My Feet Are Worn Out

Wishing all of you a festive holiday!

http://sendables.jibjab.com/view/G9XdeapdFEWUKZmk?cmpid=jj_fb_self_holidays

We Are Virginia Tech

http://sites.google.com/site/hokiesforcrouse/

BuY ThIZ DoGg

FuR SaLe: One FloPpie, moPpie monstar.

HoBbyz eNclood sLobBuring aNd eaTiNg fOod fRom kaTz boWL.

WiLl aceppT pAymenTz en feRm oF cAnz of TuNA -- the GoOd kiNd, witH eXtrA Dulfinz.

SeNd eMalez to:

SirMiloKittyPants@MyOwnerIsInBigTroubleForThisBShizz.

Four Years

Exactly four years ago, today, I was diagnosed by University of Maryland with a brain tumor (for those keeping score, I was undiagnosed in mid-December 2007, then re-diagnosed at Hopkins in June 2008. Oops!).

At the time, I was 32. My son was 4. The 5-year survival rates for the really bad kinds of brain tumor are less than 1%, the really good kind ... around 30%. Four years, to the day -- but who's counting? To celebrate, I am planning turkey with my parents and my gorgeous, hilarious, kind-hearted 8-year-old.

I can still drive, walk, write, shop (!) and I still understand why the word "chiweenie" is just really damn funny. For ALL of those reasons, and many more, I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving week to all of my friends who have been here through this journey.

Lost in Translation

This weekend we celebrated my father's birthday.

The card we selected was from the Barnes & Noble Unicef line. Each card assists in providing medical care for one child overseas. As a practicing dentist, my dad was involved in many organizations that provided pro bono dental services, so I knew he would appreciate the card.

We gave him the card, along with his presents. My dad read the back and said, “Oh, this is nice … it says this card provides for the vaccination of one child.”

Ethan misheard, and with horror, asked, “MOMMY!???? Why would you buy a card that provides for the assassination of A CHILD!??? THAT! IS! TERRIBLE!!!”

I reassured him it was not for a shooting, but for shots, which for an 8-year-old, is still pretty disturbing.

$50 for $100 in Custom Photo or Art Framing

Many of you have a mother-in-law? Been there. I had what could be described as a cordial relationship with mine, BUT the warmth factor was always upped when I proffered the universal grandparent currency; a nicely framed photo of her adorable grandson. You need this for the holidays, trust. Bonus is that the custom framing is gorgeous and the shop owner treats all his clients like family (in a good way).

Juice in the City is offering $100 in custom photo, art, or other (shadowbox of all those medals your kids won at swim team this summer?) framing for only $50.

Here is what is included in your custom framing service at Mat About You in historic Ellicott City:

• Expert design assistance to make your art look its best
• Quality mouldings from a large selection including classic and contemporary styles in woods, geso, inlays, polymers and composites
• Exclusive safeguard canvas stretching and handling. Museum quality treatment of all works on canvas.
• Superior matting using buffered acid-free or rag matting to assure conservation. Value standard matting is also available.
• Premium mounting of art following guidelines set by the Library of Congress and the American Institute for Conservation. Dry mounting, box mounting and vacuum mounting are also available.
• Finest quality art glass to enhance and protect the art or object. Select from Premium Clear, Ultraviolet Protecting Glass or Plexiglas™, Anti-Reflex ion or Museum Glass or Museum Plexiglas.
• Safety hardware that guarantees to hold your work safely in its frame and mounting
• Archival and conservation adhesives and barrier tape. Other types of fasteners, adhesives, t apes, etc., are available when required.
• Heirloom craftsmanship -- all work is done in house by framers and designers with over 40 years of experience who are experts in the latest trends and techniques.

How do you get this amazing deal? Go here to the link below at Juice in the City to support his shop, your need to brag about your apple-cheeked baby, and your in-law relationship over the holidays, all in one fell swoop.

http://www.juiceinthecity.com/markets/bethesdachevy-chase/deals#

$50 for $100 Worth of Handcrafted Gifts at Artcraft National Harbor (or on-line!)

$50 for $100 Worth of Handcrafted Gifts

at Artcraft, National Harbor

Go here ... Amazing gifts, National Harbor location. Visit there over the holidays, see ICE with your kids, visit Santa, have hot cocoa, and SHOP!

Enjoy $100 worth of handcrafted gifts from this incredible boutique for only $50 from Juice in the City. The link is here: http://www.juiceinthecity.com/markets/the-district/deals?


It's not really about us... it's about YOU!

At Artcraft, it’s our mission to bring you the best and freshest handmade work by American artisans in a friendly and fun atmosphere with the best service you can find anywhere... whether you browse in one of our store locations or on the net!

Mixing practical and functional with presentational and unconventional work from more than 500 artists. Artcraft National Harbor offers handcrafted furniture, glass, ceramics, metal ,wood, fiber jewelry and lots of other cool stuff.

We travel the country to find emerging artists creating unique pieces for your home, office, friends and family. We specialize in one of the most comprehensive collections of furniture from STICKS, Houston Designer DAVID MARSH, RALPH GARRETT, BELLA BELLA and VENEZIA, all of which can be custom designed especially for you to "embrace your space".

So sit back, relax and browse. Dive deep. Find a gift to send or just to make you feel good. Design a custom piece of handmade furniture from an American artisan or accessorize your space with any of our fun, sometimes funky but always highest quality products for you and your home.

And, right there, your holiday gift shopping list just got that much shorter. Uncle Ted, Aunt Edna, cousin Sally, your child's teacher, and your mom -- all in one boutique? CHECK!

So, now you can get back to decking those halls, mulling that cider, and fa-la-la-la'ing.

Norman Rockwell Would Be Proud

Veterans Day has me thinking about giving back. To all those who serve ... thank you.

I used to feel guilty about missing my family when trial prep would keep me overnight at the office, so I can only imagine how it must feel to be away from your loved ones for so very long.

This year, we will be having a smaller than usual guest list for Thanksgiving, so we will have some room at our table. If you know of a loved one, elderly neighbor, or anyone who will not have a family to celebrate with this Thanksgiving, please let me know. I would love to have them as my guest in my home.

While I cannot promise perfection in the kitchen (to quote E, "You are a really good mom and all, but not the best chef in the world. No offense."); I can promise that there will be lively conversation and that the wine will be flowing.

Please leave me a comment with an email address if there is someone you have in mind.

PS Serial killers need not apply (am talking to YOU Dexter!, though I do love your show), however, just a misdemeanor ... we can work with that.

Hollywood

I have fourteen million things to do today. So, naturally, I spent my morning on this website www.taaz.com, trying on virtual hair and make-up. Priorities, people.

This one was my favorite: Charlize Theron's hair and make-up from the Oscars. Really, I think we could be twins?

My agent will be taking calls for my next part. To be clear, my rider states that I will need the following in my trailer:

1) One new toilet seat and gold faucets. 24-karat ONLY!
2) 1,000 gallons of filtered Evian water, heated to 98.7 degrees, for bathing.
3) One attendant to take my used chewing gum and another to go around every two hours to disinfect doorknobs.
4) A life-sized cutout of myself in the bedroom suite.
5) Fourteen bouquets of sunset orange, partially-bloomed, long-stemmed roses, all thorns removed. NO BABY'S BREATH!
6) Peach-colored toilet tissue, to match my complexion.

NO EXCEPTIONS!!!!

And, Yet, I Am Still A Crazy Cat Lady ...

Diary of a Dog:

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Diary of a Cat:

Day 983 of My Captivity

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed
hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the
rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to
keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt
to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a
mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this
would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my
capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about
what a "good little hunter" I am.

** Props to my friend, Sarah G, for being so damn funny. Credit goes to her for this post.

Normal

This morning: What time is it? 8:00? 7:00? 12:30 (who set that one)? Let's go ... where are your pants!? No, it is 40 degrees out you cannot wear shorts ... underwear is not optional ... I don't care what Britney Spears thinks ...OK, in the car, late to school ... E brushed, breakfast'ed, dressed, and scrubbed ... me: pajama bottoms, flip-flops, coffee spilled on lap, unbrushed teeth ... Hopefully we won't run in to other moms ... "HEY! OTHER MOMS!" ... "Oh, HEY Headmaster of School ... HAHA! I know, I am NOT dressed ... I gave up real clothes for Lent!" ... 5 missed phone calls by the time I get back in car ... 3 from doctors (they KNOW I am violating bed rest!) ... in other words, things are getting back to normal around here.

Alive, Not Dead

In what will eventually become Chapter 34: I Hate IVs and Ambulances in my New York Times best-selling memoir, I am happy to report that I cheated death this weekend, yet again. Ernst & Young conservative accounting reports indicate that I am on my seventh life, give or take.

The short version: A working hypothesis is that it appears that perhaps neuro drugs do not play well with other organs, specifically hearts, but we will need more testing to figure out what the hell actually happened. Because doctors seem to have very little clue when it comes to actually knowing the answers to such things when they happen to me. The definitive diagnosis is, "I have no real clue. Huh." It is like I am that footnote in the medical school textbook, on the page they skimmed because they been out at The Wharf Rat the night before for 50 cent Purple Hooter shooters and $1 day-old oysters, and besides, it probably would not be on the final anyhow. (A personal apology to all the doctor friends that I know and love, but that has been my experience as an Extreme Health patient. McDreamy, don't give me that look; so judge-y with your judgement eyes.)

The long version: 911, 4 am ambulance ride, lots of nitroglycerin and other heart stuff, loss of consciousness, more IVs than I could count. "CLEAR!!!" and paddles and George Clooney running down the hall in scrubs, with Dr. McDreamy behind him, who told me he would have to do an awake craniotomy, but it would be fine because when it was over, he would buy me a unicorn named "Sparkles" and then there was tea and Divinity candy with my Nana on a cloud of pink sugar ... OK, so maybe that last part had a little to do with the morphine?

But the first part really happened.

PS Home now, recovering. Slowly. Bed rest. Am not supposed to exert myself or get stressed. Um-kay, have we met?

Day of the Dead or Halloween ?

From the New Yorker ... enjoy!

Dear Mountain Room Parents

by Maria Semple October 24, 2011

Hi, everyone!

The Mountain Room is gearing up for its Day of the Dead celebration on Friday. Please send in photos of loved ones for our altar. All parents are welcome to come by on Wednesday afternoon to help us make candles and decorate skulls.

Thanks!

Emily

Hi again.

Because I’ve gotten some questions about my last e-mail, there is nothing “wrong” with Halloween. The Day of the Dead is the Mexican version, a time of remembrance. Many of you chose Little Learners because of our emphasis on global awareness. Our celebration on Friday is an example of that. The skulls we’re decorating are sugar skulls. I should have made that more clear.

Emily

Parents:

Some of you have expressed concern about your children celebrating a holiday with the word “dead” in it. I asked Eleanor’s mom, who’s a pediatrician, and here’s what she said: “Preschoolers tend to see death as temporary and reversible. Therefore, I see nothing traumatic about the Day of the Dead.” I hope this helps.

Emily

Dear Parents:

In response to the e-mail we all received from Maddie’s parents, in which they shared their decision to raise their daughter dogma-free, yes, there will be an altar, but please be assured that the Day of the Dead is a pagan celebration of life and has nothing to do with God. Keep those photos coming!

Emily

Hello.

Perhaps “pagan” was a poor word choice. I feel like we’re veering a bit off track, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll start setting up our altar now, so that today at pickup you can see for yourselves how colorful and harmless the Day of the Dead truly is.

Emily

Parents:

The photos should be of loved ones who have passed. Max’s grandma was understandably shaken when she came in and saw a photo of herself on our altar. But the candles and skulls were cute, right?

Emily

Mountain Room Parents:

It’s late and I can’t possibly respond to each and every e-mail. (Not that it comes up a lot in conversation, but I have children, too.) As the skulls have clearly become a distraction, I decided to throw them away. They’re in the compost. I’m looking at them now. You can, too, tomorrow at drop-off. I just placed a “NO BASURA” card on the bin to make sure it doesn’t get emptied. Finally, to those parents who are offended by our Day of the Dead celebration, I’d like to point out that there are parents who are offended that you are offended.

Emily

Dear Parents:

Thanks to their group e-mail, we now know that the families of Millie and Jaden M. recognize Jesus Christ as their Saviour. There still seems to be some confusion about why, if we want to celebrate life, we’re actually celebrating death. To better explain this “bewildering detour,” I’ve asked Adela, who works in the office and makes waffles for us on Wednesdays, and who was born in Mexico, to write you directly.

Emily

Hola a los Padres:

El Día de los Muertos begins with a parade through the zócalo, where we toss oranges into decorated coffins. The skeletons drive us in the bus to the cemetery and we molest the spirits from under the ground with candy and traditional Mexican music. We write poems called calaveras, which laugh at the living. In Mexico, it is a rejoicing time of ofrendas, picnics, and dancing on graves.

Adela

Parents:

I sincerely apologize for Adela’s e-mail. I would have looked it over, but I was at my daughter’s piano recital. (Three kids, in case you’re wondering, one who’s allergic to everything, even wind.) For now, let’s agree that e-mail has reached its limits. How about we process our feelings face to face? 9 A.M. tomorrow?

Emily

Dear Parents:

Some of you chose to engage in our dialogue. Some chose to form a human chain. Others had jobs (!) to go to. So we’re all up to speed, let me recap this morning’s discussion:

—Satan isn’t driving our bus. Little Learners does not have a bus. If we did, I wouldn’t still need parent drivers for the field trip to the cider mill. Anyone? I didn’t think so.

—Ofrenda means “offering.” It’s just a thing we put on the altar. Any random thing. A bottle of Fanta. Unopened, not poisoned. Just a bottle of Fanta.

—We’re moving past the word “altar” and calling it what it really is: a Seahawks blanket draped over some cinder blocks.

—Adela will not be preparing food anymore and Waffle Wednesdays will be suspended. (That didn’t make us any new friends in the Rainbow and Sunshine Rooms!)

—On Friday morning, I will divide the Mountain Room into three groups: those who wish to celebrate the Day of the Dead; those who wish to celebrate Halloween; and Maddie, who will make nondenominational potato prints in the corner.

Dear Mountain Room Parents:

Today I learned not to have open flames in the same room as a costume parade. I learned that a five-dollar belly-dancer outfit purchased at a pop-up costume store can easily catch fire, but, really, I knew that just by looking at it. I learned that Fanta is effective in putting out fires. I learned that a child’s emerging completely unscathed from a burning costume isn’t a good enough outcome for some parents. I learned that I will be unemployed on Monday. For me, the Day of the Dead will always be a time of remembrance.

Happy Halloween!

Emily ♦

The Forked Tail Also Stays In Our Desks

Verbatim exchange with contractor last night:

"Sweetie, here's the contract, it's a little complicated, so you should prolly have your husband look it over for ya."

"Actually, I have a law degree, and he doesn't, so I handle the contracts around here."

"Huh, yous don't look like a lawyer?"

"Yes, well, us lawyers leave our horns and pitchforks at the office after 6 pm. Kind of a rule we have."

911

I wanted to do something to acknowledge 9/11 with Ethan in an age-appropriate way. We decided to bring cookies to the local firehouse to say thank you. At the station, the paramedic that greeted us was the one who was on call two years ago, during a severe allergic reaction that required 9-1-1 and an ambulance ride to the hospital. She recognized Ethan and hugged him! She thanked him for the cookies, I thanked her for saving his life.

One hour later, I am still misty.

36% Awesome (Thanks to Emily for that quote)

Tomorrow I turn twenty. With sixteen years of experience.

On Father's Day

Dad,

You taught me how to bait a hook, hit a ball, run fast, swing for the fences, fall in the mud and get back up, and that skinned knees are a part of a life well-lived.

You taught me that when me and my best friend, "the other blonde girl", fell off the swingset you built in the shade grove in the backyard next to the red shed, because we were swinging high enough to pull the stakes out of the ground, that'd you get the ice packs.

You taught me the value of art, that you loved to paint (mostly boats), and that I loved to draw (mostly horses), and that some of my happiest memories are the weekend hours spent happily meandering the hobby store looking at watercolors and sketchbooks.

You taught me that reading was one of my favorite things in the world, and would take me to the library to pick out twenty books a week from the non-fiction adult section, even though I was only ten-years old. You paid the library fine when I would return the following week with only eighteen of them.

You taught me that middle school would pass, and that my hair was just fine without a perm, and that the big gap in my front teeth would eventually close.

You taught me that I loved a sport, and spent countless hours at the barn, horse shows, and everywhere in between. You learned the difference between a hoof pick and a curry comb, and how to use both. You helped me clean my saddle, pull off my riding boots, and find the best place on my pink canopy bed for all my ribbons.

You taught me that when I got cut from a team, I could cry, but then I would move on and try out again next season -- and then become high point MVP, just like Michael Jordan.

You taught me that if I wanted a shiny, new car like some of my sixteen-year old friends, that I would have to buy one.

You taught me that the privilege of driving the ten-year old Volvo station wagon with the dent in the door and torn pleather seats was something I needed to ask for. Oh, and be home by eleven.

You taught me that when I tampered with the laughing gas in your office during a high school party, that you would ground me. For a very long time.

You taught me that you knew when I tried to sneak out the window on to the garage roof, and that you would then ground me. For even longer.

You taught me that I should apply to colleges for reasons other than what their rugby team looked like.

You taught me that I when I moved my stuff into my freshman year dorm room, that when the elevator was broken, that you'd haul the entire minivan plus a Volvo station wagon's bounty of clothes, stuffed animals, parts of a wooden loft bed, and cans of tuna from Costco (didn't want to get fat!) up five flights of steps, in August, with no air-conditioning.

You taught me to call home, or else you'd call the RA. Seven times.

You taught me the value of a funny card (from the cats) during finals, the mood boost of plentiful care packages containing chocolate chip cookies, and how to laugh it off when I ended up on the fifty-yard line during a football game as a result of an ill-fated afternoon flirting with that fraternity guy and his plastic jug of $3.99vodka and Sunny Delight.

You taught me if I pulled that stunt again, I could find a way to pay my own damn tuition.

You taught me to date people who respected me, and who thought I was as amazing as you thought I was.

You taught me that when I moved into my first real place, and got my first real job, that I should stay at the office until three am if I needed to in order to finish an assignment and to not complain about it.

You taught me to apply to fifteen law schools because you "knew they'd all be lucky to have me." You'd be mad at the one who rejected me, but then brag to friends, colleagues, baristas at Starbucks, about the other fourteen that did not.

You taught me that "I could do anything with a law degree," that "the first year of professional school is the worst," that "you'll get through this and three years goes by quickly."

You taught me that when I spent my twenty-sixth birthday at home, surrounded by books, papers, highlighters, in pajama pants with unwashed hair because it was three days before the Bar exam, that you would show up with a cupcake and a sparkler and ten minutes for gifts and the promise of a real birthday dinner when I passed.

You taught me to refuse to even entertain the notion that I would not.

You taught me that you would make good on that dinner promise, and let me order the filet with a side of lobster tail and champagne and chocolate cake and more champagne without looking askance at the bill when it arrived.

You taught me that you would then spend the next six months introducing me to everyone I met as "my daughter, ESQUIRE."

You taught me even though you raised your eyebrows and worried about my career when I told you I was expecting Ethan, you showed up in the delivery room and called every single person in your cell phone list to tell them that you were a grandpa.

You taught me that tears are sometimes OK and cried when I told you that Ethan's middle name was "Charles", after your father and your brother.

You taught me that life can be unfair, even brutal, but that it should not let it knock me to my knees, and that there is no other option but to keep going.

You taught me that when I go to the hospital, you'll come with me, and expect an explanation about every nuance of my MRI and track down some cookies when I am waiting for my IV.

You taught me that while professional success is to be admired, that family comes first, and that no amount of money, or job prestige, is worth sacrificing that tenet, and that being a parent is the most important thing in the world.

I love you, Dad.

40 Gallons of Kisses

Tina Fey Is Made of Awesome

A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child

By Tina Fey

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”

-Tina Fey

Affidavit

Bunny Hop

"Mommy, I need to ask you something ...?"

"Ethan, that is nuts! Why would all the parents of the world get together to pretend to be a giant bunny that delivers candy?! Seriously, that is CRAZY!"

"Yeah, I guess you're right, a giant magic bunny makes more sense."

Here's to prolonging that little kid hope.

Hope everyone, young or not-as-young, enjoys Magical Rabbit Day tomorrow!

Never Forget

Today, I am grateful for a warm house during April showers, the perfect cup of coffee (a touch of nutmeg and a splash of cinnamon cream), health insurance (just a sprain), friends from childhood (especially Karen, who has her second baby due any day now), incredible friends from college (too many to name, you know who you are, thank you for being a part of my life since 1993), and the fact that I was lucky enough to be a Hokie for four amazing years (should have changed my major another three times and stayed for an extra one, maybe two).

Virginia Tech, you have my heart, today and always.

Williamsburg

Too lazy for many words right now, but a post to come, visual happiness I wanted to share until then. Awesome: Being close friends with someone for 25 years. Priceless: Watching your children enjoy each other just as much as you did when you were kids.

Thanks to Genie and Delanie for an amazing spring road trip!

Bathtub Giraffes

Opulence, I Has It! I am thrilled to share the news of our future family member on-the-way ...

"Congratulations!!! You make 642,599 on waiting list for petite lap giraffe. Share greatest news with family on the facebook or tweeter."

If you do NOTHING else today ... http://www.petitelapgiraffe.com/index.php

Confusion

Dear SlimFast:

Your directions seemed so reasonable and your shakes ARE chocolatey and tasty. I've been doing so well and felt like I was making a dent in this winter's accumulation of hibernation pudge.

Days 1 & 2: A shake and a "sensible" dinner of grilled chicken and salad.

Days 3 & 4: A shake and a "sensible" dinner of grilled chicken and green beans.

Day 5: A shake and a "sensible" dinner of 14 Oreos, 27 marshmallows, 1/2 a box of Cheez-Its and one stale package of reindeer Peeps from Christmas. Eaten while standing up, with my eyes closed, over the kitchen sink, straight out of the boxes, in less than fifteen minutes.

So, here is my question: I cannot figure out why I have not lost weight? Maybe my shakes are defective? Please advise.

XOXO,

Me

Jinxy

Dear Neighbors,

I hope you were all sleeping today at 4 am. I was not, and I am sorry if I woke you. While you were in bed, I was standing on the roof, in my ex's boxers, in the rain, yelling.

You might be asking yourself why? Because I adopted the "cute" cat from the shelter that Ethan had to have, instead of the less cute one with half-a-brain. Said cat managed to squeeze through a 1/2 inch window opening, knock out the screen, and then jump on to the roof, where he stood frozen in (cute) terror.

Just like in "Meet The Parents." I am just happy he did not also manage to set the house on fire. I think he is saving that trick for next week when I bring home the wrong flavor of kitten chow.

He's Going To Marry a Duggar

Dear Ethan,

As I write this, I am sitting on the porch swing in the dappled March sunshine at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. You delight in visiting their home, where you can run around the huge front lawn, play in their woods, and watch the herds of deer meander through the grass.

I love that I can share this experience with you, and watching you play in the yard where thirty (short?) years ago, I ran around the same grassy field with my best friend as we pretended to be Grand Prix show jumping horses, galloping and flinging our little bodies over stick jumps until we were too tired to stand up, so we would flop down on the earth to watch the sky overhead, and talk about nothing, and everything.

You never tire of hearing stories about Karen, my best friend in elementary school ... and for life, and all the fun we had together, and occasionally the trouble we got into. Even though I sanitize some of the stories for your tender ears, you do enjoy any tale that ends with your Mom getting a good Puritan-type grounding.

Right now, you are digging divits in the yard with grandpa’s golf clubs, because he is in Florida on vacation. If he were here, his Pings would be off-limits to your eager little hands. Greg Norman better be looking over his shoulder (I'd say Tiger Woods, but the thought of associating my sweet little munchkin with him is not working for him) because, to my shock, you just lofted a serious line drive over the trees and into the woods and almost into a car driving down the street, one full acre away.

You jump up and down with excitement, “MOMMY! MOMMY! DID YOU SEE THAT!?” I did, and clap! Both because of your gold-star hit, and because you missed hitting the car with the ball, which probably would have resulted in a lawsuit for $4 million dollars.

Earlier today, we had an unsuccessful attempt to launch a kite shaped like a gecko with a twenty-foot purple tail, but the wind just did not want to cooperate with our flight plans. We still managed to have some laughs getting wrapped up in the kite strings and racing around the yard tossing the limp fabric that refused to take flight. You giggled after reading the package instructions warning us not to fly the kite near airports. “Who would do that?” you asked.

We decided it would be a bad idea to get your kite stuck in an airplane, unless, perhaps, that plane was heading down to Florida, and then we might want to hitch along for the ride. You say that Disney World is your favorite place on earth; we visited last April and you rode all the big roller coasters, some more than once. Plus, Uncle Scott -- your cool uncle/my silly little brother -- lives in Florida, and who doesn’t love visiting a person that turns you upside down and tickles you until you almost throw up?

In one day, you will be eight years old. EIGHT! As you will understand when you someday become a parent, at every birthday, I lament that it seems like just yesterday we brought you home from the hospital, wrapped in a fuzzy white bear snowsuit that was three sizes too big and the soft blue blanket we tucked into bed with you for years after your homecoming.

You arrived just a week after the biggest snowstorm Maryland had seen in two decades. I was worried you’d decide that being born in a blizzard was a good idea. But you hung out and decided to wait until the three feet of snow had melted, which was fortunate, because otherwise you likely would have been delivered in our upstairs bathtub.

At the hospital, we flipped a coin to decide on your name. You were two quarter tosses away from going through life as Braden or Carter. As you know, March 5th is my favorite uncle’s birthday, so Charles it was for the middle name, that was not open for debate. Of course, now, you are ETHAN CHARLES, and I could not imagine calling you anything else, except for the cat's name, which I will sometimes yell when trying to figure out who is causing the mischief/noise/clawing the furniture.

You were a happy baby, and a talkative toddler, who wanted to communicate with the world around you. Your first word was “DER!” which quickly became “DERDERDERDERDER!” I have no idea where that came from, or why you called things that, but that was your title for everything from the cat, to ice cream, to grandpa, to your favorite playmate. You’d point and shout to make sure everyone knew what you wanted to tell them.

“DERDERDER!” (point to cat).

“DERDERDER!” (point to car).

“DERDERDER!” (point to self).

“DERDERDER!” (point to me).

No, I’d say patiently. “Mom - eeee.” I’d point to myself, “Mom - EEE.”

You’d move on … “DER!” (point to Daddy).

You’d learn eventually. When you did begin speaking in complete sentences, we had a lot to talk about. One of your first statements at the age of two was, “Baby geese are called goslings.” Hmm, OK, twenty-four months old and already smarter than me? I knew I'd have my hands full.

I love looking back on where you are at a certain point in your life, so you allowed me to interrupt your golf driving range practice to ask a few questions about your plans for the future. It seems you have a big life ahead of you … these are questions I asked you while swinging on the porch swing together…

What do you want to be when you grow up? Professional football player.

How old will be when you get married? One hundred years old.

Who will you marry? I have NO idea.

How many kids will you have? Ninety-four, and the girls will be named Frank and the boys will be named Bob.

Where will you live? Texas, or Tennessee. Because I like “T” names.

What will your wife do? Will she have a job? YES! Most football players “wifes” are team doctor, so probably the team doctor.

Will you have any pets? Five cats, four dogs, twenty fish, sixty rabbits, and two gophers, named Bob and Joe.

What will you do on weekends for fun? Play with Bob and Joe, the gophers, not the kids.

If you could celebrate your birthday in any way this year, what would you want to do? Go to the Harlem Globetrotters.

(GUESS WHAT, ETHAN? WE GOT TICKETS FOR TOMORROW!)

What is your favorite memory from being a kid? Probably right this second!

Ethan, your future is bright. You are a wonderful son, grandchild, friend, athlete, student, and most of all, person. I love you to the moon and back and wish you a very happy day before your eighth birthday.
　
Love Always,
Mommy
　
　
　

Health 101

Ethan: "How do babies get out of their moms?"

"Um, how do you THINK babies get out of their moms?"

"Oh. OH!!!!!!!!!!!! Well, that explains why newborns always get a bath before anyone can hold them."

NURSE! HANG ANOTHER BAG OF PRINGLES, STAT!

Dear January,

You are one mean jerkface.

$#!!!!**&****%!{!},

- J

We are now HOME after being forcibly evicted to a two-starish hotel with no room service and a questionable concept of exactly what housekeeping is hired to do. Prepare yourself for a future post on the after-effects of bedbug attack.

Since the kid and I left in a rush with one clean outfit between the two of us, with me covered with toilet water (*see below), I had the pleasure of a WalMart trip in the middle of ten inches of snow, in a none-too-scenic part of town, so that I could buy us both hot-pink-synthetic-made-by-third-world-sweatshop-children tracksuits to sleep in and 99 cent flip-flops to guard against foot ick in the scary hotel shower.

For no apparent reason, I suppose because I do not have enough stress in my life right now, my house went all Amityville Horror on me about two weeks ago. For those checking your day planners, you are correct in noting that this was not soon after The Husband (as he will herein be referred, until he is promoted to The Ex) moved out, the very same Husband who used to deal with things related to leaks, toilets, vermin, and sewage. I got married, in part, so I would have someone in my life who could deal with leaks, toilets, vermin, and sewage. I deal better with matters such as high-heeled boots, gourmet cheese dips, sunshine, and wine pairings.

Since The Husband left, The Kid (as he will herein be referred) and I have endured ten full days of no functioning bathroom plumbing -- and we have four bathrooms -- in addition to periods of no kitchen water, a basement ceiling leak which soaked the downstairs carpet, furniture, and me with "maybe" toilet water, per the 24-hour plumber who could not come until three days after-the-fact, and a Shining-like icy blizzard, complete with flickering power outages. Did I mention the TWO rounds of stomach flu? No? The only thing that was missing was the blood leaking down the walls and the windows speaking at me in tongues.

Because the house decided that it was not yet done toying with the very last shreds of my sanity, last night at midnight, while I was carrying our luggage in (read: WalMart plastic bags), the Amity House attacked again. I fell on ice on the steps, sprained my wrist, and cut myself in all manner of odd place.

Initially, I thought the wrist might be broken. I attempted to seek late-night weekend medical attention for an x-ray and stitches in my left hand and elbow, but had to settle for paper towels and some Scotch tape, not because the bleeding or throbbing wrist were OK, but because I could not find anyone to stay with The Kid at midnight on a Saturday. By then, all I wanted to do was lay down and bleed in peace in my own bed, on my own dirty sheets. A doctor friend reassured me no break today, though she did say that I "should see a doctor" tomorrow.

Right now, I have my wrist wrapped, and am whimpering whenever I have to move it more than an inch. I had big plans to scrub, launder, bleach, and fluff-and-sort, but I suppose it will have to wait while I make out with my third canister of Pringles in as many days. (This winter, I am substituting food for love, so far that is working for me.)

Ten minutes ago, the Demons of January decided to push one last little button, and I watched as the cat threw up a partially-eaten kitchen sponge, right after he knocked two Christmas ornaments off the tree and then stared at me as they shattered on the wood floor. Did I mention our Christmas tree was still up? Yeah.

February will be better, right?

RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?!

(just humor me. please, please humor me.)

Purge

The dust has yet to settle around here, but for the first time in two weeks, I feel less like I am suffocating. It's something. I am in the middle of the big house purge. What do I do with the things left behind? Confronting my past in object form is not easy.

His closet is empty except for the tuxedo and shoes from our wedding, and the trenchcoat he wore exactly once, almost thirteen years ago when we got engaged on a frigid February night in New York. I laughed about the trenchcoat at the time; later, I learned it was the only coat he had that hid the ring box.

Or the big framed version of this photo?

I really don't know. I just know that I wish it were still this easy, and happy.

Anonymous

You kicked Jeff out last week so that he had to stay in a hotel. Saying he left of his own volition is a lie. It'll be very interesting in court..and sad..to see the things you've said on here disproved. You left Jeff for Thanksgiving and New Year's. Are you driving Ethan to school and back home again these days? How is he coping with this? - Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Your thoughtful comment to my last post caused me to have several reactions.

My first reaction is that you must be related to Jeff, or sleeping with him. If it is the former, OK, I get the taking sides of things. If it is the latter, have at it, that is no longer my domain. If it is both, then according to Family Law 101, that is illegal, not to mention yucky, so please cut it out.

My second reaction is that there are two sides to every story. Except when I am telling it. On my blog. Then it is my side. That is just how it works.

My third reaction is to be pleased that you are concerned about Ethan's welfare. Thank you for worrying about the impact of all this on my child! I can feel your happy thoughts for both us warming my soul.

To respond to your query about school transportation, I told Ethan that he should start walking, because I am too lazy to drive him, but he complained because it is over fifteen miles to get there, and the route crosses two major highways. I said, fine, not my problem. So I disenrolled him. He is happy with that choice since they were just about to learn fractions and he said that sounded hard. In case you are worried about his future lack of fancy book learning, I would not. To make up for all the time I spend ignoring him, he is now watching sixteen hours a day of Dr. Phil and Oprah. Dr. Phil has helped him kick his chain-smoking habit, so I am pleased about that.

As for religion, he has decided that he wants to explore peyote and small animal sacrifice at the local Wiccan house; again, his life, his choice, I support his decisions. As for nutrition, he has decided that he only wants to eat blue things, such as boysenberry Jelly Bellys (I eat the other colors), but only at midnight, since he is allowed to choose his own bedtime now.

I would write more on how he is faring, but I left him in the other room with a fifth of bourbon for dinner (not blue, but he likes to play spin-the-bottle with the fourteen-year-old next door when he has polished off all the liquor) and a set of serrated steak knives to throw against the ceiling. The toy budget has been cut since we have two households now, so I've had to improvise.

And, my fourth reaction ... pay attention, this one is important: A split like is always painful and divisive. Everyone is hurting in this situation, and your hurtful comments help nobody. Stop. Seriously.

Still Standing

Thank you for the love and support from my friends and family. I am alright. OK, I am not even close to alright, but today is the first day in a week that I think I *might* eventually be alright. Which is something.

Your words mean the world to me, please know that.

'Til Death Do Us Part (But Not Really)

I feel like I have been ripped in two. This is the hardest day of my life.

My husband moved out this weekend and we started the legal process today. The pain of this is unreal. I cannot believe I used to do this for a living, family law proceedings are something that serial killers should be forced to undergo as punishment.

The short version is that I got a (maybe) terminal diagnosis in Fall 2009. My second, if you keep track of such things, which I tend to. The time was very important to me, again, because I am detail-oriented like that. Maybe three years minus these past fourteen months. Maybe five years minus these past fourteen months. Maybe less minus these past fourteen months. Who knows? But who's counting! Be happy! Live each day!

I don't know how we got here, nor do I know how to fix it. The stress has not brought out the best in either of us. Instead of bonding in that Lifetime movie way with rainbows and unicorns, we've spent that time fighting like cage fighters. We've spent hours fighting over how much hypothetical time I might have left, what my neurological symptoms mean, where to go on vacation, who is the better parent, who will clean the house, whether or not I should still be a lawyer, how my husband works too much and how I spend too much money.

Now we will have the lawyers spend $50,000 -- really? $600 an hour?! I can assure you that even at my cognitive peak, nothing out of my mouth has ever been worth that amount of money -- to tell us who is the better parent, and that I spend too much money. And then we will both be financially and emotionally devastated. I can't wait. Then I can die happy.

This afternoon, I rushed from court in heels and dressier clothes than I normally wear, fixed my smudged mascara, adjusted my two-sizes-too-small wonky pantyhose and bolted in to pick up my second grader from school. He saw my stockings and asked "why I was dressed for a wedding?" I guess I should probably send an email of explanation to his teacher about why I started sobbing in the hallway outside of his classroom. For thirty minutes.

What do you do with fourteen years of shared history? How do you explain to your seven-year-old that Daddy won't be coming home from his "business trip"? Who is going to take out the trash now? Most importantly, how in the the hell do I stop crying?

Compassion

You sometimes wonder if your values are rubbing off on your kids. Never have I been more proud of Ethan than this afternoon when we passed a man on the street corner holding a sign "Homeless & Hungry."

Ethan gave me the $5 allowance from his pocket and said, "Let's go get some cheeseburgers for that guy. He doesn't look like he likes onions, so make sure you ask for them plain."