Of man and mouse.

The book L ACTUALLY checked out of the school library this week.

??????.  ?????!!!!!

Even worse, it's going to cost us $29.99 when we (inevitably) lose it.  

And then we are going to own it FOREVER.

I'll tell you exactly how it happened.

"Are those ANTS in our bed?"

"Looks like it."  My response.

"Are they eating a piece of rat sh#!?"

"Um, no.  That's a chocolate chip.  See?"  

"WHY, exactly, are their ants eating chocolate chips in our BED?"

"Because you were sick that one time, three weeks ago."  Duh.

**************

I am so sorry for not posting last night, but as it happens, Mike has come down with some sort of illness--which means that he was banished to some other room, while I lounged comfortably in our bed, perused the Internet for rain boots and pondered whether or not I could continue living if I have to watch Kim Kardashian lose her $75,000 diamond earrings one. more. time.  I never did figure it out, because I passed out sometime after a huge bowl of chocolate chips; and when I woke up this morning, I looked at Mike's side of the mattress and saw a Diet Coke can perched precariously upon the t.v. remote, which was atop my iphone, which was atop a clean pile of clothes--just like something that bastard Cat in the Hat might try to juggle.   Also, I was still connected to the "Rap Cat" video on YouTube, and was also surrounded by no less than 12 errant chocolate chips, which, look WAY TOO MUCH like rat crap, at 7 a.m. 


The moral of the story:  when I complain about an infestation  of ants in my bedroom, it will be because Mike was sick that one time three weeks ago.


Anyhoo.  Thursdays are my bible study mornings, except that today, I was a helper in the children's program--which I tend to handle with the distinguished attitude of simply sucking-it-up-and-being-a-good-and-holy-person, except that in the four weeks since this study has started, I have attended TWO times, so I consider today's duty a REAL bullet point on my application for sainthood.  Also, there is this desperate hope amongst young mothers at our church, regarding the staffing of Sunday school and all events involving children, about how it would be nice if women without young children offered to volunteer their time to give us mom's a break from all that screaming and diapering B-S.  From 2002 to early 2011, this was my general stance--until all four of my children entered all-day school, and then I joined the "SUCKS TO BE YOU!" party, because the truth of it is, that I am no longer a young mom with kids at home, but I'm not far enough removed to find toddlerhood magical and enchanting.  But just so we're clear, my life isn't all long-morning-runs and meeting-friends-for-coffee and living out my life dream of writing a book; it also means it is no longer acceptable for me to wear pajamas all day (considering my 6.5-hour daily window to shower), that I have to do elementary school math, AND that I don't get invited to the playdates where the young mommies serve wine and eat percocet.  So I feel we are even; you with the snot wiping and general lack of privacy and me with ZERO excuses not to act like a grown-up. 


I say this not to complain about the kids; shoot, I could parent 12 screaming two-year-olds in my sleep if given benadryl and an extra-large roll of duct tape.  It would, however, require me to bong an entire bottle of chardonnay--which is precisely why I headed straight from bible study to the row of boxed wine at Target!  And also, I needed two birthday gifts, so it was all kinds of convenient, so long as I don't confuse the box of wine with the seven-year-old's Transformer!  That would be what we mommies call a "whoopsie" and a sure way to get kicked out of the PTO.


While at Target, I ran into a friend who mentioned the mother of all consignment sales--which, of course, is like hitting me hard between my weaknesses, boxed wine (done) and anything cheap.  And since my kids are in tax-payer sponsored child care, I figured what the hell!  I got an hour or four to kill!


This particular sale was in an old Macy's at a local mall.  Apparently, St. Louis families reproduce and have vasectomies at such a rate that this sale can fill a department store, twice a year.  Wha?  I found some things, and I headed to the line, which was hella long, but I figured I could wait it out, because I fancy myself as a Survivor contender one day, and so I could certainly HANDLE a long line and an empty stomach!  In 15 minutes, I managed to move about 50 feet; not bad, except that there were 2,457 MILLION more feet to go and kids on leashes and screaming, lots of SCREAMING, everywhere--and fresh off my morning of sainthood in the toddler room at bible study, I was spent.  So.  I decided that two hours of my time was more valuable than a couple of Gap long sleeve shirts, an Old Navy hoodie and a Gymboree sweater with a firetruck (that one was kind of tragic).  


And that, friends, is a short summary of my self worth--greater than a two-hour wait for gently used children's clothing, but not quite above the possibility that I slept in rodent feces last night.

Let me tell you what is worse than adult-sized, male crocs.

For my birthday, Mike bought me a rice cooker.  And this meets Mike's criteria for gift giving, because it is a.) something I would NEVER expect, and b.) not a pair of Tom's.  Except that next year?  I will TOTALLY be expecting that garden hose!

But anyway.  My new, fancy rice cooker *claims* that it can steam vegetables--which sounds awesome, except that we don't eat vegetables.  I don't care what Dr. Oz or Gwenyth Paltrow says; I care about what that guy on Man vs. Food says, because he tends to favor 5+ pounds of anything that isn't vegetables.  However, in my attempts to be healthier skinnier I decided that we would forgo a food challenge, and have BROCCOLI tonight.  First mistake, right there, because everyone knows that cheese fries are the most beloved of vegetables.

Let's be clear--I did read the directions, which were something along the lines of add water, put veggies in small tray, close lid, blah, blah, blah.  AN HOUR LATER, Mike and I were wondering HOW LONG, exactly, it takes to steam broccoli, because ours was obviously earning it's Ph.D. in molecular science, and we were STARVING and just about to get-on-with-it-already, with those extra-fat Cheetos in our pantry.

Against the better judgement of the fancy rice cooker, I pulled the plug and opened 'er up.

Do you even KNOW what broccoli smells like when it steams for an hour?  Like feet.  Big, fat, slow cooked feet.

Do you even KNOW what broccoli tastes like when it steams for an hour?  Mushy feet.  Big, fat, slow-cooked, MUSHY feet.  

I would LOVE to say this was the most disgusting thing I experienced in my kitchen today, but sadly, it was not.  Turns out Mike decided to disinfect his free Crocs. 

In. My. Dishwasher.  

With. My. Dishes.

That. I. EAT. On.

I'm pretty sure this is how you catch warts. On your kidneys. {Gag}

What the stupid pink dress really says about me.

Well, I pretty much got NOTHING done today, except stare at my iphone and anxiously await comments from you, my faithful blog readers.  And then I went to H&M and bought myself that pilgrim-style dress.  Uh-huh, I did.  Not because I can wear it with boots or a chunky necklace or cinch it with a belt (though I am planning on all of the above), but because I LOVE IT.  Period.  And that should really be the reason for every choice I make, but sadly, it isn't.


Also, it helps that H&M has quickly sold most of these dresses, so I'm thinking that the other 10-12 of you who have purchased it can't be wrong.  I mean, I'm not blazing a fashion trail ALL BY MYSELF or anything, folks.


To milk the life out of this very blessed event, Mike and I are working on a YouTube video to show you just how painful it is for me to buy a frickin' dress.  Except that I tried to take a video camera with me to the mall this morning and I felt like a complete tool.  And also, I blink and do this fluttery-thing with my eye lids A LOT, and it is damn annoying--if you ever see me do that in real life, PLEASE slap me and make it stop? But then I just wore my sunglasses, and fixed that little problem--except that people who wear sunglasses ALL THE TIME and at night are mostly ridiculous, and so this is a fine, fine line friends.


It should also be noted--MEN HATE THIS DRESS.  As confirmed by my husband, his friends and his co-workers.  This is NOT a new revelation to me, nor is it offensive; as I assumed, this dress (and the blue bathing suit) is a line that *mostly* divides the sexes, because I know there are some gals who aren't that crazy about it either.    S'okay.  I know what makes my husband happy, and I mostly have a closet (and POD) full of clothes that we both agree on--but I am a firm believer that it's okay to dress for myself as well.  I have years worth of classic black dresses, and you know, at this point I'm dead. bored. with them.  Trust me when I tell you that I am an EXPERT at blending in, and the story of my purchasing habits over 35 years can prove it; except that some of those choices that I made are less than fulfilling, which has led me to this place where I desire to do almost EVERYTHING differently.  Today, I desire to be bold in my choices.  Because there is a lot of freedom in reinventing yourself at the age of 35, including (but not limited to) buying a polarizing pink dress and rocking the hell out of it.  


So, thanks friends, for all your feedback.  I really didn't know that I was going to buy this dress today, but yesterday's post and your comments certainly helped--particularly those of you that don't necessarily love it--because being bold means doing whatever the hell I want, regardless.  JK!  It really means not being afraid to fail at something, and let's face it, this is a $30 dress from H&M and NOT the cure for cancer.  I'm okay with falling a little flat here, because no one is going to DIE.  


Love you, friends.  Even those of you who are not particularly fond of my dress.  YouTube footage to come (eventually), which will be even more AWESOME, what with my trying REAL hard to keep my eyelids open.  

Little House on the Prairie as a case study in modern sexuality.

Blogworld, HELP.  Mike and I are caught in a heated fashion debate, much like the Blue-Bathing-Suit-Battle of 2010 (link here)--which I TOTALLY won, btw, unless you bitches are just lying to me when you sang your undying love for my Target bathing suit.  


Also important to note:  Mike has recently scored himself a pair of ADULT CROCS, and I feel this alone is grounds for disqualifying any argument he could ever make about anything concerning adult clothing. EVER.  


But for the sake of humoring him, our debate centers upon the dress pictured above; I tried it on two weeks ago, and have. not. stopped. thinking. about it.  Just for the record, I am EVERYTHING that is wrong with America.  Friends, I don't know what it is about this dress, exactly, but I can picture it with gray tights and some tall, round toe heels--which really sounds NOTHING like anything I would wear, because the last time I wore heels, there was a bunny on a table at a restaurant and a lot of stomping and me actually wanting to gnaw my toes off with my teeth, though, I imagine it would be lovely with sedatives.  But then, there's the more realistic vision of gray leggings with my tan boots?  For Thanksgiving?  Um, yes.


It is very different from anything I own, hence, my *need* to have Mike justify the purchase.  Obviously, the blue-bathing-suit taught me nothing, and we are also, currently embattled over the awesomeness of Tom's (shoes)--so really, it should have come as NO SURPRISE when he took one look at it on the hanger and said, I KID YOU NOT:


"Oh, a tent?  You want to buy a tent?"


And then it was on-like-Donkey Kong, with Mike trying to convince me the dress was made for an 80-year-old, and me determined to make it sexxxxxxxxxxxy.  Which is hard, what with the florescent lighting and the four kids, and the unfortunate timing of the black underwear I was wearing and G pulling that poltergeist-like glowing trick in the dressing room. 


I believe that the conservative nature of the dress is made up for with it's short length; Mike thinks it's like the pajamas the rich girl wore in Little House on the Prairie.   We have a wedding to go to in a couple of weeks, and you know, I'm 35 now and I just have zero desire to shove it all in a tight black dress like I used to--but something that's kind of blousey AND able to conceal a 12-donut (doughnut?) binge and a firearm?  Win-win.  I mean, give me a break, this dress is from H&M, not the DRESS BARN.  


So, I need your THOUGHTS friends, keeping in mind that:  I will probably be wearing a 3-year-old Target maxi dress to this wedding unless I find something, because, as previously stated EVERYTHING IMPORTANT IS IN OUR POD.  Also, I would love for it to be multi-functional (i.e, wedding/Thanksgiving/everyday wear) because EVERYTHING IMPORTANT (and suited for the winter) IS IN OUR POD.  Also, I only shop at Target and Old Navy, so I feel H&M is a significant step-up--therefore, any of you that are going to suggest Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus can just shut it.  I honestly cannot take the guilt associated with wearing a dress that could buy a year's worth of crafting supplies at Hobby Lobby, nor the ANGUISH of spilling something on said dress, nor the sheer anger of a dry cleaning bill.  Who am I kidding, I don't dry clean, I just wear stuff one time, sweat it up nice and good and hang it in my closet for ten years to AVOID DRY CLEANING BILLS.  This is absolutely true of my wedding dress (which, coincidentally, is NOT in the POD, because I guess I might need it?), and every dress I have purchased since 1998, when I obtained a college degree and was subsequently declared an ADULT capable of dry cleaning.  Which also brings me to the genius of Target and Old Navy--everything created of synthetic materials, no dry cleaning.  They are my people, probably because the stuff is made in Asia, which means, they really are, genetically, kind of my people.


{End long rant.}


So, I need thoughts.  About whether I will look like a douche in this dress.  I am also accepting opinions about Tom's and adult Crocs and bathing suits with ruching.  


Go.

You're never going to believe what I threw n the trash can last night.

I have to tell you what happened last night.  Actually, I have to tell you what's been happening for weeks, I was just afraid of jinxing it, or having it turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or whatever disappointment feels like when you dreams die.


That thing on my foot died.  


I give 95% of the credit to Hawaii, because that state has healed Little J's chronic eczema, and also, what I have come to believe, was a plantar's wart.  No joke, since the first week of our trip to the islands, Little J has sported NOT ONE SINGLE skin wound as a result of constant, never-ending, scratching.  FIVE YEARS of constant, never-ending scratching, to be exact.  


But back to the foot.


Now, initially, I believed this *growth* to be a foot corn, except that it was in a weird spot, that didn't exactly correspond with the pictures on Web MD.  I did what every doctor-that-gets-their-medical-degree-on-the-Internet does, I decided to shave it down with a razor blade.  Actually it specifically tells you NOT to do that, but 40 years ago, it was probably a bad idea to shoot sperm into a uterus with a turkey baster, and now this is a proven method of baby-making.  Consider me a medical pioneer, except this razor-technique only served to make it angry and bleed--but also, coincidentally, forced it to reveal it's true nature, a wart indeed.  Looking back, it was a wart that had grown a callus out of protection; much like my true self and my sarcastic nature.  


Let's be clear--this thing was LARGE and it hurt with every step that I took for seven months.  In addition to hoarding, my other life skill is DENIAL, and so I lanced it off daily in my bathroom, cried a little, and went about my life as if it didn't hurt to walk and I didn't need *actual* medical attention.  


And then, sometime after my birthday, I noticed that it was starting to hurt less.  Weird.  The healing continued for another week, at which point I started to notice it becoming smaller in size, less tender in the area of my heel surrounding it.  It was so very much like a seventh-grade boyfriend; and I was trying *really* hard not to get my hopes up.


This pain-free pattern of shrinkage continued, until last night, when I noticed that part of my skin was peeling back from my foot.  I picked at it for a second, it was a large, it was dislodged, and....


Mother humper, it was out, and I think I accidentally performed surgery with my hands.  WHO DOES THAT?  It was a round, hard, dead lump of skin, almost perfectly circular and deep, that left an ACTUAL, round hole in my foot.  I threw it in the trash can and then I scrubbed my hands for 20 minutes, and now there is still a pink, but not painful or bleeding, HOLE. IN. MY FOOT.  


That's right,what I am telling you is that I THREW A WART IN THE TRASH CAN last night.  Is that even possible?  Anyone?  ANYONE?  It is one of the biggest twilight-zone-like experiences of my life.  But it is gone, the skin looks normal, and now my heel is officially perforated, and I'm guessing it will take months for the new skin to regrow because it is DEEP, friends.


But I have officially HEALED myself.  And thus ends the post where we discuss, in detail, the thing growing on my foot.

Today, it is the school library that is the object of my wrath.

Items categorized as LOST at 8:00 a.m. this morning:  A library book, another library book, Big J's fleece jacket, G's semi-non-existent fever, Little J's school folder, possibly another library book (W.T.H.), G's tennis racket, a pair of shoes.


You know how they say public school is FREE?  It isn't.  It actually costs us 9-12 library books per year, but as Little J has now entered the world of elementary education, I expect this number to increase by 75%.  Good Lord, there is nothing I hate more about school than the library book situation--except maybe, the math, and oh!  the research project in kindergarten.  Also, there was that bird costume G had to make  I pulled out of my ass in the 23rd hour last year.  


School, can we talk about library privileges for a minute?


I get that we are *attempting* to give our children FREEDOM and CHOICES in their education; and in a single building housing 300 inmates students, the only way to safely do so is with library books and the lunch menu.  I understand that if given the freedom to structure their learning by choosing between an art project and a computer game, elementary-aged children will ALWAYS opt, instead, to kill their teacher with sharpened pencils.  I have four kids, I totally get that they go all Lord-of-the-flies when you give them any kind of independence--which is why I have previously explained that our household is a DICTATORSHIP and the system works moderately remedially well.

However.  When my children exit the school building with their newly borrowed library books?  They are one open zipper pocket/ upside down backpack away from LOSING SAID LIBRARY BOOK.  If you think that kids are supposed to carry their backpacks right side up and zippered?  Well then, you obviously haven't been acquainted with Little J's new game, endearingly entitled "My Big Fat Tummy", wherein he wears his backpack (upside down and backward) as pretend belly fat.  It's pretty special.


I know it should be fairly obvious when a library book slips from his faux-pouch/uterus, and that this would also provide an EXCELLENT illustration for how babies are born.  But just like the source of fruit flies in my kitchen and that gigantic brick garage I hit with my mini (van), sometimes these things skip my attention all together.  


Also, there is the problem of allowing 1st-5th graders to borrow TWO library books at a time.  Which means, we have the potential to lose SEVEN library books per week.  And here is where I am on to you, because I now understand that seven lost library books (plus that plain bagel L opted to buy a few weeks ago, priced at $2.50) = TUITION.


Son-of-a-bitch, there is nothing that boils my blood like losing a library book.  That we never even read.  Because Little J/ Big J/ L birthed it on the playground after school.  It makes me crazy; and when I am crazy, I tend to fixate on EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG WITH MY LIFE, and that makes me a candidate for a Real Housewives series.  Which I would freaking OWN, what with the library books and the post-birthing supplies and the cheese factory in my van.


And, because it seems to fit our "reading" theme, can I also put on public record how much our nightly "Reading Log" stresses me out?  Can't you just take my word for it, that my kids read an *average* of a few hours per week?  Because having to record minutes per day?  That's just me lying to you.  Even worse, that's me teaching my KID to LIE to you.  Here's the deal:  WE DON'T READ EVERY DAY.   Gasp!  There it is, I said it.  If we have a soccer practice, and a spelling test and math homework and need a shower (times FOUR), plus we decide we just want to take the kids out for ice cream?  Yep, reading gets skipped.  It's taken me years of therapy (translation: blog writing) to be OKAY with that, because we make it up on the weekends.  But I don't feel like you're okay with that.  Mostly because there is that reading log, and the empty boxes are like torture for my soul and it is defeating me.  If it helps you feel any better, teeth brushing gets skipped a lot, too.  And I feel fairly confident that my kids will be able to READ (even if we miss a day or two, or twelve), but they CANNOT fake having teeth.


I'm not quite sure where this post is going, except to point out that I lose EVERYTHING, I sometimes choose ice cream over book reading (how very unlike the Tiger Mom) and I suck at basic hygiene.  Nothing you didn't already know, folks.  Just trying to lower the world to my standards.

On the bright side, it's not lice or heroine addiction.

Today, I had to pick G up from school.  She's sick, sort of.  If a peanut butter and jelly sandwich + Sponge Bob + an hour of playing soccer + some playground time= sick.  G, however, is pretty timid--and as such, I'm pretty sure that she would prefer to continuously swallow vomit, rather than have to tell someone she feels bad, so I'm thinking something really wasn't quite right.  Also, the nurse took her temperature, and it was about 100, but let's face it--temperatures don't really register with me unless they are 102, accompanied by large chunks spewing from the mouth, OR behavior that doesn't include eating entire sandwiches and playing soccer.   Just saying.


Interestingly enough, soccer seemed to give L rabies, considering the 25-minute tantrum she threw.  I kenneled her in the mini (van) while the other kids burned the last of their sanity on the playground, in the interest of public safety, of course.  That child is like dynamite when she is tired.


As an added bonus:  Because G went to the nurses office and had her temperature *officially* registered, she must stay home from school tomorrow, per the 24-hour-fever-free rule.  Looking on the bright side of things, I am going to end this post with a short list of things that I am thankful G didn't, *kind-of* contract today:

Leprosy

Ebola

Facial hair

Toxic crotch raisins

Peanut allergy

Pregnancy

An intestinal parasite

Meth sores

*and*

Head lice

There's nothing like the though of picking bug eggs out of my kid's hair to keep it all in perspective.  Lord help us if we ever pick up lice, because there is NO WAY that my cleaning skills are going to outsmart a microscopic insect.  Instead, tomorrow will be spent battling a now-non-existent fever with the Wii.  


Life. Is. Rough.

Worth it.

As previously mentioned, we traveled to a cattle farm with friends this weekend.  It cost me an almost-full day of packing, $19 at Goodwill, a few hours of sleep, a soccer game, a half a tank of gas, a few pounds, my access to the Internet, the comfort of my safe and predictable schedule.


It is hard to leave our lives and be a guest in someone elses--mostly because we build our homes like safe, little fortresses fit for us to clean and fold and crap privately and grow bored/ suicidal with the 52nd replay of Khloe and Lamar's wedding.  We read books and watch tv, take naps, go to church, and mourn the days before children when we had freedom and passions and real lives.  Do you remember those days?  The peer pressure, the dumb decisions, the belief that the cute dress at J. Crew was more important than groceries, the pre-baby body that I had ZERO respect for?  Yep, those days were great, but seasoned with misery too.


As an adult, I have all this desire to live intentionally in my relationships.  To do so, I've had to let go of some of my insecurity, and I'm not really sure how I did this exactly--especially since my first 22 years were defined by it-- but my guess is that watching your husband battle cancer, and burying a child certainly helped the process along.  I also don't believe that those tragedies crowned me in sainthood or produced any sort of magical shifting of priorities, where I learned to HATE what is evil and only seek that which is pure--there is a real tendency to believe that suffering *makes* you a GOOD person, and well, I can still go bat-sh#!-crazy with the rest of the sinners, when my one-pound twins spill yogurt on the floor.  Their very lives are, indeed, a miracle, but their eating/bathroom/free play habits are NOT.


Instead, I tend to think that all that suffering made me a REAL person.  Surrounded by people (some of them strangers) who saw me at my most damaged, for months at a time.  For example:  Three weeks after the twins were born, during the VERY WEEK of our son's funeral, I discovered I had a uterine infection.  How did I discover this, exactly?  Well, there was a certain level of discomfort, but I had just had my first c-section, so I attributed it to that.  Then, there was this rock-hard, 4-inch-long, raisin type thing that *expelled* itself from me during a shower.  Hmm.  And lastly, there was the SMELL, ohmygodtheSMELL, coming from my crotch.  By which, the ER doctor could single-handedly diagnose my *issue*.   Embarrassing, except that I had spent my days picking out baby caskets and willing my sick twins to live, and so when people asked me how I was doing?  I wasn't really so insecure about telling them that my vag was producing toxic raisins.  And now, here I am broadcasting it for the 12 of you that read my blog.


I have this theory that many of us survive adolesence, only to become adults that hermit ourselves in our safe lives, and busy our schedules with ridiculous things, so that we can avoid farting in the presence of others.  I say that figuratively, but it's easier to keep to ourselves, to hide our flaws, to over-commit ourselves with activities so that we don't actually have TIME to build relationships and risk rejection.  It costs some parts of our pride and our comfort to seek new friendships, or build existing ones.  As a rule, Mike and I try to accept every invitation that comes our way, if we are able to--nights out, dinner in other's homes, playdates, weekends at a farm, girl's weekends away--because those are friends that are asking us to be a part of their story, to know us better.  It's an amazing priviledge to be part of someone's life.


On the other hand--the number of invitations that actually come our way (without us initiating) are SLIM.  I say this NOT because I think people don't like us; but because very few feel comfortable asking and inviting others in.  I'm also not bitter about it; we have GREAT friends from every season of life, and one's that we practically live with on the weekends, who love us extremely well.  But out of experience, and as a general rule, this is an area where women struggle--being overwhelmed by the task of seeking others, inviting them into our homes, cleaning and cooking and trying to hide milk stains on the couch while giving the general appearance of being perfect for an evening.  And so we float out here like islands and pretend we are friends with the Kardashians because we have watched them 214 times in a week.  


I am fresh off of a great weekend, with wonderful friends.  I drank wine and sat around a fire, fed cows and watched my children climb in a hay barn.  I was inspired by the way these friends raise their children, and encouraged in the ways I am raising mine.  I laughed out loud A LOT.  It was so simple and easy, even with 13 children (did I mention that EVERY COUPLE THERE had a set of twins?) and a field of pregnant cows.  I loved every moment, and I wish that for all of you--to know that the cost of pursuing others, or accepting the invitation to walk willingly into someone else's life, is WORTH IT.  

I learned that I LOVE rain boots.

As previously mentioned, we spent our weekend on a FARM.  Walking among ACTUAL cows and calves born just days earlier.  It was incredible.  


Turns out the rain boots?  Were for creek walking AND avoiding cow dung.  Less mud, more crap.  Also?  Rain boots = freaking awesome.  I will be buying a pair this week.


I'm not exactly sure of the words one uses to describe the experience of feeding a cow it's "candy" or feeling it's sandpaper-like-tongue?  There are, of course, literal details; but the actual story is the friendship that finds itself in borrowed rain boots, in the middle of a country pasture.  


I am particularly thankful for friends that invite us into their stories, and for the ones who step so willingly into ours.  You are great inspiration for a book that I will write (someday).

Headed to a world in which we need rainboots.

I need to make this quick.


This afternoon, our family is heading out of town and spending the weekend with friends at a country farm 90 minutes away.   There will be three families and 12 children present; we are responsible for a side dish for dinner tomorrow night (Pinterest salad) and breakfast on Sunday.  


Also, and most perplexingly, we were told to bring rainboots if we have them.


I don't know what this means; but the mention of any cold/rainy weather clothing triggers post-traumatic stress disorder, these days.  Plus, we had one pair of ladybug rainboots in 2005, I think.  They are either in the POD or who knows--but in all our years of owning one pair of rainboots, we never came across an occasion in which we actually needed them.


Until now.  


The rainboots have thrown me into such an insecure tizzy, that I ran out to Goodwill this morning to purchase clothing just to compensate.  Because I am envisioning MUDDY.  Two days of muddy, how many pairs of little kid underwear would one pack for that?  It appears there will also be a morning/daytime/evening temperature swing, so basically I've packed all of our clothes, plus half of Goodwill, which I purchased for $19.  That place is a freakin' deal, and particularly heavy in gray hues.


And still there is the issue of the footwear.  Two pairs of our current tennis shoes are going to have to do; L has a pair of black and pink Sketchers which will be PERFECT for this occasion, as they are the fugliest shoes on earth; Little J has old tennies, which he HAPPENED to sneak past me (while wearing only ONE sock) at last week's all-school social.  The 1-2 punch of the vanilla bomb and Little J's mono-sock/old-shoe choice almost killed me dead.  


This might be fairly obvious, but in the absence of six pairs of rainboots, I could really use a glass of chardonnay.   What I don't have in clothing, I make up for in wine.


Happy Weekend, friends!!!

Curing large elastic shoe straps.

I found these Mary Janes at Wal-Mart last week, for $9.  They were remodeling, so lucky me, I was diverted to the shoe department while searching for tin foil.  True story.  I've been looking for new ballet flats for G, and last year, Target had EVERY color under the sun, but as it turns out, this year's offerings have evolved into metallics, and I'm just not feeling it.  I'm feeling turquoise.


Loved these...except for the enormous elastic strap across the top, because WOW that thing isn't subtle.  My plan was to  use a seam ripper and take it off all together; however, the shoes are a tad bit big on G and the strap *actually* serves a purpose.  Shoot, I hate it when ugly things are functional (I am talking about you, adult-sized Crocs).  But as it turned out, I think it was a problem of PROPORTIONS.


Or at least I like to believe the felt flowers even it all out.   Felt flowers cure diseases and enormous shoe straps.


Not sure how long the cream felt is going to stay semi-clean?  But if it starts to look like a truck stop bathroom, I will rip them off and re-craft them in a new color palette.  Win-win.  

The kids were out of school today (but not tomorrow)...RANDOM.  Yesterday was a great shuffling of many children, including afterschool pick-up in the pouring rain, two simultaneous playdates (here), and a sleepover with our cousin, R.  Today we headed to the zoo for 1.5 hours, and then the park...back home for lunch and a *quick* lesson in hand embroidery for G & R;  a mental break to watch "Fatal Honeymoons" on E! (me); followed by me running an impromptu 40-minute soccer practice for my kids before dinner.  I know nothing about soccer, but as it turns out, I could be a decent coach--not unlike my attempts to become involved in the PTO. 


Fake it till you make it, baby.  

Buying children's clothing is like a constant exercise in failing math.

I would like to start this post by telling you all that I decided to spot clean our floors this morning; and in doing so, I discovered one of Mike's old t-shirt's in the rag bin, with an alarmingly large blood stain at the collar.  I'm not sure what this means, except that he experienced a horrible oral-surgery disaster or that he is street-fighting in his free time (between the hours of 5-7 a.m.).  And he is doing so in old undershirts.


But really, the point of today's post is outfitting children for the fall/winter, and how it is going to give me irritable bowel syndrome.  Just kidding, I was going to use my old fallback, the aneurysm, but it seems that lately, there are lots of life circumstances that might cause me brain injury, and I was trying to imagine a world in which clothing might cause me intestinal issues.  It works, I think.


So, I like to layer my kid's clothing--long sleeve white shirt, short sleeve shirt/polo; cardigan?; puffy vest or jean jacket.  The problem here, is that 8 of my 12 layers are in an industrial warehouse, stored somewhere between my Christmas ornaments and that box of 1,000 popsicles sticks I bought last year.  Also in the POD?  Pants, all pants, and any shoes with covered toes.  


Damn the house move, that forced me to separate by season, because now I am SCREWED.  Also, there is the issue of G having grown 2 sizes in a single summer, and so what we were faced with on this 60-degree-day is a collection of tank and crop tops, daisy dukes and summer dresses.  Surprisingly, I did find her Boden tiered-peasant-skirt in a random box of cold weather items, and though she's worn it since kindergarten, it continues to fit AND hit appropriately at her knees.  I'm not sure what this means, except that G's torso and calves are elongating, but not the flesh between her waist and knees; and God is certainly preparing her for a profession requiring short thighs.


On the downside?  G's polka-dotted raincoat from Boden that's lined in fleece?  Storage POD.  Seriously, all of the horror of moving can be boiled down to that perfect, transitional weather coat and how I DON'T HAVE IT.  We've already covered the lack of retailers selling PLAIN, TRADITIONAL hoodie sweatshirts this season; let me go ahead and tell you that light raincoats don't exist (in September) either.  Unfortunately, I didn't anticipate having no transitional clothing in March, or I would have bought that cute plastic one at Target--and sending G to school in the heavy Gore-tex winter coat that they are pushing these days seems like overkill, no?


The boys also need some pants, but I am learning that on shopping trips, I have to stick to a single gender--or else I return home $400 poorer, with nothing but underwear and clearance swimsuits and maybe a pair of shoes in the wrong size.  For the sake of feeling fiscally responsible, I like to limit clothing purchases to $75 per trip, which translates into a couple of pairs of jeans, some leggings and a few long sleeve shirts for a single child; spread amongst four children, $75 always equals ONE PAIR OF SOCKS per kid.  I'm not sure what this means, except that I failed elementary school word problems.  


If Sara bought a Super Mario Brothers t-shirt for $9 and a pair of tights for $6, how much did she spend?  $100 at Target.  EVERYTIME.


Also, I'm not very good at knowing what items of clothing my children actually need.  For instance, I would SWEAR that G had only a single pair of jeans, which leads me to buy her a few more--and within a week of that purchase, we will ALWAYS have 12 pairs of jeans for the one child who had NO jeans, and also 8 pairs of shoes (adorned with Sponge Bob) for another.  I'm not sure what that means, except that the old jeans *got nasty* with the new jeans and they had jean babies in the back of our closet and then crapped 16 Sponge-Bob-themed-turds in the shape of a size 12 shoe. 


One time?  I got it in my head that L had no clothes.  Which is INCREDIBLY dumb, because L has an older sister with 14 bins full of old clothes; and also, L DOESN'T GROW.  So now, L has clothes that range from 2T to 10-12 years and none of those sizes fit G, because kid clothes are a constant exercise in geometry and I SUCK at math.


I predict needing ANOTHER POD for this year's winter clothing.  Sigh.

Pimpin' aint easy, but it's got to be simpler than cultivating new friendships in your 30's.

Last week, I attended my first PTO meeting at our school.  Our ONE school.  Because that's what you do when you have four kids at ONE school and you don't know anybody, right?  You help raise money for more SmartBoards and you attend PTO meetings where you talk about lice, apparently. There were two other moms of kindergartners there, proving my point that the PTO assigns friends by committee.


Did I mention that I ended up getting the Art Fest gig?  Committee chair, right here.  I really have NO IDEA what this event is, but based on context clues, I believe it's a night of art projects and demonstrations at the school.  Also, I'm pretty sure the mix of creativity and multitasking means I will have a simultaneous orgasm/brain hemorrhage while planning this event, which is like a fun party trick that will *definitely* make me the most popular (as in GASP! She did WHAT??) gal in school.  I am told that a list of parents who have signed up to be my new best friends volunteer for this event is on it's way.  And also, it turns out I am a room mom in the wondertwins first grade class, so I am practically (anonymously) RUNNING this taco stand and will be campaigning for PRESIDENT of the World in 2012.


Also, Friday brought our first school-wide social event.  The kids wanted to go; I wanted to watch a rerun of "Jersey Shore" for the eighth time in a single week.  Here's the thing:  I am an excellent blog/facebook friend, less so an actual, real-life one, and let's just go ahead and call me awkward when thrown into a gym with 200 strangers and a DJ.  It could only have been made more uncomfortable if we were naked; but this is what one does if they desire to win friends and a coveted spot on a Trivia Night table come April.


It should be noted--we did have an unfortunate air freshener fiasco in the mini (van), just prior to the social.  Turns out that when vanilla scent is improperly dispensed it smells like acid--probably because your sinuses are evaporating straight out of your face?  Good news, though, after 45 seconds your sense of smell is non-existent; which is also why we reeked like we were made of alcoholic potpourri at our first, school-wide event, and had NO IDEA.  


Now.  I believe the children are feeding us a load of B-S when they claim to love school, based solely on the way they would. not. leave. our. sides. during the social.  When we did manage to cut the chord for a few moments?  They were riding each other on this spinning thing out on the playground, and it was weird.  For over an hour, we were verbally suggesting/encouraging/begging our children to GO PLAY (but good Lord, not on top of each other, on the spinning thing, AGAIN)--at which point we were left standing awkwardly by ourselves, smelling like we bathed in vanilla extract, and placing our chances for friendships-worthy-of-a-trivia-night-table at 7%.  It was enough to make me wish for a playground accident, maybe a few stitches?  Anything to make me seem useful, effective, less like scented mulch chips.


And then. Mike found a friend he has known for a while and we had an honest, and non-awkward conversation, for like 20 minutes!  It was wonderful, and full of hope for our social future--but for my children, who incessantly interrupted with "Mommmmmmmm, I want to go in the gym.  I want you to come in the gym.  I want a glow stick.  I want Skittles.  I want to goooooooooooo."  Darn those kids, cramping our STY-LE.  After all, we are playing for a TRIVIA NIGHT TABLE here kids, this aint no joke.  Remember, YOU GUYS wanted to be here--I wanted to watch The Situation ram his head into a concrete wall (again).  GO PLAY.  BUT NOT ON THE SPINNING THING.  


We ended the night with glow sticks, happy and smiling, believing this new school might just work.  It was enough to make me forget, for the moment, that my mini (van) is marked with a large, rusting dent, or that we are still in limbo and living in a basement.  It was so hopeful and encouraging and I was beginning to imagine trivia table themes with costumes and polka dot table cloths and my that salad recipe I saw on Pinterest for dinner!  And as I was dreaming of ways to create beautiful kid art and display it whimsically with fabric buntings for the auction (yes?), Mike opened the van door and someone literally farted vanilla straight into my bloodstream.  It was toxic and sour; and coincidentally, just as bad as making chocolate cheese out of spilled milk in your floor mats.  


It was enough to remind me of my roots and my deepest desire to watch the "Real World/Road Rules Challenge Reunion"(again).  Which will prove me to be an ACE in the "Reality TV" category at this year's trivia night, if I can make eight friends by April.

9.11

9. 11. 01
I had been married 14 months; I had no children; I was on safari in a furnished tent in Kenya's Masai Mara.  It was hot; we saw elephants, probably some wildebeest.  Our meals were cooked, our wine was poured, we woke up before dawn and went to bed happy.  We had NO idea.


September 12th was an *accident*, a flat tire on a game drive that forced us to a permanent hotel for a patch, a call to confirm our flight home three days later.  It might have been two or more days until we heard, without that flat. The news, the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, no flights coming in or out of the United States.  We were in Kenya, it felt as far away as the moon.  We rigged foil up to a radio antennae and listened to the BBC describe what it looks like to watch thousands of people die.  With our worst imaginations, from our little tent, in Africa.  


Nairobi to London, an airport that was a refuge camp, full of travelers.  Our flight, TWA's daily London-St. Louis route, was the first since the attack that was allowed to depart, but later than scheduled.  I don't remember the date--the 15th?  16th?  Time stopped on the 11th, technically the 12th for us.  The pilot announced when we crossed over the Canadian border and into American airspace; the entire plane cheered.  It looked exactly as we left it; it felt damaged and fragile.


9. 11. 11
I've been watching documentaries for two days straight; the footage is more comprehensive, now narrated, put in the perspective of time and place.  I met a college friend I haven't seen in years for coffee this morning.  She came with me to church, the parking lot was packed.  We went to the food court at the mall for lunch, I had an avocado wrap and it was just okay.  G had her cousin over to play and we watercolored the planets.


A few of the kids got in the pool; it must be 65 degrees.  Some took naps, I sewed.  We gathered them and headed to Forest Park, just like last weekend, but without the paddleboard.  Art Hill, beautiful in flags for every life lost.  Every one labeled with a name, an age, a city, a company.  World Trade Center, Pentagon, Flights 11, 175, 77, 93.  G understands her mom is 35; she would tell me when she found flags for victims that were the same or younger.  Later, we would argue over homework; she was tired, she wanted me to feed her the answers.  She lost t.v. privileges tomorrow.  


We were happy today, we worshiped  Ten years later, four children; we were together, we enjoyed the freedom of simple choices like McDonald's for dinner.  We talked about what happened on this day, we talked about why HATE is such a strong word and what it looks like.  How it is 2,000+ lives lost, not broccoli or mosquitos.  


We read books; we prayed.  We remembered by living, without fear, with freedom.

The van ate my homework.

For the record:

It is truly disheartening to find your child's folder, reading homework and library book (the ENTIRE contents of his backpack, FYI) on the floor of your mini (van).  

Even worse?  To discover these items at 2:55 p.m., five minutes before AFTERNOON pick-up.  

Apparently Big J carried his backpack upside down and with its zipper open this morning.  And once those kids are in school?  I pretend like I drive an ACTUAL Mini Cooper, and the back seats are dead to me.  

Good thing they didn't hide a dead body back there, 

because it would start to smell (but not worse than making chocolate-milk-cheese!) 

before I would notice.

Happy Friday!

On becoming interesting.

Every Thursday, I attend a bible study.  As this was the first meeting of the year, our small group was asked/forced to play an ice breaker, in which we were given half a paper fish and asked to find our corresponding head/tail.  We were told to relay three things about ourselves to head/tail, who would then introduce us to the entire group.  For the record, I HATE icebreakers like this.


When asked, the three bits of information I found most interesting about myself were:


I have four kids.


I grew up in Hawaii.


I fancy myself a writer, but not the kind that makes actual money or wins actual acclaim.


I said, "Sorry, head, I am f-ing BOR-ING."  Just kidding, I didn't say the f-word, I only think it in my head.  In real life, I am WAY too big of a rule follower to use the f-word in BIBLE STUDY (or ever), even though head (I was tail)  probably would not have condemned me to eternal damnation; she seems cool like that.


It really bothers me, though, the three pieces of information I chose to define myself by and how flat they sound. Being a mother is no joke, but it's become what we do here, in the suburbs, like eating spaghetti or applying sunscreen or putting ice in water.  Hello, I'm Sara, I have four children and I own four, white tank tops from Old Navy.  So true, but what's the point really?


Hello, I'm Sara, I have three empty cups of "Luigi's Real Italian Ice" sitting on the plastic bin that doubles as my night stand; I once posed for a family portrait with my college girlfriends in a motel (and it was legit); I broke my ring finger while TEACHING aerobics in 1995.


Or.


Hello, my name is Sara, I quit my country club; for years, I collected gum that I had chewed on a shoe box lid; I am currently playing a drinking game (by myself) in which I take a shot any time I see a Kardashian on the E! network and I am LOSING.


Or.


Hello, my name is Sara, and the first meal I ever made for my husband (then boyfriend) was plain, unseasoned chicken that I baked in the oven for 70 minutes; I only really know 2 songs by The Samples but I pretended to love them so that no one would actually discover that Bon Jovi is my FAVORITE BAND OF ALL TIME, which was socially unacceptable in Indiana in 1994; I wore a really padded bra a week ago and am now rethinking my stance on a boob job, since I felt it made me look *heavy*.


Dude, I totally dig that last girl.  She sounds like she chugs wine.


Head, I feel like I need a re-do, like you need to meet the girl who once dressed up like a reindeer/moose and performed an actual dance routine to "Sleigh Ride" at the age of 21.  Especially since you seem like a pretty rad gal, and we are SO seven-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon, because to me, you are a friend-of-a-friend, and a friend, and a friend.  And I feel like I gave you the impression that I only wear white underwear and that I wash my towels everyday, or something equally, atrociously sterile?  Head, I know almost nothing about you, but I consider you bold and free and strong, and contrary to what you might think, I do not over-abuse my label maker.  Truth be told, I jammed the damn thing years ago and shoved it way back in my desk out of embarrassment, right behind that old ponytail I meant to send to Locks for Love.  You see, I hoard; even the best parts of me are buried beneath my housewife costumes.  


I don't think I feel the need to be boring for the sake of bible study; but I am going to fight the tendency to be safe and obvious this year.  You know, to make Bon Jovi biblically relevant, because really, we're all "Livin' on a Prayer", no?  Can you learn to love me if I reference their song lyrics every week?  Because I think that would be pretty. awesome.


This is the start of me being interesting. 

Picture day is going to cost a kid a pair of shoes, in theory.

I am beginning to understand why people say having kids is so EXPENSIVE.


It's not the diapers or the formula, or the bottles, or the stuff you buy at Baby Gap.  Okay, maybe it's a little bit because of the Gap, and I say that only because they suck you in with onesies on sale for $1.99, and before you know it, you're kid is 5 years old and you graduate to paying $30 for a pair of jeans at Gap Kids where nothing is EVER on sale.   


But really.


I just spent 25 minutes (and part of the kid's college saving funds) preparing for tomorrow's school pictures.  Fresh off the sting of school supply shopping, it seems we are going to spend close to $70 on what will amount to: 8 3x5's, 12 wallets, 24 exchange photos and 4 class pictures.  I've already had a small stroke over it.  I mean, for that price, I can buy myself a pair of Tom's AND provide shoes for an underpriviledged kid.


Here's the thing--I DON'T WANT 12 wallet sized-pictures, or 24 of those microscopic exchange photos, or swirly borders, or pictures within a picture, or a magnetic calendar, or retouching or mood lighting. I want ONE 5x7 per kid and a class picture.  PERIOD.  These picture packages were designed by someone who is schizophrenic, I SWEAR.  We don't display our school pictures, or hang them on the walls, or send them to grandparents, or even LOOK AT THEM EVER AGAIN after the day they are sent home and shoved in some folder, in some drawer, in some room.   As a matter of fact, last year I paid upwards of $70 for all four of my children to take the absolute most unflattering pictures I've ever seen--it was even blog worthy (link HERE) if you don't believe me.  When asked to practice smiling tonight?  G forced her brow line into something truly terrifying, so this should be money well spent.  


I feel such freaking pressure to buy these pictures, to document their little lives--even though I photograph and blog in great (and embarrassing) detail, on a daily basis.  It started when G was in preschool, and I believe that for the first few years, I ordered a few 8x10's printed on gold leaf (or whatever), a couple of 5x7's and at least 100 wallets--because, OBVIOUSLY, I was drunk.  Since then, my ONE file drawer hath runneth over, the size of my orders have dwindled, and I've FLAT OUT REFUSED to purchase soccer and swim team photos because I draw the line at buying semi-professional photos on a bi-monthly basis.  Mothers of infants and toddlers, be warned...IT NEVER ENDS, not until you sell a kidney to pay for their wedding album.  Or albums, in our case.  


And when my children ask me WHY I didn't want to buy their precious school pictures?  I will say Merry Christmas! and tell them the truth of how I chose to pay for college versus their school pictures, which only get increasingly more AWKWARD with every passing year.  


Do any of you out there REFUSE to buy school pictures?  Just curious.  You know, since I am rocking the conventional boat lately.  


Picture Day 2011?  Can't wait to see what $70 buys me.

Target failed to meet my needs today.

Let me just say.  I had NO PLANS to watch the new season of "90210", since I didn't watch the LAST season of "90210", but I'll be damned if I didn't catch a rerun on the CW tonight and now I just have to know WHY everyone hates Adriana (again) and if Liam is going to survive a summer on a deep sea fishing boat and what disease Ivy's new husband Raj (?) is terminally ill with and how exactly Naiomi is going to handle being a pregnant freshman in college.  Holy storylines, batman--this goes WAY beyond letting Donna Martin graduate after she got wasted at prom.  I'm sort of curious to find out how all these adults-playing-teenagers-playing adults scenarios are going to play themselves out, and I'm thinking it involves a Bon Jovi musical episode, so Sign. Me. Up.


I'm starting to stress out about not having a DVR for all of these shows I don't really watch.  


That wasn't the point of this whole post, I just got distracted, friends.  By the most far-fetched and ridiculous television show of the 8-9 p.m. hour.  The Kardashians are seriously STILL ON all the FREAKING TIME on E!, except for when they are playing "Titanic" back-to-back-to-back, and between Kim losing her $75,000 diamond earring in Tahiti and that huge ship sinking in the middle of the sea, I am losing my will to live.  Except that MTV has this show called "Awkward"--anyone seen it?  It is the sun to my dark, dark, Kardashian-suffrocating night.  


Sorry, I keep doing that.


Truth is, I do have a life.  And it includes eating brownies while wondering how Farrah thinks she is going to move to Florida, go to college and raise a kid without the help of her family (Teen Mom).  She crazy.


Can we try to focus here?  Because the WEATHER is driving me crazier than the Kardashians, and I am unsure of what to do about it.  In perhaps the most bone-headed move of ALL TIME, I managed to pack most of our cold-weather clothing in our POD when we left our yet-to-be-sold house.  This includes ALL THE NEW CLOTHES I so carefully sale-shopped for last spring, G's new stock of jeggings (not the JEGGINGS!), our puffy vests and winter coats and snowsuits and boots--which I suspect we are going to need in October if this unseasonably cold weather keeps up.  I realize 75 and sunny isn't necessarily an arctic tundra; however, it was 105 two days ago, it's 45 degrees when we leave the house in the morning, it's somewhere in the 60's by the time Little J has lunch recess at 10:50 a.m. and it feels hot in the direct sun at afternoon pickup.  


I know what you're thinking--Girl, get thyself to Target.


Target sells my favorite cheap jeans for G (of which I have 3 new pairs, in the f--ing POD)--and yet, I am unsure as to WHY they don't make a boy version.  Because their choices for 7-year-old boys are two-fold:   metrosexual or mom-jean style.  Sigh.  It really warranted a whole separate trip to Old Navy, but there just wasn't TIME!  There was, however, a decent sale on shorts, but chances are good that I would pack them in some other POD by the time summer rolls around again, so NEVERMIND.  


HOODIES!


I decided that hoodies were what we needed--we could do sweatshirts and shorts even if there is ice on the ground, because it's SEPTEMBER, and I can't handle jeans this early.  No Can Do.  


Have any of you shopped for a little boy's zippered, hooded sweatshirt lately?


There are skateboard graphics and checkerboards and large logos, and the year that Target was established, I guess.  What in the world happened to the plain, gray hoodie??  It was eaten by the silhouette of a guy doing a wheelie on a mountain bike with the words "THRASHER, est. 1984" embroidered across the chest, that's what.  I left with a pair of cargo pants and (one) plain white t-shirt, and the whole experience was so graphically loud and over-stimulating and 80's-skater-retro style that it gave me a headache.  And my kids are still ill-prepared for tomorrow's 7-9:45 a.m. winter season.


I guess that's tomorrow's problem--at the moment, I am going to slip into a coma while watching Khloe & Lamar.  


Toodles.

Not technically illegal: A Labor Day tale.

Mike is *rethinking* his stance on my current favorite hobby (the hoarding of fabric), because my new obsession is going to cost him $1,000, ten feet of storage space and any number of lake-borne illnesses.  On the plus side?  We are going to be the COOLEST people you know.  

So.  Back in Hawaii, Mike and I picked up a new hobby called Stand-Up-Paddleboarding.  Exactly like that picture of Jennifer Aniston in People Magazine, 2 years ago--just shorter and lumpy-er, and in Mike's case, hairy-er.  To save ourselves $.50, we rented a board from a place that was 14 blocks from the beach, and managed to do our own little two-stooges routine, as one could imagine it is PRETTY HILARIOUS when you whack your spouse into oncoming traffic with a surfboard the size of California.  DOH!

Fast forward three weeks.  We heard rumors of paddleboarders up at a local lake, and so we decided to peruse the Internet for anyone who would rent us a surfboard in St. Louis.  Say WHAT?   It didn't look promising; but at the end of the week, we ended up convincing a personal trainer who had never met us to rent us his OWN paddleboard for four days.  I'm not even sure how it happened, except that he believes us to be professional-level paddleboarders who lost our gear in a tragic house fire caused by ninja squirrels (or something)--so ROLL WITH IT, Internet.

Paddleboard in hand, we headed to Creve Coeur Lake--except that Mike and I had never really been to Creve Coeur Lake, and we were unsure as to whether it would be covered in algae and lake funk?  Didn't really matter, as it was 104 degrees, so we were getting wet because a flesh eating virus sounded (a whole lot) better than being slow cooked by the sun.  We were careful, however, to close our mouths when falling into the water, because that would just be RECKLESS.

Saturday date with our friends, the Davis'?  Awesome.  The Lake was empty, because it was 104 degrees and *maybe* toxic, but that didn't stop us!  Margaritas are like anti-bacterial spray for the internal organs AND simple human fear--after two you are simply immune.  

Second verse, same as the first...but with CHILDREN.  Also, I should note that there is a "No Swimming" policy at this lake, but we're assuming this is due to the liability associated with drowning, and not that disease you get when you swim in water that animals crap in.

Funny thing about paddleboarding in the Midwest?  You get that board in the water, and suddenly you are brainstorming ALL KINDS OF PLACES with lakes and small ponds and policies that do not account for the hobby of the FUTURE.  Forest Park was casually mentioned, and before you know it we were walking four children and a surfboard into the big pond in front of the Art Museum, assuming they didn't have an official stance on paddleboarding and that we were therefore within the boundaries of all things considered "technically not illegal".  

There was staring and pointing, and small crowds forming and all kinds of talk.  It was sort of exhilarating and a little bit embarrassing, and also scary-as-hell because I'm pretty sure the park rangers would have shot Mike on sight.

We are friggin' pioneers.

Well, Mike is anyway.  I'm just the woman who would return the board and raise his children, in the event that he died in gunfire related to paddle surfing in a city park.

 

At the end of the day, we threw the board back into the dented gold mini (van) and headed home to sanitize the children by throwing them naked into the pool while we washed their bathing suits in peroxide.  Amazing, how your willingness to embrace adventure evolves when you change almost every.single.thing that is normal, and routine and expected in your life.  

Labor Day Weekend, 2011--you were EPIC.