What REALLY goes on behind the scenes of those cute holiday photo cards? Well let me tell ya...

It's time for another installment of Chicky Family Christmas Pictures!

*Thundering cheers*

*Smattering of polite applause?*

*Fine, one lady in the back who wandered in thinking this was a sewing circle and is too embarrassed to leave. Hey lady, there's coffee in the back. Help yourself.*

If you're new to this blog you should know I have a history with photo Christmas cards. I tend to set the bar a little too high for myself, not considering the two sentient beings who are the focus of each card. They have opinions too. And their opinions suck.

But photo cards must be done and they must be perfect! For they are the only proof my children occasionally smile and love each other! Black eyes and scrapes that I Photoshop out notwithstanding.

This year's Christmas card photo session was held over two days. The first, Caroline was having nothing to do with it and screamed the entire time. The second, Caroline was having nothing to do with it and screamed the entire time. The distinction, the first day Caroline was overtired and had a head cold. The second she was being Caroline. Big difference.

On the first day we tried to take pictures of them together:

I will not smile but I will insist on holding this 8 year old dog toy that has been sitting outside for the past year. Later I will lick it when I think you're not looking.

Grimacing is almost like smiling, right?

I believe this move is called the "Step Off, Beeyotch. I'm swinging here."

On day two is was very cold but we decided to push on anyway. You know where this is going right?

I... don't know what to say.

Except, thanks dog! The random tail in the picture gives it visual interest, dontcha think?

I could go on. Forever. But I won't because I'm tired of uploading pictures to gawd damn Blogger.

We tried to take individual pictures, too. We got dozens of pictures like this from Miss I LOVE the camera! Take more pictures of ME:


And we got hundreds of pictures like this of Miss I AM A FIRESTARTER AND ANYONE WHO ANGERS ME SHALL DIE:

Actually, that was a good one. The other ones would eat your computer from the inside.

But in the end, we got our shot and the cards were created and ordered. And there they sit, on my counter, until Santa sends me some of his elves to help address them. Should be any day now.

See? Perfect children being perfectly perfect. No one will ever know! Bwahahahaha! Except all of my friends who read this blog. Shit.

I may have included a little surprise on the back. I just couldn't resist this picture.

But honestly, who could?

Oh where, oh where can she be?

I'm still here. Last week I wasn't, however. I was here instead:



It was a last minute trip South of the Border. Threat of hurricanes and tropical storms be damned! We had an opportunity to spend a few days in paradise and we jumped on it like a starving dog on a raccoon carcass. Or like me on the complimentary minibar and all-you-can-drink margaritas.

(No mas tequila. No mas.)

For three days we were treated like royalty. I thought it was hard coming home from BlogHer this year but it was nothing compared to coming home after being able to open up the shades in the morning and stare at the ocean all day while ordering room services and doing nothing any more taxing than having a small Mexican man named Gabriel massage my shoulders or read a book a day.

Reality doesn't bite, it sucks. It sucks hard.

But all good things must come to an end and so did our short stint in paradise. Back to the toil of laundry and waiting for the school bus and needing to schedule things like haircuts for my children who decided to play hairdresser while on their grandparent's watch.

Maybe I'll take some more of that tequila after all.

(Pictures taken from the extensive patio off our suite with the Hipstamatic app for iPhone, under the influence of sunshine and tequila and comfortable chaise lounge chairs. Which is why I couldn't be bothered to stand up to take the pictures.)

It would be cheaper to tape his mouth shut

How to guarantee you'll need a new car:

Sit down with your wife to discuss your finances. Talk about how certain things will be paid off by a certain date as long as your car keeps running well, therefore keeping you both out of a second unnecessary car payment. Specifically point out that there shouldn't be anything to worry about in that department unless "the transmission goes".

Watch your wife visibly cringe because she thinks you jinxed things.

Scoff at your wife's unreasonable jinxing fears.

Maybe make a crack about how she worries too much.

Come home from work one afternoon less than a week later and mention how your car won't go into reverse anymore.

Start making plans to purchase a new car.


How to keep the peace in your marriage:

Start listening to your wife more. Or invest in a lot duct tape.

Grandma's little helper

While preparing to grind my coffee at Trader Joe's this afternoon a nice older woman approached the adjacent bread section.

"I'm sorry," I said, smiling, moving my cart out of the way. "Let me move this so you can get to those muffins."

"Don't worry about me, honey, nothing's going to stop me from getting to my sweets," she replied with the biggest smile. "What you're doing there is important work. And, ooh! I love that coffee! Good choice."

"Yes, I love this coffee too. I'm kind of addicted to it."

She laughed heartily. "Addicted, yes, I can be that way too. Although, these days I drink more tea. Do you enjoy tea, dear?"

"I do but I have two little ones, so I need my caffeine," I explained with another smile. "These days I seem to drink a ton of it."

"I've been known to overdo it a time or two myself," she confided, chuckling.

She was so likable, so easy to talk to! Such a sweet, grandmotherly type. Wow, I thought, apparently I need to come to Trader Joe's more often. It's the happiest place on earth!

The grinder hummed along.

"How old are your children?"

"Four and fourteen months."

"Ooh, you've got your hands full." Her face was full of understanding. She had been there. Long ago, but she knew where I was coming from. She seemed to be remembering her time as a mother, as she stared off into space for a moment. Okay, a long moment.

"I hope you take care of yourself in other ways," she nicely admonished, snapping back to today. "To keep yourself going? Supplements and, you know, things like that?" She had a curious look on her face.

"I do," I assured her. "I try to take care of myself. Can't keep up with two active kids with just coffee in my system, know what I mean?

"So, where do you get your, um, product?"

"Excuse me?" The grinder was still humming along, and it was fairly loud. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly?"

"You know, your product."

She can't be asking me what I think she's asking me. Can she?

"Uh, that little health food store near the independent book seller?"

"Oh yes, I know the place. There, huh?"

Oh God, what the hell is she getting at? "Yes, they're very nice there. Very helpful. You know, with supplements?" If she is asking me what I think she's asking me, maybe she'll get the hint now. Yeah.

"I'll have to try there, then. Yes, I'll go there now. Right... now. Yes." She turned her head slowly toward the exit.

The coffee machine had run its course and I was standing there, slightly gap jawed.

"Ooo-kay then. Well, nice talking with you."

"Yes," she said, slightly absentmindedly. "Very nice."

And with that she wandered away.

I'm not sure but I think I just send a nice, little old lady to my favorite health food store to ask for drugs. But worse, I'm just sorry I'm not a fly on the wall to see that conversation go down.

But I'm keeping my black shit

Friday afternoon, in the car:

Me: So, you heard John Hughes died, right?

Him: Who?

Me: [head threatening to explode] John Hughes? The man responsible for The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Planes, Trains and Automobiles and many, MANY other excellent movies? The man who created Duckie and Bender? And "Blane? His name is Blane? That's a major appliance, that's not a name."? The man responsible for the shaping of our formative years?? THAT John Hughes???

Him: Oh yeah, that guy. Yeah, I think I heard something about that. Too bad, huh?

Me: [Boom]

Me: Yes it is too bad that he died - but kind of ironic in a way. I was just writing a post drawing a connection between a character in The Breakfast Club and personal blogging, more specifically my personal blogging...

Him: Come again?

Me: I know, weird, right? But let me explain. You know Allison, how she's always carrying around that big bag...

Him: Allison?

Me: [Boom again] Ally Sheedy?

Him: Right. Go on.

Me: ... She's got that bag and she keeps it really close to her at all times until that scene with Andrew and Brian - sorry, Emilio Estevez and Anthony Michael Hall - where they compare what's in their wallets with each other...

Him: And Anthony Michael Hall's got the bad fake I.D.?

Me: Right! Very good. You were beginning to make me question this whole relationship of ours.

Him:

Me: So, Allison steals Brian's wallet and then gives it back and then the guys start comparing the stuff in their wallets and it's kind of personal and kind of silly but most important - they're connecting on a more intimate level...

Him: High school boys do not connect on an intimate level.

Me: [stink eye] It's a John Hughes movie. The boys are very in touch with their feelings. Kind of. Maybe?

Him: Continue.

Me: Okay, so. Wallets, fake I.D., nudie picture... The whole time Allison is there clutching that bag to her chest like her life depends on it and you can see in her eyes that she wants to share so badly she can hardly stand it but she's been so quiet up until now that she's torn -- Don't give me that look. I've seen the movie so many times, I know that she's torn -- so she asks them, Do you want to see what's in my bag? To which they say, No. Like, emphatically. No. She's weird and there's that whole high school social pecking order thing...

Him: You need to get out more.

Me: [ignoring] Finally she can't take it anymore and she, like, dumps her massive bag out in front of them -- and there is, like, a ton of shit in there. Like, it takes forever to dump everything out of that damn bag of hers - and she has to defend why she carries all that stuff with her at all times while the two guys pick through it with this mixture of disgust and curiosity. And in the end you can tell she's totally relieved that she did it. Like a weight has been lifted off her shoulder. But at the same time she's horrified of what she just did... A woman's bag is a very important, very sacred thing, you know.

Him: Yes, I know.

Me: And in the end it's all worth it. She gets the guy and they kiss and she takes a memento...

Him: That scene always pissed me off. Right, in a fit of superhuman strength she rips the patch off the arm of his jacket? How did she do that? My patches were all sewn on by my mom and there was no way some girl was going to rip those things off with her bare hands.

Me: I think it was ironed on. You're mom really sewed on all your patches? Wow.

Him: Yeah, and you're, like, talking like a teenager, like.

Me:

Him: So how is this like your blog exactly?

Me: Dude! The bag is a metaphor for all my feelings and stories! People everywhere are comfortable sharing bits of themselves online. Don't you see? They're opening up their wallets! They're dumping out their bags! And even though I've been blogging for almost FOUR YEARS I still play things pretty close to the vest, you know? I keep the contents of my bag pretty secret. I stick to the fringe. Lay low. Keep my hair in my eyes.

Him: Are we still speaking in metaphors?

Me: Sort of. I can't wait until these damn bangs grow out. Anyway, now that I've been to a few of these blogging conferences, I've seen people who have shared intimate details of themselves building relationships with others who also aren't afraid to show their emergency underwear, so to speak.

Him: Did you ever think maybe not over sharing is a good thing?

Me: Maybe. I guess I wouldn't like strangers poking through my metaphorical tampons.

Him: Exactly.

Me: And then Andrew tells her she has problems.

Him: Yep.

Me: And then there's the thing of her being a pathological liar.

Him: Uh huh.

Me: And I never did understand why she had to get all pretty for the guy to like her.

Him: Mmm hmm.

Me: Why did she have to get a Molly Ringwald makeover? She was the same girl underneath all that black shit. Molly Ringwald should have let her keep the black shit! She liked the black shit! Although, I do believe the headband was an inspired choice.

Him: We're not talking about your blog anymore, are we?

Me: No, I guess not.

Him: Can we drop this subject then?

Me: Yeah, sure. I guess. But I'm totally, like, blogging about it.

Him: I wouldn't expect anything else. Will you warn me if and when you decide to dump out "your bag"?

Me: Like, totally. And for the record, your mom spent way too much time on your high school jacket. It's kind of troubling, actually. If at anytime you'd like to talk about it...

Him: Drop it.

Me: Okay, Sporto.

The search for the perfect pair of jeans. Alternate title: The grass is always greener on someone else's thighs.

I am at war with my body.

After two kids and almost 37 years on the earth, not to mention the winter and long, cold, wet spring we just went through (or as I like to call it, Nutella-Palooza, '08 - '09), things don't look quite the same as they did back in the day. "The Day" being when I was a size 0 and my legs looked like tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches that then were the source of much teasing but are now in style. Fucking tree branches.

I'm having difficulty reconciling the fact that my body is different than it used to be. I was always very skinny, naturally so, and I never had to work out (though I did, it's much more enjoyable when you don't have to) and eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese with a side of large fries and washing it down with a 10 piece Chicken McNugget was something I never gave much thought to.

(Nary an extra pound nor bout of heartburn to contend with. Ah, memories.)

Do you hate me for writing that*? It's okay, I kind of hate me right about now. More to the point, I kind of hate the 22 year old me (and 19 year old me, and 15 year old me and...) for not liking the way she looked back then. I'd like to go back in time and shake her by her slender neck (the one that didn't have the beginnings of a waddle hanging over it) and tell her to lose the negative body image thing (Because, really? You're 110 pounds and 5'8. Suck it up, Buttercup) and enjoy going into any store she wanted to and buying whatever type of clothing caught her fancy without ever needing to try it on. I'd kind of like to tell the 30 year old me the same thing. I'd also tell her to wear more sunscreen.

My body, though still on the slender side, has changed. Things that were once flat are now bumpy and things that were once firm are now jiggly. Which is fine if you're a jello salad but not so much if you're a woman with body issues.

Pants don't fit the same and Spanx is not something kinky one does in the bedroom. And I certainly don't have the luxury of going into clothing stores and buying things without a trip to the dreaded changing room, with their flourescent lights (very flattering to dimpled thigh fat, by the way. If I wanted a diorama of the Grand Canyon I'd make one out of a shoe box and some modeling clay, thank you very much.) and institutional paint job designed to make sure you don't get all cocky in those new clothes.

But believe it or not, this post is not about negative body image.

(Really Tania? After all that this isn't just you bitching about your body? No really, you should thank me. What I've got on that subject could fill the entire internet and if I did that there would be no more room for videos of cats falling off of pianos, so I'll save it for now. You're welcome)

No this post is about denim. Or more to the point, the search for the perfect pair of jeans.

Like ROUS's, I don't think they exist. (Gosh, that joke never gets old, does it?) At least not for less than the price of a used mid-sized sedan. But still I search. I try on. I squeeze and tuck - you know, got to put the muffin top somewhere - and grunt and groan. And then I get frustrated and pig out on french fries.

All I want is a decent pair of jeans that don't make me look like I'm smuggling watermelons in my thighs. Except for cupcake top around my middle (I know it's a muffin top but cupcakes are sweeter. And they have frosting. And I love them with all my heart. And that may be why I have a muffin top.) I'm still on the smaller (read: medium) side and my hips aren't too bad, it's my upper thighs that always get me. I keep hearing Stacy and Clinton say, Look for a pair of pants that hits you at your widest point and then goes straight down from there. Yeah, THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.

Two words - Skinny. Jeans.

Two more words - Fuck. Off.

Still, they have to be out there somewhere. I shop, I buy, I come to my senses, and I return. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. That's how I roll.

But let's take this step by step, shall we?

So here is how I shop for the perfect pair of jeans, in 18 easy steps

(Okay I know - 18?? It was 29 but I edited. You're welcome.)

Ahem.

Step 1: Go through your entire wardrobe and try on every pair of jeans you own. Chuck out the old, the tired, the out of style, the "What in the Sam Hell was I thinking?" and the "Not in a million years and an eating disorder will you ever fit in these again". Realize you're down to one pair of jeans that fits and you're only keeping those because picking up your child from preschool whilst nearly naked from the waist down is probably not going to win you any friends.

Step 2: Cry over the death of your youth and then give your children the stink eye for ruining your figure. Then hug your children because you feel badly for thinking that way (Oh, you're totally still thinking it, but with love.)

Step 3: Decide to shop for jeans online because poking at your thighs and squeezing your belly flap is more socially acceptable while standing in your own bedroom. While popping Hershey's Kisses.

Step 4: Ask lovely people on Twitter where they shop. Love the people on Twitter. On Twitter no one knows your thighs aren't as thin as they once were. Unless you tell them. Which you will because it's TWITTER.

Step 5: Take suggestions and then search every website known to man. Make disparaging remarks about the anorexic models and their nonexistent hips. Words "bitch" and "bite me" may be used. Liberally.

Step 6: Put a a bunch of jeans that don't scare you in your virtual shopping cart. You can always return the ones you don't like, right? Gasp audibly upon seeing the total while checking out. Decide you could stage a coup in a small third world country for that amount of money and delete a couple (read: all but two) from your cart.

Step 7: Wait for cute UPS guy to deliver a package. Chuckle over the word "package" in relation to cute UPS guy because you're a 12 year old boy. A twelve year old boy with 36 year old hips.

Step 8: When UPS guy shows up 5 days later with your package (heh) answer the door side ways to give the illusion of smaller midsection and smile winningly. Try to ignore his bemused expression and his quick exit. Take box, slam door (but first, watch UPS guy's butt as he makes quick getaway), and then run to bedroom with box in breathless anticipation for Best. Jeans. EVER.

Step 9: Break a nail opening box. Swear. Lie about what those words mean to impressionable four year old who was helping you open the box.

Step 10: Take jeans out of box. Look at them quizzically. Hmm, they looked different online (after two glasses of wine).

Step 11: Try on jeans. Try to find place to put the jelly roll that is your tummy. Above the waistline? Below the waistline? Decide to try to tuck it in like blousy shirt.

Step 12: Detach flesh roll from zipper. Apply Neosporin.

Step 13: Look in full length mirror. Hmm, kind of tight in the thighs. Typical. Maybe heels are needed. Yes, heels are much better! Makes legs look slim! Grunt while running to closet to find pair of heels that don't hurt your broken toe. Give up and decide pain is worth it. Limp back to mirror. Ah, much better. Excruciatingly painful, but better.

Step 14: Decide to take pictures to send to husband who is in California (or Michigan, you forget at this point) to get his opinion.

Step 15: Look at picture in camera screen. Consider Photoshopping your legs before sending picture. Also wonder if your camera is broken. Or maybe your mirror.

Step 16: Cry while on the phone with your husband. I'm sure they look great, he says. Refuse to send him picture. What does he know? He's in Michigan. Or Florida. You forget.

Step 17: Package jeans to return. Suck up shipping fees both ways. Realize that was your iced coffee money for two weeks.

Step 18: Get frustrated. Feel hopeless. Decide after much denial you have no choice but to go to the Mall.

Oh yes, the Mall.

Sometimes, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

And that is enough for now, lambs.

Tune in next time for THIGHS. IN. SPACE. Er, MALL.

(Okay not really, just part two of The Search for the Perfect Pair of Jeans. Or, If a 100 pound sales girl is murdered in the dressing room of an upscale department store and she totally had it coming but no one is around to witness it, will anyone mourn the loss?)

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*And careful about what you say about size in relation to image problems. Many, many years of teasing has made me what I am today. You picking on me for hating the way I look sometimes will only get you a beat down of epic proportions. Also, I'm fragile.

Massachusetts makes a bit of NiP* legal. Finally.

Massachusetts, the first state in the United States to make same sex marriage legal, today - that's right, TODAY - made it legal for a mother to nurse her baby in public without fear of being charged with indecent exposure or lewd conduct.

Think about that for a moment. Go ahead, I'll wait.

*humming*

Yes, my lambs, in this beautiful state I call home it was, until today, ILLEGAL to nurse a baby in public. I could sit on a dirty toilet surrounded by all matter of waste and breastfeed my baby, that would have been perfectly fine since I would have been behind closed doors and away from delicate eyes that may have spontaneously EXPLODED from seeing the back of my baby's head and maybe a millimeter more flesh than I usually expose, but I couldn't feed my child on a park bench without fear of being asked to cover all that nastiness and move along or be thrown in the clink.

See? I'm so worked up about this, I'm writing ridiculously long, run-on sentences.

Also? Not really in the clink. Fined, yes. Publicly ridiculed, almost definitely. Thrown in jail? Doubtful, but still...

So give yourself a hand today, Massachusetts. We are the third to last state in the country to make it legal to nurse in public. WhooHoo! We rule!

*Thud*

Or better yet, maybe all of us nursing moms should go outside and feed our precious infants and toddlers from our nutrition-giving bosoms. Just because we can. And if someone gives you a hard time you can show them this and then squirt them in the eye with your milk.

Now that this is settled I'm going to work on legislation that's really important. Like making madras shorts illegal.


*NIP = Nursing in Public

Let sleeping dogs lie. But if you insist on poking one with a stick be prepared for the dog to write about you on the internet

There are some parts of my past that I would rather forget forever. Nothing too horrible, I've never worked a street corner or anything. Just unpleasant memories that are better left swept under the rug with the rest of the dirt. So why is it that those are the things that always come to the surface like smelly sulfur bubbles? Can someone please answer this for me?

Like old boyfriends, for instance. Everyone has old boyfriends or girlfriends that they wonder what ever happened to. Those are the ones who, if they happen to contact you out of the blue after finding you on Facebook or something, you'd be happy to take a few moments out of your day to reminisce about the good old days with. Even, I might add, if the "good" old days weren't all that spectacular. Those hops and skips down memory lane are pleasant enough, if not a tiny bit disconcerting.

Then there's the other end of the spectrum - the just plain creepy type.

Guess which one emailed me out of the clear blue a couple of weeks ago. Go ahead, guess.

I dated this guy almost 20 years ago...

(20 years? I think I just choked on my tongue.)

... that for the sake of this post we'll call "Crazy Alex".

After I broke up with "Crazy Alex", an epically bad breakup where I feared for my safety more than a few times, I never saw him again and I have had zero desire to ever speak with him since. It was a relationship that never should have happened. The fact that it lasted the better part of two years is a testament to how stupid I was at seventeen - and even more stupid at eighteen because I was still with the guy. But in the spring of my eighteenth year I finally smartened up and dumped his sorry ass. Much to the delight of everyone who knew me, especially my parents. I'm surprised they didn't buy me a bedazzled flying unicorn that pooped puppies and jelly beans to reward me for finally getting rid of the guy.

Apparently he Googled me, which led him to my blog.

(Why yes, I am regretting posting my real name. Thanks for asking.)

And that, my friends, was a HUGE mistake on his part. Take note, lambs - if you had a bad relationship with someone a thousand years ago and you know they have a blog, do not, I repeat DO NOT, contact them or they will be forced to use your email as blog fodder.

We'll call it payback for every jealous rage he ever went on. Or making up for that time I was forced to throw a coffee mug (and stapler, and I think there may have been some dinnerware too) at his head and missed. And for the record I'm not proud of that. I have much better aim now.

Let's begin, shall we?

His words are in bold, mine are in snarky:

Well its taken me months to decide whether to write to you and say hi or just to leave it

(just leave it, just leave it, for the love of all that is good and holy, just leave it)

but here goes.
Hello

(Dammit all to hell. He never could take a hint.)

I found your blog one day, I will be honest I googled your name (*shaking fist at Google*) on a day that I heard a Cinderella song and you popped into my head, (that still happens on occasion).

(For the record, I have no idea what he means. I've never listened to Cinderella a day in my life. Really. And I never saw them in concert either. Um...)

I am so glad you have had a great life and are happy. congrats on the kids and I am sorry to read about your mom.

(Okay, it was nice of him to acknowledge my mom. Especially since she hated him with the power of 10,000 suns and she may have had a hit out on him.)

I have been married for 14 years now have two great step-kids...

(Right about here is when I started to zone out. I may have been humming "Nobody's Fool" but I can't be sure since I've never heard that song in my life.)

I guess I fall under the category of one of the "winner" boyfriends you had in your past that you wrote about, I definitely earned that title I was an ass.

(Bingo.)

sorry about that, I guess medication should have been prescribed earlier than 35. We have a...

(Something something, dog. Something, something. cat. Wonder what made him think I would care about his animals? Or his medication, for that matter?)

(Get out of my head. GET. OUT.)

I too stayed close to music I have been lead singer in a couple bands and worked as a bouncer at....

(Funny, I don't remember him being a singer. Or strong. I do remember him as being more than slightly crazy with delusions of grandeur, however.)

unfortunately lead singer syndrome led me into a felony charge that will never be clear for my record, but thankfully I have a very strong and understanding wife and family that stuck by me, another case of me being an ass...

This is where I was all, Wait just a second. Did he say "Felony Charge"? What does that even mean? Did he beat someone to death with a microphone? Oh my holy hell, who in their right mind emails an ex and casually mentions that? Hey, haven't talked with you in almost two decades. Did I mention I'm an ex-con? How are things with you?

*Head/desk. Repeat.*

I'm imagining him sitting down to write this and thinking Should I mention I spent some time in the big house? Eh, can't hurt. It's only amazing I didn't write back IMMEDIATELY and tell him all was forgiven and invite him over for Sunday dinner. Maybe make him my children's godfather.

There was more to the email after that, but honestly I think I blacked out.

You may think I'm being a little harsh, sharing this personal email on the internet, but I think he threw away any right to privacy when he contacted me out of the blue and mentioned he was a FELON.

Am I shouting? Sorry.

Since he's probably reading this, which is creeping me out more than just a little bit, I'm going to say this to him: A. - I'm glad you seem to be getting the help you should have gotten decades ago. I'm glad you seem to be in a stable relationship with a stable job. But what would make me very happy is if you were to forget my email address. Just pretend you never met me because I can't imagine you have any fond memories of that time. I know I don't.

Now I think I'm going to give my husband and hug and apologize for every time I screamed at him for not picking up his socks.

Chef Boy-ar-You-Cute

The French Chef. All she needed was an empty wine bottle. Bon App*hic*etit.

And her sister, the Great Cheeky Pumpkin.

I'm proud of Chicky. She decided way back in August what she wanted to be this Halloween.

"Mommy, I want to be a *mumble mumble*-ooker.

"A what?"

"A *mumble*-ooker.

"A hooker??"

"No, a COOKER."

"Oh, a cooker. You mean, a chef."

"Yeah, a chef. Like the ones we see on the television. The ones who cook the food."

"Okay, you can be a chef this year." Whew, dodged a bullet there.

"What's a hooker?"

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There's still a little bit of time to enter Parent Bloggers Network's and Blurb.com's Blog Blast. Check out PBN's blog for more details.

Zoloft. Zinfandel. What's the difference?

Me: "We really need to sit down and make out a strict budget and stick to it. Things are so expensive right now."

Him: "Fine with me. What were you thinking?"

Me: "Well, for instance, we really need to put aside a certain dollar amount for things like kids clothes. They're both growing like crazy it's hard to keep up. I'm just glad that C.C. can wear most of Chicky's old baby clothes."

Him (nodding but barely listening): "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "And we need to be tough on how much money we spend on wine. No more stopping on the way home from work and picking up a random bottle. We need to be tough about that. I think wine should fall under 'Entertainment'."

Him (perking up): "Can't we put that under 'Medication'? I mean, that's what it is, isn't it??"

Me: "You know I'm totally going to blog that, right?"

Him (lost in thought): "I wonder if we can leverage my Flexible Spending Account for that?"