talking about.

“Oh – we’re just corrupting your wife,” she said. And then we all laughed and then I went to get another drink.

So what was my point again? Oh yeah – I’m a prude and people like to talk to me about clitoral piercings and I might have to become an alcoholic to survive this. But I do enjoy the odd Elvis impersonator.

Special Needs

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I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before – but my three year old son, Oliver is weird.

This is at least partly due to something called SPD (sensory processing disorder) that causes him to engage in activities that “feed” his need for a lot of sensory input. His teacher explained this to me by saying, “remember that kid in your class who just couldn’t stay in his chair? The one who would fidget so much that he’d actually fall out of it sometimes?” Well yes actually – I do.

I remember several kids like that. They were the ones who ate paste in kindergarten, fell into the pond on the second grade field trip and consistently got in trouble for “touching people” in more or less every grade through middle school. And now, as it turns out, I’ve given birth to one.

This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise since we speculate that my father was like this as a boy, AND after reading up on the subject, my husband says that he was definitely a sensory seeking SPD child. Thanks guys – you’re the best. The inability to walk past a puddle without lying down in it was one of the qualities I prayed for every night when I was pregnant with Oliver. Right up there with ten fingers, ten toes and the immediate ability to sleep through the night. (I’m just kidding about that last one of course. No first time pregnant woman worries about something as silly as their child sleeping through the night. They’re too busy obsessing over baby names, nursery themes, and important registry items like educational mobiles.)

Oliver also has very delayed speech, and adds a lot of jargoning (the official word for jibber jabber) to his special needs quirkiness. So yes – I have one very odd little duck as my first born. I have of yet to meet any almost four year old like him. And the truth is – I love him for every single bizarre behavior he throws my way.

I don’t just think he’s “special” – I think he’s FABULOUS. No one – and I mean no one – shows enthusiasm for preferred activities like Oliver. He doesn’t just hug you – he flings himself at you. He doesn’t just watch DVDs – he acts out the stories. He doesn’t just finger paint – he body paints. He doesn’t just say “please” – he proclaims PLEASE! He loves to be tickled and will beg you to keep going until even you can’t stand it anymore.

His exuberance makes me smile, then laugh, then cry from laughing so hard. And I think my heart might break when I worry about the people who won’t understand him or appreciate him. The people who will hurt him or bully him. Or make him feel any less than the very sweet little soul than he is. Because that will happen.

Instead of wasting my time on worries though, I prefer to plan for tomorrow, next week and next year. I work with his teacher on figuring out where this speech delay originates and strategize about how to correct it in the short and long term. We have more or less ruled out autism with a pediatric neurologist and are on to having his ultra-waxy ears cleaned out for a hearing test so that he can be assessed by a developmental pediatrician. As Miss Erin (or as Oliver calls her, “Miss Smerin”) likes to say, he is a bit of a puzzle. There seem to be several issues at play and all are fairly elusive…

But I really don’t spend too much time thinking about the problems and the boy that he was “supposed to be.” I’m far too busy enjoying the boy that he is. I recently spoke with a close childhood friend who has an autistic son and we agreed that not only is this better for them, it’s better for us. In describing her own son, she said, “every day, he makes us laugh. He’s just his own little person. While the other boys are in time outs for fighting over what to watch on TV, he’s busy figuring out the remote controls.”

This makes me happy just thinking about it – the fact that it’s okay like our kids for being different. Who got to decide that there is only one way to be anyway?

But the hard reality is that there is a standard for “normal.” That’s the reason that there is a special needs label. And it is our job to take our special needs children and try to teach them how to navigate a world that wasn’t set up with them in mind. It’s hard. And it’s scary. For all of us. But it’s not impossible.

I could so easily fall into despair over the “what ifs” associated with Oliver’s future – but what good does that do either of us? He deserves better than that. I’m the grownup and I set the tone for our house. If I am an emotional wreck over the things I can’t control, then everyone suffers for it. And at the end of the day, he’s not responsible for my feelings – but I am responsible for his.

So if he finds a ball of yarn entertaining, and wants to spend his quiet time unraveling it and then lashing all of the furniture together…fine. I’ll clean it up later (but only after he’s gone to bed since its disappearance could usher in “the end of the world”). If he wants to bring 12 straws to bed with him – or possibly all of the kid toothbrushes we own – who am I to judge? Perhaps this is soothing to him. Maybe he likes the way they feel in his hand – or just the fact that he can hold “all” of something in that one hand. He jargons reasons to me and I just say “fine.” I may do a little struggling first, but in the end, I let him decide. No one ever died from bringing straws to bed.

And every day I see progress – and his beautiful smile. And I know that it will be okay. Even though I understand that he’ll never be the easy going child that glides effortlessly through life. Or…maybe he eventually will. I’ll never know if I don’t do everything I can to help cultivate his self confidence. And his confidence in my own unwavering support.

My son is the greatest gift that I have ever been given. All of my children are. And I refuse to squander any of this fleeting time with them on anger or ingratitude.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but I consider each one of my children to be miraculous. And their current challenges and oddities just make them all the more unique and special. I need all of them as much as I need food and water. I need them to be safe and I need them to be happy. I need them to grow and laugh and love and know that there is nothing more important in this world to me than their existence. And if they have their own special needs – then I will meet them. I will be there from the time that they are unaware of these challenges to the time that their own personal demons emerge. I will always be there for them. Because in the end, I need them far more than they could ever need me.

Vintage Rehab

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Chris’ parents were here this weekend, so there wasn’t much time for writing. I did want to get in a quick Materialistic Monday post though.

I’ve had Vintage Rehab on my Etsy favorites list for a long time. I think my friend Ainsley first introduced me to Stacey Samuel’s work.


1800s Fan Necklace

Here is a short description of Vintage Rehab that I pilfered from an old press release:

Vintage Rehab is creating a tradition of providing life and rejuvenation to heirloom pieces, transforming them into modern every day wearables. Stacey Samuels, an accomplished Interior Furniture Designer and experienced Marketing Veteran, started her jewelry business as an Estate Sale addict.

“I was looking for my niche within the custom jewelry business, so I began to attend estate sales and auctions. One thing that I noticed was that estate jewelry had lots of personality but there was something missing. Each piece I purchased seemed to scream out at me… please fix me up and give me life! So I did just that. Each piece I have created has great history, presence and has a distinctive heirloom quality. I give it even more life by choosing only the great pieces and doing a lot of work giving it layers and using only the highest quality resources.”

My long standing love affair with antique jewelry is one of the defining elements of my current design preferences. When I was a little girl, I was too young to appreciate the bigger picture of fashion and home design, but I could find beauty in one single object.


1900’s Embellished Locket Necklace

Whether it was a beautifully embroidered pillow, an ornately painted Limoges box or a filigreed gold locket – I was drawn to it. As a child, I wouldn’t have been able to explain what caught my eye beyond the fact that it was “pretty,” but I now know that it all came down to detail.


1900’s Scenic Locket Necklace

Of course, this love of detail and flourish dictated that I would inevitably become enamored with any number of over the top monstrosities during those formative years… I have a distinct memory of studying an image of Princess Diana’s wedding shoes and asking my mother she would make me a wedding dress “exactly like hers” when I got married. My genius mother said, “of course honey,” knowing full well that it was just a young girl’s daydream and not a binding agreement to spend every night for a year sewing seed pearls on lace hearts.


One of a kind design featured on the Vintage Rehab blog.

But at the core of this preference for all things “fancy” was an appreciation for detail and the workmanship involved. Most of the jewelry I received as a young girl came from antique stores and flea markets. Back in the 70s and 80s, it was possible to buy an old enamel pin for a fraction of what people now pay for “estate jewelry.” Stacey’s pieces remind me so much of my childhood and the contents of my beloved jewelry box.


1920’s Etched Circular Locket Necklace

Even now when I think about the way I want a room or an outfit to look, I start and end with the details. And vintage jewelry epitomizes this perspective.

The fan pin necklace pictured at the top of this post brought back waves of nostalgia, and I wanted to feature some images of these lovely old pieces that have been recently brought back to life by Vintage Rehab. So add this to your own Esty favorites, personal wish list, life inspiration list or any old list that seems appropriate. Stacey and Vintage Rehab are on every single one of mine.

Weekend Sound Byte: Polygamy as a Feasible Solution

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On Sunday, we all had lunch at a local kid friendly restaurant. We spent most of that hour simultaneously keeping an eye on all three children as they ricocheted around the room in separate directions, encouraging them to actually ingest the grilled cheese sandwiches we ordered for them and moving all condiments as far away from the twins as possible (Eleanor seems to think that ketchup is a delicious “dip” that can be enjoyed as a meal on it own).

As we tried to eat our mediocre food, Chris and I had the following conversation:

Chris: Remember – I once suggested that we take on another wife to help out. So you have only yourself to blame.

Kate: What are you talking about? I told you that I was totally on board with that after I had the twins.

Chris: It would definitely simplify our lives… And hey – I can be fair. We don’t have to get another wife for me. We could consider getting another husband for you…

Kate: What?! Two husbands would just double my workload and nothing would ever get done. I’ll take the sister wife thank you very much.

Chris: Gotcha.

Epilogue: That night we watched the pilot for Swingtown and concluded that we’d have to make due with our two parent set up.

In Defense of the Chair

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I think my post on Friday was a little misleading. You see, this was not in fact the first time that I have referenced “the chair.”


The first time I featured it as a topic was in one of my Friday Confessions last November. I suggest reading that post for full details (don’t worry – it’s not as long my my usual novels). But here’s the short version: This chair is very popular with current style makers. It is well designed and is also somewhat historical. When I “confessed” to not liking it, I wasn’t trying to say, “hey look at this ugly chair.” I was really saying, “this celebrated chair is beloved by design gurus throughout the world….but I personally, think it’s ugly.” This was a confession, not a statement of personal opinion. Okay – well it was actually a statement of personal opinion, but in a wincing, “please don’t egg my house,” kind of way.

Truthfully, I was surprised to see how many people agreed with me. Because seriously – this is kind of a famous chair. And with modern/retro furniture so well represented in interior design publications, one would think that MOST readers would like it.

Even though I wasn’t looking for a debate per se (again – I was confessing to an abhorrence of something considered quite stylish), I was happy to see at least a few comments with opposing views. This would indicate that the post had a somewhat diverse readership. validating the actual topic as worthy of some discussion. Namely – who defines beauty?

My position when I first wrote about the chair (I know – like I had a “position” other than, “I think that’s one ugly chair” – but just play along okay?), was that beauty is subjective. Not everyone will agree on a given label, and sometimes we find ourselves in the minority camp. BUT – I do think that opinions are given more weight if they are well informed. So I will attempt to defend the chair in all of its plastic glory in order to show that I do actually appreciate the fact that it is deserving of love (if not from me).

So without further ado, I will now arbitrate for the maligned chair. Much like a defense attorney who doesn’t really believe her client.

As I explained in my original post, this chair has a prominent place in design history. It is an Eames. The one I specifically featured was an Eames Molded Plastic Armchair Rocker from Herman Miller.

In the early 1940s, Charles and Ray Eames experimented with new methods of bending plywood in the work they did for the navy wartime effort. They then applied these techniques to furniture, specifically chairs they designed for Herman Miller. They used molded plywood, fiberglass-reinforced plastic, bent and welded wire mesh, and cast aluminum. Their goal as to create a design that provided comfortable support through molding of the seat and back as opposed to the addition of cushioning.

Several chair bases were designed. The RAR (rocking armchair rod) pictured above has a molded fibreglass-reinforced polyester seat and an “Eiffel tower” base with birch wood rockers on the bottom. RAR rockers were first given as gifts to Herman Miller employees who just had babies.

The prototype of the RAR rocking chair was designed for the Museum of Modern Art’s international competition for low-cost furniture design in 1948.


This design was not initially mass-produced since fiberglass shells had not yet been developed at time of the competition. A condition that has happily since been remedied so that mass quantities of these chairs can now be found in:

private homes


Dooce has one in her office (on top of a filing cabinet – which I find puzzling…but have ultimately decided that it was just placed there for effect in the photo shoot).

catalogs and magazines


Anthropologie catalog, Fall 2008


and blog after blog after blog…

The picture I featured on Friday comes from the blog, Making It Lovely via Black Eiffel (again – it is ONLY the chair that I didn’t like, I do love the pillows).

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this chair cannot only be judged only by the material of which it is made. There is far more to this chair than plastic, metal and a striking similarity to subway seating. It has a rich history in interior design. And 50 years of accolades and public demand don’t lie. This is not a chair to be taken lightly. Nor is the question of its beauty a decision to be taken lightly.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are not asking you to love this chair (god knows I sure as hell don’t) – but we are asking you to decide whether the chair is in fact worthy of love.

You have heard the defendant plead “not guilty” to the charge of “truly ugly.” If and only if the defendant is judged UNWORTHY of love, can this charge be supported. Based on the evidence that has been presented today, only one answer can possibly be given in good conscience: Not guilty.

I now leave it in your hands to make this decision and ultimately confirm the public’s right to decide where they choose to find beauty in the world – a freedom upon which this, our great nation was founded. Thank you.

So now you know my vote: not guilty of true ugliness. Just the subjective kind that I apply as is my freedom to do so. Feel free to make your own choice – you won’t get any argument from me.

*Source material on the Eames Molded Plastic Armchair Rocker from designboom.com.

More Random Things About Me

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As a continuation of the “Twenty Five Things About Me” post from yesterday, here are 12 more things about me:

14. I had an unfortunate short haircut in the fifth grade that made me look like a somewhat chubby ten year old boy. No photographs of me from that time exist. I think I destroyed all of them (and the negatives) when I was a vain teenager.

15. If I’m carrying boxes or bags into the house from the car, I feel compelled to do this in as few trips as possible. One trip is my goal. It is not uncommon to see me staggering up my steps with 20 grocery bags draped over my arms. (And my parking spot is about 10 steps away from my door)

16. As much as I love the internet, I still prefer flipping through magazines and catalogs to scrolling through websites.

17. My mother is my best friend. Even though I did go through a really bitchy phase in high school when I criticized her clothes. According to her, that is. I have no recollection of this, but I’ll take her word for it.

18. Sometimes I say things in business meetings and think “I have no idea what I’m talking about.” Usually people look at me like, “she really knows what she’s talking about.”

19. I love the beach – but I don’t really like swimming in the ocean (see #9 re: sharks).

20. I’m fairly certain that I have the most adorable children ever born.

21. When we were engaged, my husband and I took a dance class and I loved it. Not only did I love it – I discovered that I’m really good at it. It’s a talent that would have gone undiscovered if not for the class. Unfortunately, Chris hated it and our future as the next Fred and Ginger ended before it ever got off the ground. I sometimes have a sick little fantasy that one of my sons will be gay and take me out dancing in my golden years (gay guys do that right? I’ll have to ask one of my gay friends…)

22. I can’t remember numbers in long sequences. It requires a lot of effort on my part to memorize phone numbers.

23. I love travel – especially international travel – but I do tend to get a little nervous on planes. Unless I’m sitting in business class – then I just drink a lot of wine. Once when I was on a flight crossing the Atlantic, we had terrible turbulence. I just kept accepting the drink refills that the the flight attendants were offering and watched the first movie that appeared on my screen. It’s amazing how funny Monster’s Inc. is when you’re wasted.

24. I watched Homeward Bound with my kids about 20 times over the weekend and I always cry at the end when Shadow appears on the horizon – just when they think he couldn’t make it. In fact – I’m tearing up just thinking about it. (If you haven’t seen it before, I apologize for the spoiler.)

25. I usually fall asleep on my back with feet tucked up under my knees (like sitting “Indian style” but lying down). I think this started when I was little and so afraid of the dark that I couldn’t bear to have my feet anywhere near where the covers ended (just in case something tried to reach in). Then it probably had more to do with the fact that my feet are like ice when I first get into bed and this is the only way that I can warm them (unless my night owl husband happens to be in bed early – then I just put my feet on him). I know it looks bizarre – but for some reason I find this position very comfortable.

Not the strongest finish – but I’m having a busy day…

I’m not tagging anyone since I think EVERYONE has done this (or is ignoring everyone that tagged them). But if you haven’t been hit by the 25 Things About Me Facebook tsunami, feel free to say that I tagged you.

So What Have I NOT Told You About Myself By Now?

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Several of my friends on Facebook tagged me for “Twenty Five Things About Me” (and possibly a blog friend or two – but I can’t remember…) Anyway – I feel compelled to do this. So here it is:

Twenty Five Things About Me

1. I have never colored my hair. Not once. Not even highlights. I made the conscious decision to wait until I got older and “had to.” My grandmother once said to me, “dear – I hope you won’t color your hair…I DO think that gray hair can be awfully attractive.” I concurred with her opinion as I was expected to, but in my heart, I knew that I will never go gray. I’ll go RED!

2. I pick favorites among my children. But it changes every 30 seconds – so I figure it evens out in the end.

3. I was the only girl in my high school class who didn’t wear boxers under her uniform skirt. I thought they made me look fat. Sadly this caused a very embarrassing incident for me in The Quad one day when a big gust of Spring air gave all of nearby construction workers a view of my not fat thighs.

4. I dream of having a career that I love. But I only started thinking about this in the past few years. Prior to that I was fairly apathetic about the connection of my job to my sense of identity. Sometimes I wonder if this is a sign of a midlife crisis.

5. I have already confessed to an obsession with recorded books. I listen to plenty of current fiction, but one of my favorite authors for listening is Jane Austen. Even though I have actually read all of her books and know the stories well, I find something very soothing about hearing them read in a clipped English accent. Is it me or do days of nothing but needlepoint and gossip by a roaring fire sound really appealing sometimes?

6. I wish I knew how to do needlepoint or embroidery. I would create fabulous throw pillows and whip up Anthropologie-quality tops out of plain vintage shirts and embroidery thread. I should have learned these skills when I had the time…

7. I like being by myself and tend to treat a night on my own like a personal slumber party. After I put the kids to bed and clean up, I’m all about raiding the refrigerator for junk food, giving myself a pedicure and watching “girl movies.” Of course, my husband doesn’t travel that often – so I might have a different attitude if these personal slumber parties were more frequent.

8. I can’t stand gum. I find it revolting. The way it looks just hanging out in someone’s mouth, the sound of it snapping and even the smell of it. ESPECIALLY the smell of it if it’s fruit flavored or even worse, bubble gum. The smell of bubble gum flavored anything makes me want to pass out. Not to make light of actual torture, which is not funny and a terrible reality from which I am lucky to be sheltered…but seriously, I think you’d have to pull out a few of my molars with pliers before I’d allow you to put a piece of bubble gum in my mouth.

9. I have an incredibly high suspension of disbelief threshold when it comes to books, movies and television story lines, but I do tend to obsess over everyday details that I find a little too unbelievable. For example, I can enjoy pretty much anything from Harry Potter to Lost; but I just can’t get past how the Cosbys had all those kids and a TV in their living room, but their couch always looked so clean.

10. I’m terrified of sharks. A condition that has grown worse as I’ve gotten older. All of those news reports about shark attacks in Florida a few years back didn’t help.

11. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of business documents.

12. My wedding cake was the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life: chocolate cake with fondant icing and a buttercream and marzipan filling. I knew that I wouldn’t get a chance to have any at the reception, so I asked my planner to make sure that there was a large piece waiting for me in my room at the end of the night. This was quite possibly one of the brilliant ideas I’ve ever had in my life.

13. My writing style tends to be a little verbose. So “25 Things About Me” can be loosely translated into “Twenty Minutes of Your Life That You Will Never Get Back.” Therefore I will be breaking this into two posts. Check back tomorrow more for 12 more things about me!