Grasping for Objectivity

Downton Abbey, Explained.

2012-02-21T10:45:03-08:00

Chris and I are in full mourning this week.

Not just half mourning, as one would do for, say, a cousin, but full mourning, as one would do for a cousin that one was also engaged to.

We have been living in a dream world for the last three weeks, spending our every evening reveling in the utopia that is Downton Abbey. And now it’s gone.

We were late to jump on the trendwagon, but when we did, we went all the way. We have not been so engrossed in a parallel reality since Harry Potter.

…When we’ve not been watching Downton, we’ve been pining after what might happen next.

…When we have been watching Downton, we’ve been wishing there was more of it.

…We’ve even considered moving to England so that Season Three will come around quicker. After all, we could still live in Birmingham – just the original one.

Clearly, we have a disease.

Now, for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, Downton Abbey is British show that just finished airing on PBS. The abridged American version of Season One is available on Instant Netflix, and the full UK versions of Seasons One and Two are available at Amazon. Season Three, tragically, won’t be out in the UK until September, and most likely not make it to the US until… (sob) … next January, at which time our full mourning will end.

The show is a period drama set in the early 1900’s that portrays the life of an aristocratic family and all of their servants. And by the fact that it shows both realities of the goings on in a castle, it is astoundingly fascinating.

(Disclaimer: Although this is one of the cleaner shows on television, there are a couple of scenes that make this show inappropriate for children.)

Downton constantly leaves us wondering about important issues, such as…

Why don’t I have a Lady’s Maid? How have I lived this long without someone to dress and undress me on a daily basis?

And if it’s so shameful to have a maid serving in the dining room, then serving my kid’s dinner off of paper towels certainly must be worthy of hanging.

And wow, a Valet would come in so handy in my daily life!

(Which, by the way, it is important to note that this sort of valet is pronounced in such a way as to rhyme with “mallet”, not “ballet”. It’s so much more delightfully British that way, after all.)

Downton has also given us much to talk about, thereby deepening our understanding of ourselves and our marriage.

After an episode last week, our pillow talk went as follows:

Chris: “Babe, if you ever realize that you have a thing for my Valet and find yourself inescapably attracted to him to the point of needing to fire him, just fire him and don’t tell me why. I don’t need to know. Okay?”

Me: “Are you KIDDING?? You would make me live with that guilt for the rest of my life without allowing me the opportunity for release and forgiveness?? That’s so awful and uncaring of you!!”

Chris: “Well YOU’RE the one contemplating messing around with my Valet. And yet you still want ME to have to carry that burden too?! The least you could do was carry the guilt by yourself and not involve me in it.”

Me: “I completely disagree. It would totally put up a barrier in our marriage!! I would never feel close to you again!”

Chris: “Well, OBVIOUSLY, there would already be a barrier up. I don’t want to know, okay?”

Me: “Well, if you ever find yourself needing to fire one of my Lady’s Maids because of your attraction, I DO WANT TO KNOW. I need to know if there are issues that we need to work on!! Geez.”

Chris: “Fine. If I’m ever attracted to your Lady’s Maid, I promise to confess. After I fire her.”

Thank goodness we have that cleared up.

However, I concede to the fact that Downton Abbey itself can be quite unclear and daunting if you’re not paying attention. With that in mind, I made this handy reference guide for all of you – feel free to print it out and carry it with you at all times – or at least while watching Downton.

(Click it to enlarge, right click it to save or print.)

So much simpler now, don’t you agree?

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On the Proper Fitting of Jeans.

2012-02-20T04:00:51-08:00

Three years ago, I wrote a blog post that inadvertently defined my identity as a blogger. It was about Mom Jeans. I didn’t really write it to be a how-to post – I wrote it as a humor post. Which is a fact that I am constantly explaining to people as they back up against walls for fear of my judging their butts.

However, I do feel that I have learned a thing or two about jeans, and also that comparison photography is a really great way to illustrate how to find a flattering fit. So I set off to write a true how-to post, in my own anal-retentive fashion.

I scheduled a Vault Denim open house, invited anyone who would be willing to have their lower halves subjected to photographical scrutiny, and collected hundreds of illustrations.

I had 12 volunteers, ranging in age from 27 to 60, in size from 2 to 10, and accompanied by 22 children.

(I apologize for those who have requested plus-sized tips, but I had no plus-sized models volunteer. However, many of the tips contained herein apply across the board. Perhaps a plus-sized sequel will be possible in the future.)

First, a few important points of note:

I have tried to match camera angles and lighting to the best of my ability in the comparison photos, and no photos have been doctored to look more or less flattering.
Not all of the jeans pictured are Vault Jeans.
Just because a pair of jeans doesn’t look right on one person doesn’t mean it won’t be the perfect fit on another – it’s all about fitting your particular body.
High Quality (“designer”) jeans really make a difference. They fit better, look better, and last longer. However, the specific brand does not matter quite as much. I highly recommend being willing to try on jeans until you find the pair that looks perfect on you.

And the absolute most important point that I hope this post proves is this: If something doesn’t look attractive on you, don’t blame your body. Blame the clothes. The way your jeans fit can significantly swing your perceived weight by ten to twenty pounds. Hopefully you will be delightfully shocked at how drastically the fit of jeans can change the way a body looks.

So. Let’s get started.

1. Pockets.

I spent over 2,000 words talking about pocket placement on my Mom Jeans post, so I’m not going to reiterate all of that. However, there are some important notes worth illustrating.

A. The amount of space between your back pockets can greatly change your butt’s perceived size.

Meet Subject B, a 29 year old size five (who incidentally can be found blogging here).

Is that difference not stunning?

Subject G, a 36 year old size 9:

Subject J, a 31 year old size four, is another good example. Although the actual space between the pockets on these two pairs isn’t significantly different, the stitching down the middle drastically changes the perceived width:

Please note that this is a very tricky tip, because you can’t completely see your butt when you look in the mirror. You can twist and rubberneck all you want, but the width of the middle section of your backside will be hard to judge. This is why it’s important to never go jeans shopping alone.

(Aside from the 50% off prices, this is the most important reason that I so strongly believe in Vault Denim parties – then you have someone like me telling you when pockets just don’t work. Because it’s not you – it’s the jeans.)

B. The height placement and size of your pockets changes the shape of your butt.

Meet Subject D. She is a 30 year old size six who says that she struggles to find jeans due to her hips to waist ratio.

The pocket rule doesn’t change between bootcut and skinny jeans. Here is Subject E in skinny jeans – She is a 27 year old size 8.

If you are older and are worried about looking too young, have your pockets only slightly higher to give a modern look without looking Cougaresque. Subject F is a 60 year old size 10:

2. Tightness.

I personally like to wear my jeans snug. Not skin tight, but I do prefer the feeling that my jeans are somehow holding in some of my flab.

However, some people do not. And since tighter jeans are very much in style right now, many people are afraid that they can’t be in style if they aren’t willing to wear their jeans snug.

However, you can still achieve stylish curves without snugness.

Subject C is a 57 year old size 8 who did not want tight jeans. By combining proper pocket placement with a more modern color and leg flair, the following can be done:

Notice that her jeans aren’t at all tight, but they still look like they fit her body appropriately.

Subject F (60 year old / size 10) – notice how the right pair of jeans doesn’t just offer a more of a modern look, but a significant perceived weight reduction:

Age is not the only reason one might not want tight jeans. Subject A, a 32 year old size 4, has circulation issues. She can’t have her jeans binding on her legs without experiencing tingling and numbness.

To help her issues, we tried on extremely soft, high in spandex jeans. She achieved the modern look without the personal discomfort.

3. Flare

Jean flare is a highly controversial subject these days: to skinny jean or not to skinny jean? So I will preface this section with saying that this is simply my observation on what looks best, regardless of the current fads.

Your jean’s flare should be in direct proportion with your thigh size to be most flattering. Which means that if you have small thighs, wear skinny jeans. If you have normal to larger thighs, wear bootcut.

(Which also means that since we’re women, and therefore God blessed most of us with thighs, bootcut typically looks more flattering.)

There is one exception to this rule: if you have medium to large thighs and want to wear skinny jeans, you can offset this disproportion by wearing boots.

Examples:

Subject D (30 year old size 6) has normal sized thighs. As such, a bootcut looks most flattering.

(Out of 22 kids running around, you knew one of them would manage to make it into a photo – right??)

The difference in perceived thigh size can also be seen from the front:

Subject E (27 year old size 8 ) has small thighs. As such, skinny jeans are actually more flattering on her legs than bootcut.

Don’t let your thighs get lost in the flare, though. Subject H (32 year old size 8 ) shows how a cut in at the knees, then back out, produces the most flattering effect:

With regards to this rule, age does not necessarily matter. Subject C (57 year old size 8 ) was, I believe, surprised, at how flattering skinny jeans were on her body:

Although she wasn’t quite comfortable with the fit, the flattering look is quite undeniable.

The exception to the rule: Boots add width without taking away from the slimming effect, thereby offsetting thighs and actually making them look thinner:

4. Color / Feathering / Stitching

In general, just like all other clothing, the darker the color, the skinnier you will look. Subject A (32 year old size 4):

Also, feathering (lighter lines designed to imitate wrinkle marks) and fading toward the middle of the jeans can help minimize the thigh area and add attractive shapeliness. Subject D:

Subject G (36 year old size 9):

By going a shade darker and having lighter feathering, you lose about one perceived size. Subject E (27 year old size 8 ):

However, not all feathering is created equally. Make sure the feathering is natural looking and not “trying too hard”. Subject K (37 year old size 8 ) shows how one type of feathering makes her hips look wider, while the other type makes them look narrower.

Also, as good as front feathering and fading can be, back feathering or fading can do the opposite if it goes overboard. Subject B (29 year old size 5):

All butt fading is not evil. Slighter butt fading, as long as it is done naturally, can actually look nice. Subject I (36 year old size 2):

A lighter stitch color can add interest and minimize by breaking up the space. I’ve already shown you how that helped the pocket width illusion on Subject J:

But you can see that the stitching also lends to a more attractive front view as well:

Subject K has on the same style/brand of jeans, except that one pair has white stitching and the other doesn’t. See how the stitching helps minimize her thigh width:

Please let me know if you have any questions! I hope to add sequels in the future, including plus-sized and men’s jeans.

And don’t ever forget – if it doesn’t look right, it’s not you, it’s the jeans!!!

Special Thanks to:

Subjects A through L for donating their bodies to denim science.
My Mom, for invaluably handling the service of child crowd control
Ali, who relished her role as children’s activity director. And also really enjoyed the backdrop and a certain pair of pink-stitched jeans.

For more information about being fitted properly and the opportunity to buy designer jeans at up to 50% off through Vault Denim, or about earning free jeans by hosting a party, or about making money and earning free jeans by becoming a Vault representative, click here or email me at rachel@graspingforobjectivity.com.

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13.1

2012-02-16T04:00:37-08:00

Chris here, guest blogging. I suppose at this point I should take the title “Contributing Editor” or something significant like that.

Anyway, my blog post.

I definitely had icicles in my moustache at one point. And I may or may not currently have diaper rash from excessive sweatage. But I’m glad I did it.

It wasn’t the idyllic leisurely jog through the City of Eden that I experienced last summer in San Diego.

No, quite the opposite.

It was competitive (with a clock mostly), brutally cold (if you’re from Alabama. I’m sure people in Juneau have a chuckle at Southern cold tolerance), and required beginning the day milling about in the dark waiting for the race to start.

But I’m glad I did it.

I like to run. This is no secret. But I have always resisted the Mercedes events here in Birmingham because of the February date. Its always bitterly cold for the races. Except last year. I remember it being a beautiful day. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t want it to be 80, but maybe 35 or 40. Is above freezing too much to ask?

I decided to get over myself, man up, and do it. So I signed up for the Half-Marathon early this year, determined to survive.

If you have an inclination to try a distance event in February (c’mon – it’s for charity!), here are my tips:

Step 1. Grow a Beard. Yep, I put down the many-bladed hyper-marketed razor and let nature’s weather shield ease on out. Don’t underestimate the protective force of body hair.

Step 2. Buy spandex. There is no chafe protection like super tight neck to ankle spandex. Although awkwardly unattractive if worn alone by someone my size, when placed modestly underneath wind pants and a jacket, they provide a priceless service to the epidermis.

Step 3. Bodyglide. This product should be direct pyramid scheme marketed with downlines, commissions, the whole 9 yards. It is essential in an icy exercise event for the nether regions, and super helpful for any part of the body that doesn’t like to be excessively rubbed or exposed to the wind.

Step 4. Hand warmers. Nobody likes to carry dead weight, but the tiny little iron packets that heat up to 135-150 degrees inside your gloves are well worth carrying their diminutive weight.

So race day arrived. The morning low was 18. The wind chill? 12.

I got up at 4, had coffee in a dark and quiet house as I contemplated the cold and prepared myself with 2 pairs of socks, earbags covered by a toboggan, and numerous OCD points of comfort and organization.

I made it downtown, and eased into the NIGHT with my aforementioned handwarmers sandwiched between 2 pairs of gloves. A couple of cold-induced port-o-let onesies later, I was milling around at the back of the starting chute as the sun came up, making conversation to pass the long minutes ‘til the start.

The gun went off, and I walked slowly forward with the frigid throng, and eventually passed the start line at a comfy running pace.

I warmed up quickly, and I have to say, it wasn’t nearly as cold as I thought it would be. The only clothes I threw away were the extra pair of gloves at about mile 8, but I was comfortable.

So comfortable in fact that when I snagged a napkin out of my pocket to drain my nose, I found the aforementioned icicles in my moustache.

Ice.

Growing on my body.

And I was unaware of it.

When does this happen in life?

We (and by we, I mean me and the 10.5 – 11.5 min/mile pace crowd I was with), including my 2 chosen competition targets, Army Guy Carrying a Giant Shoulder Pack and Girl with The Bright Yellow Toboggan Mohawk, passed lots of interesting Birmingham neighborhoods, including 90’s trendy Southside, 00’s trendy Avondale, and 10’s trendy Railroad Park. We passed the yummy smelling Jim ‘N Nicks in 5 Points and the yummier smelling Merita Bakery on 1st Ave South. And lots of landmarks: the Civil Rights Museum, the Alabama Theater, old parks, and older churches. I got high five’s from official volunteers and the friendly guys at the Firehouse Shelter.

Somewhere between mile 11 and 12, I heard the short whoop-whoop of a police siren behind me giving a get-out-of-the-way love tap. The motorcycle cop was followed by another police car, escort vehicles, and the Fox 6 Storm Tracker Hummer with aft-mounted video camera, which was being followed by the full-marathon leader, Michael Wardian, who was churning his long legs at rate that really puts one in their athletic place.

I had just been lapped.

On a 13 mile loop.

I was on mile 12. Mike was on mile 25.

After marveling at the disparity between his fitness and my own, I soldiered on.

In the end, I met my dear sweet wife and was surprised by another friend at the finish line after collecting what has to be the coolest race medal out there. Who doesn’t love the classic cool of the Mercedes Benz emblem?

It turned out to be a beautiful, albeit frigid, day. I saw parts of my city I’d never seen before. I conquered the beast. And in way less time than I expected. I got the bling, and the beard is already gone. Overall, a total win.

Rachel’s side of the story:

The above photo came at a price.

Chris told me to be downtown by 10 AM to see him finish. He did not, however, figure in the cold weather speed-up effect into this estimate.

Fortunately, there are tracking chips with each runner, and you can follow their progress online.

Unfortunately, these tracking chips only update at 6K, 10K, 15K, and the finish line.

So by the time I got his first estimated completion time of 9:28 AM, I already knew there was no way I could make it. One cannot speed up the process of getting two kids ready by an entire half an hour – this is a scientific impossibility.

I woke the kids up in a frenzy, rushed them into their clothes without bothering to brush any teeth, sped to church, dropped them off in Sunday School under the care of my parents, and then sped like a maniac downtown.

Halfway there, I realized I had forgotten my map.

I can find my way around downtown any day, but on this tight of a timeframe, I was worried about my ability to have quickness and accuracy.

I texted a friend who texted her sister who told me the best exit ramp to take. I prayed for a parking space and one appeared. Then I saw the runners and began running alongside them to the finish line…in my heels.

I ran for two blocks before realizing that those were the marathoners, not the half-marathoners, and I was running away from the finish line.

I began running in the opposite direction. In my heels.

My lungs began to complain of the bitter cold. My ankles began to complain about my heels. And it was 9:30. There was no way I could make it…

I arrived at the finish line at 9:31 and fought my way up against the fence. I checked my phone – it hadn’t notified me of his finish yet. I was hopeful, yet doubtful.

I got my camera ready and waited.

And one minute later, I saw him coming.

Still panting from my ridiculously excessive four block run, I snapped a few photos of my husband finishing his first half-marathon.

Because I totally rock like that.

Okay, he’s the one who rocks. But I did run four blocks.

On A Completely Unrelated Note.

2012-02-15T04:00:30-08:00

A week after the Escapee Mailbox incident, I heard the sound again.

clank-a-roll-a-clank-a-roll-clank-a-roll

Oddly enough, I actually didn’t recognize it at first.

I peered out of my blinds, and then remembered as I watched our postlady chase our mailbox down the street yet again.

But this time, she slammed it back into place with a bit more fervor, all the while glaring at our house with a considerable amount of malice and rage beaming out of her eyes.

Guilt pervaded my soul.

(Okay, my soul was still amused, but there was now a clear amount of guilt mixed in with the glee.)

So I texted a subtle Honey-Do.

Obviously, he also had a wee bit of amusement still housed in his soul.

But nevertheless, due to the fear of creating a 90’s throwback gone-postal moment, Chris went out at 10 o’clock that night and bolted the mailbox back to the pole.

So, in an effort to assuage her fears and feelings of great malice toward our household, I left a note for Postlady.

The next day, I found the note on the inside of my mailbox, attached to our cozily housed stack of bills.

A smiley!

All is right in the world.

On a completely unrelated note…

We still meet with our small group once a week into the wee hours of the morning. Despite the fact that we have 18 (about to be 20) kids under eight years old, we put them all to bed in every available piece of square footage in our host’s home. Then the really miraculous part comes when we wake them all up around midnight, drive them home, and put them back to bed.

And it works.

Noah’s assigned location last week was in the master bedroom dressing area.

When it was time to leave, Chris found Noah, happily snuggled into his bed, innocently sleeping atop his conquests.

Although slightly concerned with how long he’d sucked on that metal foot callous remover, I had to admire the kid’s detective skills.

Clearly, he uncovered a serious addiction to dental hygiene.

Make it Work.

2012-02-13T04:00:27-08:00

I have a confession to make:

I’m afraid of print journalists.

Journalactophobic, perhaps?

(Kinda sounds like I’m afraid of lactating journalists, but it will do.)

Being that I’m considered in the field of “new media”, I will occasionally get invited to a press event. With magazine writers, newspaper journalists, and the occasional television reporter.

They all always know each other.

As they sip their drinks, they discuss in their journalistic voices,

“Oh hey…remember that time downtown when we were both covering that event and that girl —- “

“Oh yeah! I totally remember that!!”

“Hardy har har!”

Then they notice me, standing alone, talking to no one because I know no one and also because I have a great fear of small-talk, so I’m desperately attempting to be invisible.

“I don’t recognize you. Who are you with?”

“I’m a blogger.”

“OH.”

(they look me up and down with derision and disregard.)

“A…BLOGGER, huh.”

(They look at each other with a knowing look in their eye.)

“I see. So what do you blog about?”

“Well, I have two main blogs. One is Alabama Bloggers, which is a networking site for all of the state’s bloggers. And the other is Grasping for Objectivity, where I write about humor, fashion, random thoughts, and…my kids.”

(They spit their drinks as they choke on their tongue.)

“OH! You’re a …. a …. MOMMY BLOGGER!”

They look at each other again, this time their eyebrows are furiously waggling up and down as they desperately try to pin in their escaping laughter.

…because obviously, Mommy Bloggers are the cockroach of the journalistic profession and all.

Hence, my Journalactophobia.

(Granted, this could all be happening in my seriously paranoid imagination, but it’s happening somewhere, and that’s all that matters to my poor, frail ego.)

So I typically avoid press-filled events, but when I heard about Birmingham Fashion Week, I swallowed my pride and applied for a press pass.

After all, I don’t worship Project Runway for nothing – if there’s going to be a tent with a runway in it – in MY city?? I clearly have to be there.

Even if it means facing my most serious blogging fear.

I almost backed out twice, but Chris kept encouraging me to go, even offering to buy me a regular pass so that I didn’t have to go as “A Member of the Press”.

Since I’m way too cheap to buy a pass when I already have one, he guilted me into it. His evil plan worked.

I arrived and picked up my press credentials, then put my amazing talent of being horrible at small talk to work by sitting in the corner of the media room, trying to look like I was deeply involved in some serious Facebook work on my phone.

Maybe they’ll think I’m being snobby because I’m from some amazingly huge magazine like Elle or Marie Claire.

I saw one lady looking me up and down with derision and judgment.

WHO TOLD HER I WAS A MOMMY BLOGGER!?!?!?

I got back to work on my iPhone to avoid any stares, or worse, overtures of niceness that would certainly end in stifled laughter.

The designers came in and began the media Q & A.

After all questions were answered, we all headed out to the tent for their “Step and Repeat” – a fancy term for them posing for the camera.

Unfortunately, someone wearing an impressive British Fascinator was standing directly in front of my camera, and my camera’s autofocus was completely obsessed with it.

I finally snapped photos of a couple of the designers…

Smith Sinrod of By Smith,

Jeff Garner of Prophetik (right), who had an oddly curious (and quite handsome) resemblance to The Dread Pirate Roberts.

Then came the time to stake my claim in the photo pit, which was really more of a stage than a pit, but I’m not picky.

The tripods and Hulkishly impressive cameras with their attached computers almost made me run away.

Why didn’t I bring a tripod??

And I forgot my zoom lens?? I am such a dweeb.

But the stage was too alluring, and I could almost envision Heidi and Michael sitting in front of me, so I decided to stay.

Also? Miss Alabama USA was one of the judges, and I had to stick around to count the number of stars on her crown.

Thirteen, in case you wondered.

The first set of runway shows were the Emerging Designers, which were college and post-grad students who had earned the right to show a collection of four garments.

My favorites of this set were this dress by Rachel Wallace,

And this absolutely stunning gown by Kelsey Carnes.

I’d remarry Chris if I could wear that dress.

The next set of designers were from the Rising Design Star Challenge, and they were Alabama Junior High and High School students who submitted concepts for garments made out of non-traditional items.

Since the “Unconventional Challenge” on Project Runway is always one of my favorites, I was really looking forward to their creations.

And many of them were quite impressive.

Some of the materials were sheet music,

Grass,

And, my favorite of the night, ace bandages and their accompanying clippies.

Some of the designers were as young as eleven, and I found myself dreaming about what it would feel like to send a model down a runway, wearing a creation that I made, at eleven years old.

And there was much jealousy in my heart.

The next two collections were from local boutiques. My favorites were from Theadora.

I wanted her skirt,

Her makeup,

Her abs,

And her entire outfit.

After the boutique shows, the Featured Designers began their collections.

The first designer, Machteld Schrameijer of Iota, creates unbelievably luxurious one-of-a-kind outerwear. She uses shearling and leather from animals that are being killed for food including deer, goat, lamb, alligator, and ostrich. Originally from The Netherlands, she is now located in Kentucky.

Her pieces were fantastically luxurious.

This piece looked especially familiar. I kept looking at the fabrics used…

then when she turned around, I recognized it: She was wearing my chaise.

Clearly, I need that coat – how cool would it be to match my furniture??

The next designer was Smith Sinrod of By SMITH. She graduated from The University of Alabama in 2009 (thereby making me feel extraordinarily old), and now has her own line headquartered in New York.

She uses hand-woven Thai silk, and had some beautiful and very ready-to-wear pieces.

I loved the bold color combinations she used on many of her garments.

She also created original fabric prints from her own acrylic paintings, giving her guaranteed uniqueness.

The headlining designer was Jeff Garner of Prophetik. He has an impressive operation in Franklin, Tennessee. His entire process is done on site – including growing the garden to create the dyes to use on his all-sustainable fabrics.

He started his show with a flair for the dramatic, having fencers,

and dancers.

Although I wasn’t sure where I would have the opportunity to wear some of his designs,

Others made me want to figure out a place. Right now.

Surely I could get a date to an awards show so I could wear this one, right?? Surely.

The entire evening was spectacular, and being able to attend an actual runway show was quite possibly addicting.

Now if only I could shake my Journalactophobia – but that’s not likely.

Sleepwalking is a Genetic Disorder.

2012-02-10T06:00:56-08:00

I would like to take a moment to thank my new video monitor for convincing me that Noah will never be allowed to move out of his crib.

…and yes, he was asleep for almost all of that. Heaven help his wife.

The Death of a Princess.

2012-02-09T04:00:08-08:00

Here lies Ariel, Queen of the Sea.

She was a good friend.

A great one, really.

Given to Ali for her birthday two years ago by her chosen future husband, Ariel has been a constant reminder of the love and tenderness that exists between Ali and Ethan.

After all, every girl wants a sensitive guy – a guy who can appreciate the value of a Princess.

Ariel has thenceforth been a wonderful bathtime friend, allowing Noah to suck on her head and Ali to shampoo her hair, preferably in that order.

Although her hair didn’t exactly change colors like her box claimed, nor did her fin exactly have magical designs appear when wet, she was nevertheless an invaluable part of every bath, few and far between as they may be.

But yesterday, tragedy struck Ariel.

After having her head sucked and her hair washed, she was innocently floating along in the bathwater, dodging soap bubbles and conditioner floaties.

Noah was busy enjoying his screams against the bathroom echo and splashing the bathwater with tsunami force, and I was combing Ali’s conditioner-filled hair as I dodged Noah’s giant tidal waves.

And then he stopped.

He concentrated, leaned over and stuck his butt out toward Ali and the lazily floating Ariel.

OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But it was too late.

And lamentably, he wasn’t feeling especially constipated that day.

The bathtub was quite suddenly colonized by a horrifying amount of floating objects, some looking way too reminiscent of the previous day’s dinner.

I started screaming at Ali.

“GET OUT!! GET OUT NOW!! HURRY!! GET OUT OF THE TUB!!!”

She was facing the other direction, and looked at me, in her un-hurried fashion, very puzzled.

“GET OUT NOW BEFORE IT GETS TO YOU!!!!”

She looked behind her. She gasped and I could see it in her eyes: this nightmare had gone directly to her long-term memory, where she would be holding this moment with bitterness and rage against her brother until they were both enjoying the care of a retirement facility and Red Jell-O Lunches.

She jumped out of the bath right before the first piece of flotsam reached her.

Still yelling, because it seemed like it would somehow help the situation, I commanded for her to run to my bathtub and wait for us there. I pulled Noah out and had him standing, leaning against the Tub-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, completely naked and hopefully intestinally empty.

I began scooping the largest chunks out with the bathtub pourer, also later tossed due to the tragedy. I then took a breath, held it, closed my eyes, and reached into the pit of Complete and Utter Diabolical Hell and pulled the drain plug.

I tried to hold back my own vomit as I looked at what I was going to have to clean up later, then carried The Evil Culprit to the other tub.

I mercilessly scrubbed both children, then stuck a diaper on Noah and stuck him in his crib, hoping that his incarceration would prompt some soul-searching and penitence for his heinous* crimes.

* no pun intended.

Then I did what any mother would do: I took a photo of what was left behind in the bathtub and texted it to my husband, demanding Triple Mommy Combat Pay for the entire day.

(I fully expect bountiful thanks for holding you in too high of regard to traumatize you with that photo.)

Then began the cleanup. It involved a copious amounts of cleaning solution, an entire bottle of hand sanitizer, and many, many rinses with near-boiling water.

But Ariel – nothing could be done.

There was no way that I could possibly ever trust that mess of tangly red hair to not be housing eighty-nine different forms of bacteria a la feces.

She had to go.

I considered whether or not I should tell Ali. Sometimes out of sight out of mind is a valuable parenting technique.

But Ariel deserved more respect than that.

She took the news well, far beyond the maturity of her years. Or possibly because she now found the victimized Princess just as disgusting as I did.

And as for the perpetrator of Ariel’s death?

He denied everything.

But his evil cackle exposed his complete lack of remorse over the burial of Ariel.

Ariel the Bathtub Princess

2010 – 2012

If Chris had Been Home, I’d Have Yelled Taverna.

2012-02-07T04:00:40-08:00

I was getting everything ready to walk out the door. We had our Alabama Bloggers Monthly Meet-Up, and I needed to be there early to reserve the table.

Usually, the kids are visiting The Grandparents on Alabama Blogger Meet-Up days, and not by coincidence. But every now and then, I have a moment of questionable sanity and decide to take both of them with me. To a two hour lunch. With a bunch of other bloggers. Who do not usually bring their kids.

(I like to give other bloggers something to blog about, because I’m benevolent like that.)

So. I was packing up my entire house, as a mother has to do to attend a two hour lunch with two kids.

My last step was to fill Noah’s sippy cup.

I went to take the lid off, and Ali distracted me.

“Hey Momma – do you have any change that I can put in my bank?”

I looked up. When I did, the lid awkwardly popped off, sloshing a tiny bit of milk on the counter.

“Not right now. Plus, that’s your Missions Bank. According to Cubbies, you’re supposed to do things to help me out to earn money for that bank, remember?”

I wiped up the milk and refilled the cup.

“What can I do to help you?”

“I don’t need any help right now.”

I began reapplying the sippy cup lid. And as I did, I quickly discovered that the lid was quite faulty.

It flew out of my hand, knocking my grip off balance. I somehow managed to perform a One-Handed Rumba, which loosened the milk’s grip on the inside of the cup.

It hit me first.

My arm, my shirt, my jeans, my feet, my underthings…

Then it expanded it’s attack throughout the kitchen.

The counters, the floors, the crevices of the Keurig, the mail, the dishwasher, the kids, Anchorage, Boise, and a few convenient drops went ahead and placed themselves directly in the sink.

I stood there and experienced how wet the inside of a sippy cup must feel.

Ali stared at me, silently.

Noah stared at me, thirstily.

I didn’t say a word.

I simply walked out of the dairy-covered kitchen, dripped up the stairs, and changed every piece of clothing on my body.

A few minutes later, I walked back downstairs, still without words.

“Mommy! Why did you change clothes?”

“Seriously?”

I set to work. I unrolled paper towels like they were a slot machine lever and handed Ali the box of wet wipes.

“Please wipe up all of the milk spots on the floor.”

We diligently wiped and mopped and wiped some more, as Noah angrily waited for his milk to be restored.

Although I wiped at least 34 different surfaces, as I finished my work I knew that I would need to be okay with the fact that I was going to find dried milk spots for the next two weeks…or years.

I re-prepared to leave the house, now much later than I had intended.

And then I remembered.

So I went and found a handful of change.

“Thank you for helping me clean up the kitchen – here’s you some money for your Missions Bank.”

And I don’t care what Cubbies says – I won’t EVER enforce contingencies when she asks me for money for that bank.

Wife of a Preacher Man.

2012-02-06T06:00:43-08:00

“They want you to do…what??”

So my husband preached yesterday.

As in, wore a suit and a tie and a Britney mic and stood behind the pulpit in the bright lights and preached.

The evidence that this event occurred can be found in the gigantic My-Husband-Is-Preaching Stress Pimple right between my eyes.

Because apparently, everyone that knew he was preaching was praying that he wouldn’t be anxious, and as all of Chris’ nervousness made it’s defeated retreat out of his body, it crawled into the nearest one that happened to be hanging around – and that would be mine.

The good news was that it was a very serious communion service, so I didn’t have to worry about him making any unscheduled, un-preapproved jokes.

(Chris teaches our Sunday School on occasion, and being that it is full of our closest friends, he tends to freewheel with a demographically casual irreverence that would stop my heart if it came from my husband in the pulpit in Big Church.)

But, the bad news was also that it was a very serious communion service, and he jolly well better not mess it up.

So, alas. The nervousness on his behalf manifested itself into Crisco and grew a new being between my eyes.

I had read and reread and edited and reedited his message, but the pit of my stomach didn’t get that Hopping Bunny Feeling until 10 PM Saturday night, at which time he began his first pajama rehearsal from the kitchen counter.

After some high-quality, well-received constructive criticism from his life partner, it wasn’t bad at all.

And then there was an interlude of a couple of old episodes of Downton Abbey, at which time I tried to distract my Crisco Bunnies by wondering what it would be like to have a Lady-In-Waiting and listening to fabulous British accents.

And then the second pajama rehearsal at midnight. My anxiety increased and I wondered if perhaps it was too late for him to back out.

You know – for my sake.

It wasn’t him – the message was beautiful, and he was doing it fine, but I just couldn’t help but get that piano-recital, Olympic final, ice-the-kicker nervousness on his behalf.

On Sunday morning, I felt a bit of Wife Guilt over not ironing his pants, chose my most proper front-row-sitting outfit, and began praying that Noah would take the day as an opportunity to begin to at least marginally enjoy his stay in the nursery.

We finished getting ready in silence. Except for…

“I sure hope that you give me something to blog about.”

“I sure hope I don’t!!”

And thankfully, Chris got his wish. He didn’t trip on the stairs, I didn’t get an inescapable coughing fit, Noah didn’t crawl out of the nursery and into the balcony and wail about the injustice of his life, and no unvetted jokes slipped out. The entire service was very meaningful, and I was (after my heart resumed it’s thumping) quite proud of him.

Now if I could just get rid of this zit.

Although the first few minutes of his message mysteriously disappeared, if you have any desire to hear an excerpt, it can be found here.

But if you hear a tapping noise, that was most likely my nervous foot reverberating from the front row.

{Insert Interesting Blog Post Here}

2012-02-03T06:00:01-08:00

This week has not left a lot of room for bloggability.

Mainly, because there’s been a lot of this…

Which has decreased the amount of this…

And, more importantly, this…

And has also sharply increased the amount of this.

I’m also afraid that the snot sucker might have withdrawn a bit of brains as well, as he has repeatedly and angrily insisted on drinking out of this.

(Yes, these photos made me realize that I have not changed my child out of pajamas in about 96 hours.)

(Thank goodness that these photos also prove that I did at least change his jammies.)

SO. Since blogging (or thinking) hasn’t exactly been an opportunity I’ve had this week, I thought I would share some highs and lows and call it a day.

High Point:

Hearing a clank-a-roll-a-clank-a-roll-clank-a-roll, looking out the window, and seeing our mentally and physically unstable mailbox rolling down the street.

Then watching our Postlady, (who was apparently the accidental nudger of the ready-to-jump mailbox,) leap out of her mail truck, run down the street, scoop up our mailbox like it was a tender baby, and slam it back into place.

And that, my friends, is why the cost of postage keeps going up.

Low Point:

Getting a flat tire on a torrentially rainy day, then learning that if I wuss out about changing said tire in the rain and decide instead to drive, even at 5 miles per hour, down the road to Express Oil Change to get it patched, I will ruin said tire altogether.

High Point:

Being able to justify my tire-ruining trip by finding out that my spare tire lowerer was missing, so the Express Oil Change men had to use vise grips to remove it – something I would have definitively not been able to do by myself.

Low Point:

You haven’t lived until you’ve spent an hour in a 12 foot x 6 foot Express Oil Change lobby holding a wiggly, sick, sleepy, wanting-down-on-the-nasty-floor one-year-old, trying to entertain a bored and loud five-year-old, and attempting to keep from further irritating a curmudgeony twenty-something-year-old businessman who has a clear disdain for wiggly one-year-olds and bored five-year-olds.

Halfway through this experience, Ali had a philosophical moment and mused out loud, “I wonder what it feels like to have two kids?”

“Now may not be the best time to ask me that, honey.”

High Point:

Finding out that despite the fact that my Sam’s paperwork clearly states that road hazard damage is excluded, it mysteriously isn’t really, therefore saving me $150.

Low Point:

Having to drive back to the Doorway of Hell that is Express Oil Change (with a fussy, sick, sleepy baby in tow) to retrieve my slashed tire in order to receive my warranty credit. And then drive back to Sam’s and wait uncountable hours for the replacement to be installed with a fussy, sick, sleepy, hungry baby in tow.

(And possibly spending all of my warranty savings on food, because I was also quite hungry, and being marooned in Sam’s when you’re hungry is more dangerous than Richard Simmons finding a store called Sweatbands ‘R Us.)

High Point:

There’s something really disgustingly satisfying about the unbelievable amount of snot that can be retracted from a baby’s nose.

Low Point:

Babies don’t find it nearly as satisfying.

High Point:

Downloading the Google Earth iPad app and getting totally lost in fascination of satellite images of Saudi Arabia.

(Random Bonus Fact: There is no place in the world that piques my curiosity more than Saudi Arabia. Not that I’ll be visiting anytime soon – black is not my color.)

Low Point:

Having to stop looking at Google Earth to, you know, tend to my sick kids and stuff.

High Point:

Having a dream that Adam Levine from Maroon 5 had a huge crush on me and begged me to date him.

(Apparently, I’m a total egomaniac in my sleep.)

For the record, I turned him down, explaining that I was incandescently happy with my husband.

(Apparently, I like using big words in my sleep.)

Low Point:

Realizing that was just a dream and I may not be so awesome after all.

High Point:

Having a romantic, delicious, cozy, after-children’s-bedtime dinner with my husband.

Of Sloppy Joes.

(Sleeping sick babies sometimes create the romance, not the menu.)

And finally, we got Siri’s advice about our future family plans:

Well, that clears things up.