tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223588002024-03-12T17:49:55.852-06:00woolley familyjanellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-31787105387591212722011-10-19T21:24:00.000-06:002011-10-19T21:27:33.207-06:00one person's trashMy kids are treasure hunters. Not that their treasures are worth much in terms of money. My boys' treasures can be found wherever we go. Most of the time they're on the ground, hidden under clothes rounders, in those dark and dusty places we'd just as soon not think about let alone come in contact with.<br />
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Over the years they have made laundry an event that helps me figure out all the different places they've been. We're talking the colored size-indicators from store clothing hangers, nuts and bolts with or w/o rust, anything metal and weapon-worthy, rocks are highly valued, empty bullet casings (not sure where they find these), bottlecaps, paperclips, rubber bands, pinecones. One particularly horrifying find was during a walk and one of my innocent little guys excitedly brought something over to me asking what it was: a used tampon applicator. Gag! I completely freaked out, like he was going to be electrocuted until he tossed it back on the ground. Can't some people secure their garbage please? And now I was having to come up with a creative way to explain my crazed disgust to my little boy. Explain tampon to an innocent, please.</div>
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and these are a few of my favorite things....</div>
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Last week Jake learned to ride his bike. This would have happened earlier except that he has a lame mom who kept procrastinating this rite of passage due her 6-year-old. I will say that there is an unexpected benefit to delaying: if you do, your kid will learn in about 10 minutes. You'll think your kid's a genius and parental effort is utterly minimal. All of you out there learn from this and stop those shenanigans of holding on to your squealing 4-year-old's bike seat. Just delay and redirect until they're 6 and can take the training wheels off themselves. </div>
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Ava has discovered Barbie movies (shudder). Swan Lake and Nutcracker are among her favorites. It's nice to hear Tchaikovsky coming from the living room as consolation. But even more than that I love to see her dance. She has discovered the barefoot contortion of simulating dancing on point in nothing but her princess undies. I love to see her face crumpled up in confusion about why she can't stand 100% upright on those little piggies and watch her round little belly stick out with the effort. Now we get to hear things like: I've got to dance. (and suddenly she's up from the dinner table answering some silent and very urgent invitation to express herself); will you dance with me? (anyone will do); I need to dance. And I think she really does. </div>
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Last night she caught the last few minutes of Dancing with the Stars with me. I looked over and saw that she was giving it her best shot, waving arms, lifting legs, dressed up in her monstrous Princess Aurora dress and sparkly red Dorothy shoes two sizes too big. I liked her outfit better, too. At least there's no danger of body parts falling out unexpectedly. </div>
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Speaking of raindrops on roses, it is the favorite bedtime song in our house right now. Thanks to homegrown renditions of The Sound of Music performed by the Bolen and Greenan kids I know all of the words. It's great.</div>
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We found the greatest karate school! After a few years of being asked if they could take karate, the boys saw their cousin Gabe do some of his karate moves and that was it. That was the final straw. There was no more asking. It had to happen. <br />
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Does anyone know how much money it costs to have one kid do karate, let alone 3? It's mind boggling. I started searching because I was finally convinced that the boys REALLY wanted this. But I wanted a good studio and good instruction. We have found the perfect place. Matt and I call it the Mr. Miagi studio. It's not flashy and doesn't hand out advancements in rank according to a schedule or even very frequently, for that matter. The students really earn them. They are taught by instructors who love what they're doing, are experts at it many times over, and worked really hard themselves to get to where they are.<br />
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I love it because this school doesn't just tow the karate line that the kids have to keep up their good behavior outside of school, they actually check to make sure it's happening. When a student is ready to advance, the school schedules a meeting with the parents where the parent has the opportunity to rat their kid out. Whoa! I see opportunities with this.<br />
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I am so happy to see how happy the boys are. Each one loves it and they're good at it. Really, they've been halfway trained in karate their whole lives with natural boy wrestling and the lightsaber fighting they were raised on from infancy.<br />
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This week Zach, Spence, and Jake each got their first advancement. Gold belt is next and weapons training. I can't help it, I get excited for them! <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">(I can't load the pictures! Ugh, I'm working on it.)</span><br />
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<br />janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-35826291373014399142011-10-03T23:09:00.005-06:002011-10-04T00:32:10.820-06:00fudgeI love fall. I love fall. I love fall. <div><br /></div><div>I thoroughly enjoyed September, that happy, anticipatory slide into the busiest, best time of year. Three months of built-in parties, one after the other. It can't get better than that. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l4FmP_-aWAI/Toqd0Z5q8vI/AAAAAAAABXo/x8yUlAWIAaA/s320/DSC_0096.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659509405375984370" /></div><div>To kick it off, we made Halloween candy fudge tonight. While I can't say I love the fudge recipe (that ca</div><div>n be fixed), the candy part is GENIUS. And it can be tinkered with to celebrate any occasion or just for yumminess.</div><div><br /></div><div>It started with a cream cheese/white chocolate sludge we'll call "fudge" -- use your own recipe here -- and mix in some pretzels and dried cherries (much better than craisins, perfectly tart, perfectly sweet). Plop that mess into a parchment-lined 8-inch baking dish and flatten with greased hands. Cover the top with </div><div>Halloween candy (we used a random mix from those big bins at the grocery store), pushing do</div><div>wn on the candy to embed in the fudge.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FIaIfUdoBPg/Toqe1B0W1CI/AAAAAAAABYA/GpnG6FbflnU/s320/DSC_0098.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659510515602740258" /><div>Put the whole thing in the refrigerator for a couple hours or until firm enough to cut through the candy without losing its shape.</div><div>I had to hold myself back from adding sour gummy worms </div><div><br /></div><div>and Rips and gummy bears, Nerds or Junior Mints. I'll admit that when it comes to candy and celebrating and Halloween I revert embarassingly to my childhood. I have been known to request that my tired kids keep trick or treating longer, until they "have enough candy." I really don't hoard it all for myself, I just like celebrating this wondrous holiday when you can knock on someone's door and they hand you CANDY! I'm sure this craze goes back to the sugar deprivation of my youth.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OMCu6JrYkOc/Toqn7R5DNOI/AAAAAAAABYQ/7ugFNlE2eUI/s320/DSC_0103.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659520518601258210" /><div>Now that I think about it, sugar and I do have early beginnings. In 4th grade I "went" with my first boy ever, as in an agreement that you like each other, so you feel special, but you aren't required to otherwise associate. I was too shy to actually talk to him </div><div>much. Well, his parents owned a candy factory. It was fate, I'm sure. Our class toured it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was a kid made for Willy Wonka. I still like touring our local candy factory and staring up at the pipes running along the ceiling labeled SUGAR and CHOCOLATE. So much better than WATER or NATURAL GAS. Makes you feel ooey and gooey inside. Like you're in a place where anything is possible. I mean, if they have sugar and chocolate running through their pipes, there must be oompa loompas under the tables or something.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, just get yourself a good, solid fudge recipe: white or dark or milk or whatever, or even just plain good quality chocolate. Mix in the good stuff and let it get firm (or harden if you're using straight chocolate). I actually like the chocolate idea. We'll try that next.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-48973304011950655082011-07-06T16:33:00.013-06:002011-07-06T17:30:53.580-06:00it's june and they're all growing up<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tZWxA07bMzQ/ThTmX5v3prI/AAAAAAAABWI/lEnPOIp5C48/s320/IMG_4022.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626375132805572274" /><div>(Yep, it's July, but I'm catching up)</div><div><br /></div><div>My boy turned 13 in June. I can't believe it. Isn't he an adorable teenager? I can't believe we're there already. I get him mixed up with his dad when I hear him talk from another room! Love you Z!<div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r2YPzywfhHA/ThTnvE13QYI/AAAAAAAABWQ/3hxd8Gq7Kmk/s320/IMG_4026.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626376630432121218" /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>He asked for steak, sweet potatoes, and caesar salad--and cheesecake of course.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6XfhCYOualc/ThTpAzgAaYI/AAAAAAAABWo/41-0GzztuXU/s320/IMG_3994.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626378034526316930" /></div><div>At the end of the school year Spence was chosen to be part of the 1st Muir 4th grade decathlon team which competed against other 4th graders in the district. There they are in the Leo Lion red.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lei-U14k7Ak/ThTpBTEbVnI/AAAAAAAABWw/5MCnm1lLM1w/s320/IMG_4002.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626378043000575602" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qpB5WGYhsn0/ThTqVN1cupI/AAAAAAAABXI/0C8pVZ-9aG8/s320/IMG_3973.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626379484704586386" /></div><div>Jake has to be the most enthusiastic cub scout around. He literally couldn't wait to get started checking things off after he turned 8. I was not fast enough in getting his scout book to suit him. I put up a note for myself, but he wasn't happy until he'd repositioned it right in front of my face. He's right, that's pretty much where I need it.</div><div><br /></div><div>He began bringing his scout book with him wherever he went and had finished his bobcat and half of his wolf in one day. I'm trying to love scouting. I am. Having a kid like Jake makes it easier to love.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LRZ-LoBCUDI/ThTqUygQeqI/AAAAAAAABXA/HkuiG6C0sQY/s320/IMG_3979.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626379477367945890" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here he is at his first big scout activity. They had a Grand Prix with homemade cars. See how he ran so hard he broke a sweat? They were serious about winning. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JvD7BaHppEc/ThTr3W4GXWI/AAAAAAAABXY/YjlCDMg9NO4/s320/IMG_4004.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626381170758802786" /></div><div>Ava Jane graduated. How did we get here, too? This girl is dying to get herself to kindergarten. She looked forward to her shots at the doctor and took them in stride like she was checking hurdles off her list. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now she knows there's nothing left to check off except the glorious days of summer. Being 5 is good.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-naxanO51KJs/ThTr3tiRGQI/AAAAAAAABXg/z_v2k5O5o_E/s320/IMG_4013.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626381176841246978" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Reciting the pledge of allegiance.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Officially done!</div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9YTnPVA57vE/ThTqVVC1r-I/AAAAAAAABXQ/2jkq0cIspZ4/s320/IMG_4021.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626379486639796194" /></div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-47857768542049275062011-03-21T20:34:00.004-06:002011-03-21T20:44:09.391-06:00a rose by any other nameone of a class of cute little roses in the grand production of Romeo and Juliet....<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4Ej_wVICAY/TYgMH8oAVTI/AAAAAAAABTk/_gRltEZtTUY/s1600/IMG_3822.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4Ej_wVICAY/TYgMH8oAVTI/AAAAAAAABTk/_gRltEZtTUY/s320/IMG_3822.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586728668425639218" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JIAVgpd-Yww/TYgMIQDuExI/AAAAAAAABTs/x9B1cQUexsU/s320/IMG_3823.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586728673642156818" /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UUUQtratx3M/TYgMI5YXCYI/AAAAAAAABT0/MoAdWnqHdFE/s320/IMG_3841.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586728684734581122" /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I thought it was hilarious that she remembered getting flowers last year and checked to make sure she would be getting some this year, too</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-18U8Ig3qrUA/TYgMJcsfKfI/AAAAAAAABT8/5hrN52Dx1No/s320/IMG_3851.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586728694214240754" /></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-87609595677683357022011-03-20T17:01:00.005-06:002011-03-21T20:58:05.593-06:00rolie polies move on one more generation<div>Zach can make rolie polies, just like his mom, just like his grandma. These are crepes, or Norwegian pancakes, or whatever you want to call them, and they're not easy, even when you've made them a lot. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-llnlqBbx51o/TYgOyL_HWxI/AAAAAAAABUE/eEmOfzwupOI/s320/IMG_3866.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586731593126861586" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Zach had to make the recipe at home as part of a class at school, document it with pictures, and report back via email to the teacher. I showed him how on the first one and he finished the rest of the batter--no burning (of him or the crepes), throw-aways, or any hesitation at all. He got the technique, the swirl of the batter in the pan, and figured out how to avoid cooking a crepe with holes (a problem with your swirl technique). And he even shared his stash with the other kids for breakfast.</div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FvD7sc358Gg/TYgOzXzoR1I/AAAAAAAABUk/MqxUpOChTqA/s320/IMG_3856.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586731613479782226" /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SxnyHuYe20s/TYgOzDr6DsI/AAAAAAAABUc/n31EEdgDs8Q/s320/IMG_3857.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586731608078683842" /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FBZ7-47V3U8/TYgOy5ukaJI/AAAAAAAABUU/v-WB7sHzhDA/s1600/IMG_3860.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FBZ7-47V3U8/TYgOy5ukaJI/AAAAAAAABUU/v-WB7sHzhDA/s320/IMG_3860.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586731605405493394" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-guYZngN-qiQ/TYgOyhlToKI/AAAAAAAABUM/ieWC8Wm6qLY/s1600/IMG_3862.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-guYZngN-qiQ/TYgOyhlToKI/AAAAAAAABUM/ieWC8Wm6qLY/s320/IMG_3862.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586731598924193954" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-guYZngN-qiQ/TYgOyhlToKI/AAAAAAAABUM/ieWC8Wm6qLY/s1600/IMG_3862.JPG"></a><div><div>I am impressed!</div></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-76795805252043408042010-11-02T22:15:00.007-06:002010-11-02T22:51:38.359-06:00halloween happiness<div style="text-align: center;">We settled down one pre-Halloween eve to carve pumpkins and watch <i>The Nightmare Before Christmas</i>, our yearly tradition.</div><div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDjx2vf0SI/AAAAAAAABSI/7dJVdiHjtq8/s320/IMG_3323.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535174387686166818" /></div><div>Matt directed everyone to begin with a plan. Between bites of mud pie left over from Spencer's</div><div>birthday we drew our jack-o-lantern faces. </div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDl31js-lI/AAAAAAAABTA/Vs7XkaMHiF8/s320/IMG_3325.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535176689470732882" /><div>I had fun watching everyone get sticky with pumpkin slime, and Matt helped create our family's first princess pumpkin.</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDjyKJtFbI/AAAAAAAABSQ/v5C5_OZYC3k/s320/IMG_3311.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535174392896361906" /><div> <img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px; " src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDl2_bv5vI/AAAAAAAABSw/v372jxG7yHE/s320/IMG_3312.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535176674941855474" /><div>Zach's is the only pumpkin that survived our neighborhood delinquents. We were visited two nights in a row, kind of like we were a pumpkin patch for thieves. But moderate thieves who just took a few at a time and finished the job off by ripping out one of our porch zombie's eyes and tossing it in the dirt. </div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDl3QbgOHI/AAAAAAAABS4/o1ps9zbkF-0/s320/IMG_3331.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535176679504230514" /></div><div>Just so you know, you little snot-nosed thugs, you crushed a little 4-year-old girl's Halloween dreams. Throughout the day she would suddenly burst into tears and say, "Why did someone take my princess pumpkin?" And it was a cute princess pumpkin, you little turds.<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TNDjymreE1I/AAAAAAAABSg/zQzj66S6QgA/s320/IMG_3329.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535174400554177362" /><div style="text-align: left;">My friend Annemarie was visited by very thorough pumpkin thieves who completely cleaned off their porch. She and I regrouped, went and bought more pumpkins, and had a carving party with all the kids in her front yard. (Thanks Annemarie!) We both highly recommend doing this activity outside. This time I helped get into the pumpkin slime.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I will post a picture of Spencer's 3rd try pumpkin. After much effort and an internet search, it's the only one that passed his high standards. But he had fun smashing the other ones in our backyard. Then Gia ate from the pile and I got to clean up her barf later. Luckily small dogs equal small barfs. It was worth it for Spence to come up with pumpkin perfection. Congrats bud. </div><div><br /></div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-6569136772076824812010-10-20T20:47:00.012-06:002010-10-21T14:33:34.825-06:00party like you're not the old lady at the concert<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB9k5sR76I/AAAAAAAABRY/0Jb_8MgvHlQ/s1600/concert.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB9k5sR76I/AAAAAAAABRY/0Jb_8MgvHlQ/s320/concert.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530558415326277538" /></a></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">What I really mean is that at the Maroon 5 concert in Seattle last week my friend Melissa and I were the same age as the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">old people</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> were at concerts when we were in high school. Actually, we fit in pretty well with all the other old people at this concert--there were many. I don't think kids go to concerts anymore. I'm not sure what they do. But I think it's sad if it's true. As soon as I got home I did a search to see if there was a concert in Utah I could take my kids to. They need to experience it.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB4QV-BF1I/AAAAAAAABQQ/IkjAs6LSOSg/s320/article-1054185-029ACACF00000578-657_468x311.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530552564581472082" /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Even though I wasn't a huge concert go-er growing up I have great memories of many "firsts" in my life that came along by way of a concert; the list has turned out to be a chronicle of my life (or maybe personality?) in minature. Here are a few:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My first concert ever: Prince, Lovesexy tour, Paris!</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> (that alone changed my adolescent life)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 272px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB4Qyj-KQI/AAAAAAAABQY/LFXp_gjmZFg/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530552572256856322" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Check out a ticket stub from that tour--amazing:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB-w9-gAbI/AAAAAAAABRg/TryetSoaRik/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530559722146496946" /></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Actually my real first con</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">cert (I was in second grade):</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Neil Diamond (the green lasers made quite an impression--I brought this journey full circle when I saw Anne Murray perform in my 20s--If only I'd made it to see Olivia Newton John the representation of my early musical foundation would be complete.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 126px; height: 160px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB6LVNnAII/AAAAAAAABQ4/la_SVfi1jVY/s320/Unknown.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530554677502345346" /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My first date with my husband:</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Aztec Camera, UT -I was 17 and he was about to turn 19. I thought he was supercool for taking me to a concert.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 223px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB6LGA-ylI/AAAAAAAABQw/hdt87FAHoc4/s320/images-6.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530554673422846546" /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Coming home from this concert was my first and only time getting </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">pulled over for going too slow (I can't believe I admitted to this):</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> BonJovi, CA</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 252px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB4R61EDRI/AAAAAAAABQo/2Q69UZW-Ju4/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530552591655898386" /></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First concert my sister and I pushed and shoved our way up to the metal gates separating the band from crazy people in the pit:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Bon Jovi, Vienna (half of our group went to Vivaldi Four Seasons at the Vienna Opera House. Hmmm, I'm still glad we chose different.) It's also the only concert where they opened the gates and we made a life threatening run in a stampede all the way across a baseball field the size of Candlestick Park to get a good spot. Woohoo!</span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First concert I was singled out by the </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">lead singer for be</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">ing the only </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">one </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">in t</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">he front standing virtually still:</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> The Cult, KS - I'm painfully inhibited when it comes to dancing - I've been known to hide for hours when faced with dancing in public, but that's another story.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"></span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 120px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMCAG7PTkoI/AAAAAAAABRo/TEJCfAQrMsg/s320/thecult_l.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530561198880428674" /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First concert I had a ticket to but wasn't allowed in (forgot my ID):</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Echo and the Bunnymen, UT - that really sucked, at least I got to hang out with my friend Courtney while my husband and our friends Jack and Jaime were at the concert. I am lame.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB4RYiuvEI/AAAAAAAABQg/ZdPSRTKX_VM/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530552582452198466" /></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></b></i></div><div><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First concert I've been to as an old person:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Maroon5, WA - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I'm not sure when I crossed over into old person territory, but there it is. Melissa, please save that video of yours. The screaming of that crazed fan is priceless.</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/TMB9kubh-wI/AAAAAAAABRQ/vbvauEh7Bx8/s320/maroon-5-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530558412303235842" /></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-2721585454191699412009-12-26T11:35:00.015-07:002009-12-26T16:51:49.508-07:00ladies and gentlemen, secure your hamsAs we age, I think it's natural for the holidays to lose just a bit of their child-like magic. I don't mean to say that it isn't a great, happy, beautiful time, but with access to the Playbook, we adults now have to juggle both perspectives. We have to choose to take part in the Christmas pixie dust so to speak.<div><br /></div><div>I think I'm good with that. I mean, I can scurry quickly away from the parking lot scene of two Christmas shoppers exchanging merry F-YOUs and throw myself headlong into the toy aisle for comfort. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can pretend I didn't hear hissing and swearing from two Christmas hopefuls in the first 15 minutes of their black Friday extravaganza at Target. Merry Christmas...it's going to be okay. Those chicks need a serious dose of figgy pudding or something, but I can hum a really loud Christmas symphony in my head and concentrate on candy canes.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when I walked into my friendly ham store to pick up the main act for Christmas dinner this week and there was a security guard at the door packing a loaded pistol on his belt, my mental Christmas music came to a screeching, clanging halt. Okay, so I was in West Valley, but we're talking the strip mall part, not the hood. No need to shoot, sir, I just want a ham and I'll be on my way. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:12px;"><img src="webkit-fake-url://E3AD0334-5493-4284-8590-C475BDAED7F0/48455931_1.jpg" alt="48455931_1.jpg" /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:12px;"></span>Unbeknownst to me, these ham sellers know that actually waiting in line for something like a ham is for some people like putting their Christmas spirit straight into a juicer (even saying the word <i>ham</i> makes you think you need to come up with a joke or something, not devote an hour of your life to getting one). And in West Valley it requires loaded weapons to protect the hams and other innocent bystanders.</div><div><br /></div><div>But count me one of the innocent bystanders...I was dumb to this yule-tide secret. I settled down for my long winter's wait in the warmth of the ham store while holding my 3 year old - who is too old to be held for long periods, but my Christmas spirit had not yet met the juicer, however alarmed I was to see the pistol-toting uniform a few feet away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Several minutes went by before I was tapped on the back and turned to find myself directly in the firestorm of an irate ham shopper. Where is Mr. Indiana Jones Security Guard when I need him? Evidently I had unknowingly entered the store without first winding my way through the line in the tent outside the store - in the snow storm that was going on I had barely noticed the tent on my way in, hadn't even looked inside. It was too darn cold to figure out what those crazies headed into the tent were doing. I'll take my ham in the warm store, thanks.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was so shocked by what was happening that I found myself weirdly focused on the fact that my accoster was wearing hearing aids on both ears. Could he hear me? Wait, what did that matter? I had yet to utter a peep. He, however, was going to town just fine. Still, the double hearing aids and the bellowing attack were incongruous. I was off my mark, on the losing end of this holiday battle. Where was my freaking security guard? Sir, can you at least wave your pistol around a bit to deter this madman? I need to get back to waiting for my delicious ham. And really, I'm holding my little girl who albeit is protected by a solid armor of Christmas cheer and magic sugar plums, but still, she doesn't know about the jolly business of Christmas F-YOUs and I feared we were quickly headed in that direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lamely sputtered that I had no idea there was an outside line meant to be endured before the lovely inside line. I think the appropriate thing to have said, what they are used to in this particular ham store, is a healthy, full-lung shout of F&*% YOU, FREAKY HAM MAN! Back off!! That must be what the guy heard in his head because my startled and lowly explanation garnered no sympathy. He merely kept stride and hollered more searing insults. I think I saw some spit take to the air. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="webkit-fake-url://5C0F2484-5C42-4FBD-8F5B-B6AE6B43F1AA/495bd305-00b2-4b08-bf68-63ad39b802f5_6.jpg" alt="495bd305-00b2-4b08-bf68-63ad39b802f5_6.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe if I'd shopped in this lady's costume he'd have remembered his Christmas spirit</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Thinking back, I can't remember when he left my field of vision. All I know is that he was there and then he was gone, like a dirty little Christmas tornado. Later I looked for him; he wasn't in front of me or behind me. Tragically, at the moment of greatest need, my verbal gears had gotten supremely stuck. I was wrestling with what exactly to say, the fighter in me ready to link arms with Ava and physically take the guy down, or at least lash out with something acid and beastly. Sadly my life in times like these (which thankfully are not many) runs on a 5 minute delay. By the time I had found my rightful place in the poorly-marked outside tent, my defense gears were running like a well-oiled machine. Oh, if only he'd been winding around that annoying little tent with me.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:12px;"><img src="webkit-fake-url://FBF228CD-8723-4B9C-81D0-422533BE145C/Scherenschnitte+-+Mother+and+Daughter_thumb%5B12%5D.jpg" alt="Scherenschnitte+-+Mother+and+Daughter_thumb[12].jpg" /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:12px;"></span>No, he was gone, like an evil apparition. I have had the thought, <i>Was he way ahead in line when I came in and had his little run-in with me on his way out? </i>If that was the case how could he have mustered so much venom if I hadn't infringed on his personal ham-waiting time? I wonder if he thought of me while eating his precious time-bought ham this year. What does a person like that think of during Christmas at all? Though it shouldn't bear much thinking, it is an interesting question. I wonder if this is a Christmas tradition for him, waiting in the corner of the ham store out of sight of the useless security guard, arms loaded with purchased pork and pies, ready to pounce on the first person who makes the sensible decision to buy her ham in warmth, and then disappear into the snowy afternoon? </div><div><br /></div><div>I found out that they don't have armed guards at this company's other ham stores. I bet this guy has made the West Valley store what it is. Next year I may have to buy my ham in Provo. I wonder what the security guard tells his friends and family. That he stood brave guard at the ham store?</div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-14007629550003283802009-10-27T09:01:00.006-06:002009-10-27T09:23:34.505-06:00maleficent 's in the houseAva's not the only thing going on....just all that we blog about lately. <div><div></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuW-aYgc4XsGMRGsUIPnPECcqodppgcs1Z7DCsHy4-5jHHgjWm9mdulETtgiC25xgZKlw2cOm_Bb4LMvj6jHhQ77Nh4OAeJi9_50Fna77K8vY32cJQNTEAJuBlD4GY0t4wE-sXA/s1600-h/IMG_2325.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397298007191157298" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuW-aYgc4XsGMRGsUIPnPECcqodppgcs1Z7DCsHy4-5jHHgjWm9mdulETtgiC25xgZKlw2cOm_Bb4LMvj6jHhQ77Nh4OAeJi9_50Fna77K8vY32cJQNTEAJuBlD4GY0t4wE-sXA/s320/IMG_2325.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div>thought we needed to post a bit about maleficent's first preschool halloween party. one of my all-time favorite costumes. half-homemade, because out there the don't believe littler pricesses can turn to the dark side. that's only because they haven't visited our house. </div><div></div><div> </div><div>I love 'Leficent, as she calls herself, with her backpack on waiting for the carpool.</div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkdJPvn6HJT-mjLqaqq2JtLkmt5_Bn4UFFxLXikztGuNOLPICGBhgRZYzs9rEPv-F3OxB160kLt1xZFOm6QL11aHmqf14fFWJ8Yj_uZ3iyhYApbw3zTlQ4S2eqzkjlUxkYg3c8A/s1600-h/IMG_2331.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397298021551820994" style="WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkdJPvn6HJT-mjLqaqq2JtLkmt5_Bn4UFFxLXikztGuNOLPICGBhgRZYzs9rEPv-F3OxB160kLt1xZFOm6QL11aHmqf14fFWJ8Yj_uZ3iyhYApbw3zTlQ4S2eqzkjlUxkYg3c8A/s320/IMG_2331.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhoIYj6OfIxfU7stk49E8hD1bKeRbU3fJbcakYh-96txs69Khl_Z5LFMTdgm844CTS7fU94UrYy-fehBxR35qGeiMy3O7GxOJaAnuEq7a9kUqmCySBa_4ODOPCLLRwvUoQwLUYNA/s1600-h/IMG_2332.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397298030167621058" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhoIYj6OfIxfU7stk49E8hD1bKeRbU3fJbcakYh-96txs69Khl_Z5LFMTdgm844CTS7fU94UrYy-fehBxR35qGeiMy3O7GxOJaAnuEq7a9kUqmCySBa_4ODOPCLLRwvUoQwLUYNA/s320/IMG_2332.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-92138672250265401962009-09-02T13:39:00.011-06:002009-09-02T15:14:04.657-06:00sturdy as heartwood and I didn't even know it<div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9JJJYxpLHFgdyhDypVMgjEYhYFOneBAoIrBgOPqxLC8_xUngE14p0EgxJyPvhO3OE0PSWu66c9XFE_vj0V2NKKeLRGSI3YjQqvBRSh8pejkgFPifnv39FYnh2QJDyazDoYc1Aw/s1600-h/IMG_1221.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376965209484527794" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9JJJYxpLHFgdyhDypVMgjEYhYFOneBAoIrBgOPqxLC8_xUngE14p0EgxJyPvhO3OE0PSWu66c9XFE_vj0V2NKKeLRGSI3YjQqvBRSh8pejkgFPifnv39FYnh2QJDyazDoYc1Aw/s320/IMG_1221.JPG" border="0" /></a>Yesterday marked the first day of preschool, but a runny nose and general down-in-the-dumpness made today Ava's first day. Given her refusal to leave the house yesterday morning I was amazed when she got herself dressed and matter of factly notified me that she needed her backpack. She marched into her room and got it, we put on her shoes, and the girl was ready to go. </div><br /><div>At that moment, this moment I had been dreaming of, I suddenly didn't want to give her up. What am I thinking? Of course I want to give her up! I've been plotting and planning for this wee smidgen of free time since I don't know when. How could I be hedging now? Oh, but a part of me definitely was. </div><br /><div>I expected to have to gently pry her little fingers from my arm, wipe away a tear or two, and extol the many merits of preschool before zipping away (of course not when her innocent little back was turned, silly). She's pulled the rug out from under me with this <em>wanting</em> to go. At least she asked me to stay and watch her at the door for a minute. We blew kisses and signed I love you and then she was on her own. This mini thunderstorm of a girl who's own hip bones didn't measure wider than 3 inches when she was born went and did the hokey pokey with a group of strangers today. </div><br /><div></div><div>So, Miss Diana Gabaldon, your sentiments perfectly sum up a day like today:</div><br /><div>"Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger's touch. But when you live with them and love them, you <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGJN0_hkHnFr7GaBJDoXL-6hxNS7QzWY9K5w8OHrOSzTYLJf9A2hwH-YlMUN8OOI508tx0LpLyZJc5srLBoTcRq5gTyWB7BtTmad1Vqu4mJk0ijqu9KwqXdOtihFs6R74h3tmag/s1600-h/IMG_0053.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376980334091810802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGJN0_hkHnFr7GaBJDoXL-6hxNS7QzWY9K5w8OHrOSzTYLJf9A2hwH-YlMUN8OOI508tx0LpLyZJc5srLBoTcRq5gTyWB7BtTmad1Vqu4mJk0ijqu9KwqXdOtihFs6R74h3tmag/s320/IMG_0053.JPG" border="0" /></a>feel the softness going inward, the round-cheeked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body.</div><br /><div>But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says "I am," and forms the core of personality.</div><br /><div>In the second year, the bone hardens and the child <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfShHWl0628QKNCGf8sLT92T5u7qtybogeTXoWKEX8dX587m3ZR1zWBSAKuaPpx2lIRHwA4izL_su7srKHFoMeBQPV3cefQa2nMsB2WaQEgfZlP_qSO4niHfxYErvcSzfBaz9-pQ/s1600-h/IMG_0415.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376977238734438066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfShHWl0628QKNCGf8sLT92T5u7qtybogeTXoWKEX8dX587m3ZR1zWBSAKuaPpx2lIRHwA4izL_su7srKHFoMeBQPV3cefQa2nMsB2WaQEgfZlP_qSO4niHfxYErvcSzfBaz9-pQ/s320/IMG_0415.JPG" border="0" /></a>stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And "I am " grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh.</div><br /><div>The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves. </div><br /><div>In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until "I am" is set, </div><div>delicate and detailed as an insect in amber."</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpCdlOP3MPXsfngzz-TCuS8JiGfQjOMTprlnCFDtvNtnezueOG7x-BKZUqFmu6cP8TtbbADBP3eQDmFFs-n_ebnq4-o0RA8oR6fLGhl55KdaqSpQKcGpeEjkczwlr2zHFuj9nDg/s1600-h/IMG_1211.JPG"></a></p><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpCdlOP3MPXsfngzz-TCuS8JiGfQjOMTprlnCFDtvNtnezueOG7x-BKZUqFmu6cP8TtbbADBP3eQDmFFs-n_ebnq4-o0RA8oR6fLGhl55KdaqSpQKcGpeEjkczwlr2zHFuj9nDg/s1600-h/IMG_1211.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376978728185046802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpCdlOP3MPXsfngzz-TCuS8JiGfQjOMTprlnCFDtvNtnezueOG7x-BKZUqFmu6cP8TtbbADBP3eQDmFFs-n_ebnq4-o0RA8oR6fLGhl55KdaqSpQKcGpeEjkczwlr2zHFuj9nDg/s320/IMG_1211.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSzjY_La8iwMInqoEjETnnosEudpn6Ox1vKr6aPDw2gThku2ILOAukdJ7dqylFEaTZOTs0hMLAYKzieDGbj1rreCff4hExhyphenhyphen_kSVBK0SIMQAmp9ZT70VscyQysDf8G7eR2dZHSQ/s1600-h/IMG_1222.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376978738016328834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSzjY_La8iwMInqoEjETnnosEudpn6Ox1vKr6aPDw2gThku2ILOAukdJ7dqylFEaTZOTs0hMLAYKzieDGbj1rreCff4hExhyphenhyphen_kSVBK0SIMQAmp9ZT70VscyQysDf8G7eR2dZHSQ/s320/IMG_1222.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-73340142688893840272009-07-11T23:07:00.004-06:002009-07-11T23:28:31.322-06:00free association, scripture-style<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4EbfoHDKy7N-XHMF4aa4AUa1QQX7sHO-RKTVQ7uJX4vCserLchR7F83iJawlqCPmfmla_WV9-mEYdBduibdgQwH1Z74R9xAXEKY4ix8ODmuYGk-vB3GQ4zasfCEdtLfljYCXFA/s1600-h/meditation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357440907239267922" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 227px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4EbfoHDKy7N-XHMF4aa4AUa1QQX7sHO-RKTVQ7uJX4vCserLchR7F83iJawlqCPmfmla_WV9-mEYdBduibdgQwH1Z74R9xAXEKY4ix8ODmuYGk-vB3GQ4zasfCEdtLfljYCXFA/s320/meditation.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="left">Being the off-spring of a child psychologist, our kids will never be short of intriguing childhood stories to tell. Were it not for the risk of ruining the mood, I would have taken pictures of our family home evening the other night. Instead, you can picture this: each kid sitting cross-legged, eyes closed. Instructed to clear their minds. Each in turn are given a prompt and told to spit out the first thing that comes to their minds. in other words: free association. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">Our oldest, in a deft attempt at earning obedience points said, "<em>Joseph Smith</em>" when prompted with <em>Book of Mormon. T</em>he other kids were more conscientious about showing their true free-associating colors. Try <em>2,000 stripling warriors</em> --> I'm thinking <em>General Grievous</em>, how about you? or how about <em>Heavenly Father</em> ---> if you're a 3-year-old girl then it's pretty much <em>Barbie and the Diamond Castle</em> no matter what, or <em>Aurora</em>. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">However fruitless it might feel at first, do try this little activity because the kids catch on and it's fun to see what's on their little minds regardless. Plus, they think it's loads of fun and had to be forced to stop. And as a measure of success it's always good to end on a high note. </div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-29540073120516532442009-06-22T22:52:00.004-06:002009-06-22T23:27:54.707-06:00will work for food<div><div><div>I will describe the fathers day celebration at our house by giving you a walkthrough of our menu. Divine is the best word. A great tribute to the daddy of the house who works so hard and does so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>Breakfast in bed was served (I think the kids are more excited about doing this than anything else): European-style rice pudding (cooked without eggs or sugar) with freshly-made warm strawberry jam swirled on top and just a pinch of sugar and butter.<br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0klOI2emzcviNBbvSMiNit8whZibNUdkbMniZXslGgNTSRKy9FxkZFNoRIR2C_nSuMLzxIQKnY49yeTwZSi_sdmpdg-MVW4ck7E_-A0DpnH3WiTs1EcXQjFPUEg-o13nBjo9iXw/s1600-h/IMG_1094.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350389236395977362" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0klOI2emzcviNBbvSMiNit8whZibNUdkbMniZXslGgNTSRKy9FxkZFNoRIR2C_nSuMLzxIQKnY49yeTwZSi_sdmpdg-MVW4ck7E_-A0DpnH3WiTs1EcXQjFPUEg-o13nBjo9iXw/s320/IMG_1094.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div> </div><div>After church we had the <a href="http://members.cox.net/jjschnebel/SpangSand.html">Spanglish sandwich</a>. You have not lived until this has crossed your lips. We changed it up by marinating the tomatoes in balsamic and including sliced avocados. So, it is as follows: toasted good french bread, jack or havarti cheese, mayo, lettuce, avocados, marinated tomatoes, soft-cooked fried egg, bacon, and there you have it. Most amazing to behold. Watch the movie just to see him make the thing. And we had Brazilian limeade with some strawberries thrown in for good measure.</div><div><br /></div><p align="left"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5otjlQqNfh3Qw4ZNOzYK_2761HA6tyhx5VVlA0M9d3ap9qouGCHpVRnbZy4kvKpu1JToEEQ7Ht7NwIjQjkENK-XNpyhTZAvqQ7UvRXz2Hk78Lof6PhVJ2C86aSUDj2MZMZdA9RQ/s1600-h/IMG_1095.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350388879804527650" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5otjlQqNfh3Qw4ZNOzYK_2761HA6tyhx5VVlA0M9d3ap9qouGCHpVRnbZy4kvKpu1JToEEQ7Ht7NwIjQjkENK-XNpyhTZAvqQ7UvRXz2Hk78Lof6PhVJ2C86aSUDj2MZMZdA9RQ/s320/IMG_1095.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHx6ezpHh4b9I6bt_Bge8Ppza3OZK3fT5Xx118oDeuaKTaOYocsrHu3WBmJChuQBYX6drCwStjMKZayvmzlPGEi1WL6BxfkbwO0gRguZZHB07sY1imgfpX_Me0MhuOy5Ooe5GECA/s1600-h/IMG_1101.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350389231857929298" style="WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHx6ezpHh4b9I6bt_Bge8Ppza3OZK3fT5Xx118oDeuaKTaOYocsrHu3WBmJChuQBYX6drCwStjMKZayvmzlPGEi1WL6BxfkbwO0gRguZZHB07sY1imgfpX_Me0MhuOy5Ooe5GECA/s320/IMG_1101.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div>Matt requested something with ice cream for dessert, so this is what we came up with:</div><div><a href="http://mykitchencafe.blogspot.com/2008/11/frozen-hot-chocolate.html">Frozen hot chocolate</a> with a big scoop of sweet cream ice cream from Cold Stone and <a href="http://mykitchencafe.blogspot.com/search?q=thick+and+chewy">chewy double chocolate cookies</a>. </div><div><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTEfkTlDYlq34wXQd-ows04Ze1_YyCpTfU-LTcOh29pt3E73tuytLeSM6bnfPIpWJGHs8iCxLZxiFI_EKfCkKQjrFkVQtgZ51lqV983NvPcUu6H8No_726_Lz4KQe_j7vda9Bp1g/s1600-h/IMG_1116.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350388884981360530" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTEfkTlDYlq34wXQd-ows04Ze1_YyCpTfU-LTcOh29pt3E73tuytLeSM6bnfPIpWJGHs8iCxLZxiFI_EKfCkKQjrFkVQtgZ51lqV983NvPcUu6H8No_726_Lz4KQe_j7vda9Bp1g/s320/IMG_1116.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div><br />No hours of slaving in the kitchen. We could actually enjoy the day together and played soccer at the park to burn a little of it off until we couldn't see the ball anymore because it got dark. </div><div><br />And I also might mention that since I had things I couldn't get out of at church, Matt stayed home from to tend the son with the flu and meanwhile cleaned the house, ran two loads of dishes through the dishwasher, vacuumed, and washed a couple loads of laundry. Yeah, I have it good. Happy father's day Matt! We love you.</div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-34992941749580033222009-01-31T14:41:00.007-07:002009-01-31T15:38:03.353-07:00shedding hair and sanityAt long last, the story of Hazel: She actually belonged to the Wyoming mountains before we got her. My father-in-law found her when he was there fishing 4 months ago. She followed him around all day. She had a collar on but no tags and there were no other people around. So at the end of the day he took her home with him rather than just leave her. After Jake saw her and burst into tears at the thought of her not coming home with us, she came home with us. We had been promising the kids a dog for a couple years and blessedly not following through with it. <div><br /><div>Most who know me, know that I'm am not a dog person. After a few months with Hazel I am still pretty much not a dog person, except when it comes to her because she's really great. The best word to describe our sweet Hazel is MELLOW. Hyper only happens when she's about to go on a walk, and then she just jumps around and makes it hard to get the leash on her. When we open the door she doesn't bolt, she doesn't chew our stuff, she goes potty outside, she comes when she's called. But Matt has diagnosed her with dependent personality disorder because her love tank is <em>always</em> in need of filling, it's actually relentless. She will follow us around the house making it hard not to trip over her, will paw us for petting if we sit down anywhere near her, can be found waiting patiently outside the bathroom door for us to come out. </div><br /><div>The only drawback is that the girl sheds like there's no tomorrow. Holy smoke. If you pet her, it's like a puff of doggy hair smoke when your hand comes in contact. I fear for my carpets, any black clothing, and my sanity. As a last-ditch effort at not giving this perfect dog the boot, we got her shaved today. The groomer pleasantly informed me that labs are some of the worst shedding dogs. Awesome. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div>I waited to see her new look with anticipation, like the kind you might have when your kid gets their hair cut and you know you're going to feel a little guilty at having made them look 3 years older in the blink of an eye. Well I was pleased to see that Hazel came out of the event looking a little like a tough rowdy doggie. I'm not sure why I say rowdy because she isn't, but she looks great. Oh, please let the shave thing work because when I find dog hair on my headboard {and she's never been on my bed} and on my counters something's gotta give. </div><div></div><div> </div><div>Here she is:</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyWnwV3Jrcj7_rb8-A5ccWNJx6tdPDdQ_d8HaeS5DB2FJn20VD4pHW846zHzeZyJlSVhY2nXvo9oHkDmQGn6FZysnLSus8T3308f28Yd_-8owuDhCc5ho0fh8Qf4FNqzVIwLV5g/s1600-h/IMG_8949.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297589664508440530" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyWnwV3Jrcj7_rb8-A5ccWNJx6tdPDdQ_d8HaeS5DB2FJn20VD4pHW846zHzeZyJlSVhY2nXvo9oHkDmQGn6FZysnLSus8T3308f28Yd_-8owuDhCc5ho0fh8Qf4FNqzVIwLV5g/s320/IMG_8949.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1DwQGzxWxZkrouTCT1EtXmyt662u5B1LLaplY5rEdCUT6i2C8Vbw4t426lvA3qSxZeny2hta-vISTbL_WrldvmiSIOt2djDvUZvFtWRx_-EPn9QKV8sZDhMrfuOO8lXZu69VIQ/s1600-h/IMG_8952.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297589669487234674" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1DwQGzxWxZkrouTCT1EtXmyt662u5B1LLaplY5rEdCUT6i2C8Vbw4t426lvA3qSxZeny2hta-vISTbL_WrldvmiSIOt2djDvUZvFtWRx_-EPn9QKV8sZDhMrfuOO8lXZu69VIQ/s320/IMG_8952.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>Isn't she cute? </div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-43968193096798870402009-01-29T21:32:00.007-07:002009-01-29T21:53:03.738-07:00hey, Cindy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSXy5rPjQXasQ7SACAcIlCbPBwOK8WyXnPczaasFY5vJBhHUjRYxRkiJFk6RHvh0SCGX10RCT49JOd7Q1tZHuIeqXqPHQlr_9C_S3mZCd6meqi-Xs6VBklFOm6H-reLNvU1luhQ/s1600-h/IMG_8939.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296943236979094738" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSXy5rPjQXasQ7SACAcIlCbPBwOK8WyXnPczaasFY5vJBhHUjRYxRkiJFk6RHvh0SCGX10RCT49JOd7Q1tZHuIeqXqPHQlr_9C_S3mZCd6meqi-Xs6VBklFOm6H-reLNvU1luhQ/s320/IMG_8939.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXLU6nnNBEFHYEEKmB-ALpgNu0v5gn_S1X_ZDU2gLh9yq5UrIsV-kbvdVEoZeYj-eJsnM-uUKfcJqx3bW5zWVnXPkEgfoEp89h5Di8m-3eeRlQ0DhzR6ITpdCtqBSFhValVMvhQ/s1600-h/IMG_8942.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296943244393773122" style="WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXLU6nnNBEFHYEEKmB-ALpgNu0v5gn_S1X_ZDU2gLh9yq5UrIsV-kbvdVEoZeYj-eJsnM-uUKfcJqx3bW5zWVnXPkEgfoEp89h5Di8m-3eeRlQ0DhzR6ITpdCtqBSFhValVMvhQ/s320/IMG_8942.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Cinderella morning, noon, and night ----------------------------------------- Princesses must hold up the dress when walking</em></span> <div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SYKFJOmA2-I/AAAAAAAABJ8/PPbLL3CvVpo/s1600-h/IMG_8938.JPG"></a><br /><div>Little Cinderella (or Tinkerbelle or any type of Princess actually) has moved out of her crib. It's gone, as in purchased by someone else and living in their house as of tonight. We weren't really prepared for a quick sale and she is currently sleeping (which hasn't happened yet) on my old king-sized mattress that we plopped on her floor. This was a huge mistake as she's been using it more for partying and trampoline fun than rest time. Is she too young to banish to a timeout in the snow? I am dreading the nights to come. She's been watching her 5-yr-old brother's example. He gets to spend a nighttime minute in the snow now and then (just outside, not actually <em>in</em> the snow). Bedtime sucks. I want my sweet crib-prison back.</div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-20209010106799610822009-01-16T08:37:00.007-07:002009-01-16T12:34:47.138-07:00breakfast of champions<span style="font-size:130%;">Zach: Mom, why can we eat Pop Tarts for breakfast, but we can't eat cheesecake?</span> <div><br /><br /><div></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SXCtdHe3GTI/AAAAAAAABIY/_wI05pWf7Cg/s1600-h/cherry-pop-tart.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291920277896632626" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SXCtdHe3GTI/AAAAAAAABIY/_wI05pWf7Cg/s320/cherry-pop-tart.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">VS </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SXCtX91vtYI/AAAAAAAABIQ/CmYOD0ktqYQ/s1600-h/new-york-cheesecake-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291920189408916866" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SXCtX91vtYI/AAAAAAAABIQ/CmYOD0ktqYQ/s320/new-york-cheesecake-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Twice this week I've turned down my son's request for a breakfast of leftover cheesecake. Then this morning he watched as I happily toasted two different kinds of Pop Tarts for the kids. My 10-year-old, he's a thinker. And the logical question followed. Now I'm stumped. I'm also worried we might be eating cheesecake for breakfast tomorrow. Tell me there are some vitamins hidden somewhere in those PTs.</div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-25460139356349940652009-01-12T09:24:00.004-07:002009-01-12T20:56:01.290-07:00tidbitsThis is a post dedicated to a little bit of everything. My beloved September has come and gone. Those 30 delicious days were fleeting. Then I was launched into the holiday whirlwind, and though it was decidedly fun, I am now thankfully skidding to a bumpy stop. <div><div><div><div><div><div><br />My Christmas tree finally came down a few days ago, three cheers. The state of my mind is justly represented by the torrent of sticky notes and lists left like tracks of where I've been. Lists on my nightstand, on the fridge, the console of my car, and a running tab in my Google calendar. It is a beast. With horns. The upside to lists, you might agree, is checking off the things that have been done. Kinda like popping zits it's so fun. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>And now for a little catch up. Our family has been having fun with various activities: a bunny hunt (that I wasn't a part of -- when hunting, I get to stay home), indoor swimming while snowing outside (which is fun until you have to run to the car in wet clothes), obsessive playing of speed Scrabble (I can't even tell you how much fun), continued work on the cookbook (which will hopefully be wrapped up in a couple months or so), kitchen remodeling (not so much fun), trying Bluberry Muffin Mini Wheats (yum), making a recipe from the kindergarten cookbook (good times), a little shopping at Ikea (always a good idea), playing with our new dog, Hazel, and seeing how she looks with a little makeup. We'll dedicate a different post to her. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWutRf6olyI/AAAAAAAABIA/one6ei121RA/s1600-h/IMG_8373.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290512703413589794" style="WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWutRf6olyI/AAAAAAAABIA/one6ei121RA/s320/IMG_8373.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWutQz7P6EI/AAAAAAAABH4/s7lRWG4kB1c/s1600-h/IMG_8372.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290512691605006402" style="WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWutQz7P6EI/AAAAAAAABH4/s7lRWG4kB1c/s320/IMG_8372.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>We combined these two amazing recipes - Jake's is the chocolate chip one</em></span> </div><div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyV7X4oaI/AAAAAAAABHY/9St7sgjWKEI/s1600-h/IMG_8396.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290447908317471138" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyV7X4oaI/AAAAAAAABHY/9St7sgjWKEI/s320/IMG_8396.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWuy5ZJ_sPI/AAAAAAAABII/SfEz8uSxPKg/s1600-h/IMG_7841.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290518886351876338" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWuy5ZJ_sPI/AAAAAAAABII/SfEz8uSxPKg/s320/IMG_7841.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>A little glimpse at our cookbook work</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyW6ZDI5I/AAAAAAAABHw/D3EpEMuu1MQ/s1600-h/IMG_8375.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290447925233787794" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyW6ZDI5I/AAAAAAAABHw/D3EpEMuu1MQ/s320/IMG_8375.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Hazel with a faded makeup job</em> </span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /> </div><div>I thought I'd pass along a recipe to you since it's quite delicious. I sent these out as neighbor gifts for Christmas. They're from a recipe gotten from a <a href="http://ricksalicious.blogspot.com/2008/12/raspberry-cream-cheese-tarts-aka-heroin.html">friend</a> of a <a href="http://tutfamily.blogspot.com/">friend</a> which I tinkered with slightly until they were just right, also reminiscent of a treat from a bakery down the street from my house. A friend called me after receiving these and said she dreamed about them. They're pretty good.</div><div> </div><div></div><div><strong>Raspberry Cream Cheese Sandwiches</strong></div><div><br /></div><div>2/3 cup butter</div><div>2/3 cup granulated sugar </div><div>2 eggs </div><div>4 oz. cream cheese </div><div>1/2 tsp. almond extract </div><div>3 cups all-purpose flour </div><div>1/4 tsp. salt, maybe a touch more - just taste the dough, but be sure to add enough or they don't taste right</div><div>3/4 cup raspberry preserves</div><div>1 cup confectioner's sugar </div><div>2 oz. cream cheese </div><div>1/4 tsp. almond extract</div><div>1 Tbsp. milk (or more to reach coating consistency)</div><div> </div><div></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyVRFNWRI/AAAAAAAABHQ/6KRRiwic6pM/s1600-h/IMG_8355.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290447896964847890" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SWtyVRFNWRI/AAAAAAAABHQ/6KRRiwic6pM/s320/IMG_8355.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Whisk together flour and salt; set aside. Cream together sugar, butter, and cream cheese until light and fluffy, about three minutes. Add eggs, one at a time and beat until incorporated. Add almond extract and mix well. Slowly add dry ingredients and mix just until smooth dough forms. Roll out on a floured surface to 1/4 inch thickness and cut into 2-3/4" diameter circles. This is profoundly easier with a biscuit cutter and makes these less of a drag to make. Spray your cookie sheet and lay the disks of dough out on the cookie sheet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Spoon a rounded 1/2 teaspoon onto the center of each disk. Cover each with another disk of dough which you can offset like a lunar eclipse to let the jam peek out. Astronomy and baking, who knew? If you want, you can press lightly down on the top disk where it meets with the bottom layer to help seal, but don't press hard. Bake 12 - 15 minutes depending on your oven, or until the bottom of each begins to turn a little golden. Don't overcook! After cooling, the cookies should still be moist inside. Remove from cooking trays to a cooling rack and allow to cool completely. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>Combine softened cream cheese and milk in a bowl and whisk together until combined. Add powdered sugar and almond extract and continue to whisk until a thick but pourable consistency. Add milk a little at a time if necessary to reach the right thickness. Spread a spoonful on the top of each with the underside of a spoon. Let airdry 1/2 hour to 1 hour. You can freeze these prior to the icing stage and then thaw and ice before serving. </div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, I have my Monday list burning a hole in my kitchen table. My youngest is running around with a bottle of washable glue and my 5-year-old has just opened Junior Monopoly and is asking me which color marker I want. The week has begun. Gotta go.</div></div></div></div></div></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-35060577595930807152008-09-22T14:21:00.004-06:002008-09-22T15:05:35.164-06:00Simply SaidSimply said, <em>I love you September</em>.<br /><em></em><br />Maybe more than any other month. My own personal epiphany occured sometime last week, taking me quite by surprise. In ways September as a month reminds me of Tuesday as a day. Nothing much special about it. No fantastic holidays, the most notable thing is the change of seasons from summer to fall, but that's about it. However, I was feeling all warm and fuzzy about things, for lack of any other overused description, and finally placed why.<br /><br />Anticipation.<br /><br />Actually quite a lot happens in September. Though the formal change of seasons doesn't happen until late in the month, the arrival of September for me marks the official turn of the corner into fall. My kids have already started school, and my life is still hectic but in a very different way and with larger blocks of unhectic time carved out of each day that I call blessed.<br /><br />September is like Christmas morning with the kid tip-toeing and giggling down the hall to the living room to see what treasures await. I tell you, it's really better than the actual opening, but you have to be 35 before you realize it.<br /><br />September is the calm launching pad into two to three months of fun and celebration. Through the eyes of September you can enjoy what awaits and not do any of the work that will be required to make it all happen. There is no fighting with other shoppers in the aisles, no hissing or cursing, no pounds are gained, everything looks beautiful and is in perfect place, no last minute shopping panic, no spoiled kids with a mountain of unintended presents with well-intentioned parents (ahem, of course I don't mean me). That doesn't happen. No, because September won't allow those things to spoil the fun. I haven't quite decided, but it may be the perfect month.<br /><br />September is when you plan Halloween parties and costumes, organize cupcake walks, decide who's house to have Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day at, and plant the seeds of the family feuds that will spice up the holidays to come. 30 days to reflect contendedly on past holidays, past Christmas Gorillas, past haunted houses, past Thanksgiving lasagnas, past Santa Claus pillows and Christmas elves, past Halloween eggings and 8th grade space cadet costumes. All of course with the amber glow of September. September is a delicious little oasis. September, you are mine.<br /><br />We only have 8 days left. Tip-toe. Giggle, giggle. It's almost gone...janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-83826694682116418612008-09-18T08:55:00.007-06:002008-09-22T08:40:35.552-06:00Your what?That would be U-R-A-N-U-S.<br /><br />This may be the most uncomfortable word to speak in the whole english language--even in the comfort of your own living room with only your two smallest children for company.<br /><br />You see, my 5-year-old, brand new kindergarten student made his first trip to the school library on Tuesday. Yesterday he plopped himself on the couch and opened up his special book. After a few questions of how to say this and that, I went to sit by him and read the book out loud. You know, like a good mom. I was under the impression that this was a book about the solar system or something. No. It was a book dedicated entirely to our favorite 7th planet.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ875yyeoI/AAAAAAAAA08/sLl2llRC-LM/s1600-h/IMG_6387.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247393884408019586" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ875yyeoI/AAAAAAAAA08/sLl2llRC-LM/s320/IMG_6387.JPG" border="0" /></a></p>Lest you think I am playing the part of a twittering schoolgirl, just imagine yourself reading page after unrelenting page, out loud to your kid. Sentences like....<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88H7mhMI/AAAAAAAAA1E/dxerEQEEWoc/s1600-h/IMG_6399.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247393888203080898" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88H7mhMI/AAAAAAAAA1E/dxerEQEEWoc/s320/IMG_6399.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88pH3w-I/AAAAAAAAA1U/hMNLct22l3U/s1600-h/IMG_6404.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247393897112912866" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88pH3w-I/AAAAAAAAA1U/hMNLct22l3U/s320/IMG_6404.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88cWeP1I/AAAAAAAAA1M/od_Csy_EXdg/s1600-h/IMG_6403.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247393893684494162" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ88cWeP1I/AAAAAAAAA1M/od_Csy_EXdg/s320/IMG_6403.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ881HTTZI/AAAAAAAAA1c/rGbOSRRfc1w/s1600-h/IMG_6405.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247393900331748754" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SNJ881HTTZI/AAAAAAAAA1c/rGbOSRRfc1w/s320/IMG_6405.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />U-R-A-N-U-S.....ah, this word and I have a history. At one point in time we might have even been called friends, well at least not enemies. In my young and innocent years, before my eyes had been opened to the shameful results of this word being spoken out loud and in a public setting, I graciously considered our 7th planet on equal footing with our 7 other planet friends, except I've always thought Pluto (which is now deemed a dwarf planet) was the cutest, being so very small and out there all alone in that outermost icy orbit of his (or hers).<br /><br />Anyway, I was young--at that age when a kid is desperate to perform any stunt that will make adults smile and think they're cute. I was with my family at The Good Earth. For whatever reason we were eating at their cafe and I ordered the Planet Burger. They brought the food to us. At that moment I was sabotaged in the worst way by this unfortunate need for positive reinforcement. I held my Planet Burger up thinking I was truly the most clever kid ever, and said loudly, "Does anyone want a bite of U-R-A-N-U-S?!?" Trust me, I wasn't trying to be crude, just terribly clever. I was mid sentence but past the point of no return when the walls came crumbling down. I had been so sure of the admiring smiles until I heard myself say that <em>word</em>. Why couldn't I have chosen Saturn, or Mercury, or even cute little Pluto who surely needs a little recognition? Nope. Yeah whatever, they thought it was hilarious. I was horrified.<br /><br />So, who chose the pronunciation anyway, or the word for that matter? Come on. There must have been some other candidates, and what was the reason they didn't make the cut and our friend U-R-A-N-U-S did? I'm sure there was a great deal of giggling at the thought of all the future generations of discomfort and public embarrassment that were now destined to come barreling down the pike.<br /><br />Here's to you, namers of the 7th planet. You got me. Now, can we at least prounce it differently? Like U-<em>RAN</em>-U-S? I'm trying to find a good hiding spot for my kid's book. It gets to live at our house for a whole week. Aren't we lucky?janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-65684799708475534292008-05-12T08:40:00.010-06:002008-05-14T16:05:59.011-06:00thisMy nose and lungs and carpets are tired of <em>this</em>....<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199502824312071362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChYRUPC5MI/AAAAAAAAAtU/-Z3zSqIx2ec/s320/IMG_3572.JPG" border="0" /> <p>I am also tired of <em>this</em>.....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199502837196973266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChYSEPC5NI/AAAAAAAAAtc/vz9mxaUAFmo/s320/IMG_3583.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>and <em>this</em>.....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199502850081875186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChYS0PC5PI/AAAAAAAAAts/WJpgMiE_ojQ/s320/IMG_3588.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>and <em>this</em>....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199502841491940578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChYSUPC5OI/AAAAAAAAAtk/AjhL4c0Gm90/s320/IMG_3592.JPG" border="0" /></p>I've had my fill of <em>this </em>leaving my bank account....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199506204451333442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChbWEPC5UI/AAAAAAAAAuU/ifRRURkY3kw/s320/dollar.bmp" border="0" /><br /><p></p><br /><p>Last week I slept in <em>this</em>...<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199502854376842498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChYTEPC5QI/AAAAAAAAAt0/dk7Dnb-3rGE/s320/IMG_3564.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>so my bedroom could have <em>this</em>....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199503588816250130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChY90PC5RI/AAAAAAAAAt8/nQhiUTUXea0/s320/IMG_3569.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>I just want more of <em>this</em>....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199503597406184738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChY-UPC5SI/AAAAAAAAAuE/eDEomLW-nWc/s320/IMG_3575.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p>and <em>this</em>....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199503610291086642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SChY_EPC5TI/AAAAAAAAAuM/9d95KurGsYY/s320/IMG_3582.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p>I'm ready to be done remodeling now.</p>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-8847820025223218332008-04-19T22:25:00.008-06:002008-04-19T22:51:56.610-06:00you look pretty for a Wednesday<div>.....these were the words I heard from a friend at my book club this last week. </div><div><br />Translation: <em>I'm surprised you look okay, because by Wednesday most moms have given in to the hurricane that is her life as a mother to her children, in which her appearance deteriorates steadily and noticeably throughout the week. So, by Wednesday things don't look so good. </em></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArHSRzmITI/AAAAAAAAAsM/jlzKMThvNl8/s1600-h/frazzledmother.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191180637329301810" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArHSRzmITI/AAAAAAAAAsM/jlzKMThvNl8/s320/frazzledmother.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div><br /></div><div></div><div><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArJlhzmIZI/AAAAAAAAAs8/U_dkDIHBMG4/s1600-h/straightener.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191183167065039250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArJlhzmIZI/AAAAAAAAAs8/U_dkDIHBMG4/s320/straightener.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, here's the secret, gals, I hadn't even showered that day. The Deterioration Theory was in full force, I just threw it a little humdinger: It's called the straightener, which I used to curl my hair. It's that simple. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArI_hzmIXI/AAAAAAAAAss/c6TxhcTOTEA/s1600-h/straightener.jpg"></a></p><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArJWRzmIYI/AAAAAAAAAs0/w7cgD-yFMrg/s1600-h/shampooing+hair.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191182905072034178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArJWRzmIYI/AAAAAAAAAs0/w7cgD-yFMrg/s320/shampooing+hair.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>No need to do this: (because by Wednesday things are a little sketchy and you might not see the inside of a shower until Friday when it's time to go out on a date).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArK5BzmIaI/AAAAAAAAAtE/6BkHQzHFuEE/s1600-h/jessica+biel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191184601584116130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArK5BzmIaI/AAAAAAAAAtE/6BkHQzHFuEE/s320/jessica+biel.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /> </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Just use a straightener on that unwashed Wednesday head of hair, put on some makeup if you can and a decent ou<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SArHShzmIWI/AAAAAAAAAsk/yO4k6O9lQFY/s1600-h/jessica+biel.jpg"></a>tfit, and you'll look like this. {Ahem.}</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>It's all you need to do to get told you look pretty on a Wednesday, and that's saying something. </div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-36350829919238503412008-04-15T14:54:00.008-06:002008-04-15T17:19:33.017-06:00we'll be together againI may be the only one raising my hand to admit it. So, here goes: I still like listening to Erasure.<br /><p align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SAUaQ6dPdhI/AAAAAAAAAr8/PVg7WCvSB08/s1600-h/erasure_39a_338x400.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189583023486498322" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/SAUaQ6dPdhI/AAAAAAAAAr8/PVg7WCvSB08/s320/erasure_39a_338x400.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>And so, I'll continue with further embarassing Erasure-related facts as they pertain to my life:<br /><ul><li>There are more Erasure songs on my exercise playlist than from any other band. </li><br /><li>I like the fact that they are gay (well, Andy the singer is)- don't know why - maybe because it's really just about the music, and seriously, take a look at them. Whoa. Yep, it's just about the music.</li><br /><li>When I was putting together a new playlist a couple months back and thought of them, highschool flooded back and hit me full force in the head, for better or worse</li><br /><li>Memories of lots of leotards, lots of tutus, and lots of men at the Civic Auditorium in SF</li><br /><li>Tears came to my eyes when I first listened to them (since high school) on my playlist during a run {crap, I can't believe I just wrote that} - is this a bit like my dad's listening to Anne Murray when I was younger for the whole drive to and from Tahoe? (Neil Diamond was included - I still kinda like him - I think I have no choice since these drives essentially programmed our wee little childhood brains)</li><br /><li>I promise I have a taste for current music, but man, there's just something about Erasure - I must enjoy hearing music about debauchery and "shoving bitches up against the wall" - perhaps a reaction to my current state of residence and craving just the teeniest slice of Babylon</li><br /><li>It makes me run faster - I'm also known to bob my head and giggle out loud while running (sometimes to other music, too) - I haven't twisted my ankle yet or fallen off the sidewalk or in front of any moving vehicles</li><br /><li>I don't really listen to them other than when exercising - I'm too afraid to take away the magic for when I need it most</li></ul><br /><br /><p>Who will take their place on the horrible day when I hear them on the radio and associate them with a nasty five-mile run? Any suggestions? I am in need. </p>Requirement: Band must evoke high state of euphoria so that I can block out all exercise pain.janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-43256586876718193602008-04-08T23:08:00.006-06:002008-04-08T23:55:00.412-06:00from dust to dust<span style="font-size:130%;">Is it possible to be made of dust, yet still be living? There is dust everywhere and this is only the demoltion stage. Regardless, I am happy to anounce that our basement is undergoing a facelift. I don't even dare show you pics of the untouched <em>before</em> since it was not pretty. Think gold flowered wall paper, wood particle board paneling, mirrored wall tiles, and light fixtures that could double for medieval headpieces (plus, they were hung too low - those medieval people were short weren't they? - so you'd crack your head if you chose to walk with good posture).</span><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWpBG0SZI/AAAAAAAAArE/qo0ncfWJTc0/s1600-h/IMG_2908.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187116133495622034" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWpBG0SZI/AAAAAAAAArE/qo0ncfWJTc0/s320/IMG_2908.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWpxG0SbI/AAAAAAAAArU/C3SvFi3uTHA/s1600-h/IMG_2926.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187116146380523954" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWpxG0SbI/AAAAAAAAArU/C3SvFi3uTHA/s320/IMG_2926.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWphG0SaI/AAAAAAAAArM/iNzRNBPeLcs/s1600-h/IMG_2918.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187116142085556642" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWphG0SaI/AAAAAAAAArM/iNzRNBPeLcs/s320/IMG_2918.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What is it about taking a sledge hammer to a wall that is so deeply satisfying? My father-in-law, who was helping us (thank you, Mont) commented that he'd never done this before. If you haven't had the opportunity, by all means, search out a friend with a scary medieval house and offer your helping hand. It may take care of a few months of therapy since you can literally feel the repressed anger and aggression (ahem, not that any of us have this brewing or anything) and let it shoot right out of the end of that heavy-as-hell hammer. I even karate-chopped a few sad pieces of drywall. We only made one trip to the ER - Spencer, following his mama's fine example went ahead and karate-chopped some drywall of his own and caught Ava square the face, namely the eyeball. She grabbed at her eye and I pried her hands away to find a HUGE hunk of white plaster tucked nastily underneath her eyelids right on the front of her eyeball. This is when I wished I could go-go-gadget some sort of drywall magnet that would whiz it magically off her little eyeball! Of course, a two-year-old just wants to rub it out. Bad idea. After unsuccessfully trying to flush it out, I drove a drenched Ava to Primary Children's where she got to have a full IV bag of fluid flushed through her eyesocket (a suction cup thing with a water hose connected to it is put INSIDE her eye, under both eyelids so she just had that hose sticking out and the fluid dribbling down the side of her face - freakish and horrible). Please, don't any of you ever have to go through this with one of your kids. It takes agonizingly long to get through a whole IV bag, while she, with the nurse practically sitting on her and me whispering hopefully-comforting words in her ear, kicked and screamed. Now she has to have twice-daily doses of vaseline-like ointment in her eye to heal the abrasion. She walks around looking like she's doing an impersonation of a pirate, with one eye clenched shut, the good eye open, and her head cocked a little to one side. Ahoy.</span><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWqRG0SdI/AAAAAAAAArk/PDOFHQhBwiM/s1600-h/IMG_2946.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187116154970458578" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWqRG0SdI/AAAAAAAAArk/PDOFHQhBwiM/s320/IMG_2946.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>thankfully, the patch was only for the first night</em></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;">Since one brush with disaster wasn't enough, I have enlisted the help of my child laborers and have done my part to protect their little baby lungs from dusty tile debris.</span><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWphG0SaI/AAAAAAAAArM/iNzRNBPeLcs/s1600-h/IMG_2918.JPG"></a></p><p align="center"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xYPBG0SfI/AAAAAAAAAr0/yC7VIlLmj4c/s1600-h/IMG_3049.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187117885842278898" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xYPBG0SfI/AAAAAAAAAr0/yC7VIlLmj4c/s320/IMG_3049.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Hopefully in a few weeks I'll have some good <em>after</em> pictures - and newly cleaned upstairs carpet which I hope will have the decency to recover from the dust shower that we'll be living in for the next bit. Can you get lung cancer from remodeling?</span><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="center"><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWqBG0ScI/AAAAAAAAArc/FFb9hUhw8QA/s1600-h/IMG_2937.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187116150675491266" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xWqBG0ScI/AAAAAAAAArc/FFb9hUhw8QA/s320/IMG_2937.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xYOhG0SeI/AAAAAAAAArs/mUqU-havZSU/s1600-h/IMG_2949.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187117877252344290" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R_xYOhG0SeI/AAAAAAAAArs/mUqU-havZSU/s320/IMG_2949.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22358800.post-5125298571589252042008-03-27T10:07:00.003-06:002008-03-27T10:11:27.086-06:00shorn<p align="center"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R-vGwhG0SRI/AAAAAAAAAqE/dUxSU892rDs/s1600-h/IMG_2839.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182454333042870546" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Jdbt8EFMTFI/R-vGwhG0SRI/AAAAAAAAAqE/dUxSU892rDs/s320/IMG_2839.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">Ava is now lopsided. Oh, Jake. You'd better run.</span></div>janellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17565352525966166830noreply@blogger.com8