This Is Me Not Writing About Being Sick; This Is Me Writing About Being an Idiot

I took a couple half-hearted stabs at blogging yesterday — probably out of some pseudoephedrine-fueled psychosis where I believed I could make being sick "funny" — but I kept coughing mid-sentence and losing my train of thought, so all my attempts fizzled out and either became First World Whinefests or kind of gross, full of overshare-y details like what it's like to blow your nose and have stuff come out your tear ducts.

(See? Aren't you glad I spared you that one?)

(Waaaaiiiiit...)

By late afternoon I decided I felt a little bit better and that leaving the house sounded like a nice idea. Putting on pants, even! The sun was shining! It was a beautiful day and I AM SO HOPPED UP ON ADVIL RIGHT NOW WHEEEE.

So I took Noah to karate. Minutes after we arrived, I realized my phone (and thus my sole source of entertainment, because no offense, Precious Child o' Mine, but watching the 3,204,280th game of karate dodgeball is no longer the thrill it once was) had died. I also realized that my child was coughing. And sneezing. And sniffling. Profusely. 

OH COME ON.

He'd been completely healthy all of five minutes prior in the car, but apparently managed to come down with cold #4,293 somewhere in the parking lot.

His symptoms were obvious enough that the other parents in the seats ahead of me were shifting around uncomfortably and side-eying each other, clearly trying to figure out who the hell brought the contagious diseased child to class. 

Now, a normal, thinking human being would probably just get her kid's attention and leave, since obviously a regrettable — yet easily correctable — mistake had been made.

But you know, I'd put on paaaaaants. 

So instead, I also turned around, like, who the hell? 

(Note: THIS IS WHY I DYE MY HAIR RED. PLAUSIBLE GENETIC DENIABILITY.)

Of course, this move would have been much smoother if I 1) hadn't been sitting in the back row, and 2) didn't start having a coughing fit right at that moment.

Being an expert in How To Adult, however, I had an escape plan ready to go before anybody could give me a dirty look: FAKE PHONE CALL.

My phone was dead, but I pulled it out, scowled at the imaginary called ID and pretended to answer it while getting up and heading out the door, like a POLITE cell phone user who was not at all the sort to show up and hack germs and parasites all over innocent people. 

Another mother and her child were just coming in as my fake phone call and I were exiting, and...I froze.

The obvious script "Oh hi yeah hang on I'm at karate let me step outside blah blah" flew out of my head, and I stood there blocking the door like an moron, with my mouth hanging open and my completely dead phone by my ear while this random woman stared at me, possibly wondering if I was having some kind of neurological incident.

"Oh hey..." I started, which only made the encounter more awkward, since NOW she probably thought I was talking to her instead of my fake phone call.

In a panic, yet committed to this stupid pointless charade that nobody else was probably even paying attention to until I went and turned it into a thing, I blurted out the first name that popped into my brain.

"...Beyoncé."

Yes.

Yeah.

Beyoncé.

SHE'S PROBABLY ASKING WHAT SONGS I THINK SHE SHOULD SING AT HALFTIME THIS WEEKEND, OR WHETHER OR NOT SHE SHOULD CLOTH DIAPER BLUE IVY. YOU KNOW, THE USUAL DRAMZ. 

At this point the other mother was clearly aware that she was wasting precious seconds on a crazy person and stepped aside so I could leave. Which I did. With my phone still glued to my ear, where it remained until I was fully out of view from the glass-fronted karate studio. Because BEYONCÉ. 

I wandered over to a coffee shop and ordered a Mortification Tea for myself and a cookie for Noah. Which I waved through the glass windows at the end of class as bait because don't make me go back in there. It's not safe. I can't be trusted. Put on your shoes and let's go, omg. 

The good news is that I actually am feeling better today! The bad news is that several of the boys are now sick with a completely different cold that I will probably get, and also that I have no idea whether the Destiny's Child reunion rumors are true or not. Dammit Bey, I thought we were close!

The Hypocritical Oath

Yesterday, I punished my firstborn child for swearing. 

(Here is where every reader who has ever cringed at or suggested I curb my horrible language and penchant for the f-word lets out a well-deserved cackle.)

He said the word...hell.

(Here is where every other reader who could not give a flying fuck about my fucking language and who appreciates a good mastery of creative fucking obscenities also lets out a cackle, followed by a sigh and a YOU USED TO BE COOL, MAN.)

But yeah. Noah told Ezra to "get the hell out" of the bathroom. Twice!

Which, on the one hand: SERIOUSLY. HE WAS GOING. GET THE HELL OUT OF THE BATHROOM, EZRA. 

But on the other hand: I heard it the first time and sternly reminded him that no, you do not talk to your brother using that kind of language, even though I COMPLETELY feel you, dude. I told Ezra to give Noah his privacy but was still within earshot when Noah repeated the slightly PG-rated command.

God fucking dammit, kid. Why you gotta make me give you shit?

I felt like a huge, self-aware tool as I sent him to his room and waited outside just long enough to let the YOU'RE IN TROUBLE NOW, CHILD, WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A TALK sense of dread build a little bit. (Oh yes, that's how I roll.) And then we talked about That Word and why we don't use That Word Like That, especially at school or in front of his little brothers or other adults and blah blah disrespectfulcakes. Manners! Upbringing! Show the nice people that you weren't (entirely) raised by a pack of incompetent savages!

For the record, I actually think I'm pretty good at watching my language around the kids. At least compared to the potty-mouth I chose to procreate with, who is incapable of driving from point A to point B without letting a few choice words fly at That Fucking Idiot Asshole Over There, What The Hell Is He Doing, Jesus Christ. I've certainly had...moments, though, where I've caught myself a second too late and had to add a bunch of nonsense blibble flabble sounds to distract from the staccato'd motherfuck..uh...duck..uh...er that I accidentally let fly.  

And yes, as curse words go, "get the hell out" is pretty low on the ratings scale, and could have easily been picked up from a wide number of sources, including movies and TV shows we've possibly deemed appropriate for him before noticing all the hells and damns peppered throughout. THOUGH AGAIN, JASON IS WORSE! JASON IS WORSE! He is the slowest remote-grabber in the world when watching something wildly inappropriate for children and will sit there engrossed in like, Showgirls or something for entire MINUTES before noticing that Ezra is standing there, grinning and pointing and saying, "Heh. Butt."

(That is actually a true story.)

Though speaking of Ezra, he once thoroughly impressed me when, as a still-fairly-new talker, he dropped a toy on the floor and let out a perfectly-placed OH SHIT.

As hilarious as it was (note: FUCKING HILARIOUS), that was the moment when I realized how spoiled Noah's initial speech delay and refusal to mimic anything had made us. Noah never repeated anything we said! So we never had to worry! And now we did! It was like...as if...how does that saying go? SHIT JUST GOT REAL Y'ALL.

But yesterday marked the first time any of my children deliberately, knowingly swore (at least in my presence, anyway) and I hope I did not bungle it too badly. I didn't want to make a huge deal out of it but also do not want to get regular calls from the principal's office or his friends' parents...so, sorry, kiddo. You're gonna have to do what your mother did and watch that mouth until you get a summer job in high school, where you will learn all sorts of delightful new words and combinations in the employee breakroom, and you will revel in the freedom to weave them into a colorful tapestry of adolescent offensiveness on a daily basis. 

And then hopefully we can have a laugh over that time I sent you to your room for telling your brother to get the hell out of the bathroom. God, what a bitch I was sometimes, right? LOL. 

I'm Too Embarrassed To Accurately Title This Post Because STUPID

Have we established that our household is especially prone to really weird-ass homeowner-related crises? From multiple extended power outages whenever there's like, wind or a slight drizzle to OVEN FIRES to ZOMG BIRDS/MICE/SQUIRRELS, our house really seems to enjoy forcing us to confront our dazzling lack of adult coping skills. 

Last night I made some homemade chicken tenders for dinner, and served them with a dazzing array of absolutely not-homemade dipping sauces. (Exotic foodie stuff, like "honey mustard" and "ketchup" and "I think this is BBQ sauce that's been in the fridge since 2008 but the label got pulled off but I'm sure it's fine because bottled condiments last forever like Twinkies, right?") I put everybody's favorite respective dipping sauce into small food-prep bowls, like this one:

You may notice the ridge of this particular bowl is a tad beat-up looking. That will be important later.

You may ALSO notice (or not, because we sure as hell didn't) that this bowl is almost EXACTLY the same size of the average kitchen sink drain. That will also be important.

One of our delightfully helpful children deposited his dinner dishes directly into the sink. Jason proceeded to run the water and the garbage disposal, failing to notice that this bowl was floating around in there, until...

SCHHHHWWWOOMMPP.

The bowl settled directly into the drain, where it got stuck. Like, perfectly, completely stuck. It sealed up the drain and was completely immovable and ungrabbable, like a concave drain-stop.

Huh. Okay. Now...what?

After trying (and failing) to dislodge the bowl using 1) a butter knife, 2) an oyster shucker, 3) a fondue fork, and 4) a goddamn mini-crowbar thing and a giant rubber mallet, I decided to turn to the Google.

And wouldn't you know it, despite this being...uh...an extremely, almost painfully specific problem, I discovered that lo, we were far from the only people in the world to get a prep bowl lodged in our sink drain. Yahoo Answers was full of advice, as were several message board threads. Use a plunger! Fill the sink with ice so the bowl will contract! No, hot water! No, use cooking oil! Run the dishwasher! 

(Speaking of service-y advice, this blog still gets a shocking number of search referrals re: iPhones dropped in toilets. Happy to help, Internet!)

Unfortunately, the thing that ended up working for most people was breaking the bowl. Which is doable if you're talking about a glass Pyrex bowl, but we were dealing with a melamine bowl. Which I had bought instead of the Pyrex because these came in a variety of pretty, Martha-Stewart-approved colors. 

(THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, MARTHA.)

And this time, Googling "how to break a melamine prep bowl that is currently wedged in a sink drain under four inches of muck-water" did not return any results. We were on our own, out in Idiotville. We were going to have to call a plumber and get the stupid garbage disposal stupid disconnected so we could push the stupid bowl out in the other stupid direction and it was going to cost stupid money because STUPID.

The plumber came this morning. He repeated our futile attempts to dislodge one side of the bowl with a screwdriver and a hammer. Then a different mini-crowbar. He really didn't feel like disconnecting the garbage disposal either, which was a nice thing for us to have in common. We bonded a little bit there, in our joint bafflement over how the FUCK to get this stupid bowl out of the drain. 

Finally he went back to his truck and came back with a giant-ass drill. 

Fast-forward to now, when we're down 95 damn dollars and one prep bowl*, and I would just like to contribute this tiny bit of knowledge to the universe, or at least the portion of the universe that may currently be searching for a solution to their melamine-prep-bowl-lodged-in-sink problem: Get a giant-ass drill and drill a hole in that motherfucker. BOOM. 

Once it's sufficiently shattered, you can finally get a grip on the bowl and pull it out. Then wash your hands. That standing muck-water of leftover condiments was no joke. 

*We're actually down six prep bowls, because I promptly chucked every single one of those suckers and ordered some silicone prep bowls instead. Look at me! Learning and stuff and shit. Baaah. 

Let's Talk About Socks, Baby*

*Ugh. Yes. With each passing year I am growing ever more aware that the bulk of my pop cultural references/puns are growing ever more outdated. I'm a walking Onion article. From 2003. Which is also suspiciously the last time I made a joke that could be considered "current" or "with-it" or "a far-out-happening-fun-time gag."

ANYWAY. We need to discuss the above pile of socks. After letting my children's laundry pile up to embarassing levels over winter break — to the point where one or more of them were wandering into my bedroom every morning to mournfully inform me that they had no pants/underwear/socks/long-sleeve shirts, while I muttered fitfully from under the covers to just GET SOMETHING OUT OF THE HAMPER, Y'ALL GOTS NO PLACE TO BE TODAY ANYWAY -- I finally had to cave and run eleventy different loads of wash, one right after another. 

At one point, three complete wardrobes were arranged in teetering piles around my living room as I folded and folded and sorted and stacked. There were size 6s and 3Ts and 24 months to set aside, as everyone is solidly in 7s and 4Ts and 2Ts and I KNOW, it's like there's this whole mythical clothing code that only makes sense to parents of very young children, but only kind of, because how has my 19-month-old outgrown the 24-month clothing, and why do the 3T pants show off Ezra's ankles while the 4Ts puddle around his toes and tackle him to the floor on a regular basis, and DEAR LORD IN HEAVEN I JUST BOUGHT NOAH SIZE 6 PANTS, HOW ARE THEY TOO SMALL ON HIM ALREADY? 

ALSO WHAT: Do you children just wander around leaving a trail of mismatched mittens behind you at all times like breadcrumbs? Because Jesus.

But the socks. The socks were the worst. They covered the entire coffee table and Jason and I very literally spent several hours sorting through them, trying to pair them up and guess whose foot they currently fit, since we rarely splurge on the "fancy" socks anymore, the kind with the sizes printed on the bottom, like them fancy movie stars wear. 

And also what, you know, the fuck:

Did the sock on the left shrink? Or did we (foolishly! like foolish fools!) buy Noah and Ezra identical packs of socks in different sizes? And good Christ, seriously? We managed to lose the same sock twice, basically? For double the uselessness but quadruple the "oh look I found a match oh wait shit nevermind" annoyance?

And speaking of poor purchasing decisions:

These three little orphans came from the same jumbo-sized value pack (VALUPAK!) of socks, and I'm guessing we already lost most of the over fourteen slightly-different color/stripe variations. 

Now, I'm aware that different stripe colors should not matter in the slightest, when you're talking about 1) BOYS, and 2) stripes that go on the BOTTOM OF THE FOOT, but somehow I managed to birth not one, but two boy children who care — DEEPLY — about the exact matching status of their socks. They will routinely put their underwear on backwards and their shirts on inside-out and will fail to notice that hey, buddy, I think that shirt is actually one of the baby's unsnapped onesies.

And yet if I were to hand them any two of the above socks and say something like, "It doesn't matter, just put your shoes on and no one will ever know,"...well. Look. I tried it once. It did not go over well. Ezra spent the entire day trying to hide from us so he could remove his shoes and socks in peace, and eventually succeeded and I found the socks in his coat pockets, when I was looking for his mittens.

The mittens were never found, and on second thought I think those socks might be Noah's, anyway, so maybe they were annoying him for size reasons as well. But NOAH'S sock issues go just as deep — if not deeper, as we once got into an argument over a pair of gray socks because gray socks are not real socks. Only white socks are real, Mom. 

...

(Needless to say, Noah has a wonderful supply of pristine and fully paired-up gray socks up in his room. One day they shall pass down to Ezra and we shall promply lose 79.3892% of them within a week.)

(Rubs temples, pulls sock lint out of forehead wrinkles)

There are 35 different socks in that top picture. THIRTY. FIVE. None of which have a match anymore, thanks to (I assume) our sock-eating washing machine and/or the sock-eating space behind our washing machine or some other sock-eating vortex I am not aware of. How did my children even come to OWN that many pairs of socks? Doesn't that seem...excessive, especially considering the several dozen intact pairs I managed to put together? 

Anyway, I cannot believe I just ranted for that many paragraphs about socks. (AND WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH AIRLINE PEANUTS?) They've just been sitting there in front of me for two days now, taunting me in their own little socky pile way. Throw us out! They say. We dare you! You'll find our mate 10 seconds later and will regret it forever! Turn us into (disgusting, pilly) mini sock puppets or (gross, greyish-brown) lavender sachets so we may better haunt you for years!

In other words, parenting. You will spend all of your money on socks. You will spend all of your time sorting and folding and cursing at socks. You will then promptly lose all the socks. Then one day when you are old you will find this in between the couch cushions and cry yourself to sleep, because WOOKIT THE WITTLE SOCK GAH OH GOD SUNRISE SUNSET. 

 

We Bought a Drum

And lo, an angel of the Lord said "you are a bunch of damn fools."

For the record, it was Jason's idea.

He maintains it is still a very good idea, and claims he will "never get tired" of listening to the various levels and styles of racket our various children make, because he is all kinds of nurturing and just that good of a dad, and was basically put here on earth to make the rest of us look bad. 

Ezra has almost mastered the overhead 1! 2! 1 2 3 4! stick count (before launching into Animal-from-The-Muppets-style drum solos).

Noah prefers to play actual rhythms and to play along with actual music. In this photo he is either jamming to Seven Nation Army, his new ParaNorman DVD, or maybe just some Yule Log channel carols. We had kind of a weird, long morning. 

Then there's this one, who can't yet reach the bass drum pedal but isn't going to let that stop him from being adorable in the noisiest way possible.

We just purposely quadrupled the noise level in our house and I now probably have to promise our neighbors that yes, we'll move soon, don't worry, I'm sorry, would you like some fudge stuffed with money in the meantime?

But I don't know. I'm kind of digging the drums. 

I'm such a sucker for these boys, it's ridiculous.

PS. NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE FUDGE. IT'S TRIPLE DECKER CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER PRETZEL FUDGE.

AND ALSO SOLID-YET-PLIABLE ENOUGH TO DOUBLE AS EARPLUGS. 

When Childcare Goes

It's Friday, which means: Yikes. Did I ever half-ass things around these blog parts this week.

In my defense, I have an excuse. But oh, my lands, it's the first-worldiest of first-world problems. Get ready to roll the fuck out of your eyeballs: 

Our nanny quit. 

It's a personal emergency crap-fest of a situation. No one is happy about it, there were many, many tears and hugs from both of us, and while I completely understand that shit happens and why she needs to leave us to go deal with said shit, GAH HOLY ASS FUCKBARS THIS SUCKS. 

I know you hear the word "nanny" and probably have an immediate reaction of ooooohhhh laaaa deeee daaaaa, it must be so niiiiiiiice to be rolllllllling in money and household staff*, like it's all Downton Abbey up in this bitch.

*Random! One time, back in 2001, I was laid off from my job and went on a job interview that my former boss had kindly arranged. It was at this HUMUNGONORMOUS mansion and mostly involved a go-nowhere vanity project cooked up by the owner's (adult) child. I used the bathroom soon after I arrived and deposited a single tissue in the trash can. About 20 minutes later I had to pee again, but when I went back the offending, disgusting tissue had already been whisked away by the housekeeper. 

Our nanny wasn't full-time, she didn't live with us (duh, where would we PUT her? in a coat closet?), and with multiple kids it's actually cheaper to hire a nanny than pay multiple daycare/summer camp tuitions — especially given the fluid, ebb-and-flow of my freelance work. She came in the mornings and stayed until naptime while I wrote and edited and dicked around on the internet like a privileged mofo. 

She was also like a member of the family, someone I absolutely loved and adored and depended on and trusted completely. She's known Noah since he was four, Ezra since he was 15 months, and Ike...well. She came to the hospital to meet him mere hours after his birth. To say "the boys love her" is almost a shockingly offensive example of the limits of language. 

(Shit. I'm going to cry again. QUICK SOMEBODY MAKE FART NOISES OR FALL OFF YOUR CHAIR.)

And all this schmoopiness about her wonderful irreplaceable self aside, there's also the unpleasant reality: I have a job that demands at least 30 solid hours a week of my undivided attention and positively zero hours of childcare with essentially no notice.

(No! Not "essentially" no notice! NO NOTICE. Stop with the extraneous abuse of adverbs, self!)

(You guys remember I have the other seekrit corporate job life, right? Just checking. Lest anyone think I spend 30 hours a week not updating this blog as often as I should.)

Luckily we live in an area where nannies are pretty much the standard option**, so I've been throwing myself (and mah babiez) on the mercy of our neighbors to pleeeeease let Ike and Ezra tag along for a couple hours, and several of the part-time nannies have volunteered their days off to come help while we try to figure the long-term shit out.

(I mean, "volunteered" to come and get paid, OBVIOUSLY, but allow me the illusion that it's happening mostly because all the neighborhood babysitters know my children from the playground and think they are wonderful rays of glorious, well-behaved light and fun.)

(ONE OF THEM SAID THAT, OKAY? Or something along the lines that "your kids seem easy!" Whatever. Just let me have this one. I've had a very emotional week.)

**I now understand even MORE why nannies are the norm after a couple HILARIOUS calls I made to local childcare centers and in-home daycares, inquiring about the possibility of enrolling Ike part-time for a couple weeks. 

"When would you like to enroll?"

"Like, um, Monday?"

"Uh. We could possibly take him in June. Ish."

"NM." 

ANYWAY. That's what's happening. I don't recommend it. Opposite of fine holiday fun, and all that, especially since it's so damn near impossible to explain the situation without sounding like a bourgie asshole.

(I'm still not entirely sure what we're doing. It took me freaking months to hire our first nanny, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be rushed into that decision, even it means running around like an ADHD chicken for awhile. Ezra's preschool has a full-day option for him, and the toddler program MIGHT POSSIBLY MAYBE be willing to take Ike in the mornings when he's 20 months old. [February.] But then...I dunno, I still like having him HERE and AROUND and MID-MORNING SNUGGLE ACCESSIBLE.) 

(PARENTHESES!)

(OUT!)

Oh Christmas Tree, You Are Drunk

Thrilling update on the stomach flu front: We were all fine, until we were not. Noah woke up complaining of nausea this morning...but still managed to seem a bit too chipper about the whole stay-home-on-the-couch-and-watch-TV aspect for me to be fully convinced that the plague and pestilence were once again upon us. 

"Now I can't go to school today!" he wailed dramatically, yet he was unable to mask the quiet level of glee that was bubbling just below the surface. 

"Mmm-hmm," I replied, struggling to walk the fine line between Sympathetic Mommy Who Makes Sick Days All About Fluffy Couch Beds & Cartoons Because Poor Baby...and Suspicious Mommy Who Kind Of Thinks You're Faking. 

Compromise: I made him a Couch Bed but refused to turn the TV on. You get to stay home but you're gonna be bored out of your mind.

THAT'LL LEARN YA.

45 Minutes Later: The TV is on now. He really is sick, and I'm an asshole. 

It turns out, though, that seven-year-old children can get themselves to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet like civilized human beings. So that's nice. And a first. Practically a vacation day, comparatively speaking. 

Anyway, there WAS a time this weekend when everybody was feeling fine, so we went out in search of a Christmas tree. 

You know we've never actually done the whole tree farm cut-your-own thing before? Right? What's wrong with us? 

(Don't answer that.)

In the past we were hesitant to take Noah, since he can be a little...unpredictable.

(One year he was happy to go to a tree lot and select a tree, then lost his ever-loving mind over the idea that we had to put the tree on top of our car in order to get it home. We ended up leaving sans tree, only to have Jason go back out and seekritly transport it home after bedtime. The next morning, Noah was thrilled to see the fully decorated tree...as long as we steadfastly promised him that we'd managed to get it home some other way than on the roof of our car.)

(Christmas! It truly is the magical season of lies.)

Sure enough, Noah was initially very distressed to hear about our change of plans this year. No farm! Go to the regular place with the normal usual trees like always and before! I don't care if they cost twice as much and are half as fun, STOP TRYING TO MAKE MY CHILDHOOD ENRICHING AND ALL THAT STUFF.

He complained pretty much the entire drive there, straight on through a McDonald's Bribery Meal of Please Let It Go, LET IT GO, THE TREE FARM IS HAPPENING, OKAY? 

As usual, his anxiety melted away the second we got there and he realized that the tree farm actually is pretty fun, and involves absolutely zero children-eating trees or whatever it was he was scared would happen there. Math tests, maybe.

He declared the very first tree he saw to be the Most Perfect Tree Ever.

It turned out he was right, but we still spent a very fun hour hiking around the farm and judging tree after tree and giving them all complexes over their natural imperfections before circling back to this one.

ERGO PHOTOBOMB.

SURPRISE LUMBERJACK.

GLOVELESS CITY SLICKER MEETS COMMUNITY TREE SAW.

Watching the cutting process from a safe distance, like that thing was gonna be all, "TIMBERRRR!" in a matter of minutes.

This part might have taken a little longer than everybody was expecting.

Okay, maybe a lot longer.

Luckily, the farm had arranged some haybales for (I assume) festive family photo opps and such.

My kids were all, I DECLARE THEE FORT THUNDERDOME!

(Still managed to get a photo opp or two out of it, though.)

When we got the tree home we did learn the first lesson of tree-farm Christmas trees: They look at LOT smaller out in the wild, surrounded by bigger, taller, fuller trees, than they do once they're smack dab in the middle of your average suburban living room, surrounded by displaced furniture.

This tree is HUGE. Who lives here, the pope?

Ike napped through the decorating process and woke up to find a giant illuminated monstrosity of a tree hanging out in his house. 

He was pretty cool with it, though. It's a'ight. Nothing phases these third babies, you guys. 

Speaking of third babies, LOOK AT ME LEARNING LESSONS.

After countless close calls and one direct in-the-face hit, I finally replaced our stupid heavy pointy metal stocking holders with something lightweight and...less likely knock teeth out and cause concussions and ER visits. I know, I know. I obviously spoil my children too much and they shall grow up soft because of it. But Sterling Pear sent me these awesome child-safe stocking scroll holders and Ike's face and I thank them very much for that. 

After the kids went to bed, the pets came out to bask in the warm glowy festiveness.

And Jason and I did the same, with some help from all of y'all's helpful hot toddy recipe suggestions. This one is hot apple cider, brandy, cinnamon sticks and of course, swanky far-out vintage ski resort style, because I insist on being as ridiculous as possible at all times. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Which I Spend an Awful Lot of Time Talking About Dishes

Hey! Remember when Thanksgiving happened?

<insert Wayne's World flashback fingers and sound effects>

I do the same thing every year: I intend to ROCK OUT with a whole slew of Thanksgiving-related blog posts. I make such a big goddamn deal out of the holiday in real life that you'd think my blog would reflect that. Maybe take a yearly dive into recipe blogging and 500-word entries about napkins. Show you the real depths of my vintage glassware obsession. (It's deep, man. Like The Descent, only with more bowls.)

Instead, I completely freak out over EVERYTHING that needs to be done in preparation for Thanksgiving that my blog basically sits silent while its author runs around like a headless turkey hopped up on coffee brine in the distant background. 

Then I gorge myself on challah-bread stuffing and sleep for four days straight. 

IN OTHER WORDS, will y'all please indulge me and look at some pictures? You actually don't have to really look at them — I'll never know if you keep your Minecraft window open — just type a fake-appreciative mmm-hmmm in the comments and I'll be happy. 

First: Something old.

Or, well. A lot of somethings old.

I have cobbled together a somewhat bizaare collection of Depression glass and stuff from the 50s and 60s, which I mix in with more modern-looking white plates and serving pieces from Ikea. The black stuff is L.E. Smith black amethyst glass, and is actually the most gorgeous purple color when held up to the light.

Note that this hidden feature is only noticiable if you hold it up REALLY REALLY CLOSE to a lightbulb in an otherwise dark-ish room, which nobody in their right mind is going to do during a dinner party. 

Note that this will never, ever stop me from forcing my guests to hold their black coffee cups up to the light and squint while I fuss with the dimmer switch until everybody nods appreciatively about my weird-ass cups, because I am not in my right mind.

(I LOVE MY WEIRD-ASS CUPS.)

Next:

Ta-daaaa! Look at me, trying to be all grown-up and shit with my table. 

Twee little flower arrangements/party favors courtesy of Jason's aunt, who joined us this year and who shares my obsession with twee little flower arrangements. I was extra jazzed about these flowers because they justified my purchase of an entire set of those funky avocado trays. I mean, I have four and technically only used this one, but lay off me, it looked AWESOME.

(The trays are mid-century Kyes Moire Glaze. I also have a full-size round bar try in cream, and am currently lusting over several others in various colors that I have no specific use for, but HO HO HO that probably won't stop me.)

(I bought the little trays because I thought they were cute. I bought the big tray because it went with the little trays. I bought the ice bucket because it went with the big tray. I bought the hot toddy glasses because they came as a set with the ice bucket, and now I have to figure out what the hell goes in a hot toddy and start drinking them constantly and I THINK I NEED HELP, YOU GUYS.)

More flowers in mini mason jars, restaurant supply tea towels for napkins, and a shot of good whiskey in a tiny jelly jar.

(That last one is kind of a tradition around here. That we just made up. Just go with it.)

After I remembered to light the candles.

FINALLY, some appreciation. For the fire, mostly, but I'll take it.

Now, lest you think I've gone all crazy isn't-my-house-all-perfect design-blogger on you, allow me to show you what was happening all day just out of frame, in the living room:

Aaaaaand that's the squalor we all know and love. Bonus points for the visible tangle of wires. 

Okay, back to the grown-up section of the house, which gives me a sense of control in a world full of Legos:

Appetizer station.

I made you some cheese puffs, but we all ated them. Took about three minutes.

To be fair, we had help. 

YEP.

YEP YEP.

YEP YEP YEP.

A toast to our hipster Thanksgiving.

(And yes, the children were banished to eat in the kitchen. Off colored plastic Ikea plates from the circa last-time-we-went-there era. I did not take any pictures, prefering to forever remember the sounds of their collective whines over having to eat like, four bites of turkey and stuffing before being allowed to have the pie and ice cream IN MY HOLIDAY HEART.)

Appetizer station later morphed into the doodle station. 

And then a dessert station. Ezra ate the filling out of a full half of a pie.

(This is EXACTLY how I ate pumpkin pie for much of my life, so I can't really judge.) 

(Look! I was there! MY PRESENCE WAS DOCUMENTED!)

(I actually made it into a record-breaking TWO photos this year.)

After pie and coffee (LOOK AT THE CUPS. LOOK AT THE SAUCERS!), we had the traditional wrastling:

Feats of strength:

And possibly some impromptu streaking.

The next morning I ate stuffing straight out of the casserole dish for breakfast. 

Best Thanksgiving ever?

Best Thanksgiving ever.

See you at Christmas, mah pretties. Hopefully by then you'll be joined by some vintage Pyrex and some festive hot toddies. 

Vegas, Sans Babies

OH HI.

I ran off to Vegas. I did not get married or remarried (though I did basically find the wedding chapel OF MAH DREAMS) or spend several days locked on a roof with a chain-smoking monkey. In fact, the biggest trouble I got myself into involved getting mildly scolded by a hotel employee for sneaking into the Microsoft SharePoint 2012 conference without a badge. 

(Okay, I didn't sneak into the conference itself. I just sat in the developer's lounge and used the wifi for a few hours to edit and post conference-related blog posts.) 

(I did steal a cup of conference coffee, though. Possibly two cups. I KNOW, RIGHT? Who am I and when did I become such a scofflaw? VEGAS, BABY.)

Let's see...other interesting things that happened in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas because what, like I have shame or a sense of propriety? 

1) I won money! We're not big gamblers, but you can't go to Vegas and not put a few bucks into the weirdest branded slot machine you can find, especially one that is reaching soooo far to make any sort of sense in any sort of context, like...

MALTESE OF FORTUNE

KITTY GLITTER

BUFFALO

MORE FUCKING BUFFALO

SEXY PILGRIM

SEXY PROBLEMATIC EXOTICISM

I PICKED THE WRONG DAY TO QUIT READING THE FINE PRINT ON MY NAME & LIKENESS LICENSING AGREEMENT

In the end, I won about five hundred dollars on a Gone With the Wind video slot machine that I did not understand in the slightest, except that Scarlett showed up and was all, "OH ASHLEY" and then Ashley also showed up and then BAM. I won money. Then I won money again on something that I think involved the dress made out of curtains? Seriously, it was way confusing for a fucking slot machine.

2) I got a wig caught on my nose piercing during a male strip tease.

(I should probably just leave that story as-is, with no follow-up explanation, right? It's better that way.)

(We saw Absinthe at Ceasar's, which was very funny and absolutely fucking filthy. I was busy trying to take a picture of the large padded bra that had just landed in my lap when a wig hit me in the face. An employee was crouched in the aisle to collect the costumes and that's when we realized the wig was completely tangled around my nose ring. The guy in the aisle was like, "Um, I'll, um, be back once you've sorted that out yourself, okay?")

3) I was absolutely NO FUN at the Titanic exhibition. NO FUN. I'm with Robert Ballard on this one. Though touching the manmade iceberg in the exhibit and realizing how insanely cold the water was that night was very, very affecting. But then made me feel even grosser about having paid $32 a ticket to gawk at the victims' personal belongings and bunch of plates.

4) I was a LOT of fun, however, at Eli Roth's Goretorium.

At least for the actors, who clearly had me pegged as someone they could COMPLETELY PSYCHOLOGICALLY DESTROY over the course of a 20-minute haunted house. First there was the woman who cornered me and started whispering that Jason had walked ahead and left me there to die (WHICH WAS TRUE, SO TRUUUUE,) and then there was the giant dude in a bloody butcher's apron who started describing IN GREAT DETAIL what he was going to do to me while I shrieked and cowered and eventually crawled over a bed of bloody sheets and past some guy with an exposed brain in order to get away from him.

(In like, the least-dignified, dumbass girl-who-wore-stilettos-to-a-horror-movie fashion. Y'all would have so been rooting for my spectacular demise.)

"You know if you just keep walking they'll let you past," Jason said later. "It's not like they can touch you. They'll only gang up on you if you stop."

"EXACTLY," I said. "One of us got our money's worth in there. Let's do it again!"

So it was a fun couple of days, though I am pretty happy to be back in the land of container laws and my children, where there's hardly ANY chance of getting menaced by a serial killing zombie butcher and only about a 50% chance of somebody throwing their underwear at my face. 

Deodorant Wars: Where Are They Now? Edition

Once upon a time, I noticed that deodorant labels had kind of lost their damn minds. It was no longer enough for a deodorant to promise you the basic trinity of Shit You Want It To Do — keep you dry, keep you non-smelly, keep your clothing not completely streaked in white chalky goo — because suddenly one single tube was promising at least seven different things. PH balance! Active Body Responsive! Moisturizing! Skin Nurturing! Smoothing! Hair Minimizing! Continually Renewing Fragrance! 24-hour wetness stank protection so yo ass don't even need to SHOWER with this shit, baby!

And it needed to do all that while also looking less like a plastic tube of B.O. balm and more like some kind of fancy ornate perfume bottle with lots of pretty swirls and metallic accents. 

It's hard out there for a deodorant, apparently. 

So also once upon a time, I combined these Overly Deep Thoughts On Deodorant Labels with my compulsion to anthropomorphize inanimate objects and create elaborate soap operas with them. (WHAT.) Thus, the Deodorant Wars were born and I managed to accrue quite a collection of deodorants purchased specifcally for the series. Most of which I shoved in a drawer and never used, because DOVE CLINICAL PROTECTION FTW. 

And yet I could never quite bring myself to throw the extra tubes out, because 1) they weren't even opened, in most cases, so WASTEFUL, and 2) they were my friends. Even the bitchy ones who picked on poor Tom's of Maine.

ANYWAY. OH MY GOD. GET TO THE POINT, SELF. A couple months ago I ran out of Dove deodorant. And yet despite making multiple trips to Target and the grocery store, I keep forgetting to buy more. I'll stand there in the toiletries aisle, my little hamsterbrain working so hard to remember That Thing I Need that it's practically smoking, and then...OOOOH CHAPSTICK LA LA LA.

BREAKING: I'm an idiot.

So I've been forced to dig into my emergency stash of emergency deodorants. Most of which I purchased all the way back in 2008, and are marked with expiration dates of 2010. But I figured maybe -- just maybe, like prescription drugs and the Kardashians' 15 Minutes — those expiration dates could be stretched a little, or ignored outright.

So today I'd like to give y'all an update on our old friends. Where Are They Now? What Do They Smell Like? Who Got Fat? Who Went On To Make Millions From Inventing That App You Totally Could Have Thought Of, Goddamit?

NAME: Secret Flawless Invisible Solid

SCENT: Totally Fresh

WHERE IS SHE NOW: God, more like, "Totally Forgettable," riiiiight? I can't tell you what this was supposed to smell like, because now it's little more than a vaguely perfume-y baby powder scent. And "Powder Fresh" was a SEPARATE OPTION besides "Totally Fresh," so like, I don't even know. It's like, Secret Flawless got married and had a couple kids and moved to the suburbs with the minivan and just gave up on herself and her metallic-edged blooming lady flower. It's sad, really. 

VERDICT: Peaked in high school, but still capable of long-lasting odor protection. 

NAME: Degree Women Body Responsive

SCENT: Sexy Intrigue

WHERE IS SHE NOW: OMG, stop embarrassing yourself! It's all too much. It's a damned "MY MOM DRESSES TOO SEXY & STEALS MY BOYFRIENDS" episode of Maury. The girly pink-and-green swirls with the metallic leopard print? Stop. Just. Stop. And "Sexy Intrigue" IS NOT A THING THAT SMELLS, DEGREE. And while this was part of the "Fine Fragrance Collection," it basically smells like Ex'cla-ma'tion crossed with a little baby powder.

VERDICT: My seventh-grade self would have been all over this shit. 

NAME: Degree Girl Invisible Solid

SCENT: Just Dance

WHERE IS SHE NOW: Girls don't want to wear their moms' deodorant, because moms like to go to bed at least once in a 24-hour period and girls just wanna have fun, party all the time, just dance, it'll be okay, everybody just da-ance.

VERDICT: Don't be fooled by the sleek black packaging, this is NOT the deodorant companion piece to Lady Gaga's Fame perfume. (I KNOW BECAUSE I OWN THAT. WHAT.) "Just Dance" smells kind of like citrus-scented (wait for it...) baby powder. And it works just like every other invisible solid deodorant on the planet BECAUSE THAT'S ALL IT IS. (I know. We're all deeply, deeply shocked that "girls" have the same basic underarm needs as "women" or like, "human beings in general.")

NAME: Secret Scent Expressions Invisible Solid

SCENT: Bella Bloom

WHERE IS SHE NOW: Much like Degree's attempt to capitalize on Lady Gaga's circa 2008 chart domination, I'm guessing this was Secret's sneaky unlicensed take on the Twilight Saga. (Though I don't remember seeing options like "Edwardian Sparkles" or "Full Moon Musk" and have to say I'm a little disappointed in you, Secret.) And much like the hoopla surrounding Twilight, this ridiculously overworked label looks a little dated and mock-worthy now.

HOWEVER. Bella has a secret, y'all:

Underneath her vadge-shaped lid is a iridescent pink cover with a raised blooming lady flower that actually MARKS THE DEODORANT WITH SAID BLOOMING LADY FLOWER. That's some next-level branding shit, Secret, and I have to applaud you for it. Even though I accidentally replaced the cover upside down and kind of mangled it.

VERDICT: It smells like baby powder, works just okay.

NAME: Suave Invisible Solid

SCENT: Powder

WHERE IS SHE NOW: The same as it ever was. And is, and shall be. Suave don't play no stupid label games, making up bullshit scents and trying to dress up like some kind of goddamned sparkle-covered whore-tube. Suave always knew what Suave wanted: Graduate, go to a decent state school for undergrad, then maybe an Ivy for law school, not that Suave is gonna be dick about it; Suave just got really good grades and worked hard, you know? Suave got what Suave wanted, and also paid off Suave's loans in under five years because Suave knows how to fucking budget, y'all. Respect.

VERDICT: If you're ever in the market for vintage expired deodorants (I dunno, check Etsy), I highly recommend you stick with Suave. This one still has the strongest scent and actually works as an actual deodorant/anti-perspirant better than any of the ones I tried. Though I must unfortunately take exception to the "Goes on clear!" promise. Sure, it's clear on your skin, but any fabric within a three-foot radius is gonna get all kinds of streaked up. 

NAME: Tom's of Maine Aluminum-Free Deodorant Stick

SCENT: Lavender

WHERE IS HE NOW: Spent some time in the Peace Corps, got a little sidetracked by the Occupy movement before moving to Portland and getting super into urban farming. Raises chickens. Won't stop talking about the chickens. All his friends are like, will you just eat the chickens already? Knows where all the farmers' markets are and good places for brunch. Sells reclaimed vintage pens on Etsy, like the kind you turn upside down and the lady's shirt falls off. Still smells really, REALLY fucking hard like lavender oil, like wow. 

VERDICT: Shut up, Tom.