I am a perfectionist.

I am also the world's worst bowler.

I'm not being self-deprecating to be cute or ironic.  I am really bad.

I'm actually OK with this.  Surprising, for a perfectionist.  But I find that when you bowl like once a year, you can stink it up with impunity.

*     *     *     *     *

Durel has also accepted how bad I am at bowling, though he marvels at the sheer crappiness of my game.  He's pretty good.  He's just really athletic, so he's good at stuff.

I switch things up by going from the left gutter to the right.  Every now and then, I get a freak strike. It's like when the really drunk person at the bar sinks the eight ball.  Just the universe playing a little joke on you.  

*     *     *     *     *

Jack appears to have inherited Durel's bowling gene, not mine.  This is good news.

We bowled the other day with one of Jack's buddies.  Team Bernard represented well, no thanks to me.

Universal Truth:  The shoes are a lot of the fun.

Sneaking up on it, as we do.

Go, bowling ball!  Be free! 

A spare!

It's like Uptown Funk meets bowling alley.

Hope you get a spare in the game of life today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Napa, Part Two: morris and chuck

I forgot to finish my Napa story!  Where is my mind?  (Cue The Pixies, obviously.)

*     *     *     *     *

After the drive from San Francisco to Napa, we rolled into our delightful accommodations and were all -- now what? We were all that kind of tired where your eyes are burning and you think you're hungry and you barely know your name.

Ellen went to exercise (she is SO GOOD).  Nancy took a nap (she is SO SMART).  That left Mandy and I looking at one another with our crazy, tired eyeballs.

The conversation went something like this.  I don't remember who said what, because Mandy and I are basically brain twins, so it doesn't matter.

One of us:  What should we do?

The other one:  I don't know.

One:  Should we take naps?

[silence]

One:  I kind of want to explore.  You know, get the lay of the land.

The other:  Yeah!  Me, too.

One:  Find stuff.  See where downtown is.

In unison:  Totally.  Let's go.

*     *     *     *     *

We toured downtown Napa (cute!) and found Oxbow Market.

Oxbow Market is an industrial building converted into an open marketplace filled with outstanding gourmet food vendors, restaurants, and the like.  I could basically live there.

We walked in and saw an Italian restaurant, with a bar.  And I instantly could not believe that we HADN'T HAD ANY WINE YET.

So, we fixed that.

We decided that a selection of deliciousness from Oxbow would make a great dinner for us at the hotel.  Meats and cheeses!  Breads and olives!  Yes!  (Seems logical, but we were so tired, this was a pretty big idea for us.)

Rather than have too much fun without our friends, we drank our wine and then responsibly head back to the hotel, but not before stopping at the grocery store to buy (obviously) Diet Coke and water for our rooms.

And then we had this conversation:

Me:  You know, this is exactly what Morris (my dad) did every time we went somewhere.  Left us in the hotel to rest and then went off to "get the lay of the land."

Mandy:  Um, that's exactly what Chuck (her dad) did, too.  "Just gotta scope it out."

Me:  We are turning into our dads.

Mandy:  We are turning into our dads.

[smiles and silence]

*     *     *     *     *

If taking a 40th birthday trip to Napa didn't make us feel like real grown up adult type people, turning into Morris and Chuck certainly did.  And we really couldn't be happier.

Hope you are delighted with your own adulthood today.

Talk soon,
Heather

carnivals and the paradox of fear

Every summer on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, there is a Brigadoon known as the Cecil County Firefighter's Carnival.

Cecilton is forgettable, and that is kind.  But the carnival was always fun.  I give full props to the volunteer firefighters (many of whom I knew from my summer job at the marina, where they worked as mechanics or painters on yachts and sailboats).  They are a dedicated bunch, and they know how to throw a carnival.

I have a fuzzy memory of bright lights, funnel cakes, rides that make you *almost* puke, and the sweet freedom of a pocketful of tickets.

*     *      *     *     *     *     *

Going to a carnival as an adult is different.  

It's sort of like when they turn on the "ugly lights" in a bar at last call.  It looks a lot different than you thought, and not in a good way.

Durel and I learned this last weekend.  Luckily, we had enough Tums and Advil to get through it, and were able to enjoy Jack's view of the event, which is utterly carefree.

[I mean, it's just scary to think of all these rides being taken apart into transportable bits, nuts, bolts, and pieces and then reassembled, ridden, disassembled, transported, reassembled, and then ridden by you and your child, the most precious thing to you in the entire universe.  In retrospect, I prefer the firefighters and mechanics.]

[But you know what?  Everything is scary if you think about it wrong.  So, we got our bad selves in line and rode the rides because that's what you do.]

Jack and I rode the Ferris Wheel.

It's really pretty from up there!

Jack and Durel rode the roller coaster.

Raise'em like you just don't CAYAH

We did not take a camel ride, go inside the weird tent to see the "World's Smallest Horse," which the sign said in bizarre, Wizard of Oz style wording, was "Positively Alive!" or pay $12 for a turkey leg.

Sawyer maintained a Zen-like composure while watching us.  Wise baby, he is.

Hope you feel the fear and do it anyway today.

Talk soon,
Heather

everything looks like jello

One of the things I love about the boys' school is that they Really Celebrate Halloween.  

Durel and I recklessly missed the (amazing) Fall Festival this year because we chose to go to ACL and wear our "grown-ups" costumes (see what I did there?).  So, there was no collective family costume this year.  

Don't worry, we're already discussing what we will be next year.  Jack's current suggestion is that Durel should be a hot dog, I should be a cookie, he is a french fry, and Sawyer is a piece of popcorn.  

(We'll see how negotiations go.  We have a good ten months before I have to begin construction.)

Anyway, their school has a costume parade on Halloween.  Bless the infant teachers, who wrestle all their adorable little babies into their costumes and take pictures of them.

Bless the pre-K teachers for harnessing the collective energy of more than a dozen 4 year olds who are in costume and ABOUT TO EAT ALL THE CANDY.

Here's how this panned out:

Of course, we took it to the streets that evening.  More on that to come.

In the meantime, ponder Jack's statement that, with his Darth Vader mask on, "Everything looks like Jello."

Hope you have a gelatinous view today.

Talk soon,

Heather

step aside, bill nye

This was not a good weekend for me to be a lazy parent.  

One of Jack's best buddies thoughtfully brought him a science experiment kit this weekend.

He asked me no less than twenty times if we could do the experiment.  He would not be dissuaded.  He was so insistent that I had to play a little negotiation hardball.  (Who knew that law school would come in so handy with a four year old?)

Jack:   Mom!  I want to do my experiment!!
Me:    We can do it in a little while.
Jack:   Mom, how many minutes?
Me:     A few.
Jack:   Mom.  Name how many minutes.
Me:    Forty.
Jack:  THAT'S TOO MANY!
Me:    A hundred.  And if you keep asking, it will go up.
Jack:  [sullen silence]

After that exchange, I actually got him to wait until after nap.  However, in hindsight, this was a Pyrrhic victory because it wasn't after a nap FOR ME.  

It was fun, though.  He was super into it.  When you consider this and the fact that he loves to watch Nova with Durel, I think we may have a budding science guy on our hands.

Maybe Sawyer will be a poet.

Hope you see the potential in people today.

Talk soon,
Heather

what say ye, Scots?

It's an historic day in Scotland.  Voters will go to the polls to decide if Scotland should be an independent country.

Granted, new countries form.  It's a done thing.  But it's not a done thing in the United Kingdom.  The ceremony was televised when Hong Kong was handed back to China in 1997.  I watched intently.  I was a newly-minted college graduate living in a studio apartment in Baltimore at the time.  Ick.  But, I digress.  

I was nerdily fascinated to watch an ancient contract expire (perhaps a nod to my future law career) and to watch the United Kingdom change (as I am an unabashed Anglophile).

I also used to live in Ireland -- the Republic of Ireland, that is.  To be there is to learn by osmosis of the history and pride of their hard-earned independence from Great Britain.  It's also nice to be in a packed pub in Galway and announce that your grandmother was a Kelly -- and to have the entire pub cheer and raise their glasses to you.  (That happened.)

And so, it's on my mind that I am proudly part Scottish.  My mom's grandmother was a Scot -- a MacDonald, in fact.

In other words, I can't wait to see what the results are.

Sawyer wants to know, too.

Hoping that you feel interested and independent today.

Talk soon,
Heather

a song for Friday

Many people have been kind enough to ask me how Sawyer is doing now that he and I are living life unencumbered by those pesky dairy products.  (Recap:  Sawyer has a dairy allergy, which is not the same as lactose intolerance and is sort of no joke.)

As for how we're doing, I'll start with me.  

I'm fine.  Occasionally, I would stab someone for a piece of pizza.  But I don't.  Otherwise, I like Earth Balance vegan (faux) butter.  It's good.  I like Daiya vegan (faux) cheese -- only if melted and used very sparingly.  My love for both sushi and Thai food has multiplied by like ten zillion because those cuisines make it so easy to avoid dairy.  Hummus and peanut butter and apples (not together, though perhaps in rapid succession) are my best friends.

As for Sawdog, he now weighs 16 pounds and 9 ounces.  I'd say he's doing allllllllllllright.

And so would he.

Chillin with the Lambs, on my Bumbo, sippin on booby juice
Laid back, with my  mind on my tummy and my tummy on my mind

Oh, you heard that?

Hope your Friday evening includes your favorite libation.

Talk soon,
Heather

to sleep or not to sleep

Sleep is so awesome.

From what I remember.

OK, that's not entirely fair.  Sawyer is sleeping pretty well.  He's doing extremely well when you consider that he was a preemie.  And Durel takes a night feeding every night, because he's awesome like that.

Regardless, being woken by a screaming imp at 3 AM totally stinks.  No matter how cute the imp is.  No matter how good the coffee tastes.  No matter how much you like the quiet stillness of the morning when it's just you and your vanilla-scented baby.

Sawyer is perplexed by my deep desire to sleep during the nighttime hours, uninterrupted.

You want me to sleep through the night?
Mother.  I'm doing the best I can here.
Eat, sleep, poop, smile, repeat.  It's a lot to remember.

However, he is open to discussion on the topic.  He attempts to sway me with his amazing cuteness.

I'm cute, right?  Doesn't that help?
Like, so cute that 3 AM is totally fine?

Ultimately, we reach a BATNA.  I cannot accept less than this, but I can work with this.

I know, I know.  I'll work on it.
And yes, I am so awesome.

Hope you get to yes today.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one about Tim Curry and turning four

I grew up in a very small place.  My county was so small it had one high school.  I went there.  

Every year, there was a talent show at my high school.  I got roped into participating in the talent show exactly once.  The year before I got roped in, when I successfully bagged out due to paralyzing fear, my friends did a performance of The Time Warp from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  (More on the talent show I did get roped into later.  Or not.)

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you're making me feel really old.
But you should watch this movie.  Really.

*     *     *     *     *

When Durel and I told Jack that he was going to be a big brother, we framed out how long he would have to wait in terms of milestones.  We explained that he would have Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and his birthday -- and then, baby would come.

He totally got it.  And now that he is officially a four year old, he asks every single morning whether the baby is coming today.

Apparently, Jack will value punctuality in a manner that takes after Durel.  (I like it.  I just struggle with it, that's all.)

*     *     *     *     *

So, about being four -- Jack is.  We had a party, his first "big kid" party.  Unlike previous years where we had cupcakes and enchiladas and balloons at home, this year we went to The Bouncy Place.

There were friends -- Jack and his school posse are pretty tight, and they came, and they bounced.  

There were snacks, including cupcakes.  I grabbed onto my Batman theme and didn't let go, as you can see: 

And the results were fantastic.  Batman was happy beyond happy.

*     *     *     *     *

And now he's four, asking every day when his baby brother is coming, and I am in my very own Time Warp.  I haven't seen any sweet transvestites yet, but I'm telling you, I wouldn't be that surprised if I did.

And, as if I needed more proof that there is a Tim Curry/time warp kind of theme to my week, which I did not, Clue: The Movie was on the other night.

And if you have not see Clue: The Movie, go watch it right now.
I'll wait.

Hope you take a jump to the left today.

Talk soon,
Heather

stewardesses, then and now

Once upon a time, a long long, time ago, my family played Pictionary.

It was new then.  We were excited.  The Davies family is a creative lot -- skewing toward the nerdy side, even.  And we LOVE to get our board game on.

The time came for my beloved Dad to draw.  His word was "stewardess."  (Again, this was a while ago.  People still totally used that word.  Pre-PC.)  He drew an airplane.  He tapped on it.

We guessed everything we could think of related to planes and flight.  We didn't, however, go inside the plane with our guesses.

Dad grew frustrated.  He continued tapping on his pencil-drawn 747.

TAP TAP TAP.

We kept guessing.  In retrospect, we weren't that smart, because how many flight-related words do we really know?  And we STILL didn't guess stewardess?  

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!!!

We didn't get it. The timer ran out.

STEWARDESS.

That was the first and last time Dad ever played Pictionary.  We told him that we're glad his brain works differently than ours.  Business school and all that.  What would we do without him?

*     *    *     *     *     *     *     *

In some ways, raising a 3 1/2 year old is a lot like playing Pictionary with my Dad.  If you don't know what they're talking about, it's really up to you to get creative and figure it out.  They are going to TAP that picture until you do.

Last night, Jack asked me on the way home if he could watch "the Michael movie."  I wracked my brain.  There are no characters named Michael on any of his favorite shows or movies.  I told him that I didn't know what he meant.

"Momma, I want to watch the Michael movie!"  (TAP TAP)

"But, Jack, I don't know what that is."

"The MICHAEL MOVIE!"  (TAP TAP TAP)

"Ok.  If you can show it to me or find it, we'll see if you can watch it."

When we got home, Jack efficiently went through the drawer containing his DVDs and proudly pulled out the Michael movie.

It is called An American Tale.

Michael = Fivel.

STEWARDESS.

Phew.

Movie night was, of course, a great success.  (And wouldn't have been complete without a shout out to Uncle Dustin and Aunt Geri, who are fond of that movie and their nephew.)

Hope your streets ARE filled with cheese today.  Because that would be awesome.

Talk soon,
Heather

proof is in the...well...schnapps, I guess

A few days ago, I was reminiscing about that time in Germany, when my friends and I were drinking schnapps out of little bottles.  And posing for pictures with the caps on our noses?

So, yeah.  I found that picture last weekend.  And I just feel the need to put my money where my big bloggy mouth is.

Here you go:

I will note that even in a foreign land, schnockered on foreign spirits, the future Proper Paige knew better than to have her photo taken with a bottle of alcohol (of any size) hanging out of her mouth.

[Takes bow.]

Hope your photos are only moderately incriminating today.

Talk soon,
Heather

it's those preppy choices that can get you

I applied Early Decision to Middlebury.

To someone not from the East Coast and/or who doesn't treat liberal arts college admission as a competitive sport, that doesn't mean much.

Middlebury College is a gorgeous college in Middlebury, Vermont.  It is a very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque place.  I had decided that's where I would be an English major, run around in autumnal splendor, and spend four years becoming my most awesome self.

Here's a picture, so you can picture it:

Image credit.  Seriously, right???

 Apparently, Middlebury was not as enamored of me as I was of them.  My application was deferred to the regular decision applicant pool, which was a hard core slap in the face to my idealistic, enthusiastic, overachieving high school self.  That means you have to apply to other colleges and, like, wait it out. [Insert Kristin Stewart's one facial expression.]

So, the search continued.  The family search committee, led by Captain Dad, the College Hunter, explored New England, because that's where I had decided I wanted to be.

We visited a lot of places.  [Smiley face.]  One of them was Bates. Bates is cool.  I walked around the campus to do a "vibe check."  I liked it.  I didn't feel out of place, like I was dressed like an idiot, or like people realized I was a stranger.  Hmm.  

And, let's not overlook that Bates is also gorgeous, very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque.

See?

We totally had classes sitting outside on the Quad.  Not even joking.

 

This picture does not show a lot of snow.
When you live in Maine, this is not a lot of snow.

As it turned out, Middlebury did accept me.  But by then, Bates had already accepted me, too.  Faced with the decision of where to go, I found myself totally happy about the thought of going to Bates.  I also found myself completely annoyed with Middlebury for making me wait for so long and feel all icky and half-rejected.  

I realized that I was just a name on a list.  (Granted, this was true at both schools but it pissed me off vis a vis Middlebury.)  And that if I didn't take the spot, they would call some other girl and make her happy that she'd finally gotten in.  

Screw that!, I thought, with a lot of emotional bravado, to myself, at age 18.  

I'm going to Maine.

And so, I did.  It was awesome. And I, as predicted, was an English major, ran around in autumnal (and snowy) splendor, and spent four years becoming my most real self.  It was fan.tas.tic.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, it was cold today in Austin, and this happened.  

And my heart burst into a million pieces, and I don't even want to think about him going to kindergarten, much less college, and I got all nostalgic for Maine and changing leaves, and how was college so long ago? and sunrise, sunset so quickly go the days...you know?

Hope you find an unexpected wellspring of emotional bravado today.

Talk soon,

Heather

I'm not as smart as I thought

My sister-in-law refuses to play Trivial Pursuit with Durel and I.  She says it's too humiliating because we know so much stuff.  As much as we've tried to change her mind, she won't budge.  (As in, she doesn't even want to be on our team.)

Which is a bummer, because I love Trivial Pursuit.  But is also a compliment because she insists that Durel and I are, like, encyclopedias...

However, as a boy momma, I'm learning what it is that I don't know.  I have not the foggiest idea about football (not a newsflash).  But evidently, I know pretty much squat about dinosaurs, too.

Last night:

Jack:  Mommy, did the Ice Age kill the dinosaurs?

Me:   (Shit.  I don't know.  I've got a 50/50 chance.)  Yes.

Jack:  NO, IT DIDN'T!

[pause]

Jack:  Mommy, did the Ice Age kill the dinosaurs?

Me:    (Shit.  I still don't know.)  No.

Jack:  That's right!  Mommy, what did kill the dinosaurs?

Me:    (Shit.  This is like law school.)  I don't know.

[silence]

Me:    Jack, what killed the dinosaurs?

Jack:   THE VOLCANO!

Image credit

So, being the smart ass that I am, I decided to follow up on this so that I could feel a tiny bit less clueless.  Though I'm pretty sure Jack's done with me on this topic after my bungled answers last night.

Per National Geographic, I learned:  

New insights about the asteroid thought to have killed off the dinosaurs suggest it may have just been the final blow, and that the reptiles were already suffering from a finicky climate prompted by volcanic eruptions long before the meteorite struck. (Link above, under picture.)

And per Jack, I can now somewhat visualize said volcano:

You see, he and his buddies are doing a project.  They've built a volcano, and today is the day they MAKE IT BLOW UP.  

Ice Age.  Sheesh.  Can't believe I fell for that one.

Hope you learn something prehistoric today.

Talk to you soon,

Heather

the one where I had an existential crisis with my coffee

Traffic was horrendous today.  It took me an hour and a half to get to work.  It should take about thirty minutes.

To add insult to injury, I didn't have any coffee.  I had water, because I foolishly thought I'd "had enough coffee."  However, I had not had enough coffee for a 90 minute commute.

I stopped at one of my favorite local coffee shops, Thunderbird Coffee.  They're really cool there.  And they know it, but not in that annoying way.

Vintage light fixtures, mismatched chairs, good coffee...
You get the idea.

I was chatting with the baristas when a man came in, very sweaty from what I believe to be a recent run, to get his coffee.  He was clearly a regular and clearly very invigorated by his recent exercise.  He was chatty.

As I said something to the guy making my latte, he turned to me directly and said:

"Are you a hipster?"

Not even intentionally, this image is from an online article about AUSTIN HIPSTERS.  Sigh.

Oh, Lord.

It didn't take me long to answer, but time did slow down a little bit as I stood there and had an existential life crisis.  

Clearly, I am not a hipster.  I am a 37 year old lawyer who's in the Junior League.  Seriously, people.  

On the other hand, I like to thrift and find new music and eat weird things and generally keep it real.  And we compost.  So, you know, not all hope is lost.  AND, I have Warby Parkers.  Phew.  A sliver of redemption.

But, yeah, no.  I'm not.  My days of smoking Gauloises and wearing Doc Martens are over.  I don't even live in South Austin anymore.  And I am not going to tattoo a bird or an arrow on any part of my body.

And so, when time sped back up after I'd candidly assessed my life in order to respond to Ye Olde Sweaty Chatty Man, I simply said this:

"No.  I used to be one.  But now I live in Steiner Ranch, so I can't be one anymore."

He smiled.  The baristas groaned and chuckled.  The legit hipsters agreed with me.  I was an acceptable, honest and humorous, non-hipster.

(Note:  For non-Austinites, Steiner Ranch is a very tony suburb of Austin that I like to refer to as "gracious lakeside living."  Side note:  I actually love living there.)

So, there's that.

Hope your day involves some refreshing self-assessment.

Talk soon,

Heather

the one where I pick a fight with my to-do list

Every weekend, I make a to do list.

It always includes the basics of a Type A working mom's life:  laundry, cleaning, planning the menu for the week, grocery store.  It usually includes some aspirational me time:  yoga?; pedicure? (These are always accompanied by a question mark because I know, deep down, they are unlikely.)  And it usually includes like a dozen other things that I can't recall but seem very important to me at the time the Type A-ness washes over me and the list-making begins.

In other words, it's always far too long.  

Never mind that from Monday through Friday, I have no less than 10 separate to do lists with multiple tasks in them blinking at me from the wonderful (pun) app that is Wunderlist.  Never mind that.

No, my weekend lists are different.  They're old school -- on paper, in pen.  They sit on the kitchen counter all weekend as I go back and forth past them in my rush hours of doing.  They make me happy when I cross items off, but then, somewhere around lunchtime on Sunday, they start making me sad.  Because they are un-doable.  Un-finishable.

I've been this way for a long time.  Over-planner.  Poor manager of my own time.  Exceedingly ambitious. List-maker extraordinaire.

In fact, once, in a law school class that shall not be named, I wrote and wrote through the entire class with a determined and thoughtful look on my face.  (For most of law school, I was a dinosaur and hand-wrote my notes and exams rather than using a laptop.)  

One of my classmates asked me after, "How on earth did you pay attention and take all those notes?  That was SO BORING!"

I blithely responded with the truth.   "I wasn't paying attention.  I was making to do lists for every area of my life."

He roared with laughter (and relief, because law school is nothing if not competitive) and walked off.

The Interwebz are awash with articles about unplugging.  Don't look at your phone all weekend, they say.  Be present in the moments, they say.  Don't clean so much, they say.

And for the most part, they are totally right.  (I'll ignore the obvious paradox of using the Internet or even Facebook medium to communicate this to an audience of clicking multi-taskers.)

I still do need to clean a little this weekend, because if I don't, the dog hair will adversely possess my house.  And I do need to buy groceries.  A pedicure would be nice, but you know what else would be nice?  A trip to Starbucks with Jack, where he eats a scone and we talk about what he wants to be for Halloween.  A nap when Jack naps.  (What?!  I know; crazy talk.)  A run before it's 104, while the guys are still sleeping.  All of those things would be fantastic.

So, you know, I think that's my to do list for this weekend.  It can't go any worse than the ones I usually make.  And regardless of how much I finish, it won't make me sad.  Which is pretty cool.

Hope you reevaluate your list today.

Talk soon,

Heather

philosophers and giraffes

I read this quote recently and just loved it:

"Nine requisites for contented living: Health enough to make work a pleasure. Wealth enough to support your needs. Strength to battle with difficulties and overcome them. Grace enough to confess your sins and forsake them. Patience enough to toil until some good is accomplished. Charity enough to see some good in your neighbor. Love enough to move you to be useful and helpful to others. Faith enough to make real the things of God. Hope enough to remove all anxious fears concerning the future." - Johann von Goethe

I'm not sure there's enough Goethe in my life right now.  Or enough literature.  I'm going to fix that.  (Kristin, help me.)

Anyway, I don't have the mad ego to say that I "disagree" with Goethe.  Those nine things are beautifully expressed and seem pretty comprehensive to me.

But I know, without a doubt, that Jack would say the tenth requisite is Legos.

So you can build towers.  Which he does, all the time.

And giraffes.  Which is new, but super awesome.

Hope your day has some Goethe in it.  Hell, hope it has giraffes in it, too.

Talk soon,
Heather

necessity is the mother ... of a three year old

Yesterday was a doozy.  

Morning traffic was a beast.  The work day was intense.  I left early (despite my ghastly to do list) for my biannual skin check.  (More on skin cancer later, but suffice it to say, I'm a melanoma survivor.  Get your skin checked.)

Work calls after the doctor.  Picture me at a crowded Starbucks, with a finger jammed in one ear, phone pressed tight to the other ear, trying my best to hear my the voices on the other end of the line.

So, at said Starbucks, work call finished and iced coffee in hand, with a critical eye on my watch (T minus time to pick up J from school), I made an executive decision.

It's time for a pedicure.

I didn't even *start* to relax until about halfway through.  I had to put my phone down (including work emails) because the battery was almost dead.  That was good.  Then, I had to read Vogue.  I had to get the paraffin wax treatment.  (It's the best.)

I keep a pair of flip flops in my car for dire situations like emergency pedicures and uncomfortable heels.  If I had been thinking ahead, I would have brought them with me into the nail salon.  I did not think ahead, and I had worn Toms yesterday.  

No problem, right?  You can walk to your car in the foam flippers that they give you after a pedicure.

True.  You can.  And you know what else you can do?

You can walk from the nail salon to the liquor store next door to buy a nice bottle of Pinot Noir in your foam flippers, and then walk from there to the car after.  

Did I do that?  Yes, I did.  

Was I embarrassed?  Not even a little.  I had a problem (sad toes, bad day) and I was fixing it.  I was multi-tasking.  And you know, divine providence would not have put that nail salon next to that liquor store unless it was just meant to be.

OK, maybe that's taking it a little far.  But by the time I got home and D and I decompressed about our days with a glass of wine, the headache had subsided and my toes looked great.

So, if necessity used to be the mother of invention, I think that necessity is actually the working mother of a three year old.

Hope you find a creative solution today.

Talk soon,

Heather

i crack myself up

What can I say?  It's a classic Mom move to display your child's artwork in your office.

It compels colleagues to make vague, complimentary remarks like:

-- Oh, you must be very proud.
-- Look at all those colors!
-- What a nice ... picture!
-- How old is he again?

He's three.  You don't have to think his pictures are great.  I do.  And luckily, I do.

To wit, a recent picture of my office door:

He told me that's what the picture was.

I'm pretty sure he's a genius.

Hope you are flattered in the abstract today.

Talk soon,
Heather

this one's courtesy of the who

My dear brother, nephew, and son playing kickball on a fine spring day in Austin not too long ago.

I can't explain how my brain works.  Because I looked at this picture for a while, and then this happened:

Even in the backyard

He can beat your best.

His uncle leads him in

And he just does the rest.

He's got little feet of fury

Never seen him fall...

That little Jack Attack kid

Sure plays a mean kick ball!

Not that Lindy and Eli don't also play a mean kickball.  But you know, I'm partial.

Hope Roger Daltry inspires you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

ass kickin' chickens

I've waxed philosophical in the past that Jack was born a Texan.  He will intrinsically know what happened at the Alamo, what "perfect" nachos are, and the difference between a good and a bad tortilla.  

And while that knowledge is great, I feel obliged to represent the Mid-Atlantic region in his upbringing.

I won't teach him to pronounce water as if it were spelled "wooder."

I will teach him to love DC and Philadelphia.  And to respect Baltimore.  (Charm City, if you come out of your crime tailspin, I will reevaluate.)

I will teach him to parallel park.  That shit is important.

And, I will teach him to respect the likes of the Maryland Terrapin and the Delaware Blue Hen.

See?  I've already started.

Thanks, Uncle James and Aunt Jenny!

Because it is cool to root for, as we say, an ass kickin' chicken.  From the First State.  You know?

Hope your day has some aggressive poultry in it.

Talk soon,

Heather