Izzykinz's blog

Note to Future Self

2011-11-05T21:53:00.000-05:00

Alright, Izzy. Let's not go into another blank-mind coma because we forget the website and who made the dress. So because your past self is so kind, I'm going to list the dresses and the website for you.

Website is http://www.puddlescollection.com/girls/party-dresses-1.html
Dress #1 is http://www.puddlescollection.com/girls/mady-girls-dress.html (Now remember, you have your eyes on the black one.)
Dress #2 is http://www.puddlescollection.com/girls/marley-girls-party-dress.html (You like the white one, ok?)

And also, let's not forget the criticism on both:

Dress #1 is absolutely fabulous, and I can't find anything wrong with it.
Dress #2 is great, nice coloring for both dresses, but I feel like the two colors are really used in dresses. It also looks kind of itchy, however. Even though there's a part under the itchy-looking part, the top has the "I'm pretty but itchy" look to it.

Now let's talk about nice things

Like I said, Dress #1 is awesome.
Dres #2 is pretty.

Earthquake in Japan

2011-09-29T17:53:00.000-05:00

I heard a story about a woman in Japan who had sacrificed her life to save her baby, then left a text message on her phone saying "If you survive, you need to know how much I love you." The baby was the survivor. There's also another story about a Shiba Inu named Mari who survived in a torn apart, isolated, village. She was half starved when she was finally rescued, but her and her 3 puppies survived.

While I read this, I can't help but think all the hate comments some videos about it have got.
"Serves them right for killing whales"
After seeing this, I can't help but kind of hate people for bashing on a country in need. Some people kill whales. Not the whole country. This is like the war we have right now for the actions of some terrorists, and we're taking it out on a country-and for all we know they tried to STOP them. I think this is kind of sad that we're bashing on countries weaker than us. I hope we all find peace in our decisions at the end of the day.

School

2011-09-21T19:42:00.001-05:00

I have a lot of homework.
I don't like homework.
Or math.

Hurricane

2011-08-28T12:12:00.000-05:00

Nothing bad. We didn't lose power, didn't get flooded, almost got hit by a small tree. Really nothing. Lots of leaves, though. I'm glad that nothing bad happened, because I was pretty nervous last night. But I slept like a log.

Phobias

2011-08-23T14:51:00.000-05:00

Lotsa people are afraid of spiders, bugs, murderers, and tight spaces and whatever. Does ANYBODY know ANYONE whos afraid of yodeling?

No, didn't think so.

CONGRATZ!! You know know somebody who is terrified of yodeling.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDDEk2AMJAI
It's the way it sounds. It sounds like 100% autotuning, which I'm ok with usually. (Since Vocaloid is pretty much autotune) But this is just scary for 3 reasons. 1) A girl my age is able to do that. 2) It sounds unhumanly. 3) PIERS DIDN'T X HER. He usually hates this stuff?

Today is a gourgeus day. I'm going to miss summer.

Kids Sites

2011-08-22T17:28:00.000-05:00

So I used to be addicted to Club Penguin and Fantage and stuff like that. Then I realized that it was pretty annoying that you could only get crappy stuff without memberships. Which are expensive. Not really, but I don't want to buy them since they're not everlasting. So I use people's accounts to get them tons of coins and stuff. But like I said, not everlasting. So I'm back to bashing. If they're as popular as they say they are, shouldn't they get money for people being on their site or for some other reason that makes no sense. But other than that, Club Penguin WAS great until a few months ago. Fantage is still pretty good, you can buy furniture and clothes and hair that are pretty good, and if you have enough special points (eCoins) you can buy member items. I don't know about Movie Star Planet, but it looks alright. But I could be wrong. While on the subject, I haven't been home for a lot of summer. Summer camp, Florida, Saratoga, NY.

What Would I Tell My 16 Year Old Self?

2010-11-04T13:20:00.002-05:00

Don't drive to your boyfriends house instead of school on a rainy morning or you will have your first run in with Karma. Her name is hydroplane induced collision.

Sun In! Neon pink nail polish and a lifetime tanning membership sound wonderful today, but like a porn star gone wrong tomorrow.

Don't steal her boyfriend! It's tacky.

Pay attention in math class. It is so much more important than how well blended your bronzer is.

Psst! That bronzer is the wrong shade for your skin!

Stop using profanity. Stop sneaking smokes of marlboro reds. And for the love of Jesus, do not chug Bud Ice. It's alllll tacky.

Go to church. AND confession.

Stop farting around during tennis practice. Pay attention and try harder. You're an embarrassment.

Be nice. Try hard. Make someone proud.

Halloween Ideas, 364 Days Early!

2010-11-01T12:47:00.003-05:00

Counting down the every Halloween past was a Cleopatra, a Southern Belle, a Greek goddess, a ballerina, a pirate, a power ranger, Madonna's Material Girl, a butterfly, and Pebbles. To a rainbow princess unicorn with a machine gun to ~~Lenore, the little dead girl~~ to a muthereffing SERIAL KILLER. This Halloween has driven me to the breaking point of parenting. Why, oh why couldn't my daughter, my beautiful, stunningly smart daughter be something like The Queen of Hearts? Or A Librarian?

She wound up with several costumes, none of which anyone knew what they were, none of which I approved or applauded and everyone knows, we have children to run their lives.

Which is why next year the kids will go as a Rabbi and a Priest.

Creating A New Blog, A Guide(of somesorts)

2010-10-25T05:43:00.004-05:00

I got the brilliant idea to start over with the blog under numerous guises. And all of those ideas always circled back to 'NOW! How do I get someone to read my mind and do all the work for me?'

Clearly, the only person capable of reading my mind is my husband, but I am pretty sure he ignores everything he knows outside of what can convenience him. So he's out. The next logical choice would be my sister. But she isn't shaking a leg either. And, she will probably leave some comment about a busy schedule of curing chlamydia and volunteering at the Adult Dementia Center and picketing for that mosque a few blocks from Ground Zero.

So, looks like it's all up to me. Not unlike the seniors my sister spends her time repeating herself to, I power up my laptop, go log onto Facebook, shop Neiman's online sales and totally forget what I was doing.

When, it finally dawns on me that I was going to start on the new blog, I click onto wordpress. And again, not unlike the Adults at the Adult Dementia Center, I've no idea what the login info is.

Shockingly enough, you can do very little with out that information.

::UPDATE::

Google just alerted me they will begin cyber stalking me to collect my domain registration. Swear to God I am not copying Queen Of Shake Shake. You'd think the possibility of the whole blog disappearing would encourage me to get on this. You've obviously not been reading here very long.

Apples, Trees, BAH HUMBUG.

2010-10-20T05:15:00.003-05:00

As a young girl, I insisted on dressing myself. In every photo my mom took of me, my outfits coordinated with my shoes and headbands and every dress was on backwards. How else could I truly do it myself, if I couldn't reach the buttons up the backside?

Missy B could.not.possibly. be more opposite. She hasn't a care what she wears or how she wears it. She simply can't be bothered. A few times this school year I thought she was developing that missing genetic link proving she is of my loins, but it would vanish as soon as it appeared. Every now and then, she'll toss me a bone and say something like

"Mom, do you think I can get a pair of Uggs?"

My insides are fist pumping and hooting. And just as I gathered myself to calmly say "I suppose. Lord and Taylor sell them, so sure, maybe."

"Oh, I was totally kidding. I don't really want Uggs. I just wanted to see if you'd get all silly and squeel."

So, I don't waste much time selling labels of fashion on her. I keep my cards concealed and just say, 'here, wear this.' Until I came across a pair of brown suede boots that actually made me squeel and hop up and down. In front of her. Which usually would be her red alert to HATE said item.

The real recap of how the events played out is here. But it was pretty much me on the brink of stroking out over a pair of Michael Kors boots for an unbelievable steal.

Segue to a text from her. The kids walk to and from school. Daily. And daily, she tries to get out of it. So the texts with grand ideas of why she needs a ride are not few nor far behind.

"Am I walking or are you picking me up?"

"Walk."

"Blah. Walking will ruin my MICHAEL KORS BOOTS."

#Imnotasucker

Surprise!

2010-10-19T06:17:00.000-05:00

Surprise! I am still blogging here! I bet you keep clicking on thinking 'Oh! Is today the day?!'

Sorry, but today isn't. Tomorrow doesn't look promising either. Turns out recreating a new/old blog isn't nearly as easy -or fun for that mater- as it seems like it should be.

You know what else isn't as easy -or fun for that mater- as it should be? Exercise. Correction: Exercising the post-summer-I-don't-have-to-wear-a-swimsuit-everyday-muffin-top-and-beer-diet before vacation. Gym day #16 was the lower body workout, also known as make my ass sag a little less routine. The day ended with my ass a tad less saggy, but with what I can only describe as a wrench in my back as well.

Also an important detail, I am blogging standing up. While blogging standing up I was multitasking and thinking: "Self, you are a dedicated participant in your health and quest for wash boards abs in South Beach. Returning to the working out may or may not end with you on the floor suffering serious issues. And there will be plenty of laying around in a few days"

First, I googled chiropractors near by and was feeling guilty for not working out, but reassuring myself that getting my back in good order before our trip was more important.

Then, my phone alerted me to a text from my running partner:

"are you good for tomorrow? Just after drop off?" I replied with:

"sure! see you then!"

I'll sooner phone a friend to scrape me off the sleepy suburban streets than hear some quips from Tony about me being on my back prior to our trip.

Readjusting Bedtime

2010-10-13T14:36:00.004-05:00

Like I said in my Vlog the other day, 5th grade is really killing me. I was attempting to explain this to my girlfriend who was saying how tiresome toddlers are. As she was chasing baby #4 back into her stroller, I huffed 'Yeah, sure.'

Because while smaller children are physically demanding, there is little guess work involved:

They cry, you can flip through the 3 options of your mental roledex to figure if they are hungry, dirty or tired. And if it's none of those, just chalk it up to that all toddlers are certifiably insane.

Older kids are mentally draining, and there is so much guess work involved, sometimes I get tunnel vision and have all things dissected and under a microscope.* So much in fact, that when I was presented with the easiest question I tripped and had to call a Come To Jesus with everyone in my path.

Belle needed her bedtime renegotiated. But the request came right in between her questioning of why she needed to wear a bra, they were uncomfortable, why I read her texts and didn't let her become an active participant on Maplestory.com** and why I wouldn't buy snowballs. Obviously this sounded more like "I want to be a hippy, circa 1967 in the Haight-Asbury section of San Francisco and score heroin and hallucinogens from strangers!" and "You hate me! And I hate you!" and "Fine, but don't be surprised if I go on a saturated fats binge one day and you have to crack the walls of my house to wheel me out."

After I was able to take myself out of the hysteria the situation presented, I rationalized that my drill sargent-esque bedtime of 8pm might be too early for a 10 year old. But it had nothing to do with reading her baby book and seeing that she has been going to bed at 8 since she was 5. It totally had to do with me picking my battles and not wanting to go to the market that sells snowballs.

*And it has nothing to do with me taking microbiology

**no thanks to twitter!

A Sunless Kind Of Life

2010-10-11T06:51:00.000-05:00

You'll have to excuse my in frequency at smartassmom for a bit, I am building a new blog and it is taking me forever. I hope it isn't sporadic enough to make you loose interest, and if it is, I understand and will spam the hell out of you with the new web address when it is complete. I had an eye opening one day with the whole blog thing. I realized if I didn't have a direction I needed to be done with the hobby. I needed to make a change. So, I'm working on it.

Like I'm working on getting used to a life without a tan.

Me and my affinity for a bronzed glow has taken me on many paths.

At 14, I tried my first tanning bed.

At 15, I ordered one, with my dad's credit card. Without his consent. And had it delivered to my families mobile home.

(that story, above, is 1000% truth. My mom still receives catalogs for tanning bulbs.)

At 16, we (my friends and I) skipped school to go to the lake. Where we were convinced that drinking vodka and water would have you both intoxicated and hydrated. And smearing baby oil all over ourselves guaranteed the best tan.

At 18, I knew everything: That the winning trifecta of hotness was a combination of overly tanned skinned, overly bleached hair, and neon pink nail polish.

Then I proclaimed I would marry a guy with 'darkly tanned skin and great last name'

Photo of my son, V and my husband. This August in Greece. I wanted a tanned husband so I could have tanned kids. Obvia V got a hefty deal of melanocytes in his 1/4 Greek heritage.

At 22, with two small children and a pool in my backyard, I knew that I would need to take more precautions with my skin. So I decided every other year I would wear sunblock through the summer.

Hey, some is better than none, right?

Between the years of 26-29 I was Neutrogenas Dry Block unofficial spokesperson. I wore 55 spf daily and had moved to a climate that didn't support year long accessories involving sunglasses. I was a slave to my skin and had made it my passion to make up for the wear and tear of yesteryear.

This summer I threw my hands in a the air and proclaimed it a Year of Tanness.

I went without a spec in St.Maarten, in Texas, the swim team season in Jersey and an entire month in Greece.

I was rocking a wicked tan. Greece, August 2010

The day before we left the most amazing place on earth, I spied sun spots in the overly magnified mirror. The next day, on the plane home, I laid my head on Tony's shoulder and thanked him for the awesome summer we had. He leaned his head onto mine and turned to look at my face and said

"What are those spots?"

I have sun spots. They are not pretty. I already have a face of moles and freckles. I reap the benefit of being allergic to domesticated animals that doesn't present in the ways of hay fever, but rather chronic eye circles-all the while I refuse to not have a dog. I have lines in my forehead that I prefer to have plumped.

Facials. Peels. HydroxyacidictoxinOHMY. Botox. Restylane. NO SUN. EVER. NOT EVER AGAIN.

Good by to the days of a beautiful bronzed glow and feeling the heat on my skin after a winter of dreaded snow. I fear I will look like Joan Rivers when its all through.

A Vllllloooogggg!

2010-10-06T09:00:00.002-05:00

5th grade and tweens.

2010-09-22T17:43:00.002-05:00

Missy B starting 5th grade has had no shortness of excitement. She's been bestowed with one of the roughest teachers. She is making a new social group of friends and our after hours are more packed than ever before.

My motives are clear, 10-12 yrs is when 50% of kids try their first cigarette. The more time she is on the ice or in the gym tumbling the less time she is hiding behind the shed at someones house trying out her first Marlboro Red. Yes, a red. She's an over achiever that one.

She came home the other day in between a gust of Girl Scouts and religious education to tell me that the challenging teacher scorned her in class.

"Well, what did you do?"

"Well, I'll tell you what I didn't do! I didn't beg her not to yell or give her the satisfaction of crying. I did this"

Then and there, in my kitchen she fixed her gaze of emotionless contempt.

"Hon-thats still disrespectful."

"Mom, you have to earn respect."

And I couldn't even be upset because you know what? She's right.

She quickly jumped ship to continue with her new subject: Her Newest Friend.

"And mom! She said her house is HUGE. And the closets? Are this big" Where she spread her hands the length of the sliding glass doors. "And? They are floor to ceiling with toys."

I tried not to take that personally because in all fairness, real estate in Jersey is fucking insane and closet space is highly coveted. Obvia the childs mother taught her well in scoping well appointed selling features of East Coast living. The toys dig was palpable. I am tosser. We have scant amount of toys because I abide by the 30 day rule: if you don't see it, touch or think about it, it's garbage.

"Belle-how do you describe our house?"

Insert a fairly large eye roll, one encompassing a county or two: "Clean."

There you have it folks, I have a clean de-cluttered house, chock full of 10 year old contempt and a mother who is proud of a kid that won't buckle.

It only seems like I am on perma vacation.

2010-09-20T12:09:00.003-05:00

This weekend I went to my Dad's. Which is just outside of DC in what has to be the most beautiful place to see in the fall. My step sister just turned 16 and can drive, and is really a impressively good driver. Which meant I could drink freely at lunch. I didn't, but its worth mentioning that some asswipe found their loud mouthed 2 year old so cute, the rest of the restaurant would like to see his smudged face smiling up from our table. That's right, he was roaming wildly without supervision while his parents looked on. We went for a super fast trip, leaving Saturday afternoon and returning in the wee hours of the morning Sunday. We were there so Tony and V could go to the Texans/Redskins game.

Two weeks ago, Tony was in Texas for a Texans/Longhorns game.

In a few weeks, he'll be gone again for a football game.

We are spending our 10 year anniversary in South Beach and luckily for me, University of Texas isn't playing Nebraska on that weekend.

We are going to Denver* for Christmas this year. We are renting a beautiful cabin the midst of snowy skiing perfection (like thats not where we live) And oh! As an odd coincidence, the Texans are playing the Broncos that week.

I call this Tony's No Texas Game Left Behind Tour.

Generally speaking, I am very supportive of my husbands multiple trips, season tickets and endless hookups from ~~greedy~~ supportive vendors.

Generally, because like any other wife, it can serve me well in return.

Lets all hope, and I do mean, ALL OF US hope, that this serves me well.

*to clarify, we are flying into Denver then driving an hour and some change away to stay in the mountains nearby.

Casting Call: Real Housewives of New Jersey

2010-09-10T03:18:00.000-05:00

Unless you live under a rock, you know that that Coke Whore Danielle has left Bravo's latest Golden Ticket, Real Housewives of New Jersey and there are speculations that Teresa, 'I-am-not-a-stage-mom' may follow suit.

This leaves two gaping holes the size of oil spill in the gulf to fill, I am pretty sure I could score a spot as a Real housewife.

How would you define a housewife and why would should you be considered?

Well, for starters, I am a real housewife, emphasis on real. There is absolutely no work done on my part. I mean, none. I laugh at work. Ha. Haha. As a mater of fact, I just pledged life long servitude to laundry and round the clock care to my slate floored kitchen, which doesn't really go with the traditional colonial style of the house, but my interior designer swore that I should go with what I love.

What can you add, drama wise, to the RHONJ?

Hmm. Do you mean, what skeletons do I have in my closet? You mean like the not so secret fact that I was pregnant at 19 and married a month shy of being able to drink legally? I mean, getting knocked up and married to the same dude all before my friend were back from studying abroad didn't lend much time for me to smuggle drugs or extort money. I do use an awful lot of the 'Eff' word and I lie to my husband about how much I spend.

SO, would you say that you are the head of your household?

Of course not, silly! Who wants to be the head? I am the neck that controls the head. I don't pay the bills, which I realize eradicates what I think are 'lies' about how much I spend. It would make for great double shot footage of Tony sitting in his office on the phone with me, asking what I did that day. You could pan back to me in Jersey, filing my nails or something while I whine about endless volunteering, pan back to him scanning his computer monitor that reads back

Nordstroms, Short Hills $XXX.XX
Henri Bendels, Gift Asylum $XX.XX
Good To Go Nails and More $XX.XX
Tough To Be You Lazer Hair Removal $XXX.XX
Neimans Bistro You Better Not Really Eat That Salad $XX.XX

You're quite the creator, no?

I'm sorry, was a question there?! See? I can be bitchy, too. Though, I am lacking a Jersey accent. I can fake a mad Texan one though.

Tell us what your days are like, as a real housewife. Like what would we have seen today if we peeked in your windows?

Oh! Well, let me tell YOU! First I start the day with an email from my doubles partner that while I was away in Greece this summer the tennis club changed our club attire to from just collared shirt with skirts to COLLARED dresses! Fine, except I only have a white collared tennis dress, and I was having my period. Which means I can't make sauce, which, fine again-we'll just go to Benihana for dinner. Then! I look outside my kitchen window while I was sipping my morning chai tea to notice my roses were looking drab, and if there is ONE thing I don't stand for-it's drab roses! And the next thing you know, I was outside rinsing spiders off my roses with some organic deer shit, and I had a collection of dirt under my new french.

In conclusion, why should you be New Jersey's next real housewife?

Look, I don't have a house in foreclosure, but I am being audited! I don't have an out of control 19 year old who looks identical to me, but in 9 years, have no doubt, I will. I totally have people who hate me, but it's only because of my mad back spin. I won't pimp my kids, but I will definitely fill air time with massive punishments and a fair amount of screaming. When I invite a friend to lunch you won't want to air the footage, because the only thing Juicy going at that table is my sweat suit and that is because of the drawstring pants to make way for my Brie and Roast Beef belly. I will probably drink too much champagne on more than a few occasions and make an ass of myself.

Grumpy. Hrumph.

2010-09-06T15:46:00.003-05:00

I made the drive back to Columbus this weekend. In Tony's car. Which is awesome because it's a year old and had like 4000 miles on it, so it could easily be wheeled back to the showroom and no one would be none the wiser. It was also returned to him in that condition, because if not for nothing, I may have to endure eye rolls and the gasping conclusion that my kids are realizing that I am not near as cool as I find myself to be, they can travel for 8 hours, by car and not make a mess.

I'm deflecting. I'm trying not to think about how grouchy I am right now.

This weekend, was spectacular.

I miss my Ohio house, the newness the perfectly coordinated decor. The way it always seemed clean because nobody have lived within those walls but my family. I miss my neighborhood and the way that the kids could use the houses all along our street like revolving doors. I miss the new landscaping and the ease of the maintenance. I miss that my husbands office was 3 miles away and not a country and/or a state away. But most of all, I miss my friends.

Yes, I have friends here. They are great friends. I am stupidly lucky that I have friends spanning several states and feel like I am home in each of them. I love my house here, but it takes work. Lots and lots of work.

Sometimes carrying the weight of being a solo parent for a portion of the week starts to wear me down. It's like a nagging cold that is nestling itself into your lungs to complete and upper respiratory infection. I can handle the cold symptoms, I can patch the cough up with honey sweetened tea and not complain. But when you lump that with a sneeze and lessened sleep, I start to break down.

I don't really have a cold, it's a metaphor.

I can take the weight of my jobs. I can balance the school, mine and the kids. I can balance the endless places and activities. I can balance making healthy meals where we eat at a table and be on time and the homework and the housework. And? I can do it exceptionally well.

But, that's all I can handle. I can't deal any longer when my mom needs me because her depression pendulum is swinging like mad. I can't hold anymore upon my shoulders. I can't keep my posture straight and not wrinkle my blouse while job after job is heaped and all the while I thought I was doing favors by not sharing the anxiety that is my day timer.

Throughout the year, this happens. Although frustrating and stressful, I need this time to remind me how lucky I am that while I have things that are taking away my shine, I am not worried about how I will feed my family. Or if the lights will be on. Or if someone will get medicines they need. I need these times to cry out UNCLE so I can peel myself back up and dust my self off and try again. And again. Also to remind myself that when my kids were little we had a list of words that were forbidden in the home; fart, crap, shut up, hate and I Can't.

But today? Today I am just grumpy. And that has to be okay.

Why There Won't Be Any First Day Of School Pictures

2010-09-02T07:00:00.000-05:00

Just wanting to point out the bullshit that is childhood metabolism; while school clothes shopping* with my kids, I figured "Hey! I have a first day of school also! I want an outfit!" And since I am the mom, I can.

Funny how after a summer full of vacations and an appendicitis, my result wasn't near as cute as the kids.

I seem to have some, ahem, extra junk in the trunk. And stuff that is grabable around the waist that was not there at the beginning of June.

This resulted in my first ever return to H&M. And I am oddly bitter at my kids for their quick metabolisms. Or maybe at their ability to swim, run and hike for hours at a time?

*hate, hate, hate that term. It is shopping, plain and simple and I do not make a ritual out of it. I detest giving shopping a purpose. I purchase clothes for the kids based on necessity. I just feel all yucky inside even saying that I went 'back to school shopping'.

Weekends In The Sleepy Suburb Of Mayberry

2010-09-01T00:26:00.003-05:00

There is nothing better than putting in a full week of um, well, laundry and chemistry labs to get together with our friends. Work hard, play hard, right? Tony and I are big on Adult Time, sharing date nights at least 2-4 times a month and at least one adult only solo trip a year. We maintain the ability to have fun together without focusing on our kids and house.

New Years Eve party at a friends. Still fun to get dressed up

and near enough you don't have to call for car service.

When the kids make a peep about me getting Dad all to myself I say the same thing:

"When we get to go away, by ourselves, it makes us love each other more, and better parents to you."

Valentines Day date night at the incredible 90 Acres.

To any couple struggling to find alone couple time, I don't have suggestions for you. It isn't easy. We live near NO FAMILY, finding reliable sitters is right up there with knowing how to get to the nearest ER. And more than that, one day the kids will leave the house, and I know I don't want to look over at Tony and not have idea what we'll talk about. If that isn't reason enough to put forth the effort to be by ourselves, I don't know what is. But its not just about us, its about the 'village' we create. You know, the one it takes to raise a kid?

The last summer backyard BBQ.

Weekend trip with 2 other families to Hershey Park.

When we can't get out, we host or are hosted. And in our group of friends, we have more spontaneous gatherings than not. It's convenient and everyone has their own way to do it.

Every week, I host Single Mom's Dinner for myself and another girlfriend.

It's the best way to make it through a week of Tony traveling. This is
Pioneer Womans tequila lime chicken, that is now a staple on our menu.

Just a casual Friday dinner at a local Mexican restaurant.

Plans made spontaneously after basketball practice.

For me, I like to plan my menu, sometimes elaborately challenging taking days to prepare, sometimes it's frozen sauce. But either way, I like to host. I tell all my friends the same thing when they ask what they can bring

"I need nothing, my menu is set. But if you insist, I prefer diamonds or wine."

We always laugh until there are tears. Always.

With our little clique the careers range from Drug and Alcohol therapist to a Mortgage underwriter. A few even happen to be natural musically inclined. One even holds his own platinum album. This makes parties more fun and karaoke less embarrassing. Well, it will always be embarrassing for me.

The way I see it, if I am having you over, unless I clearly state that its a pot luck, I don't want anyone to bring anything. I want to truly host. I want everyones concern to be how thoroughly they will enjoy their evening while putting forth no effort. After the plates are cleared and the kitchen looks like a war zone, we refuse permittance* and Tony takes care of it after the last guest leaves.

If you have have and adorably chubby baby, you fly in from Texas, you can be assured that I will get a tutu and matching headband, strip her/him nekkid and take pictures on my deck.

My kids, like most kids, don't particularly care to clean up the basement and neighboring playroom after their friends, but like most things I have a saying for that as well:

Just look at that place?! I wouldn't want to clean up after a pillow

fight either, I suppose!

"When our friends come over, we don't ask them to clean up. You shouldn't either. You are their host, they are your guest. The rules may not apply that way at other peoples homes, but this is ours."

*unless we have had too much to drink, showing pictures from vacation and didn't notice someone snuck in to clean up, ahem, thanks to a few great friends!

Zurich Airport Part 1

2010-08-31T00:51:00.000-05:00

Yes, I realize that the Parts are off sequence. I was just making sure you were on your toes, you know making sure your brain is back in the school/work mentality now that summer is over, but Hurricane season is just kicking off on the East Coast.

On our last days of our holiday in Greece, the kids made frequent trips to the village market to buy chocolate and more chocolate to bring home to their friends. After blowing the better part of 6 euros, Tony and I explained that we had to change planes in Switzerland, known for their fine craftsmanship of watches and also chocolate.

Now let me demonstrate the difference between American carriers and Swiss air. American carriers will leave you waiting on the tarmac for the greater part of the day while Newark airport redirects flights and makes you wait in 60 plane ques, should you think to ask for an extra bag of stale pretzels you will receive instead a heaping dose of attitude. Whereas Swiss AIr not only staff the nicest of attendants, they are extremely generous with their delightful little chocolate bars.

So generous, that you can greedily take a handful with promises of beautifully arranging them in a candy dish at home, like you regularly stock adorably red polka dotted miniature swiss chocolates. The flip factor here is that it was a painfully early flight and after taking the handful, someone may have nodded off and let one slip under their tush.

3 hours+1 mini chocolate=chocolate/shat looking smear right down the ass of your black leggings.

Like any other self respecting adult, I blamed Tony for being a chocolate hater and foolishly leaving his candy to melt under his wife's ass.

I stomped through Zurich airport demanding a Lululemon so I wasn't forced to wear my dirty garments for the next 12 hours. And while there was a Burberry, Fendi and Hermes, there was no Lulu.

Segue to me in the ladies room, kindly not taking one of the three stalls to wipe my leggings clean, I splayed my legs in a Dog Lifting His Leg To A Bush To Pee stance. As I wiped at my pants, the que of ladies waiting to use the loo, I couldn't be bothered with the stares. Until I realized they were staring at what looked to be a woman wiping poo from her bum, in public.

Wrestling with the use of my filter, I demonstrated enormous restraint not to lift the wet paper towel to one on lookers face to say "SMELL! Clearly it's chocolate I am cleaning!"

But instead, digging deep into my Jersey-ness, I said through gritted teeth "CHOCOLATE! I sat upon."

Though we never stopped to actually make a chocolate purchase, I can tell you that while the backside of my pants were visibly clean, every time I recrossed my legs, the fragrant smell of hot cocoa emitted from my crotch.

Zurich Airport Part 2

2010-08-30T00:14:00.000-05:00

I grew up on the not-quite-drive-bys-but-neighboring-a-few-gangs ugly end of poor. My parents were of the working class, what ever the hell that means, and they weren't exactly shining examples of money management. Meaning, maybe the electricity bill was left forgotten on the dining table, but after work on Friday, with a cashed paycheck in my mothers hand, we would head off for Dilliards and she would purchase a Coach bag for me. As a selfish teenager, the trade off was fine.

I have always wanted to have something new and preferably costly. I certainly don't want to generate a shallow minded daughter, I have used all I've got to suppress my frivolous ways, making certain not to feed her mind from my Gucci printed spoon. As most first born daughters go, if I want her to want it, she certainly doesn't. The more I ask her if she'd like to accompany me to purchase clothes for her, she shrugs with her nose in a book and says 'Just get a few dresses, something easy.'

Don't be confused, her preference for dresses isn't for chichi purposes, it's ease. There is no coordination needed, the outfit is already made. I'd delighted, as I'll take what I can get.

As we were changing planes in Zurich, lucky for me, it was Switzerland's Fashion Week and the airport was a feast for my eyes. Oh, the shops were just divine! We glanced through the Swatch collection store and Missy B fell in love with a watch.

The Traci inside my mind was jumping up and down from the tippy toes of my Arturo Chiang flats, squealed volumes in my head and as I realized how badly I'd been waiting this moment. To give her the first taste of shopping joy by gifting her with this ador-HOLY GOD- 154 Franc watch?!

Why couldn't her first shopping request been something stamping Justice across her ar$e like every other tween? How could she have gone from no desire to quality items?

Was it because she had just scored her first pair of Prada sandals?

This Post Brought To You In Partnership By Jetlag and Greek Coffee

2010-08-28T04:59:00.005-05:00

We crashed at an astonishingly early 7 PM after landing from our 27 days in Greece. I was awoken by a loud clanging circadian clock swearing to me that it was 10 am and I needed to get out of bed. I reasoned with myself that if that were the case light would be peeking through my delicately closed eyelids. I said 'Self, if you open your eye to peek, just to peek at the time you won't be able to fall back asleep.' and my self replied 'IT'S 10AM!! GETUP!GETUP!GETUP!'

And you know what? It WAS 10 AM.

In Greece.

In New Jersey, it was 3. And I am pretty sure nobody wants to start their day at 3, and if you disagree lets just poll Kelcey, who I am pretty sure has more experience with 3 am starts right now. But I don't have adorable newborn twins so 3 isn't even remotely pleasurable.

At 3, I laid in bed pondering this blog. And I came up with a few things.

For starters, I left you off with my packing brilliance. For the umpteenth trip, my press n'seal did me wonders and my jewelry wasn't tangled. So, what better follow up than to give you more traveling brilliance. In lieu of a souvenir for myself, I kept my money at home and left it in the form of a check. You know that anxiety that comes from travel, when you get home and you realize the phone calls to make, the packages of shoes to return and the laundry to be done? I came home to chores, but I didn't come home to a dirty house OR laundry. That check I left behind was for a housekeeper, and my laundry was lovingly washed and hung to dry just before we left so I landed with exactly one load to do.

For seconders, I am contemplating a blog over haul. And I don't just mean a new look. I mean, get a chair fellow bloggers, I am going to delete everything here. The URL, the 4 years worth of post, the name and the twitter. There is nothing in this life that is so important to me that I can't do without, with exception of ~~nail polish collection~~ family, of course. Though shallow, I am practical to a fault with 'things'. The storage bins from when my kids were infants, is direly small. I saved no toys. The minute V was on two feet, I sold all the cribs/bassinets/high chairs. I trash everything and save very little. I feel the same way about my internet life, though not about my dear reader friends. You I can' live without.

Everything in that previous paragraph was brought on because when I swung my exhausted 17 hour travel day into my freshly made bed, all I wanted was to catch up on The Real Housewives of New Jersey. And you know what? My muthereffing DVR found True Blood so important that it archived 3 months of episodes and didn't record anything on Bravo.

I wanted to kill.

Now, because all anyone really wants are pictures, I will oblige. Otherwise I know nobody reads blogs on Saturdays.

If there was a way to tell you about the most amazingly posh resort I coudn't have even dreamed up in my wildest, without sounding like a giant bougie spoiled asshole, I would. This was our patio. Oh and our private infinity pool. On the golf course. Overlooking the Mediterranean.

On the drive from Trizina, the village we stay in, to Athens.

Another car window shot on our way to Athens.

Athens graffiti near the Acropolis.

Athens sun setting from the apartment we were staying in.

Voidokilia Beach, one of the most beautiful beaches in Greece. (pronounced VO da Kee la)

Hydra, the island where no motorized vehicles are allowed. All travel in on foot or by donkey. A hint from the color wheel, unless you are photographing in black and white only, wear purples and red at the beach, these are the most complimentary against blues and greens.

Poros Island, where we spend the majority of our time.

If there was a contest for whose Yiayia (grandmother) had the cutest house, clearly their's would win. And? The kids never leave a daily visit without something in their hands, we have enough chocolate croissants to last us a lifetime.

The greek beverage staple; The Frappe. It's where Starbucks learned their brilliance. It is just as dreamy as it looks.

GAH! I am out of time again.

2010-08-03T06:14:00.017-05:00

I would love to drone on about how I don't have fodder for you to read, or that I've hit a blogging block. It's just not true though. Wrapping up the kids 5 weeks of summer camp, we had a talent show, where some unusually talented young girl played Fur Elise:

And right after that, this dashing young man was invited to swim at a Meet Of Champions, where his relay team took first:

Then I came home to flop onto my bed and found that my closet threw up all over the damn place:

Preparing for our 5th Greek trip, you'd like to think I have this down. My kids are shamelessly easy to travel with. Nobody cries for water or snacks until we are through security. They don't need to pack an army to entertain themselves and they know that no mater what, I will never schlep their stuff for them. I am not even impossible to pack and entertain; 12 pounds of books(truth) and 14 pairs of shoes. (No, I don't plan on wearing pants while away.) And no I can't buy a kindle, I just bought a grown up camera. And a new yard. 27 days worth of outfits and accessories, this is what an up close selection looks like:

Oh! Did you spy this too?! Aren't they divine? It was like Christmas when I was making shoe selections and forgot I purchased these:

But, back to that mess that is jewelry. Over seas or over the county line accessories don't travel well. They may not have cost a fortune individually, but collectively they are priceless to me. Chunky things are all the rage and those cute little jewelry organizers can only get me so far. I start out with this:

(Side note: Glad didn't give me a hot cent for this post. Not even a coupon. And frankly, I don't want any. I bought the three pack of the Press'n Seal at Costco and it is proving to be like Jesus and fish in the boat. This stuff will.not. run out.)

Then, I lay all the pretty shiny things out on it and gently press it in. It has a slightly tacky texture that grabs to the little baubles and hold them in place. Not strong enough to withstand you swinging it above your head or anything, but to not get tangled and make your arrival to the Greek Isles miserable while everyone else splashes at the sea and you are left with miles of beads and kinked chains.

Layer another on top, press again. This is where the whole 'Press'n Seal' comes into play.

Bracelets aren't as easy, because they are even chunkier. So I go rummage through Missy B's hair decor emporium and find a grosgrain ribbon. Don't question if there is an actual emporium. Have you seen her hair?!

So, she won't miss a ribbon; then I tie up the bracelets, toss 'em in my luggage, and gently layer the necklaces in between the clothes and voila! All of your goodies make it over the trip.

Oh God, Not Another BlogHer Post.

2010-07-26T00:12:00.000-05:00

If you've been around the blogging block a few times, and you probably have because everyones passion from last July to this August is to shed pounds and shape up, you may have heard about a little thing called BlogHer.

In the event you are of the crowd, the very, very large crowd attending this year you are/aren't privy to a few things:

Everyone is concerned with what to wear
Everyone is concerned with whether or not their shoes will be better than Ohmommy's.
Almost everyone is as concerned with whether or not they will get swag
The main trending topic on twitter is in reference to what they weigh/wish they weighed for BlogHer
BlogHer is SO big, what will you do?

I am here to answer for you, and where I can't answer I will offer you life saving tools to help aid you.

Everyone is concerned with what to wear

ANSWER: Stop worrying about it. Other women are so obsessed with the same thing they will not notice if you are stark ass nekkid. Though it is true that women don't dress for men, they dress for one another; BlogHer is the exception to the rule.

LIFE SAVING TIPS: Unless if I was there. Then you should be totally concerned as I am a judgmental pig.

Everyone is concerned with whether or not their shoes will be better than Ohmommy's.

ANSWER: Again, give up. They won't be.

LSA: Unless you are familiar with Bag, Borrow, Steal. There. Go rent yourself an amazing handbag that should cost upwards of 30K. Then don't worry if your shoes are better than anyone, be glad I am not there to mentally tear you apart for flying coach to NYC but carrying a Birkin you rented.

Almost everyone is as concerned with whether or not they will get swag

ANSWER: Ah, you got me here. I could have done without the stick on dryer sheets and the millions of printable brochures. I mean, hello? I flew to Chicago, I didn't exactly bring my document shredder with me. I received nada. I hear there is amazing stuff.

LSA: Should you find yourself in this situation is to run across 5th ave and grab yourself a bag from Fendi. Put a few empty boxes in it and schlep it all over the Hilton. Feel the bag. Be the bag. Pretend you got a pair of Croc flip flops or a bedroom toy. (Both were rumored to be swag gifts)

The main trending topic on twitter is in reference to weight and BlogHer

ANSWER: Really. Just read some blogs, it is the concern of many. If you had the best of intentions of losing some lb's and you fell prey to the office birthday cake a few too many times, heed my advice: don't go.

LSA: Cancel BlogHer. Book your family trip to Greece. Greeks love full figured women. They need to know you eat. If you don't eat, they don't want you around. Two birds. One stone. You don't show your (possibly chubby) face at BlogHer and you get to go to Greece.

BlogHer is SO big, what shall I do?

ANSWER: Have you ever been amongst a giant crowd of people taller than you? You know something awesome must be going on inside that mob, but you can't break through to find out? That is what the entirety of the weekend will be like.

LSA: But when life gives you bloggers, make a good time of it. Chances are, the blogger standing next will get in on the crazy and help make a party with you.

I am just happy I found a way to add the eff word in this post.

2010-07-25T07:14:00.002-05:00

May 18th (or 14th) was my last day of classes. I had exactly 4 weeks to be a true to God, stay at home mom again. Staying at home, as a mom, was a job that I wasn't exactly resenting. But was definitely growing bored with. There is only so many hospital corners and gourmet meals one 30 year old can pump out before crying uncle. It seems to me like a lot of stay at home parents return to the work force sometime after all of the kids start school. The problem with that above sentence and me is the 'return to the work force'. I have never worked. The thought terrifies me. Before you get all annoyed and eye rolly on me, let me explain that the thought of working doesn't scare me. It's the possibility of failing at a job that scares me. I can't fail at being a stay at home parent, clearly I rock this job. True enough that is what I returned to school for, to work one day. I am madly, insanely in love with the idea that I get to go to college, get a higher education that will directly train me for the line of work I will go into in approximately 14 hundred years.

What my first semester back at school taught me, besides more than being a trolling encyclopedia for the human anatomy, was how to appreciate staying at home. I became the most efficient housewife I have ever been. I had this down to an art I never knew existed and had once again fallen in love with something I had to do anyhow, which lets face it friends, takes some fucking skills.

I'd wake up exactly 30 minutes before the kids needed to be out of bed, dress directly in work out clothes ready to head straight to the gym from drop off. I'd prepare a wonderful breakfast that only used the slightest of kitchen items so clean up and dishwasher loading was quick and never had to be left for after the gym. In years past, I would convince myself that if I didn't have 2 hours to dedicate at the gym, I was better off running. But running had become a plateau. Now, I knew that I could bang out a great kick ass workout in a little over an hour and in 4 weeks was freaking tickled over how quickly little shapes were taking place. Then I went to Texas and had a carb load festival of enchiladas, tacos and booze. And while I returned a tad bloated, it went away immediately and back at the gym I was. Gym time had become only slightly compromised since the kids were at camp daily for a few hours, but for the next 4 weeks. So I grabbed a friend and condensed workouts to 3 days a week, harder than before. And you know what motivated me? My pretty abs. I'd wake in the morning to sashay over to the full length mirror, and lift my arms above my head to admire my handiwork. I started only wearing tshirts to bed just for this little gift of the morning.

And just as karma would have it, just as I was starting to enjoy the way my abs and obliques were looking, I would need an appendectomy. Three small incisions to compliment my road map of stretch marks. I would be taken from work out duty for 2 weeks only to resume a true workout in 6-8. GAH! I am leaving for Greece in 2 weeks! No gym time?! As much as I knew I wanted to be freaking out, I was so freaking happy to be out of the agonizing pain. I was so happy the surgeon didn't say that the pain was from some cancerous tumor and was only a bum appendix. Which as my great friend Holly said Who needs an appendix, anyhow?! That and the narcotics being pushed through my IV every few hours tended to the awful reminder that I wouldn't be gettin' my gym on and working myself silly a few days a week.

I stayed over night, making it a 36 hour hospital stay, including the time they sent me home from the ER with the discharge notice of 'inconclusive CT scan' and the thirty minutes I was home before the attending called me at 3:00 am to both apologize as well as offer to send the ambulance because after another look at the films, the appendix still not visible, other factors have convinced them it was an appendicitis and please come straight back.

The morning after surgery my surgeon came in to check on me. He sat at the end of my bed and apologized that I was sent home and told me it was nothing more than a standard irritated appendix. Also to explain that the reason the appendix couldn't be seen two evenings prior was because I didn't have enough belly fat to aid in pushing the appendix away from the colon to see it on a scan. Oh, yes. Yes he did say that. Oh yes, yes I did say in the most convincing manner I could 'I'm sorry, it must the meds, but did you just say I have a small amount of belly fat?'

Silk screened shirts and bumper stickers will be ready shortly. I am working with some crafty women on Etsy to embroider some shirts as well as backpacks-it's almost Back To School time, you know! If your 3rd grader would like I might be able to work up some pencil cases in the deal.

Just Another Fridaaaayyyyyyy.

2010-07-23T12:44:00.004-05:00

I am supposed to be online finding a new camera. I left mine on a plane a few weeks ago. Along with my Ipod. The only reason I am not overly angered is because in the hundred (yeah, really I think 100) flights I have made with kids, I have never lost so much as a baby sock. So as far as I am concerned it was high time. And luckily it was only a camera and not a child.

I am also busy attempting to recoup a checked bag fee. But I truly, HATE those kind of chores.

Now look, I A)read Jessica religiously, desperately wished I lived in LA because I would just tag along with her and be her very best friend. And B)swore I would never discuss my kids growing pains or puberty. But these two dovetail-and I didn't want to be that blogger that gets a convo going over someone else's comments, because I am sure Emily Post will update soon, but it is tacky.

Jessica posted a blog about tiny girls bras and skank factor. It made me think of something I am currently experiencing. I've talked about my boobs before, but what I probably left out was the peculiar size I am now, a 32DD. This is odd, but all the implants in the world can't change your chest circumference, I measure 32 around and this never struck until I found that this isn't a standard size you can pick up from Target. Not until I found myself down the lingerie aisle of Justice and found that the smallest training bras come in a 26 and go up to 34. The most abundant sizes were the 32. I simple couldn't bring myself to buy one. Of any size. Why was I buying one anyway? Why are there training bras for girls with a chest girth of 34 inches?! To cover up the little niblets that are growing? I couldn't reason with myself that this was necessary. When I was younger, we wore bras for support. Not to hide niblets under the shirt. Why should we put any more self consciousness on our girls than already exist? Even if you are the picture of parenting perfection (like myself) and never label one fat or skinny, healthy or tubby, or discuss the amount of cottage cheese on thighs is acceptable or the lumpy existence of cellulite, you are kidding yourself to believe that they don't hear it from friends or simply read a tabloid in the line at Target.

Why are we putting these girls in training bras anyway? I don't subscribe to the theory of dressing my kids for the comfort of others. I defer to my children in that arena. (with obvious exceptions.)

Discuss amongst yourselves, telling me at the very least which is the best starter dslr camera.

Do With This What You Will

2010-07-21T05:53:00.000-05:00

Lil V....ahh....Lil V. 55 pounds of honest to goodness love. Always concerned for others before himself. Very rarely steps out of line. His friends parents say that V just brings out the best in others. If that isn't the best compliment you can garner, I don't know what is. I love his rowdy friends the best because I love to see him never compromise his structure of doing the right thing but at the same time begging for him to do something naughty.

The setting: dinner at a mexican restaurant

The diners: me, Mr.T, Belle and V and another family: Jen, Pat, Eddie Haskel and Princess La

The Game: Make Me Laugh-a game where the kids can only say things to get the other one to laugh.

The kids were in the small lobby, nestled closely to our table as the restaurant was closing and we were finishing our beverages. In walks-never runs in public-V to ask:

"Mom, I am trying to get La to laugh......can I say vagina'"

The 4 of us adults couldn't quite pull it together to answer him. We were too busy taking a picture of the chair next to us. There was funny all around.

taken with my blackberry.

PSA: Movies and Your Children

2010-07-19T05:08:00.001-05:00

I am as far removed from (adult) movie going as I am from decorating my kitchen in a Winnie The Pooh theme. I rarely make it out to one that is guaranteed to show a$$ or use the 'f' word. Not that those are my kind of garbage anyway. With small kids in the house, and trips to the movies running excess of $50, if Mr.T and I want a date night where we don't talk-we'll stay at home and argue about me and my online addiction to Garnet Hill.

Alas, almost all movie trips are for the wee Smart A$$ children. Alas, like the savvy mommy I am, I used to assign the seemingly craptacular ones to Mr.T and his viewing pleasure of trips sans mom.

Times they are a changing and Mr.T caught on, and now movies are a whole family affair, which is fine because now my kids are old enough to understand that even if Pixar makes it-if it involved toilets, sewage or snakes-mama won't partake.

This is where my Public Serve Announcement takes place:

Moms! If you have been so consumed in Twitter feeds and Huffington Post involving 'Lindsay Lohan! Will She or Won't She Check Into Rehab!' I have news for you: Avatar The Last Airbender is your return to childbirth and all forms of torture lasting 1.5 hours. While spending a Friday evening sans Lil V, Missy B's date night was birthed. Without the painful cramping from anyone, much to my annoyance. Dinner at 5 Guys, followed by a movie of her choice. In which Mr.T and I shelf our better parenting skills for better manipulation skills. This was displayed in our efforts to talk our 10 year old into seeing Grown Ups, a PG13 movie over Airbender, a repeated pelvic exams are more entertaining rated movie.

I can't say anymore on the subject, it is bringing back painful back spasms remembering that I folded myself in the theater seat attempting to catch a late evening coma. Horrible-is an understatement. Boring-is watching paint dry. Painful-is childbirth which equal this movie. It was absolutely horrendous. Elmers Glue comes with better warnings than this movie did.

There you have it parents and non parents reading. You're welcome.

*though I threw out and awful lot of name brands, let me assure you, nobody sponsored this post. Though I would like to request that the Hanover Township Theater and/or M.Night Shayamalan refund me $45.

Stop The Clock

2010-07-09T11:50:00.003-05:00

There is too much emotion right now. There is too much everything, actually. I will try my best to convey what I am trying to say, so bear with me.

When Missy B was 15 months old we moved to our first family home in the suburbs if Houston. It was my 'dream home' and we were house poor. She spoke in full sentences, walking the neighborhood introducing herself "Hi, I Ebelle, I 1." She would also run out the front door naked as the day she was born and yell over her shoulder she was 'going to Chuck E CHEESE!'. She had never watched a millisecond of television. She had never eaten anything I hadn't hand picked from our gay neighbors organic garden that I ground with a mortar and pestle. She was just about toilet trained from her cloth diapers. In short, I was a nut.

I fed all natural from the earth not because it was trendy, but because I believed it to be best for her. And because I was sure that a lack of hormoninated, pest treated foods would delay the early developing trend going on in americas young women.

She shaved her legs this week and I cried behind my husband suits in my closet.

I lovingly wiped her gums after every time she nursed from birth through her first birthday. At 9 months old her first tooth broke the gum line and I made her first appointment with a pediatric dentist.

Her braces will go on next week. She has selected navy blue and gold rubber bands. Why she can't just go with burnt orange and white, I don't know. We don't live in Illinois and we aren't Notre Dame fans.

When we lived in that first house, I laid her down for a nap one afternoon in time to fold towels while watching Oprah. Oprah's guest was a beautiful 14 year old girl. She was sitting next to her mother who no doubt began her journey 14 years before with the same hope of providing what was best for her daughter. Except, her gorgeous little girl was on the show because she had begun abusing crystal methamphetamines. My.stomach.sank. I remember sitting there on my over stuffed 45% down khaki colored sectional and wanting to run and grab 'Ebelle' and shake her about her itty bitty shoulders and scream at her to promise to never ever use drugs.

I ordered that transcript, and clipped articles from the Houston Chronicle about the clumping overdoses of teenagers who got their hands on a batch of bad drugs.

Today I-very unexpectedly- had The drug Talk with my kids. It didn't go like I planned with manila folders of years of information. It also didn't take place sitting comfortably on the well made shabby chic bed with a window in the backdrop over looking lovingly cared for hydrangeas in a cape just south of the water in Maine. It happened in Americas New Dinner Table-The car.

"What is heroin and cocaine, mom?"

"They are drugs, and they will destroy you. The work because they enter your body through vein or your nose or your lungs. They get to your brain quickly and quickly tell your brain to work in a new way. A way that will only work if that drug is present. When you try to get your brain to function without the aid of these drugs, you will become very ill. Like the flu ill. Until you breakdown and put the drug back in your system."

"So, you always think you need it?"

"Exactly. And because your brain has a new way of working, it thinks that you are actually working very normal and when you think you aren't working normally, you don't care any longer. Then, if you are lucky, you die quickly. If you are unlucky, you die on the streets with no family or friends and your brain still tells you not to care. You have nothing and you die alone and probably very painfully. Here is the most important thing to remember: You will know people who take drugs. They will appear completely normal and in control. You will ask yourself if drugs are okay. You will think about giving them a try. Trust me when I tell you, a very few end their drug usage well."

I wasn't sure if what I said was appropriate. I am not sure. I am just not sure. I feel confident though. And very rarely in good, no, great parenting do I think you feel truly confident.

Why? Because sometimes my mom is reading.

2010-07-06T18:51:00.002-05:00

-Baseball All Stars practice

-Swim team practice

-SUMMER CAMP (READ:mommy gets 3 hours to herself which qualifies as gym and possibly a load of laundry)

-Home renovation project #12,342

-DO NOT LOG ONTO ONLINE BANKING

-V for fall: football?(it's tackle, I say HELL to the NO, you say Helicopter, much?) soccer?(do they check in that sport?) swim?(indoor pool all winter long? May be a winner.)

-Miss B for fall: ice skating?(inside an igloo all winter long? Again? Least she never doubt my love.) piano?(good Lord the girl is talented.) gymnastics?(what the hell can you do with this one?!)

-Me for fall: microbiology or anatomy and physiology 2? Or both? (READ:I may have gone insane.)

-Pay for all of the above

-DO NOT LOG ONTO ONLINE BANKING

-Date night. New dress? Just enjoy what a good thing I have going and hope he stares into my eyes and not an old dress he probably wouldn't know the difference of anyhow.

-DosXX or Perrier?

-Market, laundry, gym, refuel car, REPEAT.

I'm sorry, did someone say lazy days of summer? I'd argue that one, but I am simply out of time.

Live Blogging From A Blackberry con't.

2010-06-28T16:27:00.005-05:00

I am editing my pictures from the plane that is (thankfully) boarded. Missing my nieces, sister in law and family terribly. The kids, now situated with books are too quiet. I want to be back with the girls.

Live Blogging As Long As Craptacular Airport Wifi Will Allow

2010-06-28T15:51:00.006-05:00

Our 10 days are up. (Like my feet should be.)

I am done with being away and not ready to be home but ready for something else.

Amy can tell you, sharing a home with 5 daughters and one (perfect) boy isn't easy. Especially these girls.

Arriving to the airport exactly 59 minutes before our times departure and exactly as my organizational skills allow, seated at out gate nothing pans out as it should.

The crew is late arriving. Flight pushed back 10 minutes.

Air traffic control delay. Flight pushed back 55 minutes.

I haven't had much reason to talk to my kids while we have been away from home. They've been sharing entertaining and arguing skills with their cousins-who it pains me we don't live nearby. 45 questions later, 40 of them mumbled (my most biggest pet peave) I am ready to thrash and gnash. I want to be home. Now.

My feet hurt. I wore the biggest, heaviest shoes I packed to allow for a few pounds of wiggle room in the checked bags. But, I also wore them around a shopping centre just before the airport today, so I have blisters. And I can't wear them correctly. So I have blisters in new areas as well.

I feel like a giant P bomb, because I am uncomfortable. And my sweat proof Nars foundation and BB bronzer can't seem to hold up against Houston humidity and heat so it has ran onto the collar of my brilliantly white starched blouse and I feel crummy.

I actually just entertained the thought of tapping my foot a certain number of times and crossing my ankles in an even number as I slid my size 7 foot out of my stacked wedges into an extra pair of new childrens socks labeled Gymboree. Because I'd rather be assumed as OCD than just a baby with blistered feet.

Tweaking, Man.

2010-06-25T07:36:00.005-05:00

I feel really badly for leaving you with nothing for such a long while. And an ugly post that refused to be aligned to boot.

But, I've been home. In Texas. Pretty much eating my way through the state. I don't really come home for family and friends. I come home for enchiladas and creamy jalapeno. And a lot of beer. Which has totally thrown my surprise Project Swimsuit copycat/riding on coattails of someone. A month before I left for Texas, I hit the gym 6 days a week. Ate my typical clean fare of as close to earth as possible. I had planned that when I got here the shock of flavors would be even bigger than before. I'd taste herbs I never knew existed. I was so excited. But remember that Law and Order SVU episode when the guy gets greedy with orgas'ms and ends up strangling himself with a belt around his neck?

Well, um. Yes, I did just compare orgas'ms to Tex Mex.

Aside from food, my second focus has been on attaining some true pseudoephedrine and not the second-hand-half-ass phenylephrine. I am no FDA here, but that shit does not a damn thing for the sinuses. The Brat Pack hauls me over to the CVS after my latest food coma at Chuys where I also need to pick up unisom, razors and ear drops. My Jersey license caused the pharmacist to question me when I needed to sign the ledger that I will not go home and cook up meth with my drugs. (Which begs the question, what the hell do you do when you are away and get ill?) I contemplated just how tweaked I was about to look demanding medicine. Considering my odd little list, I decided to ditch everything but the razors and hope I look un-drug addict like.

Thank God I didn't show up today attempting to obtain cold medicine. After these two crawled into the bed I was using of my nieces, I look like hell. It seems like such a good idea at the time, they are warm and squishy and all 'I love you so much, Mom!' But kids don't work with the same circadian rhythms as the post 21 crowd. They somehow grow super human strength in their REM stages and can push you; an overgrown, impossibly stuffed with flour tortillas self around the bed. AND worst of all, they don't even get backaches.

Letting your kids sleep with you is a lot like child birth, you don't seem to remember how horrific the effects are until you do it all again.

Now, now! I look questionable when asking for the ingredients to make pancakes, let alone street drugs.

School Work

2010-06-15T07:55:00.003-05:00

(This is actual homework I found on my mac this morning.)

I was working on the railroad.

I am homesick when I am away from Texas.

3. I will do anything to get a laptop.

Wear your seat belt in the car.

There was a battle that was Hungary versus Turkey.

Don’t be a beggar, fool.

My mom is like a doctor.

The wolf was smelling of the fresh air.

The girl’s smile dimmed when she found out that she didn’t get a laptop for her birthday.

The dog was pleasing her owners by dancing on her hind legs.

I am going to the airport on Friday to go to Texas.

I understand why the world is in need of TONS OF HELP. We gotta get rid of war, global warming, and don’t forget the dreaded oil spill!!

Ninety-nine people agree with me about this statement.

My final chance for Student of the Marking Period is tomorrow.

I don’t want to get into trouble tomorrow.

I washed my face with a towel.

I won a gold medal when I gave a speech.

The cheetah was unusually striped instead of spotted.

I skipped to school.

20. I found myself checking my report card before I left school.

Kevlar Friday is the new 'casual Friday'

2010-06-11T09:16:00.002-05:00

My cousin Barbara is visiting from Texas. A state so huge, you could drive 12 hours and still be where the Lone Star flies. Needless to say, it never ceases to entertain that you can be in New Jersey and get to many, many places in a rather short amount of time.

Like the spectacular host I am, when Barbara mentioned taking a quick Boston trip, I showed her how to use the train system. What I should have showed her was how to use a clock, because despite our efforts this am, she was late had missed her train when I was not two freaking exits after the station.

Now, it's worth mentioning a few things here-a few things only mentionable in bullet presentation:

New Jersey is the land of no left turns. Which is great to cut down on unwanted traffic jams in left hand turn only areas
Making U turns in the state of Jersey is virtually mission im-fucking-possible.
Jersey is one of the 10 states that do not allow for concealed carry permits. THAT is the right to carry a firearm. A handgun.
This is not a political post.

Approximately 43 miles past the station, I find an exit to take and attempt a turn around. I then make a pleading phone call to my sister, at 6 AM Texas time.

"State your purpose, Trace. It's 6 AM, and I don't need to be in the office until 9."

I start all screechy like into the phone:

"LIINNDDSSAY!! I am in the ghetto. The road is blocked off and I just heard gun shots. I think it is important to let you know that I am wearing turquoise leopard pajama pants and a pair of recyclable flip flops. I have no make up on, but I have brushed my teeth. Also? I am out of gas. I can't get to the freeway or express way or whatever the fuck people call it anymore. I can't seem to remember the gang signs we learned while growing up and which one I want to be affiliated with."

"Traci-look, you can handle yourself. I am sure. You have been trained well enough."

"Uh, okay sure. Maybe. But I am wearing pajama pants and flip flops. I am driving a senior citizens luxury suv. I am in the scariest section of NEWARK FUCKING NEW JERSEY. Before Bedford Sty, there were crack dens in NEWARK. Before immigrants came across Ellis Island*, Johnny The Guido was chopping fingers off and tying bricks saying things like 'swim with the fish, pretty boy!' I practically have RA'PE AND PILLAGE written all over the goddamned place!"

"It's really too bad that you can't arm yourself and that Neimans doesn't sell Kevlar."

One

2010-06-07T15:22:00.005-05:00

The night before Missy B's first birthday, I nursed her to sleep and cried a trillion tears onto her pink and white striped Little Me sleeper. I rocked her much longer than usual, being that I never rocked her to sleep, I nursed her until she grew drowsy then gently placed her in her bed. As I cried and rocked I couldn't get the thought out of my head that I would never rock her as a sub one year old again. It was a milestone I was partly thrilled about and partly infuriated by.

The night before her second birthday I did the same. I rocked her and cried knowing this was the last night I would rock her before there was more love to share-I was due with V 3 months later. I knew that I wouldn't hold her the night before a birthday again when it was just us two. When she was just one year old.

For 9 years, and a total of 16 birthdays, I have rocked them, held them or just sat next to them in their beds, the eve before a birthday and cried. Knowing what milestone I was laying to sleep, the next morning a new milestone would be waiting. By Missy B's 10th birthday, and V's 8th, I stopped the tears, because I was ~~too tired to cry~~ getting my sea legs. I also realized that I could find something to cry about every day.

Today, Bryce is one. A year ago who knew today would be here so freaking soon. I often wondered, for once in my life, wanted to truly lift a burden off of someone I love. I wanted so badly to jog down to Texas and hug Katrina and carry the load for her for just a while. But you can't ask someone to worry over your micropreemie -born at 24 week, 700 grams- so you can get a steady 8 hours of shut eye. It is a badge of motherhood nobody can prepare you for. Because even if someone could do it, you'd never let them. Pride. It is a strange beast.

Last night, I wondered if Katrina would rock Bryce to sleep and cry over him? Had she already gained her sea legs? Did she know that this milestone is one of celebration? Maybe because she already cried many nights over Bryce wondering how long it would be before she could rock him to sleep. The night before a surgery, one if his many, she knew she couldn't rock him to sleep the next evening. Instead, I imagine her brilliant green eyes glowing with recent tears as her tiny baby boy would be rocked to sleep not by her arms, but with humming of machines and tubes feeding him antibiotics.

I will meet Bryce in two weeks. I am beyond excited. I can't believe that I will get to hold my oldest dearest friends baby for the first time. I never thought beyond the fear and tears last year, I never thought how over joyed I'd be today. I am so happy for them. Cliche. I know.

Please, make a wish for many more happy birthday's to Bryce. And hope that he isn't experiencing stranger anxiety when I get to Austin, I hate to make babies cry.

Fake Massages and Tracing Faces

2010-06-03T20:54:00.002-05:00

I volunteer weekly at my sons' school. And like most primary K-2 buildings the walls are decorated with the kids work. I giggled and guffawed to myself upon reading Lil V's "Most Favorite Thing" was "When my mom scratches 4 things before I go to bed, every night." Every night at bedtime, I scratch his legs, arms, back and tummy. In that order. Every night.

When I was a small child my mom would gently trace our faces while she sang us to sleep. Her cool hands would radiate the slightest heat as she danced her fingertips just slightly above our face. It was the most relaxing time. Upon her last visit she put my kids to bed the same way. The next day a note was found on my daughters door advertising her 'spa' and her Newest Fake Massage. She has since forgotten that was her word and request to have her 'face traced.'

We are a touchy family. We snuggle, we cuddle and we talk. My kids aren't totally forthcoming on alot of things. I like to hope that I am open enough that they will come to me, if not immediately, but eventually. And if it isn't me, I hope it is their father.

They are young, so not much carries serious weight with what they want to chat about, but the day is coming and the framework is laid. I am the primary disciplinarian by default and I worry that the past decade of shrill parenting will resound when either one of them want to come to me with anything.

As I was cuddling up with my boy, scratching his back, he let me in. He told me something that held great weight for me. Nothing dramatic in a bad way. But I was touched. His brutal sentence. Those 6 words. So simple. So trusting. For a moment time stood still and while we were laying there, I could feel his heart beating through my shirt and I thought that for a while we shared heart rhythms. I had to remind myself to answer in a non intrusive way that let him know I heard, but would not pry. He knocked on the door and instead of rushing to greet him, I just replied 'Hi, there.'

I am so pleased that while my children are growing in independence with their arms stretched outward, they still want to know that I am there, within arms reach.

A Little Obsession Never Hurt Anyone.

2010-06-01T21:11:00.009-05:00

Please, for just a second remember that I write this blog for two purposes; to keep my family-my huge ginormous family- updated and to make someone laugh. Really. That is it. So if you aren't my family and/or will not melt like butter over a stunningly handsome Greek boy singing......move along for the day. Just promise to come back tomorrow.

Not sure you want to see two minutes of my kid?

Huh? Huh? Cute, right?

And religious.

Sigh. He loves her so so much.

How ya doin? Butter meltin' yet?

I said stunning, right?

Delish. Just Delish.

To Eros Is Human

2010-06-01T03:25:00.000-05:00

**Time machine post, one year ago today, this is what I sounded like**

At the tender age of 4, I sat my mom and dad down and explained that my summer colors that year would be 'light ocean blue and sunshiny yellow'. I would only dress in those colors and my hair accessories always matched. And for the entire year of 1984 you can see me in my colors of choice, matching hair bows, white sandals and all of my dresses were buttoned up the front. Because, obviously a 4 year old can't reach behind her to button her dress.

In the Summer of 1997 me and my best friend, Katrina, sat around a chubby purple diary where we wrote out our 'Clothes Bible'. This was where we spent an unprecedented amount of time dictating to one another the laws of style and fashion. Namely, that you were to never wear the same outfit more than twice and your panty line should never be visible.

Until recently I didn't know about this amazing service at a ridiculously over priced department store where you could go in, have a stylist/personal shopper work with you and style out colors and styles for the upcoming season, at no charge. Right.down.to.my.lipstick.

I have always taken what I wear to another -and might I add, unnecessary- level. (and by another level, you can guarendamntee that you will see my in sweaty workout clothes at pick up and a robe and slippers at school drop off) I refuse to admit to being shallow because; I don't hold anyone else to this standard, I never judge anyone based upon what they are wearing, and it is most definitely something I do not speak on often.

The summer of '04, before we left for Greece for the Olympics, OPI nail polish put out their Greek Line. And I fell head of polished tootsies for It's All Greek To Me.
I was tickled beyond belief with myself and was so delighted to find my new color for the season. More importantly I stocked up on the polish as I wasn't sure I'd have time to find a nail salon while careening through the Greek Isles.

Ah....it's a hard life.

I have continued to break out the It's All Greek To Me each and every summer season as it brings a punch of happiness to my dull and dreary winter mood. Often times, I would day dream about how seriously the Maaco paint shop would take me, should I roll my old car, my over sized gas hog, in and handed over a bottle of OPI to the tech and said 'Color match, please?'

Last summer, something went awry. I looked and looked for my polish and low and behold I find myself on Snopes.com searching the validity of OPI and other manufactuers discontinuing items and colors. I gasped at the thought of losing my precious, perky, perfect pink tinged with a sparkly red polish! How would I go on? How would I ever visit Greece again without the most perfect Greek Polish?!

I took a deep breath and ordered the color from Ebay, and was relieved that it was the same and it wasn't a knock off. That luck only lasted me once, as the next time it was completely a shade off and OBVIOUSLY from another color batch.

Ugh.

I sucked it up and declared Nicole's Fav, by Nicole my new signature color.

Until this Spring. While waiting my turn in the (probably disgusting and unsanitized) massaging chairs at the salon, I take my marching orders to 'select color, please'. AND WHAT DID I SEE?! It couldn't be! Really? Ohmygoodness!! I turned the bottle over to see that OPI thought they could trick this color jedi, 'To Eros Is Human'.

I rang out after the pedi with a new bottle of polish in my hands and on my feet. I'll be a monkey's uncle if the color wasn't spot on.

(If this story isn't enough conviction that you only read me to get your mind off of saddening news like Air France jets going missing, and shameless hate crimes I don't know what will.)

I marched right upstairs, ziplock and hammer in hand. I grabbed the last bottle of It's Greek To Me, knowing the lid was sealed for life, I did what any other toe manicured nut job would do: I beat the bottle a few times, just enough to get the gooey pink perfection to seap out in the confines of the baggie. There I dusted a fine layer of To Eros Is Human on the bag.

In that moment I clarified both that my colors were the same, just the name had changed and that I was completely a waste of air space.

No, go ahead. You know this is the kind of post you all want to enter for Blogher's post of the week.

***Editors Note, while the polishes mentioned before are my favs, I am newly in love with NARS Orgasm and OPI's Calendar Girl.

Copy Cat

2010-05-28T09:34:00.002-05:00

Marinka posted a Twitter time machine today and I copied her. And I kinda feel entitled because last year at Blogher she mocked me and my blouse. It *was too* a blouse. Regardless of whether or not she tries to sell as lingerie.

1979

tweeting from the delivery room, I am a 70's child. If not by 40 days. -advancednewbornTraci

1983

Sharing barbies and Carebears is no fun! #Iamanewbigsister -Tracisharesalot

1992

Braces and Boobs in the same year who can say oxymoron? -TeenageTraci

1996

hee hee sneaking out my window for a kegger! -TeenageTraci

1998

Peace out high school, community college here I come. Sike! #makingmyparentsproud -Sexykitten02

1999

Whew! Finally got into UT! Go me! -collegiateTraci

1999

And I am going to be mom! A hot second after I turn 20! #thegifteveryfreshmanwants

-HolycrapTraci

2000

baby. married. home owner. -shouldaTriDeltaTraci

It Just Keeps Gettin' Better

2010-05-28T05:21:00.006-05:00

Editors Note:

I am really sorry about the pain in the ass captchas for comments. I hate, like HATE captchas. They deter me from commenting, I know they deter others. BUT, I had to put a stop to the spambot commenter that was pissing me off. Just take a look at this screen shot, I have 11 comments thrice daily to delete.

You know how they say things get better with age and practice? Well, I am working on the anti aging portion in regards to my brow area, but with Twitter-it's all practice. Look at me, tweeting somewhat regularly, even making up my own twitter vocab.

@JessicaGottlieb this could have been a macbook virus, but you said Birkin and I fall to me knees.

about 17 hours ago via web in reply to JessicaGottlieb
my husband actually said this to me: Instead of shopping today, why don't you just take a load off, maybe nap? Done. And Done.about 18 hours ago via web
@theBitchinWife you know, girls who say that and also have great curls tend to get pushed into the boys room#pinstraighthairclubabout 21 hours ago via web in reply to theBitchinWife
Half the power in the house is blown. Unfortunately it isn't the washing machine side of the house, but the media room side.about 21 hours ago via web

just unfollowed a someone whoretweet things into other languages. My head hurts too much to look at 150 characters of symbols.about 22 hours ago via web
*whoretweet. I made up a new word!!
@SelfishMom i'm sorry. i don't understand. you stopped eating when you were full? was there a fire? because otherwise, i'd never...2:35 PM May 25th via web in reply to SelfishMom
If there was a crazy tree in the Virgin Isles, I think Kelly fell out and hit every single branch on the way down.3:37 PM May 21st via web
Drugs. Certainly drugs were involved. #RHONYKelly3:40 PM May 21st via web
I swear I am not calling you a hooker @sthrnfairytale http://www.smartassmom.com/2010/05/amongst-all-great-and-amazing-things.html10:04 AM May 19th via web
If Gabriella Andersen thinks @Ohmommy is shallow she should go read about me and my fake boobs.

No one died from an unmade bed

2010-05-27T06:48:00.003-05:00

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch on fire or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one cares. Why should you?
-- Erma Bombeck

When I was a young girl growing up in Austin, I lived in a neighborhood with a large military population. And when the air force base wasn't crashing planes into the storage facility nearby our house, they were relocating our friends all over the world. Luckily, the closest friends of mine and Lindsay's were those of retired families.

These families were the kind that kept meticulously clean homes. Like plastic coverings on the sofas and a mother who would greet you leaving the bathroom to clean the toilet immediately after use. As a kid this made little to no sense to me. I mean, how were you supposed to take a nap on the sofa in the dead heat of summer? You'd freaking melt! And the beds were tucked in such a a fashion that you were never allowed on them. To play, we sat on the ground and heaven help us all if we used the nightstand for leverage upon standing! Your finger prints were there and don't think for a second that their mom couldn't see those.

Coming from a home that was less than meticulous, I loved visiting over. Everything was precisely where it belonged. You could find everything you needed because it was always placed back were it went. Everything about The Roses and The Williams houses were what I wanted in my home. I loved the order of everything. I was beyond impressed when Mrs.Williams served our grape soda with straws as not to let our lips turn colors. Along with the white glove household was an iron first sort of ruling class though and I wasn't a saint but I was never met with a switch or a belt. And my parents definitely didn't refer to them as 'beatings'.

Unbeknownst to me, I would take in every ounce of this housekeeping and produce a great deal of it in my own home. I am guilty of having to vacuum before I can sleep. I've never left a dish in the sink over night, unless I did a back door slide while the party continued on. And I am a compulsive bed maker, usually to the point of insanity for the rest of my fam.

I snapped a few days ago, and honestly I am shocked it took this long for it to happen. After tucking, and folding and bouncing quarters off of beds, I turn into the last bedroom of the morning to make ship shape. Before I know what happened, I hear giggling and 'shhhh's'. I march back into my bedroom to find two lumpy things at the foot of my bed, just beneath my perfectly folded matelasse quilt. Which I might have been able to handle as that is easily refoldedable. As my mind went blank and I saw white-the lumpy bumpy giggling items were not just under the matelasse quilt. Or the perfectly fluffed summer weighted down linen/silk duvet. They were at the very base of my bed making layers-the sheets. Oh for the love of all things good and holy. They were under the sheets. Had they any idea how long it takes to make the sheets just so on that monstrosity of a bed?! And all 17 pillows had been knocked askew.

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR EVERLOVING MINDS!?!?! GET.OUT.OF.MY.BED.RIGHT.THIS.INSTANT!"

Evidentially I sounded like I was being hysterical and silly because nobody moved and the giggling kinda hushed but I can't be too sure as I was just hearing ringing in my ears. A muffled voice said something like "Do you think she is really mad?" To which I assured that I was not 'really mad' just mildly psychotic. And really, can you blame them for not coming out?

Cliff Notes

2010-05-26T07:07:00.000-05:00

My son's new interest in the world of WWE makes me ill at the stomach. I don't want to discourage this for fear he will become even more interested in the asinine world of Wrestling. Frankly, I'd handle him telling me he is sex'ually active better, though.

Captain Crazy Pants (no, I am not speaking of Kelly or RHONY) sits right.fucking.beside. me at the service department last week. She proceeds to lather a bagel with entirely too much cream cheese and then smack it, open mouthed, in my ear. Which, truth be told, can induce immediate vomiting. She earned her title of Captain Crazy Pants with the winning combination of: scary feline calves and wild hair that appeared as if she had pulled it through one of those frosting caps and left the house. It was like Clash Of The Titans were having a bipolar battle in my central cortex; tell her to quit smacking! no, sit here politely until your car is complete! move to another seat and give her The Eye! No, sit here and read your book, say a Hail Mary for your rude thoughts!

I almost dry humped a gay man wearing Irish Tweed by Creed. Truth.

I am back on the hunt for a stylist. Upon finding said stylist I will need to give a description of what haircut I am looking for. I am deciding between The Best Bob Ever or something more subtle like The Most Fantastic Haircut Ever. Magazine clippings just won't suffice.

Am I the only person who wonders why the SWAT couldn't find the crazied widower on Grey's before he found his was around a hospital and shot half the Seattle Grace's staff? And how is it the Lindsay Lohan is still jet setting taking pictures with rolled up Benjamin's and rails of white powder all the while she is wanted in court?

When did Perez Hilton go on permanent leave and have his new staff writers take over? They suck. I can hardly read anymore. Has he any idea how this has affected my daily internet trolling?

I have these amazingly beautiful wall sconces in my bedroom. They are stunning and flank each side of my bed. The switch for them is at the base end of the plug, nearest the floor. My bed measures 40"(guesstimate) from the floor. I am 5'4"(lie). This makes it really hard to roll over and turn the switch off after I am done reading each evening. I needed an inventive way to read:

That's right. I wear a miners light. In the bed. To read. As a mater of fact, yes, I did post this before Mr.T could. And no, he finds it ridiculously unattractive.

I run. I ~~love~~, ~~hate~~ love/hate to run. Running shoes are not cheap, dude. So I sabotage my running shoes by purchasing ones that can't go with anything other than a 6.0 mph jog. Wild, no?

You know the feeling

2010-05-22T14:44:00.002-05:00

You know the feeling you get, deep in the pit of your stomach, when someone has something you want? Like when your friend tells you they just bought a great vacation home and it is within driving distance so they can feasibly spend weekends there, you get that 'happy for you, but really want your life right now' feeling.

Or when your friend tells you that for her 10th anniversary she got a trip to Dubai AND a gorgeous huge new diamond. But not a new setting because that is sentimental to them, but the new diamond is perfect and sparkly and you can't even tell where the Titanic hit it.

(No? You don't, because that is me and my 10th anni request.)

Well, those feelings of deep pit of your stomach envy, is totally how I feel when I read, and reread that Kelcey had her twins. I look at her pictures of her belly and her sitting in a hospital bed reading baby name books and I think "Man! What I would give to get to have two little babies. In my home. Right now."

Which only goes to show that I haven't had a little baby in my house in 8 years. Because for a split second I had to remind myself that those babies aren't like a new pair of designer denim or a new car. They are alive and soft and smell wonderful. And you can't covet something like that. You can only be amazingly happy for them.

I've also been called humble.

2010-05-19T08:37:00.005-05:00

Amongst all the great and amazing things that come from me being out of school for the summer, I did realize that being a stay at home parent is the best gig ever, I also have had a rendezvous with my kitchen.

I cook. I am pretty good at it also. Why don't I list recipes? Because if you want something tonguegasmic, go read Rachel. I mean, if Blogging is like prostitution, she'd own that corner. I said cooking, not baking. Baking I am not so good at, which is really in the best interest of my ass and all of those frequenting the town pool where I am daily with the kids.

But! I must say, I am so excited to get back together with my Kitchenaid and my Le Cruset cookware. And my apron! I am so excited to get my apron out! (I have the most dashing Lily Pulitzer one) Kicking off a full week of preparing dinner again here is my menu:

Monday-Greek Turkey burgers on pita, tzatziki and grapes.

Tuesday-zucchini, cherry tomatoes, artichokes hearts over linguine and ricotta cheese(that I made!), sauteed string beans, french crudettes and pan fried chicken cutlets

Wednesday-Chicken enchiladas and all day red beans--

Who am I kidding? The whole point here was to tell you that I made my own ricotta cheese. That's right. Who knew you could even do that?!

While I am a busy bragging, you should also know that my daughter was invited to the NJ Consortium Spelling Bee, my son was invited to the same NJ Consortium for gifted and talented in Math. I am pretty sure consortium means 'exceptionally brilliant' but I am not sure.

Holy Commune(ion)

2010-05-18T07:25:00.001-05:00

There were two things we were never to kid about when I was younger:

Ditching Mass

Wearing a slip

It really didn't mater if your skirt was dually layered or if your dress was made of thick black wool-you wore a slip. Wool was unlikely though as I grew up in Central Texas; Austin specifically if I am rubbing it in that I am better than you. Rarely can a family photo be seen without some wayward slip creeping away from a hem line. I mean, there are like 2000 women in my family, someone wore a 32" slip when they needed a 28" more than a few times in more than a few photos.

Somewhere before spanx became a staple in my dresser and sometime after 4 moves, I parted ways with my slips.

The thing about slips is they are a lot like eggs, you seem not to have them when you need them.

And what better time to need one than when you are offering the gifts in front of your entire congregation? At your son's First Holy Communion, thats when.

I may have planned my sons wardrobe, his sisters, and in all honesty -mine- for the past 4 weeks. I may have sought after and salivated over the french blue ruffle trimmed dress, with the most delish synched breast and pockets -oh, how I love pockets in a dress- but somewhere in the confusion of mailing announcements and pulling wiggly teeth in time for the photographer I forgot to check the transparency of my First Communion selection attire. It happens, right? I managed to buy a dress, get it home and forget that it needed a barrier. AND I *didn't* have time to make a trip on the way to Mass. AND I *did* cut a pair of tights in two and attempted to make it work.

In the light of my bathroom it was fine. In the light of my bathroom, my ass *was not* visible.

As we were leaving Chilies*, my girl friend leaned over to whisper "Hey, you really need a slip for that dress."

I have no doubt that three things went through someones mind in the moment at church, as I walked toward the alter with my meticulously groomed husband before our entire church, in front of my meticulously groomed children:

Look at that nice woman, limping to the alter in her black walking boot and her stacked white and golden beige BCBG wedge. Her stylist must be so proud.

Look at that loose woman walk down to the alter carrying the blessed sacraments while her ass is out for us all to see. Her family must be so proud.

*First communicants choice of restaurant for celebrating.

books

2010-05-12T15:02:00.003-05:00

If you would have asked me 19 weeks ago what I would look forward to as my semester ended, I would have told you “shopping, lunching with my girlfriends and functioning on my own schedule.” Reading may not have been the first thing I thought of. That is where I would have to admit to you that I don’t always know myself so well.

This would also be the resounding gong of the past 19 weeks of my life.

I, simply put, don’t know myself that well.

19 weeks ago I would have told you that I don’t test well. This isn’t true.

19 weeks ago, I would have told you I don’t have proper study skills. This is untrue.

19 weeks ago, I would have told you that I don’t learn easily, I grow bored quickly and will run away when something gets hard. This, amongst all else, is very untrue.

I learned that I can learn anything I put my mind to. I learned that when things get tough, I am resourceful and will stop at nothing and no one to find the answers I need. I learned that I am just as smart as my mom, sister and girlfriends (Thanks, Christa and Carolyn!) told me I am.

I arrived at Barnes and Noble half an hour early for my study group last week, I wandered around the store without children asking for books, and without the mad rush to get on que and purchase the gift card I was there for.

I missed reading.

The smell of books, of what I guess to be a printing manufacturing plant. Their soft covers and the unevenly stacked pages of hardback books are lustful. The pretty fonts gently whispering for me to pick them up from the many table tops spread about the store.

I forgot how much I enjoy jumping into a great story. And how much I appreciate my short term memory and its ability to reread books. My mind is generous in it’s storage capacity, leaving just enough space for new information, yet discarding temporary stimulation. I love becoming engaged in the characters, sensing the way the story line will fall into place and then discovering that I am not really a detective, but I had already read the book.

I started making a list of books I look forward to reading as soon as my mandated Anatomy and Physiology or Chemistry text books were off my desk. All of that being information I had to insist my brain hang onto.

There are many things I am looking forward to now that my semester is done. I am looking forward to what 19 weeks of sacrificing shopping for studying has bestowed(4.0 anyone?)*. I am looking forward to working out in the morning instead of chanting “an A will get me further tomorrow than an elevated heart rate today.” More than anything, I am looking forward to enjoying one of the simplest (and cheapest!) forms of entertainment.

Please leave me a comment as to what book you would recommend I read.

*addendum: *ahem* I will not have a 4.0 this semester. But thanks A MILLION TRILLION times for ever, EVER thinking that I would.

A Mother Is

2010-05-06T21:19:00.003-05:00

Next Tuesday, May 11th, will mark the day that changed my life, 11 years ago. 11 years ago, as an emotionally selfish 19 year old, I sat on the toilet seat at the apartment I shared with my two best friends, together we waiting to see if a stick I peed on would forever change the course of my life. It did. Shortly thereafter I read the short story below, at the time I found it poetic and simple. At 12 weeks pregnant I printed it out and put it in my pregnancy journal. I read it again, 12 weeks after my daughter was born. Funny how 40 weeks took me from a 19 year old to a 20 year old, a selfish teenage to a responsible mother. I read this story once or twice a year and there still are not words I can put together better to embody my view point of motherhood. And the view just gets better every day.

Time is running out for my friend.

We are sitting at lunch when she casually
mentions that she and her husband are thinking
of "starting a family." What she means is that her
biological clock has begun its countdown and she
is considering the prospect of motherhood.

"We're taking a survey," she says, half jokingly.
"Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say carefully.

"I know," she says. "No more sleeping in on Saturdays,
no more spontaneous vacations..."

But that is not what I mean at all.

I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her.
I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth
classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of
childbirth heal, but that becoming a mother will leave
her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever
vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never read
a newspaper again without asking "What if that had been my
child?" That every plane crash, every fire will haunt her.
That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will
look at the mothers and wonder if anything could be worse
than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit
and think she should know that no matter how sophisticated
she is, becoming a mother will immediately reduce her to the
primitive level. That a slightly urgent call of "Mom!" will
cause her to drop her best crystal without a moment's
hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she
has invested in her career, she will be professionally
derailed by motherhood. She might successfully arrange for
child care, but one day she will be waiting to go into an
important business meeting, and she will think about her
baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of
discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he
is all right.

I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions
will no longer be routine. That a visit to Mc Donald's and a
five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather
than the women's room will become a major dilemma. That
right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming
children, issues of independence and gender identity will be
weighed against the prospect that danger may be lurking in
the rest room.

I want her to know that however decisive she may be at the
office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that
eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but will
never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so
important, will be of less value to her once she has a child.
That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring,
but will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to
accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or stretch marks
will become badges of honor.

My friend's relationship with her husband will change, but
not in the ways she thinks. I wish she could understand how
much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder
the baby or who never hesitates to play with his son. I think
she should know that she will fall in love with her husband
again for reasons she would never have imagined.

I wish my modern friend could sense the bond she will feel
with other women throughout history who have tried desperately
to stop war and prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing
your son learn to hit a baseball. I want to capture for her
the laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for
the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real
that it hurts.

My friend's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have
formed in my eyes.

"You'll never regret it," I say finally.

"Bravery Is Being The Only One Who Knows You're Afraid"

2010-05-02T15:24:00.009-05:00

Thats the diver sign for "I am doing awesome!"

Swimming is natural for everyone of the SmartAss Family. We all are conversant with water. Growing up skiing on Lake Austin, cliff diving at Pace Bend Park, frequent trips to Galveston Island and owning a pool in our backyard where we instituted a love and respect for the water in our children and where Missy B openly asked the Virgin Mary to trade her green eyes for fins.

Swimming in the open waters of the ocean, any ocean, is an entirely different subject matter.

Last spring, while in Jamaica , Mr.T and I had to take ourselves through rigorous talk therapy to snorkel with our children. And to some mild extend, I suffered a mommy milestone. The one in which you think bad thoughts toward your child. I refused to ever put myself in that position again. I am an adult. I can control somewhat of my parenting debacles:

"Oh, and felt like a failure 3 times in the last week:

1)while snorkeling, Missy B looks up and says, 'My fin fell off...' Quickly I dive before I can chicken out to what lies below. In those 8 seconds, I think about swimming off and leaving her in the Caribbean ocean. First time, in 9 plus years I have had a single moment of parental defeat. I am not sure if this is an accomplishment or not."

This past spring holiday, we spent in St.Maarten. To oblige Missy B's deep love for all things of animal and their natural habitat, she refuses to support Swimming With Dolphins and she asked to scuba for one trillionth time. Our compromise: SNUBA. The short form is this: shared tank, shorter dive time and intimate nearness with a trained instructor. Most importantly, it is given the thumbs up for young children.

Now, I had an airtight alibi to get me out of this excursion: Me and a little thing called a broken foot do not abode for flippers, which are reccomended for snuba diving.

Though, that is exactly where I wound up.

This blog is rattling on and I am growing bored. Here's the cliff notes:

12:00 Board boat

12:10 Mr.T begins negotiating the diving obligations

12:45 negotiations cease and I am suiting up for a dive

12:46 I frantically review hand signals that mean life and death when you are 20 feet below. 20.fucking.feet.below. I said!

12:50 debriefed on the dive laws on the Dive Buddy and Buddy Band theory in efforts to keep you with your peeps.

1:25 in the water, Missy B is fearless. My paper bag in useless as I am trying to breath into in while A) in the water and B) wearing a scuba oxygen tank. I am screwed, officially.

1:30 at dive spot. First attempt down. I make it approximately 3 feet below the water and quickly come back up.

You're sure this is safe?

1:30 met with a giant eye roll from You-Know-Who and the instructors insistence that everyone needs a few tries before they are comfortable breathing below the water.

1:35 second attempt. 6 feet down. Abandon buddy theory and come back up to the surface, gasping for air as I forgot about the whole oxygen thing. Insert another set of eye rolls.

1:36 dive instructor earns his money a few times over when he doubles as a shrink.

How the hell do you suggest to breath naturally?

I have LUNGS. Water doesn't seem to work well in there.

1:37 have you any idea how fucking nuts you can become when you are deprived of O₂?

1:43 third and final dive attempt. I make it 6 feet, again. Which might I add, you never need to be any deeper than that. Forget which way is up, abandon buddy band, leaving my child in the depths of the ocean with a strange man. OMG! OMFG! I am going to drown in front of my entire family on spring holiday. Forget if I just breathed in or out. Breath out and notice my bubbles. BUBBLES! I follow them.

1:43 Full onset of passionate fits by ripping breathing masks off my face and floundering about declaring my hate for dives and how I will not be going back down there. All the while the instructor has his pipe lit and is waxing philosophically and leaning back in his barcalounger trying to shrink my head to get me back into the dive.

1:43 Missy B has already resumed the dive. With or with out me and the instructor.

Eff ya'll. I am perfectly fine. Dive, dive away.

I never went back down there. Missy B didn't come up for 45 minutes.

See how my arm is extended? It's because I am hanging onto the life raft for all that I have.

Summer Spring wants Needs.

2010-04-28T15:29:00.007-05:00

A few years ago, I started utilizing the complimentary personal shopping service Neimans offers. I go in each Spring and Winter, work up a new color palate and flattering cuts with the aid of a shopper. Though I can't purchase the entirety of the wardrobe we select, I have made improvisations. Last year, salivating over a pair of silk lined, sailor gathered waist and a blown out leg in the sharpest off white, I realized Diane Von Furstenberg slacks aren't in my price point. But a pair of very similar of Old Navy ones were. No, there is no comparison to DVF and ON, but taking a pair of $3 slacks(clearance rack) to the tailor and spending 6 times the cost to have them custom fit to my body gave a slightly more flattering effect.

I won't make it to the shopper this season, we ususally have selection made just after Spring Fashion week, but the combo of a busted foot and this incrediably heavy school load made that so last season. Either way, Mothers Day is right around the corner, this is when I dole out a few high end and not so high end items I expect to be gifted with.

Since I am STILL recovering from my broken foot, anything with a heel is out of the question. This is fine. Except a fairly decent amount of my shoe collection is comprised of heels. I am making a very serious list of FABOOSH flats to wear through the next few months. Corso Como and Arturo Chiang are my latest obsessions. They are trendy with a side of wearability. Corso will get all of you Earth lovers happy, they focus a great deal on sustainable products and are made in Brazil, where they were created and they vow to continue out of. These Corsos will have to do until I hunt ~~and kill my prey~~ down the pair just below that were feature in Lucky last month:

Lucky printed the advertisement below (does anyone else hear 'ad-VERT-is-ment') and it has since made me thismuch closer to crazy town than I was before the mag came in. I can't wrap my head around running an ad and not making doubley sure that the item is readily available. SHAME ON YOU LUCKY. And shame on you Nora's Shoe Shop for not returning emails quickly OR phone calls. Fuck. I love these shoes.

In all actuality, this whole outfit is smashing. The skirt is an inexpensive Rampage number you can find at Macy's and the like. The top could be any colorful polo you'd like. Shockingly, again, I don't own a single traditional polo.

I am very fond of the flowery tunic and shorts look with a great pair of gladiators. Now with tunics I have to be very careful. I am not tall. Average height of 5'4", so if it is to flowy, to boxy or too long I run the risk of looking 7 months pregnant or just wearing ill fitting clothing. This one hits exactly 4 inches below my hip and there fore it's perfect. I picked up a great one at H&M a few weeks ago. I can pair it with the pair of chocolate brown shorts I purchased, also H&M, my standard Jcrew khaki skirt or straight legs jeans. Plus, I get to wear one of my most FAV pieces of jewelry:

Generally speaking I am a skirt/dress girl in the appropriate months. But this year I must-MUST-will-stop-at-nothing to get a pair of printed shorts. Jcrew has a great pair right now, that I am lusting over.

I am all about owls right now, I can't get enough of them! And accessories. I am the freaking Ayatollah of Rock 'n rolla-cessories. The vast amount of costume jewelry, headbands, cocktail rings, etc is mind numbing. But it totally helps to perk up the oldest thing I have in my closet. Anything looks new with a great accessory.

I also have a strict rule of not buying anything black or white. I adhere to that policy a few years ago and outside of the standard black t, I have stayed true. Oh minus the belted white top I got last week. But in all fairness, I have a pair of seersucker pants, and until I get that vibrant red polo, I needed a white shirt. The dresses shown below are my fav pics for fun colors that I can jazz up with any number of my jewelry. That bag? I have two words for you: BIG.BUDDHA. Learn it. Live it. Love it. Stunning, nobody knows about them yet and they are uber current. Did I mention, inexpensive? (like in the sub $100 category) The small gold aviators are on my list because my husband kindasorta wigged the fuck out on me for taking controlling interest of his. These are Raybans, which BRAVO, Rayban for making SMALL aviators for chicks.

Go forth. Buy color. Look FEROSH!

summer 10 by tmanettas@hotmail.com featuring Big Buddha bags

Plastic

2010-04-20T14:43:00.004-05:00

Modern Mom had a great post regarding plastic surgery. Would you tell your kids if you had any work done?

Great question. With all of the body image issues our children experience and the obesity epidemic, is it a good idea to share our parental shallowness? Can it not lend to the "Do as I say, not as I do" theory of child rearing? What message does it send to our kids when we say we aren't happy with something and there is an artificial, if not expensive, was to fix it? Or is it a line in the sand we draw involving what we tell our kids about and what we don't?

There are plenty of things I don't, and won't, share with my children. I don't think they need to be privy to a myriad of adult decisions I make. These might be things I choose to share as they are adults, maybe not. Although I try to show my children the beauty of open mindedness and never passing judgement, I can't guarantee they won't develop these character traits on their own. Try as I might, I make an impression, impact and often times-influence.

I didn't tell my kids. I will one day. In ten years to be exact, when I need a replacement set. I have resolved to be honest should they notice and ask what and why I had cosmetic surgery. So far they haven't noticed(and yes, I am in the nude occasionally in front of them). And honestly, most people don't even notice the difference.

Can you? Would you tell your kids? Why or why not?

Spring Holiday 2009

Summer 2009

*the least you can you is tell me your thoughts, I just showed you pictures of me in a swim suit!

Let's Talk Bucket List's

2010-04-15T13:17:00.002-05:00

We all know what a bucket list is, yes?

It's an imaginary(if not carved into stone) list of things one wants to attain before death. It couples the whole live like you were dying theory of experiencing life. It's a fine line between bucket lists and goals.

I subscribe to neither.

Goals? Well, kinda, I guess. But my goals always focus on something I know I can attain. Otherwise, why set your self up for failure? I am a happy go lucky kinda girl. I don't hold grudges. I search for the wonderful moments. I have more than I could have ever dreamed I would have. I have been evacuated from a hurricane via private jet, I have seen parts of the world that I deem the most spectacularly beautiful. I have felt the presence and generosity of God. I have lived amazingly spiritual moments. I have seen the beauty of children and smelled the scent of their hair. I have read books that made me change my ways. I have loved. And been loved. I've also lost.

I don't yearn for skydiving or hiking the appalachian. I don't even view finishing college as a bucket list check off.

There are just somethings I expect of myself. I expect to raise a respectfully intelligent and profiting family. I expect to be kind and leave wonderful memories.

However.......this weekend I will witness a girlfriend knock one thing off her bucket list. I will be in Boston to see not one, but two, of my closest friends complete the Boston Marathon. This is the 'say all, be all' of races. You can't simply sign up, you must qualify. Meaning, you have to run another marathon with a satisfyable time to be able to compete in this one.

Nothing, I mean nothing, inspires me more than A Marathoner. Excuse me, my friends, The Marathoners.

It will, possibly be, forever be the one and only thing on my bucket list.

A Glass Half Full

2010-04-13T05:09:00.000-05:00

Cleaning your own house sucks.

It really, really does.

I used to be the reigning chair for Clean Your Own Damn House, And Like It! Until I tiptoed to the dark side and asked for help.

It was lovely. Someone would sanitize my toilets and tubs and I could do other daunting tasks and still fulfill my duties without falling behind.

Oh how I love the smell of bleach. And Pinesol. And purple Fabuloso. Still, very few things can rival the great feeling I experience when I clean.

While I could, can rather, find the upside in the housekeeper, I could also look around and know the job wasn't done the way that I did it.

I am a good, no scratch that, great housekeeper. I am the anti hoarder. I am the queen of freshly laundered and pressed linens. This housewife gig, I was made for it.

I never found "the one". I went through "I command $250 per cleaning as I have a degree in hotel management"(this is not an exaggeration). I went through "I can't use your vacuum, so I won't vacuum". I went through 3 ladies that were blind to dog hair and 1 that didn't know that I meant to hang up the laundry on my bed instead of my husbands pile of dirty dry cleaning. 6 total before throwing in the dust rags though. I shrugged when a vase was found broken. I sighed when a candelabra was cracked. Over my sons tears I explained the hard knocks of life of a shattered basketball trophy and asked him to pass the super glue showing him once again that mom can repair anything.

Monday, magic Monday. That spring break, Whole Foods Monday. It was all for naught when I walked in, anticipating the smell of cleanliness and the welcoming hands of Anya to help unload groceries. But instead smelled. Shit. The basement bath had flooded, wall to wall shit water. If there is one thing I have limited patience for it's out and out filth. And this was filth. And she had left. Left the house, cleaners splattered about, a spin out tire mark in the yard and never bothered to call me.

Hazmat cleaners.

plus

Plumbers.

plus

Carpet cleaners.

equals

Traci soft scrubbed her shower tiles this weekend.

And I almost kind of liked it. Almost kinda.

But not nearly as much as I liked someone else doing it.

I Can't Believe I Will Be Late For This

2010-04-12T07:16:00.003-05:00

I just plopped down to eat a quick breakfast of cottage cheese and check facebook. I turn on the Today Show and see this horrible story of Josie Rattley(sp?) and the severe beating she took from a young man. Possibly over a nasty text she sent him regarding his brothers death.

By all accounts, Josie is beautiful. She is now unrecognizable in a hospital bed in a coma. From a beating. From a peer.

(Florida? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? This isn't the first brutal beating that has aired on the news in the very recent.)

This post isn't about the girl and the boy who beat her, probably close to her death. It's about the young mans parents who just appeared on national television. The young mans' parents that showed their faces in an effort to "tell his side of the story".

I'll tell you his side: He was pissed. He stomped on a girl. He placed his hands on her in such a violent way that she may not wake up. Does it really matter what the reason? Does it really mater what provoked him? Does it? DOES.IT?

I can't even tell you-words can't encompass-but this male figure, sitting next to the young mans' mother, was as close to a fucking waste of air as I have seen in a long while. Unapologetic. Rude. Ignorant. Yes, grief is a rough, rough thing. Maybe it's why this male image in the the violent offenders life was so inappropriate on the news. Maybe it was why the young man beat this young woman so badly. I am not sure. Grief has never brought me to beat someone to near death. Grief has never left me so deft I can't grasp the human behavior and the appropriateness that life insist you use.

The minute I find the clip, I will post it. But just trust me. This man was disgusting. And if this is what we are presented with as a passionate reason to believe that this young man has a reason beyond being sick, good luck to him.

*Because I can't leave this all dark and depressing, but can I please get an 'atta boy' for not ripping on the mans bad hair? Please?

Because Nobody Reads Blogs On The Weekend*

2010-04-10T09:12:00.003-05:00

Have you ever asked yourself "Gee, I wonder just what kind of fresh hell I look like after a night like last night."

I am here to tell you, this is what you look like. This is a hangover. The common place 2 25 minutes facial routine before bed-scratched. At least my manicure is in place, right?

*famous blogger quote.

Read About Me!

2010-04-08T22:51:00.002-05:00

I was checking out peoples 'about me' and bio's searching for something to fill that void we all go searching the internet for when we are in need of a voyeuristic fix.

And you know what I found? I found that when people have their bios written in 3rd party, it totally cracked me up. You know that it appears you asked someone to write about you, right? I mean, I was thinking how does that all work out? Do you go to someone and pitch yourself and the need for a 3rd party write up? And then do you feed that info to them or do you make them google you? Gah! What if you never did anything with your life? What if you turn it over to someone to write about you and they go all New Politician! on you and dig up every little line of crack you snorted off strippers tits?! And all 13 of your Daytona Beach Spring Break fling?! Or that tattoo. Oh God, not the tattoo.

Well, this is what I came up with. Lemme know what you think.....Or don't.

But don't ask if you can write my bio.

The Bio....

You Need a Blog Post and I Need to Study

2010-04-06T21:06:00.012-05:00

There are 5 weeks of school left in this semester. I am ready for this to be done. Cliche as it may be, I am doing everything with anatomy on the brain. I can't eat without thinking about which muscles contract to make this happen, I can't fall asleep at night until I scour my text books to find out which sympathetic reflex allows sunburned skin cells to flake larger than the typical squamous cells you lose.

Shit. Is it a sympathetic reflex?

A week ago, I selfishly took a week off of school, not the week deemed for spring holiday, but the one abutting my children's. I know it was questionable to take a week off missing two chem lectures and an Anatomy lect. Not to mention a quiz that can not be made up.

But this is one of those moments when I sat back and asked myself what is truly of value in my life.

Anatomy and Physiology aren't going anywhere. Chemistry isn't going anywhere. The nursing program, isn't going anywhere. But my kids? They are going somewhere. They are growing and changing and riding that cusp of memories. The ones you torment your parents with.

Every morning from 6:30 am until someone woke up and asked to go to pool, was my study spot. Our view was unreal. Our suite was unreal. Watching my professors lectures from thousands of miles away, live taped, was unreal. Mr.Google occupying the suite above us was, you guessed it, UNREAL. I would forgo a few hours of sleep again and again to get to take in every moment with my family and try not to let the need for studying get in the way. Aside from that, I sleep really freaking well with a gut full of vodka and a Heavenly Bed.

Thanks for the heads up locals, you must love watching East Coasters jump in your fine waters with sparkling earrings to attract the barracudas.

Happy hour everyday, sometimes before 12, made new meaning of the word. I am so happy to be in a place in my marriage where we can sit and talk and laugh and not have to discuss kids, the house, the usual. Which, thank God, because whenever I looked like I might take out a book to read I would get a "put that down, talk to me and hold my hand."

I Snuba dived with her. And if there was a sound I could type to sound like I am sucking in my breath, I would. To see her in such her element...was moving beyond words. She was such a natural. Even when I was freaking the fuck out, 10 feet under water and I couldn't remember if I had just breathed in or just breathed out. Which, in case you don't know, can cause a pretty good problem when you are relying on a tank of oxygen to keep your heart beating while you BREATH UNDER THE WATER.

You must have lost your damn mind if you think I will Snuba with her.

Breakfast, just me and my boy. We get a lot of time to catch up, because he is still a mommy's boy, but I will always take more. I know that won't last forever and I am sure I don't really want it to. For the time being, oh thank you to the Gods for giving me this gift of delishly tanned 40 pounds of adorable.

I could go on, and on. But lemme tell you this: St.Maarten might go down in the books as the best family vacation we have ever had. We will go back. Soon. Stories were created. Memories were made. Photos were taken, but really, not too many. I just left that thing in my bag and wanted to selfishly let the images imprint on my brain without the device in front of my face.

Eff you. No eff you.

With all that said, it was a family vacation, it wasn't all sunshine and roses.

Potty Mouth

2010-04-04T10:05:00.002-05:00

Last week we were blessed with one of those particularly gorgeous East Coast days. 70 something and sunny. It was one of those days where I, along with the remaining 22 million people in NYC, thought it'd be a great day to hang at Central Park. Now, look, there are a million more parks in NYC and they are all about 40 times more crowded than the parks in Hoboken, but Central Park is by Mr.T's office (whose brilliant idea was it to employ him on 5th, I'd like to know) and lunch was planned as well, so off we went.

Before we crossed over the river via the Lincoln tunnel, we stopped over to a convenient store for some quick snacks.

Missy B explained why she chose spicy chex mix while V tried to share his gummy worms. I selfishly sat in the front seat drinking in every second of the parental bliss.

"Mom, can I say a bad word?" Missy B asks while eating her spicy snack.

What's funnier than little kids using profanity, I ask you?! But I can't be that transparent, I have to play it cool like I know it isn't totally acceptable, though there is nothing I want more in the world than my children to grow up to be seasoned and classy cursers.

"Well, which word?"

"The "d" word?"

Duh. The d word is totally organic in the profanity aisle. It's not like I'd okay the use of the f word or even the witch with a b. I have standards, you know?

"Um, okay. But just once."

"Goddamn! These are hot!"

Happy Easter, the Lord has risen and then promptly wanted to return, I am sure.

One For The Road

2010-03-23T20:59:00.003-05:00

....you see....

I had a blog post for you before we left for The Island, but.....

My school board is going haywire; our state is declaring bankruptcy, they have cut our schools budget by 80%, my taxes went up a few grand, the administrators have forgone their raises. The school(s) are looking at cutting art and music (they already did away with the majority of our Gift and Talented).
I started Ohmommy's polish pickles yesterday. They have to sit and marinate or pickle for at least 3 days. When we are back from holiday we will either be greeted with a wonderful snack or be forced to burn our house down.
I got side tracked after the second Heinken while cleaning the birds cage and before I realized what I was doing, I was washing bird feces in my kitchen sink. Fuck.
You know, the whole, leaving the house immaculate thing-man. It just takes up entirely too much time. And, I fired the housekeeper, so it must be done.
I was all excited that netflix delivered Hard Candy for the airplane ride. But then I realized that if I thought I threw away Chapter 6 in my Anatomy and Physiology text book and later found it hidden in my Chemistry text, that meant I threw away the netflix movie.
And when I was telling Mr.T the story, he informed me he was already bumped to first class.
Right. I did actually fall laughing to the floor, because I'd rather kick a ~~kitten~~ kidney across my kitchen fucking floor than be left in coach with the kids. I don't give a good gawdamned how much he flies, first class or otherwise, I'll be a monkeys uncle before that kinda stuff flies.
Yesterday, Missy B asked me if the hotel was a 5 star establishment. Which left me asking, why didn't she shoot for a 6 star? And nevermind entitlement issues, that apple, truly doesn't fall far.
Note to the Islanders: yes, as a mater of fact, my insomnia did cause me to forget my waxing appointment and my eye brow threading. Which one do you think anyone will notice?

Someone get me a weedwacker, stat.

Regarding Karma: Holy Eff

2010-03-22T03:01:00.002-05:00

Alternate Post Title: If You Blog It, It Will Happen.

'Member last week? I posted some week long endeavors from my phone? I got a million emails about the concealer I spoke of. And when I say a million I mean, like 4.

The "concealer" I spoke of was actually "corrector" (my bad). It is Bobbi Brown's corrector and the magic of the element is using a brush to apply and not your finger tips. But corrector in Bisque aside-I am challenging that little tub to a duel. This insomnia is kicking my ass. And no amount of corrector, concealer or otherwise will disguise this.

I startle awake at the hour of 2 and toss back and forth with those head filling thoughts that are fully out of my control until 4, 5 or 6.

I am down right petrified to take anything more than ~~that shit that helped MJ sleep~~ benedryl.

So I am at a cross road.

In the midst of the last few painful sleep deprived nights, I came up with a few platforms for my Spring Holiday Blog Post*:

I've not used my creative licensure (it's a Brit word, it is too!) to take a stab at anyone. I mean, I have a WEB ADDRESS and a personal BLOG, I can write whatever the hell I want and the 123 of you that visit a day actually read this nonsense. Though I totally could take a post to rip into somebody, you'd all take my side and I'd be vindicated. And slander people at the same moment. See? Nobody can ever accuse me of being classless again.
Bill Maher hates Catholics, but I love him. Is hating Catholics the same as hating our church? Or does he just hate the Catholic church and not all Catholics. And isn't that kinda of similar to loving Whole Foods canned hearts of palm, but hating Whole Foods? One isn't one without the other. And might I be the one to point out-all religions have scandals? True fucking story. Even scandals hurting children and betraying trust all around. Is the Catholic church selling their scandals and brand of kool aid in the poorest areas of Africa to 'fill pews'? News flash! Dirt villages won't bring in revenue. And who the hell cares what brand of 'Be Kind To Others' anyone subscribes in as long as they do? Do I buy into every dust bunnied corner of my religion? Nope. But show me a devout and I'll show you something they don't take up with 1000%. "Going to church doesn't make you religious any more than standing in a garage makes you a car."

*Last year, I collected some prized bloggers and asked them to supply my readers with material while I was in Jamaica. This year-no such luck. Well, luck is on my side because I will be in St.Maarten for a week under what Weather.com refers to as tropical rain for 6 days. Unlucky for you becau----wait. No, I have it backwards...

A week in pictures-not an Annie Lebovitz Post

2010-03-19T05:41:00.000-05:00

Can you make out that faint figure there at the top of the tree? That is Missy B. Though I was terrified as all fuck that she would fall and Best Case Scenario would wind up with a broken arm Worst Case Scenario she would fall and knock herself out. But, she is very agile. If she gets herself up there, she can get herself back down.

Louboutin knee high electra hot boots. This Christmas, Mr.T asked me if I wanted jewelry or boots. I chose these. They don't live in my closet. Boo.

A Maybach just moved in last week. Next door. In their garage next to their other 160K Mercedes. They need something powerful to get them quickly to the hangar to catch their private jet taking them down to their townhouse in Sanibel. What am I doing wrong?

Not makeup, obviously. I just got a new concealer and well, I cancelled my botox appt for that day. And that yellow scarf-love. In love. I have paired it with everything. My newest favorite outfit; a navy and white striped tank, this scarf, khaki pants, persimmon flats and my Justice denim jacket.

Day 3 at the park after school. AND, YAY! Whole Foods just got a shipment of Pink Lady apples. If you aren't an apple connoisseur, look for these rightnow! at your market. They are simply the best.

Holy Tons Of Pink Pajamas. That is all.

I've told you before about this bag. My only claims to fame are A)watching Arod his rookie year and talking about how hot he was and how he would totally be the hottest ball player ever. And B)I routinely get on an awfully tall horse and beat a loud drum and sometimes wear a sandwich board while simultaneously ringing a bell to brag about finding goodies and having them before a mag prints them. I bought this bag back in October, and lookie what is on the floor at my local department store!

SWOON My anniversary gift. Just hope Mr.T gets the memo. (I want the one on -the anatomically correct- right side.)

Well, mornin' to you Mr.Deer. Didn't mean to disturb your yard munching breakfast.

The Apple And The Tree From Which It Fell

2010-03-17T05:09:00.002-05:00

Missy B had a daunting task of completing a bibliography this week. Which is teacher talk for "here's a project too big for your 10 year, go ahead and scratch your wine and popcorn dinner and clear your Real Housewives of Whatever schedule." In an effort to complete my own bibliography of Must Feed The Kids, I sent Missy B upstairs with my laptop.....

Later that night, as I am surfing the internet I hear an oddly familiar voice. Which couldn't be my kids, as they had positioned themselves ~~up my arse~~ into my cool super soft sheets (because thats what you do when Daddy is gone).

No, Missy B had found photobooth and created a Vlog and it was autoplaying, which really? Could scare the shit out of a single mom. IN.THE.MIDDLE.OF.THE.NIGHT.

The real gem of the vid is the last few seconds when she is frantic to close out.

hint, listen for me screaming up the stairs.

Disclaimer: her hair didn't look like that at 7 am and her bedroom is actually quite pulled together.

Love You Austin, Your Adoring FanGirl (not a SXSW post)

2010-03-16T06:09:00.000-05:00

SX.

South By.

SXSW.

Whatever you want to call it, even if you are there, it means nothing. Unless you are from there or of the few ~~brainwashed~~ that hold the bumper sticker: "I'm not from Texas, but I got here as soon as I could!"

I'd love to poll Mr.Lady and ask her what her thoughts were of and now regarding Texas. It's a cult. And Austin is has the biggest following.

I am from Austin. As in I was birthed in Brackenridge. Grew up on Riverside. Mudded behind Bowie High School. Lived through many Dress Like Elvis days at Chuys and ate myself ill on their creamy jalapeno dip. I was brought up through Emo days of Gals Panic and the evolution of the city being coined The Live Music Capitol of The World.

I was the birthright that thought GW hung the muthereffing moon. And you can say what you want about his 8 years when he oversaw you. But when he jumped in and offered us in lower performing schools the opportunity to attend better schools without our parents taking the tax burden of said districts, well he would have hung your moon as well.

Austin isn't just my hometown, it is that in which gives me chill bumps when someone says Lamar, Travis or LBJ. (Blvd, Lake or Library) Oak trees dipping low in front yards begging to be played on, if only the sun will let up for a bit. The warm thick air of summer will always ignite a passion I can't explain. Bluebonnets. Have you seen bluebonnets?!? Holy brightness. I beg you to spy a highway full off them and not want to roll around in their bouquet. The freeness of wearing your pajamas anywhere at anytime is a feeling of utter comfort I won't find until I am home and still to this day Mr.T cannot figure out why I can wear my jammies all day long on a Saturday.

I can sing you a ballad on the weather and the lakes and the sweetness like you cannot believe in regards to -not just southern hospitality- but general happiness. People are kind and genuine.

Austin birthed not only me and Missy B, but Whole Foods and the hippy act as far as I concerned. Not the 'free love' hippy act, but the other hippy act. The eat right, feel right, love yourself, hippy act.

I feel robbed being on the East Coast, I am snippy and blunt. Which is freeing, but also, I've lost my Austiness and gained a rough 'will not be fucked with' edge.

This the time of year I miss it the most. Yes, I will even partake in the new ever growing population causing greater traffic. This is the time of year when I grow bitter that snow is melting away and I want to be home. This is the time of year when me and my girlfriends would blow off a day to go out to Pale Face park, cliff dive and drink water and vodka-as to stay hydrated. This is when we would forge ahead, like the last 7 miles in a marathon, before the heat really sweeps down and tornado season kicks into full tilt.

This is when I can't read twitter streams because reading that some 'found Magnolia Cafe! The best!!' makes me want to go postal. That is MY cafe and no, I don't want to share.

I just really, really want to go home.

Me, No Makeup and TWO Vlogs. PLUS, my husband Curls.

2010-03-12T09:42:00.005-05:00

Because I couldn't decide which one accented my forehead that so badly needs to be re-injected with toxic poison and I love the second one where Miss B shows up.

Mr.T. He Curls. Yeah, I didn't know people did this in real life either. PS, smartasses, he's the one with his foot on the 'button', not the balding man in the back.

Stigmata

2010-03-10T09:03:00.005-05:00

Last week I went for another opinion regarding my foot.

Which is a further demonstration of both my ability to spend money for little to no reason and sheer brilliance.

I knew the 'script for breaking a foot couldn't possibly be relinquishing your license for the better part of the year (even though the majority of the world would rather not drive in the presence of a left foot driver.) Or telling someone with the VO₂ max of Lance Armstrong that they would need to be sedentary for equal the amount of time it takes to gestate a full term baby.

If you ask hard enough, someone will tell you what you want to hear.

Kinda.

"Give me prozac or give me freedom."

I said through clenched teeth while holding the doctor by his lapel against the wall.

"What?"

"I'm about to commit a fucking crime. I need to be active, I am going insane. Tell me something physical I can do, or give me a prescription that will make me think otherwise."

An anti hallucinating med wouldn't have hurt either.

"Well, you can try some upper body work and maybe a recumbent bike."

Which isn't much different than taking away Mario Andretti's Mach3 and giving him a minivan.

Since I have a beach vacation in St.Maarten in two weeks, this is no time to sit around and relish in bon bons and soaps. We are down to brass tacks, friends. I have swim suits to don.

I went straight for the gym. Which is another giant success on my part, because it was either that or the crack den. Which would be convenient as I hear Marinka is drug trafficking.

The next morning I woke up to my foot looking like I had, in fact, become pregnant, diagnosed with toxemia and in my last trimester- all in a 7 hour window. Paired with a funky bruise at the very base of my foot.

Now, we here at Casa Smart Ass are fairly religious. So, I am sure that this blood pooling is not due to crutching my way into the gym, or trying to dance after a few more vodka's than I will admit to.

It is the Lenten season, after all. I am sure it's just a stigmata.

ALERT THE MEDIA, TRACI IS WEARING A BIKINI!

2010-03-09T15:23:00.004-05:00

Well, now that I got you here, please spread the news ManTraci, formerly Smartarse is NOW smartarsemom. Please tweet or retweet or point and laugh-just please make note.

You can follow me by clicking HERE. I promise to have exceptionally witty tweets.

PS, it's totally springtime as you can see by a flower my daughter picked for me.

How To Swank A Track Suit

2010-03-05T00:56:00.000-05:00

I must confess a few things:

I am not a fashion expert. I may appear to be, but I am not.

I love my track suits, sweat suits, gym pants, what have you's.

Contrary to belief, I don't wear them to slum around in my errands. I wear them to be comfortable. To move easily and not have to adjust. I wear them because they hug my body in the right places and hide what I don't want accentuated, after all, there is a reason to wear them in the winter when you may have missed a few days at the gym. I, also, do not believe they need to look tacky. And rightfully so, as with any other piece of clothing I want to look good on me, I spend quality change on these.

That is not to say that YOU have to....

Lemme walk you through this, left to right, top to bottom:

Square 1:Lucky Brand 'active wear', this one is from Lord and Taylor and will set you back about $140. Is that insane to spend on a hoodie and pants? Suuuure. I know you aren't here to judge, so just focus on what I am telling you. You can sub that one in for anything at Old Navy.

Square 2:SMILE. And blow dry your hair. Pull it off your face or toss it into a cute low pony. Grab a sassy cap, like this one I just bought at Banana Republic. Every woman should own a great classy cap for a hat day. It doesn't have to rep a ball team or Ed Hardy. THEY can be cute and trendy. I even gussied mine up with a few fun broaches I had laying around.

Square 3:SHOES, I prefer ballet flats for a contrast and to show that this outfit doesn't neccesarily indicate physical activity. But since the foot broke, I need good stability so I wear my Puma sneakers. I love LOVE Puma sneakers.

Square 4:Here is the first step to stepping up the old track suit gear-get yourself a fun scarf. Sometimes, it's the little things.

Square 5:ACCESSORIES, nope this isn't just a close up of my pearly whites. Its a close up of CHANDELIER EARRINGS and a GREAT COCKTAIL ring. Wear 'em. Rock out your track suit! If you look closely, you'll always see me with full makeup. I am makeup girl. And perfume. Every day, no mater what, deserves a 'pimp out'. I mean, find something that makes you walk a little taller and smile a little smugger. EVERYDAY.

Square 6:My fav ballet flats for my track suits. Metallic and simple. H&M for something crazy like $5.

Square 7:See? Even Jersey Shore Guidos like the track suits. See?

Square 8:SHADES, aviators. 'Cause I didn't realize I looked like Elvis until after I posted this.

Square 9:now, I kinda lost it. I tried pairing this cool head wrap from Anthropologie and the matching scarf. But see? Sometimes things just don't work. And let this square be my shining example of that.

It's Time I Told You All The Truth, and some tidbits

2010-03-04T14:48:00.002-05:00

What do you want? The good news or the bad?

Everyone wants the bad first, right?

Soooo, Blogher is sold out?! Already?!

whew.

I won't be going this year. I will be there. But I won't be going. Lemme first start by saying this though: I loved, no I relished and loved, every interaction I had. I roomed with my classy Ohio friend, Ohmommy. Yes, I said FRIEND. And she in one. I text her(though she never texts back!). I email her when I found out Tory Burch had a SALE portion on their website and she sends me her leftover Polish meals. Kidding, though I'd be totally cool if she did. I met, hugged and chatted with Maria, who for lack of a better term, I admire. And kinda lust after her voice and dimples. I had the most engaging convo's with Tara. I wish I lived by her, I wanted to drink in every bit of her. She is strikingly exotically beautiful. And you know that feeling when you are around brilliance? Yeah. That too. I got to meet Mr.Lady. Who I find, well, spectacular. And now she lives around the block from my sister in law and if I still lived in the Htown metro area I would round up both ladies, high jack The Blogess and have a merry mutherfucking time. Lunch over sweet tea/vodka/lemonades with Stacy, Marinka, Ohmommy, Amy, Ann, Deb, and and and...(who am I forgetting?) was so great. I fell in love with Chicago and bet you 20 to 1 it will be Mr.T's next big city stop. Because I rule this roost and I say so, damnit. I met Redneck Mommy and Jen Lancaster. And Jessica, who again, I definitely consider a friend, 'twas so awesome to hang with her. Not at all because she gave me an awesome yoga outfit, either. I heard the most amazing story/post that a woman wrote about her uncle who suffered from mental illness and I think if her story-no shit-every day. Jim, who I had met in NY previously, fantastic, as always.

The list, well, it continues. If I met you, I thoroughly came home with the feeling that I made a new friend. I am just hard wired to feel that way.

Here's the inclusion-I wanted to jump out of my skin and run screaming for the exit while sitting in a panel of, I wish I could remember now, someone stood up and took the mic and said "So and So and SO and SO are NOT sleeping together! insert female blogger here and insert male blogger here ARE NOT sleeping together...."

I know it is stupid and trivial to let something like that wig me out, but it did.

As much as I wanted to know every single person in that room on a personal level, I didn't and to be in the midst of calling out a rumor made me terribly uncomfortable.

I just kept thinking, do I want to be part of a community where adults, grown ass adults, would say such things? THOSE kind of rumors ruin marriages and relationships. And I don't think I am alone here, but uh, marriage, along with any other relationship isn't a cake walk. Last thing anyone I know needs: a stupid rumor to deny.

Huge sigh. It took almost a year to be able to admit that.

The good news, the tidbits:

I changed my twitter name, again. And am committing to being more engaged. So go fucking refind me and add me to your list or whatever, because nobody puts baby in the corner. So retweet me, already. Jeesh. It's not like I didn't just spill my guts to you all.
I gambled and lost, BIG in the parenting realm this week. I committed to a punishment that I didn't think I'd have to fulfill. And now I do. Because I NEVER go back on my word. It will cost our family more tears than I ever dreamed of and approximately $40 bucks. Short version? I said no circus if...and the child did the if. Really? This is the worst ever. EVER. This is as close to hating myself as I have ever come.
3 weeks 'til St.Maarten. Woo hoo! And if my orthopedist is reading: That's right! I'd crutch along St.Marteen over Jersey ANY DAY.
I Need A Pengiun!/Today's quizzes!/Daily Horoscopes!/I Answered A Question About You! are all obnoxious on facebook. Don't post that shit. Nobody wants to read it.
I polished my nails approx 210 times this week.
I got an A on a chem test and a B on an Anatomy and Physiology exam this week.
I haven't been in a store to shop in over 3 weeks. This is huge. And shallow, I know. I needed a fix, but can't walk. Or crutch for too long, so I got my fix by going to Costco and drove a HandiCart. I will do without shopping for the interim. No amount of pride is worth driving that thing. (No offense to those that can do it. More power to ya.)

This post brought to you in part to giant cojones and a vicodin buzz. 'Cause breaking your foot, hurts, even 3 weeks later.

How To Obtain Blogher Sponsorship.

2010-03-03T01:17:00.000-05:00

Last year I went to Blogher in Chicago and I was sponsored to do so. I was not asked to write this post by anyone.

First Up:

Write letters/emails. I selected a few companies. I chose them based upon a few things:

I mentioned them on my blog*
I hoped they would send me both products as well as some moolah to go to Chicago**
They invited me to an event*, not just products to review.

The Next Thing To Understand Is This:

You are trading monies for......something. You decide what. For me, I knew I would want to enjoy the conference and not be bothered with 'working' while I was there. If I was to hand things out, they had to be simple, no explanation needed and above all else a product I believed in. I had a few companies write back with unreasonable expectations and a few write back with reasonable expectations. I knew I wasn't interested in:

wearing logo tshirts
manning a sponsor table to chat about the companies products
handing out items that I couldn't carry easily in my purse

Now Here Is What You Need To Know:

Obviously, advertisements are the easiest to field out. They cost you nothing, and no maintenance is needed. However-

Your contract with Blogher or other advertisement might be in the ways of a conflict. Read up on what your stipulations are.
Write your own contract. Most of the time a simple an 'I Will, They Will' form is sufficient. I come from a long line of attorneys and the words echo "Get it in writing. And even then paper doesn't always hold up" rings through and through.
Keep it simple. Only solicit a few companies. At one point I had a 4 companies writing back and I was overwhelmed.

Oral B was great to work with. Our involvement began when they invited my family out for an afternoon. They sent a car for us, which is a God send when trying to drive in NYC and had a really great activity for me and my family. I have attended a few PR pitched events, this one was not the same. I wasn't one in a million. I wasn't asked to do homework or review products. They sent me home with a great gift bag and great usable items. They were just as pleasurable to work with in terms of the sponsorship. We agreed upon business cards they made with my, as well as their, info. I also agreed to a logo ad on my blog. This was perfect for me.

*I talk about Verizon often, they pay me nothing. They send me nothing. That is where I would have channeled my efforts had I not worked with Oral B.

**I also talk about Puma, Juicy and Christian Louboutins. None of them responded to my request for sponsorship.

Discipling My 10 Year Old.

2010-03-02T15:51:00.004-05:00

I am going through a troubling time with Missy B. She is 10 and pushing at the boundaries. The boundaries that Mr.T and I put in place and really don't move from. She is blurring the lines and trying her hand at upper level behavior. She is flippant and dances along the cusp of a sassy mouth.

She is a challenging child to discipline. She isn't fazed at being without her cell phone as she can't call her friends and there is no text package on her phone (aside from that, I need her to have it for the frequent after school activities and the walking to and from school). She can live without computer/video games/tv. I can lecture all I want, but I know her and I know that after 50 words my cause will fall on deaf ears.

What can you threaten to a child that needs for nothing besides her books?

I was about to really blow my top whole staring into her-the same as my own-green eyes, she stared right back stoic, defiant almost, and asked what her punishment would be. She knew there wasn't much I can take away. But she didn't realize there is everything I can put upon her.

I wasn't sure the punishment fit the crime, but when she stomped to the laundry basket, arms full of everyones dirty laundry, I knew it fit the bill. She will be tied up for at least 10 minutes carrying and putting away shoes that have collected in the basement. She is bound to have some time to think about her attitude while she cleans and rearranges the coat closet containing our families luggage.

I am trying awfully hard not to gloat, but I feel a tad triumphant right now.

Captain Obvious

2010-02-25T05:57:00.001-05:00

Obvia I have not given way to much sarcasm as evident from my previous post. I mean, hello? tossing pig heads through people windows isn't hysterical? Not that I'd ever do such a thing. Onto the news of the obvious......

On bathrooms-

Not being a stranger to the hover techniques used in public bathrooms I, too, entertained use of The Hover up until very recently. What with being one footed and all, I have had to resort to the use of the seat protectors, you know the paper trace of a toilet seat? Which my college so conveniently never leaves empty and even installed just beside the toilet paper. I notice the person before me, also repulsed by public restrooms seat, attempted The Hover. She was obvia a rookie, as she had peed all over the seat. Really? You can't fucking reach up and use a seat protector? It qualifies as more hygienic to hover - yet sprinkle your tinkle all over the damn place? It's okay since it's your germs and not someone else's? Well guess what ass wipe, your germs are my someone else's germs.

On Hot Dress, Stilettos and Dates-

If you have the first three, you might wind up like this:

On The Weather-

I appreciate, more than you can ever know, Mother Nature, the timing of your snow storms. I am just wondering, will they always fall just before an exam? Making my exams a snow day and giving me some more prep time? Coupling that convenience with my busted foot and my strict DO NOTHING prescription provides ample down time to keep my GPA within a 3.8-4.0.

Another Note On The Weather-

I'm confused. Is this a picture of wind or a back drop from a Hendrix set.

One Last Weather Note/Al Gore Reference-

So, Dallas Texas is up to what, like 15 inches of snow for the season? An all time record. Houston, Texas also has seen snow. Nevermind the DC/Maryland/Pennsylvania region still digging out from their 88 inches. So, uh, can we all agree that Global Warming, though real, was just an example of poor naming? Whaddya say, Gore? Maybe we can do a little number at the court documents office and file a legal name change?

On Ortho Surgeon's And Their Travel Suggestion-

Really. Dear readers of smart ass mom, do I need to tell you what I told mine when he suggested our family cancel our trip to St.Maarten?

On Being Comfortable-

As soon as you are, you'll have to go pee. And hopefully you'll be home. And if someone peed on the seat their you can spank their heine. And make them clean it themselves.

On Sassy Kids-

It's only a mater of time before they will taunt you 'You can't catch me....' and they mean it. And you concede.

On Crying To Your Husband About Being Laid Up With A Broken Foot-

Eventually, he will send you something. Probably a cookie bouquet. Because what better way to accentuate the fact that he loves you but will still travel for work? And even though you are an avid exerciser, he can't very well send you a case of Slim Fast with a heart felt message, and live to see another departing (and possibly delayed) flight.

what NOT to do when you've been defriended on facebook

2010-02-18T05:47:00.001-05:00

Defriending is when someone decides someone is expendable and removes one from their 'friends'. I've defriended a time or two. The first being after Blogher when I figured I needed an alternate facebook page to socially mingle, pimp my blogs and not show off pictures of me in a bikini building sand castles in The Outer Banks to my blogging peers. That was what we will call a fail whale. It never saw liftoff. The second, after I got some creepy messages from boyfriends-done-wrong-and-their-current-wives. Again, lets call this a failure.

If you've found yourself on the receiving end of defriendment I offer you some sage words of wisdom:

Don't throw frozen pig heads through the persons windows. This is both bothersome and illegal.
Don't go find the person's parked car and write in shoe polish "Class of '65 RULES!" Because that is just uncool. And your handwriting could be traceable.
Refrain from email bombs. Nobody likes spam. Or virusbots. Or porn viruses.
Don't crack anyones gym locker open and leave an open can of tuna. That is just gross.
Bribing a cop to tow someones car is a class c misdemeanor in the lower 48.
Registering them for The Steak of the Month Club, frowned upon.

You're welcome.

How To Be Courted.

2010-02-17T06:10:00.001-05:00

Mr.T and I haven't written any books or reinvented the wheel. We have reinvented ourselves a time or two.

I am sure I am speaking the obvious here, but date nights are a must. Getaways are a must. Shutthehellupandgettobed,kids-is a must.

I would say that yes, while the kids were little, sub 4 years old, date nights weren't easy. They were more work that either of us, and by either of us, I mean me, felt like putting in.

But they aren't little and I am planning and preparing for the day they move out. I am not 'planning' for them moving out. I am planning on after they move out. I am making sure that these years, when it is so simple to get trapped in them, we don't forget about us. It is so natural to get sucked into their schools and their activities and their lives and quite a challenge to focus on our lives. But after the butterflies I get when getting dressed up for a night of dancing. Or dining. Or just, whatever, it is a commitment. It is a part of me as natural as hugs and 'I love yous'.

The past week, Mr.T did more than ever asked. He cooked, he cleaned, he laundered and drove. To some of you, you might be scratching your head and saying 'Whats the big deal, my husband always __________!' But not here. Not much has been asked of Mr.T. I am prideful and rarely ask for assistance. Regardless, it wasn't an easy task. Managing two offices, one internationally and one in Manhattan from our home office. And driving me to school, and minding the house/kids/me.

Man. It was a hard week. For me. But I shelved my pride and kept my dinner reservations and even rolled out my red valentines day dress, even a sole left stiletto.

And I courted my husband.

Truly, It Is A Drug

2010-02-15T07:14:00.000-05:00

Several months back I gave up coffee.

"Like a truck driver, Traci?" My Grandmother and Dad ask me when I say I take my coffee black. Which was in part because growing up, my dad had a hand crank coffee grinder. If you were to drink any of his good quality java you weren't going to jack it up with sugar and creamer. (which ps, is totally how he takes his coffee now.)

It was a combination, really, of hating the chore of making it and the holes in the lining of my stomach were really fucking me up. It shouldn't be a big thing to pour in some water and click start. And even easier to write it out on an index card left by the coffee maker in hopes someone is downstairs before you, that may or may not drink coffee, and think to themselves:

"Traci is the most deserving of all. I will make her coffee and bring it to her in bed. Then tell her to stay in the warmth of her soft covers while I dress the children...."

But coupling that with ulcers and acid reflux and indigestion, it just wasn't worth it. Plus I equally love tea. So, away went my super badass Krups Mega Machine, into the deep confines of the cabinets.

I had a weak moment though. I needed a carafe, not a single kettle. I needed it to accompany me to family room where I would stay with my 3rd-trimester-salt-rentaining-foot propped up.

And I am back. I am back downstairs every morning. Balancing on a foot and two artificial nubs. I stare at the machine and will it to prepare itself. I hate what I am becoming. I look over at the forlorn kettle. Who seemingly looks back as if to say "Sorry, I said you would grow bored of Earl Grey, you never listen to me though." But I did listen. I tried oolong, and my favorite, Jasmine. I tried straight up green tea from the Asian market.

I can't quit you, coffee. I can't do it.

Hallmark Holiday, Schmalmark Holiday

2010-02-14T10:33:00.003-05:00

I don't need flowers, Don't cut them, they die! I'd rather plant my own to come back year after year.

I don't need balloons, I will just teach my kids how to huff helium.

For the love of Pete, do not purchase me lingerie. Really? What's the point? ~~I say 'bedroom' and that's really all the foreplay either of us need~~ He says I am sexy in a tshirt and boyshorts.

What I do love for Valentines day is giving my kids pajamas with hearts all over the place. And Mr.T quirky shirts like "No always a Prince, Always Charming."

And a few other favorites about this Non Holiday.

It's really the only time I expect nothing from my family. This one is mine to shower on them.
But T always does something anyway
Like draws a huge heart in the fresh snow with a T+T in the middle.
Dinner. I am a foodie. Few things are more enjoyable to me than a meal at an amazing restaurant and great wine.
wearing red. Okay, shopping for red.
love. I love all the love.

A million kisses and a million thanks to Mr.T for doing the pj run for me this year....and sorry you won't have any quirky t's from me. I will, however, be looking dashing in my strapless ruffled red dress and my blinged out booty for our dinner tonight.

Friday Confessional

2010-02-12T11:36:00.001-05:00

I have to dissect a cat for anatomy and physiology. I wish I could tell you that I will be brave and not cry.

But I won't and I will.

Stating The Obvious

2010-02-12T05:26:00.000-05:00

when you are being evicted from your home you should do the following; buy a $1000 leather jacket, go on a girls weekend, and leave your hungover daughters to receive the eviction notice; not necessarily in that order.
I have a busted foot, and seemingly, all of you masochist enjoy my posts on pain more than anything else.
Alexis has not travelled without her husband
The East coast is snowed in
The President is Obama
Vicky has a job
The recent shortage of white frost MAC eyeshadow is due to Alexis on the RHOC
Landlords will kick you out should you not pay your security deposit
If you ignore your bills, they do not go away
Lost is in it's last season
Valentines Day is this weekend

This Stating The Obvious is brought to you in part by The Real Housewives of the OC and, well, The Obvious.

How Not To Get Punched While On The Jersey Shore

2010-02-11T01:09:00.000-05:00

I don't know everything, but I have made a few trips to The Shore and shockingly, have not been punched. This may come as a surprise to those watching the Jersey Shore, MTV's highest grossing show, as it seems these kids can't make it through a round of jaegerbombs without having a throw down.

Don't call Snickers anything other than a guidette
or just don't state the obvious
Don't try to have a conversation with Snookelsern while you are drinking. Evidentially you will need to punch something and as your ears are already bleeding, you will wind up punching her. Even if you are a dude. (Can we say classy? And jobless, I believe.)
Don't mess with Jwoww. She takes those hair extensions seriously. And really? Why wouldn't you?
When Jwoww says she is going to beat someone up if you can't stop your herpes infested makeout sesh to take her drunkass up to her room, she really means YOU.
Just err on the side of caution and do not approach Ronnie. I am closing my thesis on Anger Management with him as my cover page.
Don't go over your time allotment in the hot tub.

WWSD-an introduction

2010-02-10T08:33:00.001-05:00

WWSD is an acronym for 'What Would Susie Do'.

Yes, as in Susie, Susie Homemaker.

Oh, go jump in a lake if you just rolled your eyes.

Everyone of you reading have either said or been accused of 'being Susie'. And truth be told, everyone takes the title well. It's not like its a bad thing.

Far from perfection and even further from being consistent I love playing the part. I love aprons and pearls and vacuuming with the two on. I love having a bevy of wicker baskets and extra william-sonoma dish towels in fun seasonal colors to bring homemade muffins over for coffee with friends.

I don't really love the clean up though. That kinda sucks.

Please keep your eyes peeled for my, again, inconsistent posts, dedicated to Being Susie, aka WWSD. It's like a new era of IHIWW.

This Will Totally Set Off My Valentines Day Outfit

2010-02-09T19:18:00.004-05:00

It took some work, but I solidified reservations, at a private table no less, at one of the swankiest restaurant in New Jersey. The latest endeavor by Richard Branson, you know, the Virgin Brand guy? 90 Acres is the place you want dine. Overlooking 90 Acres of well, I think, just some really pretty grounds.

I had already selected my valentines date night dress long ago. Like in November. And I had the perfect stilettos to go with it. I lovingly selected a headband to set off against my dark mocha glaze. A few appointments with Talea at Forever Sun for the perfect spray tan, and I was on my way. I even had MAC work up some new colors.

Is it because Valentines Day is that big of a deal? No. But until a black tie event -which are seemingly obsolete in the summer, because you never seem to roll out your furs from storage in July- or Christmas '10-when else will I get an opportunity to go over the top?

It's just another chance/excuse to put some ump! into a date night.

And this blue boot is just what I had in mind.

To accompany my red strapless dress. And my true religion jeans. And my sweats and church clothes, and the handicap parking permit I will hang - though I won't even permanently affix my student parking permit- for the next 2-4 weeks. Two To Four Weeks. In a walking boot, that I can't walk in yet. Because I have 3 broken bones in my foot. Three Broken Bones In My Foot.

Oy vey.

31 Stairs

2010-02-08T15:33:00.004-05:00

My garage is in the basement. I have a trilevel home, meaning since you can walk out of my basement, it is considered a 3 story dutch colonial versus a 2 story colonial with a basement. And by most standards, and especially East Coast standards, it is huge. It is a fluke we wound up in the house we did. Trust me, this is not a bragging kinda story. Because a large east coast house means alot of shit to keep up with.

From the basement to the first floor, you climb 17 stairs. You walk into the foyer, flanked by the media room and formal dining. Just past this, lined up accordingly, is the mud room, kitchen breakfast room, powder bath and a bar/wine room. Just beyond that is the family room.

Climbing another 14 stairs, you come into a main landing and fairly long corridor, hallway space. This is where the master bedroom and the 3 subsequent upper level bedrooms and a few bathrooms sprinkled in between.

This past Saturday, I walked out the front door of my fairly large dutch colonial with my son in tow. After he begged me for approximately 2.5 minutes to sled with him down our front garden. He didn't have to work too hard, but I was in the middle of a fairly motivated morning of repainting my cabinetry and touching up paint on the main floor.

"Just once, V!" I told him, still in my pajama bottoms.

"Okay!! We will ride together!!"

He had already made a few hundred passes down the yard, and with not much snow, our combined weight at 170, we had velocity, just too much to overcome, or steer out of the paths he had already made.

And just one time was all it took for me to make a complete stop; with the neighbors fence and my right foot.

I felt the crack and pop. I am fairly athletic and I know a bone from a tendon. I have sprained ankles and completely torn quadricep muscles.

I knew something went terribly wrong.

I have pretty feet. I run, I play tennis, my campus is built right up a hill. My husband works, a lot. And God love him, isn't asked to do anything. Ever. But, alas, I am broken. I can't drive. I can't cook, I can't stand, or do anything for that matter. I am flat on my back. With my foot above my heart. Preliminary xrays can't tell if it is a fracture or what. Mr.T had to cancel his international travel for the week, because you know who doesn't give a rats ass if you are a crippled? College professors, thats who. (plus, I am already missing some classes for our trip to St.Maarten-I know, I know-boo fuckin' hoo, Traci) So, much like how I drove Mr.T to school his senior year at University of Texas, he is driving me.

And amongst it all, I still have 31 stairs to navigate at one point or another through the day.

31.stairs.

Is it too cliche to say FML?

Not Stubborn, Just Dedicated.

2010-02-08T05:08:00.001-05:00

You will be hard pressed to get me to admit that:

A)I need to do laundry and

B)my organization system needs to be reworked.

Even if nobody has clean undies. Or if Lil V is wearing filthy socks.

Even if the W2 or whatever is mailed out for tax purposes at the beginning of the new year, has vanished. I don't have a junk drawer, I am a pile maker. And only one. And it resides in a beautiful basket. Which, every now and again I attack in a fit of fury.

You won't get me to admit that anything needs to be reworked when, we are reaching 42 days from spring holiday, and I can't find our passports. Our passports were placed in the Basket Of Hell when we got home from Greece, last September. From there, I couldn't recall refiling them. They weren't in the basket. They weren't filed under 'P' for passport.

Even after having a heart attack thinking 'how the hell will we get down to St.Maarten when 3 out of 4 of us don't have current passports and what will it cost us to get last minute expeditied passports for 3 people and how will I get my hands on sneaky money so Mr.T doesn't have to know? Because, really? I'd rather have repeated brazilians than him find out I misplaced the mutherfucking passports. Responsible adults, do.not.misplace.those.'

My organization doesn't need to be reevaluated. Nope. Not mine. Mater of fact, I am so well organized, I filed them in the other 'P' file.

Parental Failure: Dentistry

2010-02-05T07:01:00.001-05:00

A year or so ago Oral B invited me and my family to an event at this super cool indoor playplace called something or another Tree. A spokesperson and pediatric dentist, author and general picture of parenting perfection, lead the discussion on pediatric oral hygiene.

I beamed with pride when my kids demonstrated proper brushing and flossing habits. I worked hard not to be the know it all when the dentist enigma asked when kids should first be seen and if a pea sized dollop was enough toothpaste.

The next thing I know, I am being interrupted from Young and the Restless while Missy B points out an ulcer looking thingy on her gums.

"Does it hurt if I do this?" I ask while pressing the bulge in.

She shrieked in pain.

Shining the glass on my medical degree, I a diagnose a canker sore, unpaused my show and asked her to pass me my bon bons.

The same well taught 1 0 year old politely interrupts my doctor diagnosing my ~~imminent death~~ sinus infection to inquire about her own needs.

"That is no canker sore, and she should be seen right away you God awful excuse for a mother." The doc says to me.

Infection. Severe decay. Extraction. Novocain.

I was pissed. Yes, at her.

"Mommy, can you not brush my hair so hard?!"

"Uh, I don't know, could you have brushed your teeth a little better?!"

"Mom, can we hang the bird cage up in my room today?"

"Yes, sure. Right after you floss your teeth!"

"Mom? What's for lunch?"

"Apples, with a side of ruined tooth enamel."

Truthfully, I was more than pissed with myself. I don't need to tell you how awful I felt. What an ass I felt like when I could see the cavity with the naked eye. As with all stories in Mayberry, there is a happy ending. She did better than good at the extraction, the tooth fairy DID come and visit and her brother playing hooky to come and watch the show down in the dentist chair has more than paid off.

Welcome Friends!

2010-02-04T06:27:00.003-05:00

Hey! Heeeyyyyy...... Pretty nice, no?

It was time for some revamping and I won a little makeover thing from Classy Chaos. Luckily, it was from my friend, Krystyn, who now, thanks to me, has a 30 day time limit on flighty un committable bloggers who can't make up their freaking minds.

Okay, she may not really have that time limit, but I wouldn't be shocked if she institutes it soon because it took me for-ev-errr* to figure out what I wanted.

My point here is this: fawn over my shit, man. I thought long and hard about ever little thingy here.

Notice up at the top, I have some sweet buttons....yeah, don't go clicking them yet. There is nothing there. But there will be. Sometime. I know, it is kind of like a grand opening where they haven't installed the bathrooms.

I have tons (okay, just 2) of new platforms (read:easy topics to blog from so I don't bore you). Like today, Thursday, will not be Thursday's Corner, where, although you've not asked for it, I offer up some kind words of advice from avenues I know ~~nothing~~ about. Like how to make your sweatsuits/tracksuits/hoodie and jammie bottoms look swank. And how to perfect your own french manicure and how to make your house smell like a South Beach boutique hotel.

What?? If you haven't been there, you have no idea how much you want this for your house.

'Member a while back, I posted every Wednesday "I Hate It When Wednesday"? In lieu of that, I have a WWSD column.

I won't give away all my great ideas....you'll have to come back to find out what WWSD stands for.

On a side note, THANK YOU, Krystyn. A huge internet hug goes to you. So awesomely patient and I love, love the new 'do.

*did you get it? FOR-EV-ERRR?? From The Sandlot, greatest movie EV-ERRR.