This is My Brain at 3 AM

(Click to embiggen.)

(You'll never guess what time it was when I made this. NEVER.)

(I AM SO TIRED AND I HAVE THE HANDWRITING OF A SERIAL KILLER.)

 

What's Your (Kid's) Style

This post is sponsored by Wittlebee.

So these "online style profiles" are quite a Thing now, aren't they? The days of just going to a website and typing "black t-shirt" into a search bar are over, like what are you, some kind of e-caveman or something? Now it's all about personalized profiles and recommendations and letting fashion algorithms pick out your outfit because GOD KNOWS what you'd pick out if left to your own unstylish devices. 

(Pajamajeans, probably.)

The only problem with those personalized style profile things is...well, me. The personalized part. Because I managed to thoroughly overthink the process and second-guess myself.

"Do I reach for Vogue or InStyle at the hair salon? I don't know! Which one has Adele on the cover? And is US Weekly an option? Perferably something in a TomKat divorce edition? Because I would read the hell out of that right now."

And then I invariably try to impress the stupid thing and make it think I'm trendier than I actually am, and then my results are all, "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE LADY GAGA."

In other words, I still really need a nice plain black t-shirt. 

So it was with a small amount of trepidation that I agreed to create a personalized online style profile on behalf of my children with Wittlebee (which is a kids' clothing club that sends you monthly boxes of fun and mystery), because what if I answered wrong? Is Ezra's favorite color blue or red these days? What's the difference between "sporty" and "casual" and if I say Ike is a "hipster" am I being too aspirational by suggesting that I actually put thought into his clothing beyond "OH HEY LOOK THIS HAND-ME-DOWN IS NOT TOO STAINED"? 

I mean, let's be honest here. This...

...is not a photo of two children tearing up a Fashion Week runway. 

See, if I was asked to write a style/personality quiz for my kids, it would probably be something like this:

WHICH PHOTO BEST DESCRIBES YOUR CHILD?

a) Made of ham and eyelashes.

b) Loves dogs, hates pants.

c) Is Lady Gaga.

I feel like those are straightforward questions with straightforward answers.

Wittlebee sticks to asking if your kid likes plaid or race cars. How do they feel about green? And do you need some socks?

I guess that works too. And I guess I did pretty okay on the quiz because they sent Ezra a monkey shirt. And I don't think you can do any better than a monkey shirt for that one.

GIVEAWAY! FREE STUFF! COUPON STUFFS!

Leave a comment on this post and I'll pick someone at random to win a free Wittlebee box of kids' clothes, all picked out nice and personal for you (sizes are newborn to 5T). Comments will stay open for seven days and then I'll contact the winner so please leave a valid email address.

Can't wait that long? Already convinced you are doomed to never win anything (PS I NEVER WIN ANYTHING.) Just totally addicted to taking personalized online style profile quizzes? Visit Wittlebee and use coupon code am15 for $15 off your first purchase between now and August 1st, 2012.

WE HAVE THE POWAH

Last night, we finally came home to a glorious sight:

And it only took five days! 120 hours!  

We also came home to the glorious sounds of 1) both televisions merrily blasting away, having apparently been on at the initial moment of derecho-fueled KABOOM, 2) our security alarm screeching at top volume, helpfully alerting us to the fact that it had lost power so...I dunno...go down to the basement to check things out. I'm sure everything is fine and not at all full of murderous hobos.

I really need to publicly and slobberiffically thank Tracey and Charlie for taking us all in this week, providing food and shelter and coffee and showers that didn't feel like getting doused with ice-cold razorblades. Oh, and fireworks.  

(Please note the dead tree hovering over a power line in this photo. The composition suggests that the firework could be seen as a jubiliant celebration of the human spirit [love, friendship, childhood magic and new traditions, etc.] over both the thwarting efforts of nature and the failings of modern convenience...or simply a representation that we were really fucking stupid for sending explode-y type things up in the sky in the close vicinity of both.)

(Nah, it's the first thing. DEFINITELY THE FIRST THING.)

Wifi Refugee Camp

So we (along with two million of our closest friends) lost power on Friday night during the storm LAND HURRICANE WHAT THE FREAKING HELL. We'll likely remain without power for several more days, because fuck us, that's why. (Also: massive trees and downed lines all over the place. That too.)

It's been a long weekend of driving around in the car to keep our phones charged and our children entertained, which sounds easy until you suddenly realize oh hi empty gas tank and powerless gas stations as far as the non-functioning GPS can see because the cell towers are out and WHAT IS THIS LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE? I NEED INFORMATION ABOUT WHERE TO FIND COFFEE.

But besides the fact that my children's bedroom is 90+ degrees and smells like the inside of a gym bag (and let's be honest, my children ain't much better), we are fortunate. We live pretty much in the dead honest center of where the storm touched down. The big trees that fell on our street missed cars and roofs and — oh jebus — people. I battled Wizard-of-Oz style mid-storm to get our wildly flapping screen doors shut and bolted but in the end, we didn't even lose a single plant in the garden. Driving around is surreal and creepy because many, many people in our neighborhood clearly weren't as lucky. 

Sure is a pain in the privileged ass, though. 

We've taken refuge up at Tracey and Charlie's, greedily soaking up their wifi and outlets to charge our greedy electronics while our greedy children soak up television and non-spoiled milk. We brought Ceiba, wine and a casual attitude about day drinking. And a load of laundry. Cuz PRACTICAL. 

I have also claimed the best seat in the house as mah own:

(No, not the preshus cuddly baby. Look behind me. Aw, yeah.)