Poodle Writes

End of Nap Time

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 25 Jan 2016 21:18:00 +0000

I'm sitting on my laundry-strewn bed (though it's folded, mind you) with my feverish little almost-five-year-old cozy under the blankets beside me. His cheeks are flushed and he is very solemnly telling me that we'd better cancel our family night activity because he needs his rest. Okay, little Graham Bear.

I was going to wax poetic a little longer about the trials and triumphs of motherhood, but now I can hear my one-year-old crying on the monitor. If there is one thing Beckett cannot abide, it is an unmolested open laptop.

So this will be a vignette of motherhood. Laundry. Sick babies. Waking babies. Putting things I want to do so badly on hold because nap time doesn't last forever, but neither does childhood.

Time to get the baby up and put my computer to sleep.

When Being a Mormon is Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 06 Nov 2015 20:53:00 +0000

Getting called a goody-two-shoes in elementary school for not swearing, being pressured by soccer coaches to change my decision to not play on Sunday, getting called a bigot during Prop 8--none of these things were that hard for me. I knew where I stood, had confidence in my position, and didn't really care what anyone else thought about me anyway. To be honest, the hardest parts about being a Mormon have not come from outside the church, they've come from within.

For the most part, I'm okay with that. I would be wary of any faith that didn't push me to stretch and grow, even if that process was uncomfortable, daunting, and even devastating at times. My religion asks so much from me, so I feel justified in expecting the same from Mormonism--and for the most part, after long periods of wrestling and pleading and praying, I have not been disappointed.

Questions and concerns about women and priesthood have led me to develop a deep testimony about my power as a woman, even while I still cringe at many things I see and hear about women at church. Painful discomfort with some aspects of temple worship ultimately led me to the most peaceful and affirming meeting with church leaders I've ever had, even though most of my questions were answered with, "We don't know." I feel that God has let me experience the dark so that I will do everything I can to find the light.

Today I'm in the dark. I'm heartbroken about the policy change regarding LGBT families. I may feel this way until I meet my Savior with a joyful embrace and long list of questions. I can't wrap my heart or mind around it. I'm praying for the ram in the thicket. I'm crying out, saying with tears, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief."

I am confused and dismayed, and no platitudes can smooth it over for me, or for the people actually directly affected by this new policy.

Instead of posting shallow, reductive, and patronizing articles offering unofficial, speculative "insights," please keep your baptismal covenants and simply mourn with those who are desperately mourning. You don't have to disagree with church leaders to empathize with those who have been placed in much more complicated situations than your own. You don't have to sanction gay marriage (I don't) to listen to stories, believe them, and say "I am so sorry." You know what? You also don't have to mention that you don't support gay marriage. Try and love and listen without an agenda.

We're always saying that we hate the sin, but love the sinner. I hope we can start showing that love by opening our hearts to the pain of others instead of trying to dismiss it or explain it away.

Wild Pigs in Suburbia

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 05 Oct 2015 21:17:00 +0000

You know you live in Texas when this shows up in your neighborhood email blast:

I live in suburbia! What are wild pigs doing in my neighborhood? Further discussion on the message board revealed that some unwitting neighbor had been spreading corn to attract deer ... but instead she got a sounder of hogs.

Wild pigs are gross. Actually, they are delicious (courtesy of some bow-hunting friends), but the idea of bristle-haired hogs rooting around my neighborhood creeps me out.

Imagine you're minding your own business at the neighborhood playground, reading Kinfolk while your kids are being super nice to all the other kids, when suddenly this ↓↓↓↓↓ bursts from the underbrush and eats everyone.

Peekaboo from behind the R.O.U.S via

Ok, that's actually a 781-lb monster boar from Turkey, but even the 100-400lb version found in Texas scares me. (Side note: never go to Turkey.) I hate how smart they are and how they get more vicious and feral with every generation removed from human association. It's like their species is an allegory for moral decay. I can't even bring myself to buy Boar's Head deli products because the logo gives me nightmares.

Because the hellish face of a boar accompanied by the company's name in Dracula's favorite font will inspire me to purchase succulent deli meats and unctuous cheeses.

I asked Nathan what he thought about boar. He said, "It's a bore." What a joker.

Nathan: "Is this where you start obnoxiously typing everything I say?"

Yes, Nathan, yes it is.

Other boar facts:

-They have "lightning speed" and "razor sharp tusks" (exact words from the Texas Parks and Wildlife feral hogs info page). Just a reminder that a typical lightning bolt moves at 224,000 mph, so move quick if a boar is charging you! Too late, you're dead. Struck by boar lightning.

-Their tusks grow continuously. Like a rat's.

-They have poor eyesight, but keen senses of hearing, smell, and humor.

-Wild hogs can carry "pseudorabies," a swine herpes virus (not transmittable to humans, but your pets are susceptible so watch out for any Capulet/Montague kisses).

-Groups of swine, or "sounders," are led by a matriarch and consist of barren sows and mothers with young (feminist pigs! A foil to male chauvinist pigs?).

-Sows have been known to eat their young in poor habitat conditions.

-The feral pig population of Texas is estimated to be over 2 million.

-The meat of some uncastrated male hogs is afflicted by "boar taint," a foul smell and taste rumored to be rank enough to curl Nancy Pelosi's hair.

-In Greek mythology, boars were often sent as merchants of godly vengeance.

Here's a picture of some feral hogs looking cute, because this is a balanced and unbiased blog free of prejudice against anything or anyone, including these vile little suburbia pig monsters.

Taken when they weren't in "lightning mode." via

Later message board updates included reports that a pack of coyotes had engaged the wild boar in a skirmish. The coyotes were said to possess "katana fangs" and "tsunami strength."

What do you think? Should we heli-hunt these intelligent, vicious beasts in order to halt their trajectory towards becoming our barbarous masters? Should we continue hobby bow-hunting them for our homemade pepperoni in complacency? Or is there a wild hog Jane Goodall who can tell us of their nobility and quiet strength? These questions cannot be answered until the shroud of mysteriousness surrounding these fearsome creatures is parted, come what may.

Emails from Politicians

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Tue, 29 Sep 2015 19:45:00 +0000

If you've ever been dumb enough to give your email to a political organization, I imagine you've been getting a lot of super annoying emails lately begging for money. I certainly have been.

"Kimber, can I count on you today?" No, Marco! Stop using my Christian name like you're some used car salesman. It's Mrs. Nathan Albrechtsen to you.

Or this gem from Ted Cruz, "We're building real momentum in key states, but we must keep the campaign doors open if we want to fight off the Washington Cartel and be the ones to reignite liberty."

Reignite liberty? I'm sorry, but I don't want to set anything on fire, let alone my liberty. Who is writing your dumb emails? Why is "Cartel" capitalized? Are you talking about the Senate t-ball team by the same name? Or have your shadowy political enemies decided to make their league of villainy official by filing an LLC?

Another from Marco: "Kimber, I know you get a lot of email, but I wouldn't be sending this unless it was urgent. And it is."

You know what's urgent? A top secret mission in Miami that requires a stay-at-home-mom to infiltrate a Cuban spy ring. Email me then, Marco.

I bet my "unique donation buttons" look totally different from everyone else's unique donation buttons.

The spastic formatting is killing me. Bold. Highlighted bold. ALL CAPS RED HIGHLIGHTED BOLD.

****REIGNITED LIBERTY!!!****

All y'all presidential-aiming narcissists need to cut the crapola out of your blustering emails. Here's what your emails should say:

Faceless voting unit I must secure in my quest for fame and power,

I need your hard-earned money to pay for yard signs and slick suits to wear to debates so I can look good while I make stuff up. I also need money to pay Hulu for commercials that will annoy you while you wait for Brooklyn Nine-Nine to come back on.

Send me money. You will feel smug and hopeful, like you are investing in America's future, but know that you're really just bankrolling my small-town-diner crawl across America. Without your donation I could not afford the extra side of bacon I love so dearly. Bacon=relatable, accessible, AMERICA.

Electronic Signature

If anyone's looking for a campaign manager, I'm happy to talk about my credentials over something pumpkin spice-flavored, your treat.

Stop Apologizing for Your Body

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 18 Sep 2015 18:41:00 +0000

I've noticed something concerning: women are constantly apologizing for their bodies, and not because they are punching people or farting all the time.

From an online neighborhood forum:

"Sorry guys please ignore this one. Ladies, does anyone have an ob in the area who will do a VBAC?"

Why is she saying sorry? Is the mere allusion to her having a uterus too scandalous for men to read? Or maybe it was that her uterus currently contains a baby? OMHECK HOW DID IT GET THERE?

I acknowledge that women are probably the best source of info on great ob-gyns, but couldn't there be a great husband in the neighborhood who was involved enough with the process of the birth of his children that he could also recommend a doctor who took great care of his wife? Or would it be embarrassing for a man to admit that he remembered the lady-parts doctor's name? Whatever the case, men should not be ignoring the existence of healthcare needs for half the population.

Having a female body is normal. Needing a doctor is normal. You don't need to apologize.

From Facebook:

Displaying the face you were born with is not discourteous or offensive. The multi-billion dollar beauty industry would have you believe it is, though. Don't apologize for not having the money, time, or desire to hyper-pigment/contour/sexualize your face to meet arbitrary beauty standards.

(Disclaimer: I wear makeup sometimes, and I am conflicted about it. I don't care if you wear makeup. I don't support the idea that a woman must wear makeup to be acceptable, formal, or successful.)

From an amalgam of several birth stories I've read: "Sorry if this is TMI! Guys, scroll to the end if you don't want to read the gross parts."

Yes, there are bodily fluids involved in birth. No, you should not apologize for acknowledging that it wasn't a stork who delivered your baby perfectly dry and smelling of Aveeno lotion, wrapped in an aide + anais swaddle. You created that baby and birthed it from your womb.

The details of birth are messy, but they are not offensive. Blood, uterus, vagina, amniotic fluid, cervix, contraction, perineum, tear, push, bleed, break, vernix, meconium, vomit, poop, sweat, tears. All of these may be part of a birth. They aren't swear words. Every human is born. It is not some gross, weird, or offensive medical phenomenon that you need to censor to appease the delicate or uninformed.

This also applies to menstruation, an amazing testament to the procreative power of women. Don't apologize for needing to buy tampons, acknowledging that you have cramps, or voicing that you feel more emotional at certain times in your cycle. This doesn't mean that you have a free pass to be rude when you're PMSing, but it does mean you shouldn't have to whisper when you say "period" while telling a friend that you'll be skipping PiYo to go for doughnuts instead.

Men seem to be okay with blood when it's coming out of a comic book hero; the thought of it coming out of your vagina shouldn't kill them. In fact, if boys are raised to know what menstruation is and that it is a normal process for women, they'll have a greater chance of growing up to be informed, empathetic, and a resource to the women in their lives.

Ironman is alive and bleeds. TMI!!!

Apologies are necessary when you do or say something offensive. If someone is offended by something that isn't offensive, that's their problem, not yours.

But what about social norms? What if someone gets uncomfortable?

Some social norms are based on moral laws and are good: don't kill people, say thank you, take turns. Other social norms are not based on moral laws, and should be questioned and opposed if they are harmful. The social norms that discourage women from acknowledging their femaleness or presenting their natural faces are harmful because they communicate that a woman's social participation should largely be determined by the preferences of men instead of the needs of women.

What is the greater evil? Inflicting mild discomfort on someone interpreting your existence through warped lenses, or propagating harmful messages about how females are allowed to participate in society? Any discomfort that results is just part of societal growing pains as we leave our sexist cultural adolescence behind. Harmful social norms should be challenged. Comfort should never stand in the way of social progress.

I'm not saying that every woman has to share every detail of her life or body. Medical needs can be private. Your birth story might be too personal to share. Makeup can be fun. I am saying that it's harmful to shame people for talking about their female experiences, it's unnecessary to preface yourself with apologies where none are needed, an it's damaging to promote the idea that a woman must alter her appearance to receive regard and respect.

So unless you just stepped on my foot in your haste to snatch the last carton of Blue Bell from the ice cream case, you don't need to apologize for your body.

**The winner of my hat-finding challenge is "inkylou." Thank you for linking to an online hat shop that featured Indiana Jones hats on the homepage! Email your address to poodlewrites@gmail.com and I will send you three gummy hamburgers and another surprise. I know I promised ten, but the box was on top of my fridge, so I couldn't see how many I had eaten ... then I was shocked to see only three left. Oops. If you are dying for all ten, I'll order some more. Let me know. Thanks to everyone else who suggested hats, here and on Facebook. Amanda gets an honorable mention for exposing me to these gems, and Auntie Becca gets the "Best Personal Effort" prize (a good feeling) for her squid hat.**

I Need A Hat

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 21 Aug 2015 20:52:00 +0000

I went to the dermatologist this week for an embarrassing issue. Here are some weird things for you to imagine to distract from wondering what my real ailment was:

1. Rash shaped like Russia on my lower back (worst kind of tramp stamp)
2. Long and dark neck hairs reminiscent of a young Genghis Khan
3. Kneecap chafing from always being knee-deep in diapers
4. Earlobe eczema, a psychosomatic condition brought on by wailing children
5. Armpit acne that prohibits shaving (side note: a few months ago I went a long time without shaving my legs, and then one day I went out in shorts and felt the wind on my leg hair and it was a surprisingly transcendent experience)

The dermatologist was young and nice and answered all my questions, both general and specific to my awkward issue. She had perfect skin, but was nice enough to try and relate to me by gesturing to non-existent blemishes on her face.

I don't think I could ever be a dermatologist because it would be too hard to hide my simultaneous interest in and revulsion to gross skin conditions. I would say, "WOAH!" too often.

I asked her what I can do to prevent looking like a piece of chewed up leather in twenty years.

"Sunscreen."

She gave me some samples. Is there anything better than a good sample? This is why I love H-E-B. I love knowing I can count on a piece of Nutella croissant, a chip with guacamole, and a thimbleful of fresh-squeezed orange juice whenever I go there. Death, taxes, and the juice station at H-E-B.

I asked her what else I should be doing to maintain my youthful, dewy glow, and she told me to wear a hat.

I answered, "Are there any hats that aren't completely dorky? Those floppy beach hats are ridiculous." I was already thinking about how I just can't pull off wearing hats. They make me feel presumptuous and silly. But I don't want skin cancer, so I started daydreaming about an Indiana Jones-style hat that would add adventure and intrigue to my errands and playground visits. Could this work?

The nurse laughed at me and the dermatologist said she'd write down a website with good hats.

"At least, I don't think the hats are that bad," she said a little self-consciously, which made me like her more.

She wrote down the website in untidy handwriting, though her penmanship was less the hurried scrawl of doctors who deem their time too important to write legibly, and more reminiscent of a first grader's printing practice. "Coolibar."

I looked up the website in my car after the appointment ended. I'd booked a company-subsidized sitter for the morning, and with a four-hour minimum booking, I was content to sit in my car and bask in the quiet that came after the solitary "click" of the one seatbelt I needed to fasten across just one human body.

Friends, this is what I found:

"I'm a model so I'm paid to smile, but this hat looks like a zebra leather patchwork quilt."

Ten-gallon bucket hat.

This is my nightmare.

Mullet hat.

Imagine me wearing this at the playground. How would the police not get called?

For when the physical pain of a sunburn outweighs the pain of looking like you're wearing a loincloth on your head.

I can only imagine that my dermatologist has entered into some exclusive endorsement contract with Coolibar, because why else would she refer me to the nerd alert hellscape that was Coolibar? Where is my Indiana Jones hat? Where?

I just want to look like this, but the mom version.

Find me a hat that I can wear in public without shame and I will send you ten gummy hamburgers from the box of 60 I got off Amazon last month in a craving-induced haze. I'm serious. Link to a great hat in the comments and I'll announce the winner when I post next.

On Public Correction: Two Tales

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 13 Aug 2015 20:59:00 +0000

Sometimes your kids just pick their noses and ruin the best shot.

Experience 1:

I was eating lunch today at Chick-fil-A with some friends while our kids played when a woman approached our table and asked, "Is one of your sons the boy with the blue shirt, with the turtle on the back?"

She was describing the t-shirt Graham got at our family reunion last year, so I answered, "Yes, he's mine."

"He's bullying everyone on the playground."

Next to her stood a boy, probably seven or eight years old, in a green shirt. The boy Graham had tearfully described and pointed out five minutes earlier as the one who had kicked him when he tried to enter the same helicopter play pod as the boy. Then Graham had hit him back, then the boy hit him again, then Graham hit him back, then the boy hit Graham, then Graham left, then the boy followed and hit him again ... all this was recounted to me in between little sobs. There's something about my little four year old: he's too young to consistently control his emotions or his need to enforce his own vigilante brand of justice, but he's also too young to lie about his role in heated events when he's upset. I knew he was telling (his version of) the truth. I told him to stop hitting and to avoid the older boy. Tears forgotten, he ran back to play. Apparently it didn't end there, though.

This is Graham's gremlin face.

When the woman at Chick-fil-A declared Graham a bully, I had a few reactions. First, I was embarrassed because I was with two friends. Next, I resisted the minor urge to correct her usage of the word "bullying" (bullying is not the same as being a stinker! Bullying involves abusive power imbalances and/or persistent and aggressive harassment). I also wanted to bring up her son's behavior, but that's really not my style. Finally, I just stood up, went to the play place, and told Graham to knock it off. Then I returned to my frosted lemonade.

Maybe the other mother wanted me to do something more drastic. Maybe my friends thought I was too lenient. Maybe I was wrong to not haul Graham out for a time out. I'll be honest: half of why I went in there was as a token offering to a society that demands a reaction to every reported injustice. I fully believe Graham was playing a part in a playground conflict. I also know my kid, and know he never independently instigates malicious trouble. The other half of why I went in there is because I genuinely want my kids to be well-behaved and considerate of others. A part of me does appreciate another parent letting me know if my kid is acting out. I would certainly welcome such information from a teacher or friend. Perhaps I was irked because she was neither.

I'm probably 50% libertarian, so I believe more in governing yourself than in governing others. When Graham comes and tells me that some kid did xyz, I almost always tell him to play somewhere else or just ask the other kid to stop. In fact, I can't think of a single instance where I've voluntarily gotten involved in a playground dispute (though I can imagine scenarios where I would, of course). In most cases, kids will resolve the conflict themselves (great practice for adulthood!!), forgive, forget, and move on. I don't like denying my kids those important opportunities to practice social skills. Even in this altercation, Graham eventually happily announced to me that the other boy apologized--with no hovering moms in sight! That's a victory!

I don't like tattling. I wish we spent more time and social energy on teaching self-control than on policing and calling each other out.

Except ...

Experience #2:

A while ago, Nathan was spending some time with a group of people that included an older, long-married couple. The husband is notoriously mean to his wife. During their time together, something happened that made him launch into a protracted episode of criticizing his wife. He wouldn't let it go. Nathan finally said something about how he was surprised they were still talking about the issue fifteen minutes after the fact, but he didn't really say anything to condemn the man's words towards his wife, something he later told me he regretted.

Should he have publicly corrected this older man? Would that be interfering with the sovereignty of a marital relationship? Would it have just made it worse for her later on? Is it anyone's business but theirs? When should you say something? Do you have to wait for him to start hitting her? These are real questions.

I've been thinking about this for a while. When is it okay to demand a change of behavior from others? Only when physical injury is imminent? What about emotional? I'm torn between my belief that you should develop emotional grit to deal with other people's lameness and my belief that other people shouldn't be lame. Maybe it's a delicate balance?

What are your thoughts? When do you call other people out? Other parents? Other people's kids? Older people? Friends? Strangers? Experiences?

Jesus Didn't Make My Son's Body

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 13 Jul 2015 20:00:00 +0000

photo by Tara Butler

After church a while ago, Graham proclaimed, "Jesus made my body! And trees! Did he make our house?"

After trying to explain how it was possible that Jesus was the creator of the whole earth and a carpenter, but not also a suburban construction worker, I realized another discrepancy in my four-year-old's declaration. I tried to clarify:

"Graham, I made your body."

"No, Jesus did!"

"Actually, I did, with the power of God. I grew your body with my body."

Then I can't remember what happened, but it probably involved Graham running away to get a snack (11 o'clock church is rough).

photo by Tara Butler

I don't fault my son's Sunday school teacher for this at all. I learned the same phrase, and I've probably repeated it. Of course, all life comes from His power, and all bodies are formed from matter from the earth He created, but I don't think it's accurate to say, "Jesus made my body." That's oversimplifying the truth and foreclosing an important discussion about the role and power of women.

I make an effort to emphasize the amazing contribution I have made to our children in creating their bodies. I don't do this to brag or impress my children, or usurp the roles of God or our Savior in their lives. I do it because I believe that the creation of bodies, however universal, is a uniquely divine process, a power and privilege given to women. It is one way I contribute to the eternal progression of God's children (there are, of course, other vital ways women participate in God's work). I want my children to understand that women and men have equally important roles to play in God's plan for them. I feel that I am glorifying God in acknowledging a concrete way that He allows me and His other daughters to participate in His work.

Would you ever say that Jesus baptized you? No! Because He didn't! A man, through the power of God, baptizes you. Just like a woman, through the power of God, creates and gives birth to your body.

Ruby on the day of her baby blessing

When we generalize that "Jesus made my body," we are missing an important opportunity to acknowledge the role of women in the Plan of Salvation. I don't think it takes any glory away from Christ when we recognize that women are serving Him and God's children by creating bodies through His power. Just like our reverence for the priesthood and the respect we show to those ordained to offices in that priesthood doesn't diminish our worship for our Savior. Acknowledging that women play a vital, irreplaceable role in His plan actually increases my love and deference for Him because I am humbled that I have been entrusted with such an important part of His work, I can see how He loves and entrusts men and women with His power in equal measure, and my experience with and knowledge of the process of procreation informs my understanding of the atonement.

photo by Andrea Oates

Next time you're discussing the importance, divinity, and origin of our bodies, consider acknowledging that it is women through whom this power and blessing flow (literally!). Instead of teaching your kids that "Jesus made your body," maybe try something like this, "God and Jesus gave me a very important job! I'm in charge of making bodies for the kids in our family. It's a really important job and God gave me a special, sacred power so I can make bodies. Our Heavenly Parents and Jesus all have bodies and they wanted you to have one, too, so you could be like them. With God's power, I make bodies."

photo by Andrea Oates

My husband agrees that this contribution of women shouldn't be minimized, and I love to hear him teach our children about the divine power of my motherhood. I feel supported and honored as a daughter of God and mother of our children when he teaches them that my gift of a physical body is just as important as his subsequent gifts of baptism, confirmation, etc. Our society often discounts the importance and miracles of birth and bodies, or dismisses the process as gross and commonplace. Changing the words we use when we teach important doctrines about bodies and birth, mortality, and the embodied nature of God reclaims the divinity of the procreative process, establishes that women are connected to God's power, and creates an empowering paradigm for our daughters to recognize their procreative powers as an important facet of their identities as servants of Christ.

Ridiculously Easy, No-sew Baby Doll Carrier Tutorial, + Random Life Tips

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 09 Jul 2015 22:00:00 +0000

I'm no Martha Stewart, but sometimes I have good mothering/housekeeping/crafty ideas. Here are a few random ones that have made me particularly delighted:

-When you're on vacation or an outing that you want to Instagram the heck out of to show that you actually get off your couch sometimes ... but you're out of memory on your phone! Curses! You don't want to spend ten minutes going through your photo stream to find and delete the forty pictures that your toddler took of her toes, because the moment is about to pass! The pony ride is about to be over, people! Instead, pick an app to delete. You can easily reload it later when you've had a chance to transfer your pictures to your computer. I usually delete my BBC or CNN apps. News can wait when you're making memories (make sure you read this in a grandfather-from-a-Nicholas-Sparks-novel voice).

-Instead of peeling the safety seal off your vanilla (or other extracts or liquids you usually only need a small amount of), cut a small slit in the seal so you have more control over how fast it comes out. If yours comes in a plastic bottle, you can even give it a little squeeze to fill that teaspoon a quarter-second faster. You'll spill less and will neatly sidestep your phobia of accidentally wasting half the bottle of your expensive Madagascar bourbon vanilla if your hand twitches.

-Here's how to make a super-easy, no-sew baby doll carrier with which your kids can adorably imitate you. Seriously, this project will last as long as Donald Trump's political career.

Lay out an old t-shirt and mark it for cutting like so:

Note my summer toenails.

Cut through both layers.

In case you skipped kindergarten and don't know what "cutting" means.

One of your scraps can be used as a chic dickie.

You have to make this face when you're wearing a dickie.

Your project should look like this now↓. I forgot to take a picture of the next set of cut lines before I cut them, so I added them in digitally. I love technology.

Cut on these lines, but THROUGH ONE LAYER.

Unfolded, it should look like this↓. I love that down arrow.

It's like a disembodied bunny coming in for a hug.

More cut lines. Again, THROUGH TOP LAYER ONLY.

All done!!! ↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓

Now to put it on. Tie the waist straps at the back.

Remember to support baby while you're securing the carrier. Just kidding, it's just a stuffed polar bear.

Cross straps across the back and tie in front.

Support the neck!!

So cute. Make another one. Goodness knows you have BYU t-shirts to spare.

Baby carriers are practically clothes.

Little mama.

Awesome! If you make one, send me a picture and I will put it on the blog along with an interview where I highlight how amazing you are at being a person.

Gotta go make some lentils. Adios.

When I Die

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 02 Jul 2015 18:25:00 +0000

I know some intense stuff has been happening around the world lately, so I'm going to write about something more light and fluffy to soothe your frazzled internet nerves:

WHAT TO DO WHEN I DIE.

Why is a 20-something mother thinking about such morbid things as the passage of time? I'd argue that no one is more acutely aware of the speedy jaws of time than someone who has approximately four minutes to shower in peace until an enraged toddler starts throwing things at the door. Also, I'm a really deep person who thinks about metaphysical stuff all the time. Okay, so I was actually just looking at my arm and noticed a weird configuration of freckles/marks that may come in handy for the public to know about in case I go missing and die in a ditch and need to be identified later by the small town lady cop who finds me and works my puzzling case, all while she's in the midst of working through a divorce from her high school sweetheart, opening an e-bakery to fund her mother's chemo treatments, and managing her micro-farm. It'll be like Fargo meets Eat, Pray, Love, plus The Fault in Our Stars, for the cancer.

Here are the marks, on my right upper arm, FYI:

They needed a little something ...

Post-ghosted!

Now when my missing person poster goes up on the cork board by the bathrooms at Panera, it can include such vital knowledge as "grimacing ghost face birthmark on upper right arm." You could substitute "melancholy" for "grimacing" because he looks a little frowny. Or maybe he's just whiny?

Over-legislation ghost.

Accidentally-transracial ghost.

Ironically-capitalist hipster ghost.

When I die, I'd also like everyone to know the details of my death, especially if it's untimely. Don't be vague about how I died, because that drives morbidly curious people like me crazy! If I choke to death in the pantry because I was pounding a cupcake too quickly in an effort to avoid my children seeing and asking for a bite, put that in my obituary! "She died selfish and happy, with the smallest smudge of chocolate buttercream nonchalantly smeared across her lips, once so warm and slightly-chapped in life, now so cold in death."

Other important details: bury me with a 32 oz bottle of DevaCurl conditioner because I'm worried Amazon Prime doesn't deliver to the spirit world, and I want my hair to be looking hydrated and fabulous forevermore.

The Definitive Mother's Day Anti Gift Guide

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 30 Apr 2015 20:09:00 +0000

There are loads of bloggers out there who are more rich and posh than I am who will tell you all the things you could buy for your mama/baby mama for Mother's Day. I will tell you what not to get her, beyond the standard no-no's of shapewear, cleaning products, or a Norelco beard trimmer with your name on it.

1. The Cast Iron Oyster Grill Pan from Sur La Table. No one needs this. Unless your mom summers in the Hamptons. Or is a grill-servant for someone who summers in the Hamptons. Or needs something large and heavy to defend herself with if she finds herself hiding from an intruder in the pantry under the shelf where she keeps cookware she never uses.

The epitome of over-specialization.

2. A side of beef. 320 pounds of it! For only $1329 (plus tax) you can supply your mother with enough meat to feed the panther you got her for Mother's Day last year! Oh wait, you didn't get her a panther? Then don't buy her this much beef.

Watch the video. Too much meat to even be captured by a photo!

3. A fur-covered exercise ball chair. No grown woman should have to subject her office space to something that looks like it was upholstered in Furby-hide. I don't care how swanky PB Teen is (I can only ever think of "Peanut Butter Teen" when I read this), your mom doesn't (shouldn't) want it! The woman wants some back support while she ~~browses Pinterest~~ writes her momoirs. On a different note, wouldn't it be so awesome to have enough disposable income to build a special room in your house that you would fill with these fur balls? In a huge range of sizes? I'm thinking anywhere from small, dodgeball-sizes to maybe a few with 12-foot diameters. You could rent the room out for parties. I would go to a fur ball party. There would also be a make-your-own Italian soda bar.

The aqua one was formerly an extra on Sesame Street.

4. Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers. Only because you should get the entire collection! Don't cheap out on your mom!

5. An all-expenses-paid trip to Cawker City, Kansas to see the biggest ball of twine in the United States. Unless the trip is scheduled for August during the city "Twine-a-thon" when more twine is added to the ball. That could be really intense.

It's not even a ball!

Don't take this the wrong way, but wouldn't that be a great place to hide a dead body? You'd have to do some initial wrapping, of course, but every year during the Twine-a-thon, the other Cawker City citizens would unwittingly do their part to make sure no one every discovered your twine-mummy. Also, if anyone ever suspected that the corpse of grumpy old, ironically-named Mr. Love (the victim, murdered during a botched robbery when you were attempting to steal his prize piece of beef jerky that looks like Ryan Gosling) was within the twine ball, there would be a city-wide outcry at the thought of cutting the ball apart to confirm suspicions. Dibs on this plot idea. I'm going to title the book Love Entwined.

On a sentimental note, happy early Mother's Day to my own dear mother. She's creative, generous, hilarious, and a mean shot with a black powder rifle. Maybe we do have some business in Cawker City ...

Right down the middle!

Best/worst thing you ever received/gave for Mother's Day?

Ruby the Fluffy

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 17 Apr 2015 03:21:00 +0000

Growing up, I was never much of a "girly-girl." I had one short-lived foray into dance lessons (tap--insanely boring and lacking the competitive excitement I found in soccer), loathed any clothes with ruffles or bows, and was once mistaken for a boy as I entered the girls' bathroom because my hair was cut pixie-short. I'd probably still be wearing boys' cargo shorts if I hadn't discovered the superior comfort of yoga pants (their gender-normativeness is just a bonus).

But having a little daughter and dressing her up in cute clothes is ridiculously fun. When she's old enough to tell me her preferences, I'll respect them (to a point to be debated on, I'm sure), but until then, RUFFLES. Not the potato chip, people, the fluffy kind.

My friend Olya is one of the most entrepreneurial people I know. One of her several business endeavors is running an online shop selling these gloriously fluffy rompers (love that word! Romp around little baby, romp!!) and tutus for babies. Olya gave Ruby this little peacock outfit to frolic around in right before Christmas (not posting these pics until now because ... three kids=zombie mother emoji).

I dressed her up, got out my professional mother camera, and learned that photographing toddlers is a circus. A circus that is on fire. Metaphorically.

I love Ruby's little side-eye in this one. She kind of looks like a criminal. "If you try to adjust this hair bow I will cut you."

Posing demurely by the Christmas tree.

Channelling the spirit of Cosette in this shot.

Then things got a little hairy. Ruby was tired of modeling and demanded to be naked.

We needed a replacement model ...

"Fertile Elizabethan Pharoah"

Then Graham channelled his inner Zoolander (who else is dying for Zoolander 2?? Fun fact: Nathan told me he loved me for the first time while we were watching Zoolander).

The camera loves Graham.

I'm so excited to have such a goofball to keep me company.

I love having fluffy, fun, costume props around for my kids to play with. Some of my favorite memories as a kid are of dressing up (as detectives, orphans, fortune-tellers, pioneers, etc.). These adorable pettiskirts are fluffy and fun. It's like you are wearing a cupcake. I love them.

Gravitas.

Clinging to the edge of high fashion.

Olya's shop can be found on Facebook, Etsy, or at Mamaloni.com. Check them out!

How to Save Your Marriage ... From a Dragon!

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Wed, 11 Feb 2015 02:57:00 +0000

To start off, let me remind you that I have a degree in Marriage and Family Studies, so I know stuff. My dragon expertise comes from watching the movie Dragonheart several times as a child.

The institution of marriage is under attack. Yes, yes, of course divorce is always lurking in shadows, but let's talk about a more pressing threat to your marriage:

****

DRAGONS!!!

*****

Do you want to dragon-proof your marriage? Of course you do. Then put your marriage certificate in a fire-proof safe and follow these five simple strategies that will protect your marriage from any dragon.

I WILL DESOLATE YOUR MARRIAGE!!!

1. Don't plan your date night next to a dragon lair. Decrease the chances of having your marriage decimated by a fiery blast from a dragon's maw by avoiding the scaly beast's neighborhood. I don't care if you have a coupon to the Macaroni Grill across the street from his cave--you're going to have to downgrade to Olive Garden if you want to save your marriage. Send Frodo if you're dying for some of the peasant bread.

2. Have sex more often. Dragons are prudes; they'll stay away.

3. Communication. Use "I feel _____ when you _____" statements. Example: "I feel paralyzed by fear when your giant green eyeball appears outside my kitchen window while we're discussing the family budget." Contrary to what Smaug would have you think, dragons aren't mind-readers! Communicate your needs and feelings.

4. Discover the dragon's love language. Distract the dragon from his physical hunger by feeding his heart. Does your dragon prefer words of affirmation? You and your spouse could sit down and write a little note of appreciation that he hasn't eaten you thus far. Does the behemoth, winged reptile respond well to gifts? Offer your neighbor's annoying dog as a little treat to tide her over while you make your escape. Physical touch? Tough luck!

5. Share the burden. If you want your marriage to survive a brutal dragon assault, make sure you're both doing your part. One spouse can't be expected to chart the dragon's movements and feeding patterns, practice defensive archery, and patch the flame-retardant battlements around your suburban starter home all on their own! Negotiate a mutually beneficial dragon-chore-chart ("I'll mop up the carnage from last night's attack on our ill-prepared neighbors if you spray the lawn with male dragon urine*!" "Ok!"). When it comes to not becoming the next meal for a flying lizard of death, it takes two.

You love each other. You don't want your bones crushed into powder and your flesh ripped to tatty ribbons by the massive, sawlike teeth of a wyvern. Save your marriage from dragons.

*A common dragon repellant, although only effective on male dragons.

Downton Abbey Season 5, Episode 1, Musings of Disappointment

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 09 Jan 2015 21:21:00 +0000

I should probably blog about something more impactful than Downton Abbey (like, oh, my new baby, or else a late e-Christmas card brag-update on our family, or maybe even a lentil recipe?), but too bad. Here are my thoughts on Season 5, Episode 1. Spoilers, duh.

If you squint really hard the chair kind of looks like Matthew is giving her a hug.

Lady Mary is one drop-waisted dress short of an 80s elementary school class photo. While Anna is performing the highly technical task of taking off Lady Mary's necklace, our ice-cold heroine monotones about her worry that she has to choose a second husband without knowing everything (ahem) about him. My loyalty to Lady Mary is wearing thin ... she talks about wanting to have a trial-run tryst with all the passion of someone talking about oatmeal, she treats motherhood like a post-tea-time game of Scrabble, and she's lost the icy fire that played so well against Matthew's warmth and good humor. "I've been reading about crop rotation" is her most exciting line of the episode. Gah. Hopefully Charles Blake will make an appearance in Episode 2 because he at least gets Mary out of autopilot. But what about Lord Gillingham ... ? He gets his own paragraph.

Lord Gillingham has lost his marbles. How convenient that he's decided to offer Mary a scandalous week away, right after she voiced such an interest to her maid! It's almost like Julian Fellowes was hiding under the bed, eavesdropping, while Lady Mary shared her secret wishes with Anna, and then he traipsed right over to Gillingham's place to spill the sordid beans. Gag me. And Mary practically agrees to it! I know "times are changing" in this episode, but call me old fashioned--I like characters who have a lot of lovely tension, steal some kisses, go through some drama, and then overcome all odds to get married. No calendared illicit getaways. Lord Gillingham may be a "gentleman," but he is no gentleman. Also, he is as exciting and mysterious as oatmeal.

*sob*

Poor Lady Edith. She'd better not start hitting on the farmer who's taking care of her daughter (she has shown a proclivity for married farmers), because honestly he might be my favorite character from this episode (his fireman helmet? Ridiculously awesome.), and I can't have him ruined by infidelity. Because infidelity ruins people (not always irreparably, of course--please watch The Painted Veil for a wonderful story of marital redemption. Don't read the book, though.). Also, Marigold is the most adorable name on the show. Edith, once so promising with her writing career and bf, is now pitiful to watch. Oh, Lady Sybil, why did you have to die?? Your sisters are killing me.

Baxter reveals some of her shady past (hint: it's the only shady past lady's maids ever have: stealing jewelry) to Lady Cora in order to free herself from Thomas' extortion. Lady Cora delivers a scathing reprimand to Thomas for his snakiness, but then reverts to her usual dingbat ways and doesn't sack him because he saved Edith after she lit the house on fire. I like Baxter. I like to dislike Thomas.

I want to like Tom's lady friend, the teacher Sarah Bunting, but she is a total jerk. She has so much potential to add some excitement to the cast, but her lack of manners completely overwhelms her refreshing social views. Watch this episode for a lesson on how not to discuss politics at a party. You don't have to pretend to agree with people to make them feel comfortable, but I also don't think you should insult your host for his views and then insist on traipsing down to his basement after he tells you he doesn't want you to. I don't care how much you want to meet Mrs. Patmore. We all want to meet Mrs. Patmore! And there's something patronizing about how she breezes into the kitchen to thank the staff. "Look at me! I know you're real people down here! I will condescend to the kitchens to ask you useless questions about breakfast trays, feigning interest in your jobs while simultaneously subtly dismissing them as meaningless buttresses to outdated social hierarchies! I am so progressive!" I will give Sarah one more episode's chance before hoping she dies in some Julian Fellowes-concocted freak accident.

What Downton Abbey really needs is an Elizabeth Bennett or a Mr. Darcy. I want some wit, some principles, and some drama. Is that so much to ask for?

What did you think of Episode 1? If you cheated and have already watched the whole season, don't give me any spoilers!

Heart of Darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 08 Dec 2014 22:35:00 +0000

I don't consider myself an especially emotional person, unless you count experiencing near-constant cravings for Panera's Greek salad as emotional (Kalamata olives are my Prozac). Being pregnant, however, makes me weepy sometimes--especially when it comes to anything involving the pain (hypothetical or real) of my husband or kids ... or anyone who is or was ever a child. Maybe this is how God tries to prepare me for having kids--by having hormonal empathy crammed down my throat so hard it leaks out my tear ducts.

Disney documentary on flamingos featuring chicks getting left behind by the flock to die because salt-deposit manacles have slowed them down? Stories of toddlers with cancer? Anything on the news, ever? Tears. Ok, I didn't cry during the flamingo movie, but I only because I forced myself not to imagine my children as the flamingo chicks, walking innocent and alone across the deserted, salty lakebed, wandering until they starve or are eaten by storks.

From the film "The Crimson Wing"--so depressing. Note the salt-shackled legs.

One day last week I set myself up for failure by following a Facebook link to a blog detailing the end of a beloved husband's battle against brain cancer. I knew it would make me cry, but I kept reading anyway because I'm human and I was putting off getting off the couch and out of my bathrobe (I'm so over maternity clothes). So I cried and cried while Graham and Ruby did who knows what in the kitchen. I finally pulled myself away, tried to shower away my puffy eyes, and took the kids to our new ward's playgroup.

Graham is at a hard age. He's too old to be interested by the toddlers (although he and Ruby crack each other up at home), but too young to keep up socially/physically with "the big kids," despite his best efforts.

One day he won't hold the brush like a caveman. If my child development professor is to be believed.

He was the only boy his age at the playground, so he was very interested in hanging out with a couple boys a year older than him. Developmentally, "almost four" is very different than "almost five." For the most part, Graham was oblivious to his position at the bottom of the totem pole, happy to trail after the boys, under the impression that he was fully involved in their games, whether or not he actually was. Then eventually he came to me, explaining through his tears that one of the boys had told him he couldn't play with them.

I don't want to demonize the boys--it was only an hour earlier that Graham had growled at a two-and-a-half-year-old who wanted to play with his ball. I think children are the worst ageists there are. It's normal. It's still sad when it happens to your kid, but it's normal for kids to find extra security in their own age-defined identities by excluding others. I remember the most important factor in determining who my third-grade best friend would be: after looking at the birthday board on the first day of school, Megan and I discovered we shared a birthday. Instant best friends, no questions asked.

Ordinarily, I would give him a hug, offer some sympathy, and suggest he find somewhere else to play on the playground. But I'm pregnant, so my heart broke even more than it usually does when this happens, and I found myself fighting back tears, hoping my incessant blinking would keep the other moms from noticing my ocular distress.

I distracted Graham with a ride on the swings while a fellow mom went to talk to the boy, who then came over and very nicely told Graham that he had been kidding and invited him to play. Graham was all too happy to forgive and forget and hopped out of the swing to return to a game of monsters/rock-throwing/running-around-screaming/whatever-boys-do. Problem solved, right?

Wrong. The sweet mom who had talked with the older boy echoed an apology and I lost it. The lump in my throat refused to be swallowed and I just burst into tears. I started blubbering about feeling bad for Graham, being pregnant and emotional, and then added something incoherent about the man who I've never met who died of cancer.

Gah.

She gave me a hug and I kind of pulled myself together ... but I'd revealed my most vulnerable (pregnancy-augmented) soft spot: my kids' feelings.

I'd also revealed myself to be a crier. But I'm not a crier. I'm a pregnant crier. Not that there's anything wrong with being a crier, pregnant or not-pregnant. Cry on me whenever you want! Just don't think I will return the favor, unless I'm pregnant and someone was just mean to my kid. Or if I'm on the phone with an insurance company and getting mad. I also cry then.

It was just embarrassing, okay? It's one thing to care about your kids, but it's quite another to have a proxy cry long after your kid has gotten over the initial offense, and especially in front of people who don't know you very well yet.

When was your worst awkward cry? I remember an especially ugly cry in front of my high school English teacher ... the one who had a rule specifically forbidding crying. But how could I not cry when she gave me a B on my Heart of Darkness project after I'd spent hours analyzing the themes of greed and colonialism and cutting out coordinating photos of Africans and gold from my dad's beloved National Geographic collection? She was so cold about it ... that's what made me mad, which in turn made me cry. She's the one who obliterated my desire to be a high school English teacher, but I guess I should be grateful because instead I married an oil baron (cough*analyst at Exxon*cough) and now live a cushy life full of Amazon Prime shipping, and completely devoid of novels by Joseph Conrad.

Poodle Reviews: Walking with the Women of the New Testament

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 01 Dec 2014 04:52:00 +0000

One of my favorite bloggers, Heather Farrell, has a new book out: Walking with the Women of the New Testament, and I was sent a copy to review. It is a beautiful book, and it looks much better on my Ikea coffee table than the newsprint Harbor Freight Tools ads that pollute my mailbox ceaselessly and somehow never make their way to the recycling bin.

Besides the gorgeous cover and beautiful photographs inside, this book is filled with amazing stories and insights into the lives of women of the New Testament. I'm sometimes frustrated by how the scriptures are dominated by the stories and reflections of men, but this book offered a wonderful collection of scriptures, ideas, and historical contexts that all shed light on the immense value Christ placed on women throughout His ministry, as well as the important roles those women played in their Savior's work.

The book is divided into sections profiling nearly all the women mentioned in the New Testament. In each section, Heather Farrell provides scriptural references to the woman's story, offers clarifying historical context and insights into how the translation of the text can increase our understanding, and includes her well-constructed thoughts on what we as modern women can learn from our ancient sisters in the gospel. Her reflections often go much deeper than the Sunday-school interpretations we hear over and over--you can tell that she has pondered the lives of these women as real people rather than mere characters in a morality play.

This book has been especially moving to me as I prepare for the upcoming birth of my third child (I feel especially thankful for insight into Mary's story--I'm due the day after Christmas!). While this collection of stories makes it clear that Christ also values women for their contributions beyond the sphere of motherhood, there is a prominent theme of women being central both physically and symbolically to doctrines and events surrounding birth, nurturing, and resurrection. I've felt a greater connection to my Savior as I've read about the respect and compassion He had toward mothers.

One of my favorite aspects of this book is how the provided historical and cultural contexts add significance to the Savior's interactions with women. A small section dedicated to menstruation and the concept of being ritually "unclean" added a lot to my understanding of the story of the woman with an issue of blood, as well as to the symbolic meaning behind that part of the Mosaic law. Sections on marriage, death, divorce, and other topics were interesting and informative. Understanding the low social position of women at the time helped me appreciate how radical Christ's interactions with women must have been at the time as He taught them, treated them as equals, and invited them to contribute to His ministry.

The stylized photographs in the book are stunning and helped me imagine the women as real people. I felt better able to relate to their stories when I could picture them as women similar to myself. One critique, though: nearly all the women who modeled for the pictures are Caucasian. Personally, I felt like all the models should have been either historically accurate (Middle Eastern, Greek, black, etc.), or else should have represented the entire spectrum of races. I wonder if the latter option would have enhanced the book's ability to present these stories as relevant and relatable to the New Testament's diverse, modern, global audience. Otherwise, I did appreciate the variety in the models' ages, shapes, and physical features. The posing and costumes were also lovely.

I love this book, and I'm excited to add it to the "women and the gospel" section of my library. This would make an excellent addition to your own library, a great "welcome to Young Women" gift, or a wonderful Christmas present for anyone (men should learn about women in the scriptures, too!).

Amazon has a 30% deal on books going on right now, with the code HOLIDAY30. Use it to get a copy of Walking with the Women of the New Testament!

*I know this glowing review isn't written in my usual dorky, satirical style, but I didn't want there to be any confusion about how I really feel about this book--it's beautiful and inspiring and I legitimately recommend it.

Jogging Stroller Craigslist Ad

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 21:52:00 +0000

Besides this blog and my eternally-unfinished novel manuscript, I don't have many opportunities to write anything but boring "I'll be at playgroup, too" emails. So when I finally decided to let go of my first jogging stroller, I decided to take the chance to have a little fun. I'm reposting it here because I've sold the stroller, and I'm tired of getting texts asking about it so I'm taking the ad down.

Baby Jogger Jogging Stroller--$25

If you're looking for a bare-bones, threadbare, seasoned jogging stroller, then look no further. This jogging stroller will not teach your baby how to speak Korean, it won't play music to motivate you as you push through the sleep deprivation, but it will keep your baby snug in a lovely sling-like cocoon as you jog (or "jog"--I'm not judging). It even has a hand brake and safety tether if you are worried you'll lose control of your precious cargo while running down one of Houston's legendarily steep hills. A simple foldaway canopy will provide your wee babe the protection from the sun that your pediatrician has totally stressed you out over, and a handy pouch is available behind the seat for stowing your water bottle, grody sweat towel, and fitspirational photos of a postpartum Gwyneth Paltrow.

This stroller would be perfect for someone who has lofty ambitions about running off the baby weight, but would like to prove their commitment before investing in something with more bells and whistles.

Buy this stroller for little more than the cost of three Chick-fil-a runs. It will eventually feel great to run again, you will eventually stop leaking through your sports bra, and when you can finally run three miles like you're the Beyoncé of 5ks, you will get pregnant again and upgrade to a double BOB. Until then, here's the perfect set of wheels for you.

****

I sold the stroller the day after posting the ad, and have since gotten at least ten other inquiries. I'm kind of kicking mysef for pricing it so low, but at least it's out of my garage and some other parent is enjoying the constant guilt of having an unused jogging stroller.

My Pinky Beige Nightmare

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Sat, 08 Nov 2014 23:11:00 +0000

There are only a few things I don't like about our new house:

1. The toilets.

2. The street name. Phonetically, I love it. Unfortunately, it's spelled like a Utah baby name. I won't tell you the whole street name (because creepy internet), but it includes the word "Peper." That's right--pepper without the double p. According to neighbors, the pronunciation is still that of "pepper," though.

The first time I saw it I thought the listing realtor had made a typo. What else could explain such an awful spelling of a perfectly good spice? It's not even a well-known European spelling, which would at least lend some posh snobbery along with any confusion. Apparently it could be "pepper" in Dutch, but I don't think the neighborhood development company employee in charge of picking street names had this in mind. I think they were smoking the pepper, if you know what I mean. Now I will be doomed to spelling it out and explaining that it's "pepper with one p" (even though there are still two p's). On top of my rare first name (wait, Timber?) and problematically-spelled surname (Albrechtsen), I estimate I spend 30 percent more time on the phone with customer service people. Crisis.

3. The interior paint color. Like any self-respecting young, modern, super-hip homeowner of the 21st century, I would have preferred exposed brick, or at least whitewashed reclaimed wood paneling upcycled from the local organic rhubarb farm. I got pinky beige instead.

Your computer screen probably doesn't capture the pinky beigeness properly ... mine sure doesn't.

Obviously, it was not a deal-breaker. We bought the house, and in the morning light the living room actually has a nice glow, reminiscent of a Band-Aid before it collects gunk around the edges and finally falls off at the park where a toddler will find it and try to eat it.

It is not intrinsically an awful color. The problem is that pinky beige does not play well with other colors. Apparently the red undertones (quoting my google-acquired knowledge here) make it unexpectedly clash with a lot of other colors. I found this out when I put my yellow beige sofa in the living room. Who knew beige could clash with beige? Now I know. In my pinky beige living area, my sofa takes on the hue of dijon mustard mixed with cement.

Oh, wonderful Craigslist couch, how you've failed me!

If all the interior design blogs I perused yesterday are to be believed, pinky beige is the leper of the color wheel and the scourge of homeowners across the world. But we don't want to pay to have almost the entire house repainted, and goodness knows I'm not hauling my prego self up a 20-ft ladder to do it, so I must find a way to cope with my "Sensational Sand" walls. The problem is my complete lack of interior decorating knowledge. I have no weapons to employ against this beige beast. I'm paranoid that even the most innocuous throw pillow will take on a vengeful hue when placed against this background. It seems my walls are about as neutral as Nancy Grace.

If pinky beige were a human, this is what its face would look like.

Help me! What color rug should I get? What about the dirty mustard sofa? Does black clash with pinky beige? I have no idea what I'm doing.

When my inability to make intelligent interior design decisions proves lethal, please drape my casket in a pinky beige pall in my final display of surrender, and ask Design Mom to speak at my funeral.

***

This post will be included in the Urban Compass Starter Stories project, a collection of tales about first homes, fresh starts, and housing adventures. Visit urbancompass.com to drool over real estate listings for New York City apartments way more hip than my house (though probably smaller---point for suburbia!).

Pumpkin Cookies and Chiropractors

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 03 Nov 2014 21:09:00 +0000

"A nice wolf."

You know what the worst first-world problem in the world is? Getting a cold and losing your sense of taste the day after making a huge batch of pumpkin cookies. Pumpkin cookies were invented to be eaten in a near-constant stream of room-temperature deliciousness until all are gone. They aren't too rich, the flavor is mellow and pleasant, and the USDA would for sure let me count three cookies as a complete serving of vegetables. So eating an entire batch (~40 cookies) over two days is basically the same as having a green smoothie for every meal for the same time period. EXCEPT I CAN'T TASTE THEM. Instead they languish in a plastic bag on my counter as I pathetically eat one every so often, just to check to see if my sense of taste has returned. It hasn't.

I caught the cold from this little heathen.

Over the past few years I've experienced an increased vulnerability to losing my sense of taste. It used to be only the worst cold that could deny me the most enjoyable fruits of my culinary labors. Now almost any minor case of the sniffles will result in losing my ability to taste for several days. I once read a horribly depressing article about people who had lost their sense of taste permanently. One of the victims featured had lost his sense of taste during a bad cold, and it simply never returned. I worry the same will happen to me, and I will only be able to find solace in my new ability to win kimchi-eating contests. Is their an essential oil that will cure me instantly?

Speaking of oil salesmen, I want to talk about chiropractors. What's the deal with them? I saw one today to see if anything could be done about my usual pregnancy-related back and hip pain. He explained all the cold fusion mumbo jumbo about ligaments, my sacrum, and how my pain-free neck was "a little misaligned." He popped and prodded, and I left feeling a little sore. We'll see if I'm back to my usual effervescent, somersaulting, pregnant self.

Little Ruby Riding Hood

My midwives recommended I see a chiropractor before Ruby's birth to make sure I was optimally aligned for a smooth labor, and so I did, and my labor was super fast (4 intense hours). I also ate Moroccan tagine for dinner at the start of labor, so it could have been that, too (never underestimate the power of coriander and chickpeas!). Then after Ruby was born I had pretty bad back pain from nursing, so I went to another chiropractor who said one of my ribs "was popping out of place" which didn't make a lot of sense to me, and his back-popping, while pleasant in the moment, never provided lasting relief. I'm pretty sure I just needed to sit in a better chair and stop slouching like I was a beanbag.

Fat babies = back pain.

I have several wonderfully credible, non-weirdo friends who have had a lot of success with chiropractors, and for a wide range of ailments that seemingly have nothing to do with whether your spine is on the straight and narrow. But I also think some of it must be a load of yellow Starbursts. If a little poke is all it takes to "realign" everything, then how have the thousands of toddler pokes I've endured not sent me into a death spiral of misaligned cancer/ebola/loss-of-taste ailments? Educate me, non-biased internet!

When I've gone too long without an adjustment. Or else this was my Halloween costume.

In other news, I bought paint for our front room/library/office (I shan't tell you the color yet, because how else can I entice you to read my blog ever again?). I am ridiculously excited for the end result. The process will be a pain in my freshly-adjusted sacrum, but it will be worth it, I think. Stay tuned.

Okay, okay, it's Martha Stewart Plumage. Shake your tail feathers!

****
Update: It worked! I have been pain-free the past two days. Previously, I would wake up 3-5 times, either due to discomfort or ... pregnancy-related bladder limitations. My back and hips would hurt like crazy as I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The past two nights I've woken up less (~2x), and I can get out of bed with the spryness of a child on Christmas morning. Huzzah for the witch doctors!

Growing Up is Hard to Do, and Different Toilets

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 16 Oct 2014 20:40:00 +0000

Maybe this topic is better suited to a Judy Blume book than the blog of a 26-year-old, but it's true: growing up is hard to do.

Our new house! Photo by Victoria Rice.

Sometimes being an adult is fun, like when I get to buy a new washer and dryer for my new house, when I remember that I haven't done homework for three years, or when I eat ice cream without asking my mother (most nights). But sometimes it's super lame, like when I angry-cry while on the phone with the mortgage company because our agent told me I could save some major $$$ ... but turns out she didn't know what she was talking about and her manager brick-walled all my indignation with talk of regulations and profitability. Psh! I hate dealing with that kind of thing. I hate talking on the phone. I hate rules about rate locking and floating and whatever else you can do to a rate (beat it up?). I had to reread this post to feel better about myself. I also had some Häagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream (without asking), but my allergies are pretty awful right now so I could hardly taste it. Then I remembered that the perfect eye roll emoji doesn't exist and I spiraled even deeper into my first-world problem-fueled afternoon depression vortex.

On the happier topic of our new house: I love it. The major characteristics of the house are wonderful (full of natural light, way more space, great neighborhood), but I'm also delighted by a bunch of small things. Like how our new fridge has an ice dispenser (hallmark of the super rich, according to my six-year-old mind), the blinds aren't the cheapy-cheapy kind that my kids can easily leave bite marks on (because aluminum mini blinds are so tasty), and my closet has a chandelier that makes me feel like a Kardashian ... in a good way, if such a way exists.

So dazzling my phone camera couldn't even focus.

As with moving to any new home, however, there are things to get used to. I don't have the muscle memory for the location of the light switches established yet, so there's been a lot of groping in the dark and fretting about scuffing the flat paint next to the switch plates with my massive fake diamond ring. Graham loves his new room during the day, but at night the unfamiliar house noises freak him out and he insists there's a "big man" in the house (which then creeps me out when I consider the remote possibility that he might actually be seeing some ghostly apparition--perhaps the disturbed soul of a would-be homeowner who died from complications related to the mortgage process?).

Then there are the toilets. They aren't bad toilets ... they're just different toilets. It's like when you went over to your best friend's house and had chicken divan for dinner. He mom's version had all the same ingredients, but it just wasn't the same as your mom's. This is exactly the same kind of thing, but with toilets bowls instead of broccoli.

I started to wonder how people choose which toilets to buy. Sure, you can probably measure your legs to optimize toilet height, but what about the feel of the commode (what our realtor calls toilets)? Is there a private showroom down a secluded aisle of Home Depot where you can try out different models (pants on, of course)? Do you need to make an appointment? If you really wanted an accurate test drive before purchasing, maybe the restroom of the store could have a different option in each stall.

Did you know that Amazon sells toilets? Check out this great video about the American Standard Champion-4 Right Height One-Piece Elongated model.

Will you ever think of miso the same way again? The disembodied doll heads were my favorite.

Come visit me in my new house. Try out my toilet and tell me what you think. Also, I'm thinking of this rug in the powder room (I love/hate calling the guest bathroom this).

I know bison are really popular with hipsters right now, but I want you to know that my love for bison is not just a sign that my animal preferences are so on trend. I have legitimately loved bison for decades, probably dating back to my first family camping trip to Yellowstone (mid 90s). I could write a whole post about why bison are the best, and I probably will one day. I also liked Sia way before everyone was fangirling over Chandelier. These are the only two things I can claim to have liked before everyone else. I am otherwise the complete opposite of a trendsetter (a tacky-spiker?), except for that time in third grade that the new girl decided to copy me and also do her animal report on opossums (which really irritated me and killed our budding friendship. I'm okay if you like bison, too, though!).

I'm really excited to decorate the powder room. I want to paint it a funky color (right now it's beige--bo-ring) and put a cute little sign next to the sink that says "Wash your hands or die." I'll leave the cause of death up to the reader's imagination. Am I talking about ebola or my own germophobia-fueled homicidal tendencies? They won't know. I like to keep it interesting when people come over. So come over.

Spoons

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Fri, 05 Sep 2014 23:08:00 +0000

Graham has recently graduated from plastic toddler spoons to "big boy spoons." He's been really excited to use metal spoons from the legit silverware drawer (his plastic spoons are stored in his play kitchen). One day, though, he noticed our "special" set of red-handled silverware tucked in the drawer. Let me explain: Nathan's family has this tradition of using a special red place setting (red-handled silverware, red fancy napkin with ring, and a red plate that says "You are special today" around the edge, and a place mat) whenever someone in the family had a "special" day (birthdays, giving a talk in church, gallbladder removal, etc.). When Nathan and I got married, his mom gave us our own special place setting to continue the tradition.

Apparently this is a widespread tradition. See here for more info, and here for the "original" manufacturer site.

I made the mistake of letting Graham use the special spoon one time about a week ago, on a completely non-special day ... meaning Graham came to expect to use the spoon every single day.

But anyone born before 1990 knows that if every day is special, then no day is special.

I get where Graham is coming from. There's something irresistible about an interesting spoon. My siblings and I fought bitterly as children over a plastic spoon with a space shuttle for a handle (though we were dummies and called it "the airplane spoon"). We would hide it from each other, whine about whose turn it was to use it, etc. In the end my mother got so tired of the fighting that she threw it away. So we failed our King Solomon baby test, but whatever, we still turned out pretty well except for my lingering obsession with the spoon ... which manifested itself just now when I stopped writing this post to check ebay for the space shuttle spoon of my childhood. I found two, and bought them both immediately. I plan on keeping an eye out for a third, so my sisters and I can all have one for our greedy little selves. Nice try, Mom, but you can't keep us from our airplane spoons!

This spoon was probably used at the Last Supper.

Back to the present: Nathan, caretaker of the special place setting tradition, put his foot down, and explained to Graham the concept of saving the spoon for a "special day." So now Graham kind of gets it ... except that every morning now, Graham chirps at me in his still adorably high-pitched voice, "Is today a special day, Mom?" And I have to be the Grinch mother who answers, "No, Graham, today is a mediocre, absolutely ordinary and boring day when nothing special will happen. Go get a plain metal spoon and eat your undercooked oatmeal in silence while I plan out the most un-special day in the history of days."

From left to right: Toddler spoon, a spoon from the Oneida Icarus collection, the red spoon of desire, and finally a thrift store spoon that is my absolute favorite: perfect weight and balance, optimal bowl depth and shape, vintage etching (also available with a longer handle, which is optimal for eating ice cream straight from the carton).

You might think that this is where I wax poetic about how then I realized that every day really is a special day full of potential and lyrical joy unicorns and Godiva chocolate cheesecake, but you would be wrong (though I do have Godiva chocolate cheesecake in the fridge right now because WE ARE BUYING A HOUSE! Updates in my next post ...).

A great quote from past prophet Gordon B. Hinckley: "Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he’s been robbed. The fact is that most putts don’t drop, most beef is tough, most children grow up to just be people, most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration, most jobs are more often dull than otherwise. Life is like an old time rail journey…delays…sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling burst of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride."

At least you don't have to eat that tough beef with a spoon, red-handled or otherwise! #soblessed

My $20 French Wedding Ring

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 21:19:00 +0000

Sometime near the end of my pregnancy with Ruby, my fingers got a little puffy. I could put my wedding ring on just fine, but it grew increasingly difficult to take off. I have this fear of my ring getting stuck on my finger, similar to my fear of drowning in a dark pipe. Same thing. So I haven't worn my ring for a little over a year (having the baby didn't un-puffify my fingers as much as I'd hoped) ... bringing on two very different, irrational fears:

1) I worry that some judgy woman will fake-whisper something like this to her daughter behind me in the grocery store checkout line: "That's what happens when you get pregnant out of wedlock! You get prematurely frumpy and poor (I kind of dress like an urchin), and you'll spend all your money on diapers and fruit snacks instead of those Beyoncé discs your father and I think are Jezebel's trash!"

For that smelly sparkle you've always wanted.

I'm glad this has never happened because my response would be half-baked and equally judgy. I should probably think of something really zen or cryptic to say back. Maybe something like, "As the fertile moon is dim without the light of her sun, so am I supported by my baby-daddy-husband who works in the energy industry and makes sufficient fruit snack lucre pillaging the earth of her energy-rich gases. But were I not, remember that fear is a lesser teacher than reward. Sat nam, judgmental she-snake." Then I would wave my technicolor kaftan and disappear with my babies in a puff of incense smoke (along with my frozen California Pizza Kitchen BBQ chicken personal pizzas, of course).

2) I'm afraid I'll get hit on. Except this has only happened to me 1) while living in Spain (because Spaniards), and 2) in 6th and 9th grades, both times by really popular "bad boys" (one had an earring, the other wore boxers with lobsters on them--both hallmarks of juvenile delinquency, I know) who were just trying to humiliate me.

At my prime.

But I don't even have Spaniards or disingenuous 14-year-olds expressing any interest. Apparently being a haggard-looking, pregnant, seemingly-single mother of 2.5 is less attractive than the next Nicholas Sparks book-to-film project would have me believe.

I grew tired of entertaining these irrational fears, but I was unwilling to resize my ring and concede to the permanence of my fingers' fatness. I made a decision. There was a solution. A $20 solution.

Enter the Target engagement ring. Have you ever seen such a paradoxical token of opulence and frugality? I love it. And Target is a French company, so tralala.

Buying the ring was pretty embarrassing. Despite the low prices, the rings were kept in a locked display, so I couldn't clandestinely pick out my fake diamond fake wedding ring set. I had to confess to a teenaged Target employee that my finger was too fat for my real ring. Because I really AM married, you know. To a real man. Who can buy me a real diamond. Just letting you know ... in case you thought I was buying a fake diamond to pretend I got it from a fake man ... yeah.

Me (rifling through the rings, awkwardly trying them on while they're still attached to their square pieces of card stock): It's funny that you have these locked up. They're only $20 ...

Target girl (standing there, watching me): Silence

Me (does she think I'm an unmarried/unengaged fraud? Why the heck is she just standing there? Let me buy my embarrassing merchandise in peace! This is worse than buying tampons as a teenager at the Target where most of the cashiers went to high school with me): I just wanted to buy a placeholder ring to wear while I'm pregnant ... because my real one doesn't fit right now ...

Target girl: Silence

Me (she probably thinks I have some lame fiance who is making me buy my own engagement ring. At Target. For $20. Or else she knows my fingers are fat.): Ok, I'm done.

Target girl: Are you ready to check out?

Me: .... yes?

Target girl (walks to nearest checkout line, hands ring to the cashier, who is in the middle of ringing someone else up): THIS (holds ring up ... everyone can see what a big fake diamond I picked out. Why did I get such a big fake diamond? It's blinding everyone with its lies.) is for HER (points at me at the back of the line).

Apparently my $20 circle of shame is too valuable for me to give it to the cashier myself. So now everyone in line in front of me knows I'm buying myself a fake wedding ring set. Gah.

You know how hard it is to take an in-focus, not fat-looking picture of your hand? Where is the button for "de-puff" fingers in Photoshop?

Am I tacky to wear a $20 placeholder ring? Especially one with such a big CZ? Be honest and don't worry about telling me you think it's tacky, because 49% of me thinks it's tacky.

The 1% that made me buy it:

1) I don't care what people think (mostly). I think the kind of people who will judge me in a meaningful way (meaning they'll treat me differently or talk badly about me behind my back) for the authenticity of the shiny rock in my jewelry are the kind of people whose opinions I don't value anyway. Except teenaged Target employees. Apparently their opinions matter a lot to me (writing that in my Future Fodder for Therapy journal).

2) I knew I wasn't buying a big fake diamond to impress people. The presence of a ring addressed my two social phobias, but I only got such a big sparkly one because I legitimately think it looks pretty. I didn't realize how much I'd missed seeing a symbol of fancy femininity on my finger. I didn't buy it to look wealthy.

My original ring on the left with fakey on the right ... and the requisite unrelated prop.

3) Lack of regard for what other people think notwithstanding, I can hardly tell it's not real, and I don't think most other people will, either. How many people are going to grab my hand, compare my fake diamond to their own authentic rock, and cackle, "I knew it, you poser! The refraction pattern never lies!" Most people will see only a glimpse of small shininess as I walk by and think, "She's married, I guess I shouldn't ask her to get froyo after she's done buying cabbage with her kids, who she probably conceived within the bonds of matrimony."

4) I'm symbolically saying "poo-poo" to the diamond industry and the global evils (slavery, violence, cult of status) it promotes. Take that, DeBeers!

See the squeezage?

5) This ring is so cheap, I don't care if it gets lost, cracked, or dirty. Because, $20! Way less stress.

Some other thoughts: A small part of me wonders if we should have saved the $$$ we spent on my real wedding ring. For $20 a pop I could get a brand new, shiny, and on-trend ring every six months for our entire marriage and probably save money (especially if I would have put the money we spent on my real ring into a mutual fund).

But what about sentimentality? Don't you want THE ring you got married with to last forever until it gets buried with you even though your grandkids really wanted it? Yes, I do have a malleable heart that has succumbed to that part of the diamond industry's propaganda, so I have a solution for that: buy an affordable, but nice, durable, and pretty band (heck, put a little diamond on it if you must), and call that "your wedding ring." But then don't be afraid to put it in your jewelry box for a rest and change it up! (Also, the ring Nathan wore when we were married started to discolor a few months later, so his "ring" isn't even the "real" one, but do I care? Not really.)

Is THIS tacky? Maybe if I added a matching belly chain ...

What do you think? Would you ever wear a "fake" ring? Would you have been okay if your husband proposed with a cubic zirconia? If you had to choose between the ring design of your dreams and the authenticity/size of the stone, which would you choose? Would your husband care if you wore a "fake" ring?

Robin the Cheetah Eats a Pita with Waffled Falafel (and Greek Vegetable Salad and Tzatziki, too)

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 04:16:00 +0000

Now that I have a fancy shmancy camera, I feel completely qualified to call myself a food blogger. Because I blog and I eat food (as opposed to Ruby, who does not blog and has recently taken to eating crayons).

Today I'll be featuring one of my favorite meals: Waffled Falafel in a Pita with Greek Salad and Tzatziki. I love this meal because it is full of flavor, healthy, Greek (yay democracy!), and it requires a cart full of produce, which helps me feel smug at the grocery store.

Let's start with the Greek Salad. This recipe is adapted from the Greek Diced Vegetable Salad from Moosewood Restaurant Cooks at Home.

Guys, I took this picture. It's not perfect, but I think it does my camera proud.

Greek Vegetable Salad

You'll need:

1 1/2 cucumbers (or 1 large English cucumber), peeled, seeded, and sliced

1 large tomato, diced

1 red bell pepper, diced

2 scallions, finely sliced (calling them scallions instead of green onions gets you foodie points)

8 Kalamata olives, pitted and diced (I used to buy these eight at a time from the olive bar until I grew a brain and realized I could buy them by the jar)

2 tablespoons fresh parsley, minced (or several dashes dried if you are like me and killed your herb garden)

2 tablespoons olive oil (extra virgin, please, I'm Mormon)

juice of 1/2 lemon

1 garlic clove, pressed

1/4 teaspoon dried oregano

salt and pepper

feta cheese, crumbled (optional)

Instructions: Chop vegetables while listening to a Greek music station on Pandora. Combine in a locally-sourced peace of earthenware with the rest of the ingredients. Mix with the tenderness of Captain Jack Elliot, the romantic interest in my most recent favorite historical fiction, These Is My Words. Be sure to be dramatic and pensive as you squeeze the lemon.

Serving suggestion: Add chickpeas or hard boiled eggs and serve over a bed of romaine lettuce for a delish vegetarian main dish OR use in a kick-butt pita extravaganza ... as seen below.

Now for the ...

Tzatziki

(adapted from Design Mom--may I one day meet her blogging majesty at Alt Summit)

Creamy, cucumber-y goodness

You'll need:

1 large English cucumber, peeled and grated (these don't need to be seeded, huzzah!)

1 cup Greek yogurt (full fat, baby)

1 cup sour cream (Daisy brand, please)

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1 clove garlic, pressed

Instructions:

1. Peel and grate the cucumber, then squeeze out as much liquid as you can. I forgot to do this the first time I made tzatziki (and I used regular yogurt) and it was too soupy.

2. Combine remaining ingredients in a trendy bowl. Mix in cucumber, and chill until ready to serve.

3. Get bored taking a million pictures of tzatziki in a ramekin and bring in an exotic assistant.

Robin the cheetah storms the photo shoot!

Robin mistakes the tzatziki for a spa treatment.

Oh no! The viscosity! It's failing!

Glurp.

Don't worry. Robin remembered his African Scouting quicksand survival training and was able to free himself from the delicious tzatziki swamp, bathe, and help with the waffled falafel.

Waffled Falafal

(adapted from Food and Whine)

You'll need:

1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained (don't try to get all the little skins off, because you want to eat this sometimes this year)

1 onion, chopped

1/2 cup fresh parsley

2 cloves garlic

1 egg

2 teaspoons cumin

1 teaspoon coriander

1 teaspoon salt

1 dash pepper

1 dash cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon lemon juice (use the half left over from the veggie salad!)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup dry bread crumbs

Instructions:

1. Try and convince your toddler to smash the chickpeas in a large bowl. When he refuses (still ornery from adjusting back to Central Time from Pacific), do it yourself, using a cup as your pestle. Smash away your angst.

2. Combine onion, parsley, and garlic in a blender or food processor until smooth. If you use a Vitamix, it will blend the parsley so thoroughly that your mixture will be bright green ... don't worry, it will still be tasty even though it looks like yeti phlegm. Add to mashed chickpeas.

3. Mix together egg, spices, lemon juice, and olive oil. Stir into chickpea mixture.

Robin the cheetah is a little skeptical about the green ...

4. Mix in breadcrumbs. Form into balls and refrigerate until ready to cook.

Bon Appétit, contact me for rights to this photo.

5. Heat waffle iron to medium-high, and cook falafels (I did three at a time, but my balls were a little big) for 4-5 minutes, until lightly browned. Serve in a pita with veggie salad and tzatziki.

This is what happens when you "lightly brown" something green.

Cheetah loves pita.

I love Greek food. This pita ensemble is like Odysseus--strong, complicated, and enduring, minus the infidelity. I will not call this pita epic, because although it is akin to Odysseus in many ways, this meal has nothing to do with an ancient poem recounting the the heroic feats of a legendary figure.

***
If you liked this post, consider sharing it with the generosity you wish your toddler had during your last play date.

I am the Automobile Exorcist

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Mon, 11 Aug 2014 22:23:00 +0000

Last night we got back from California after a week full of family, fun, and sand in awkward places. Also, I barfed in the Pacific Ocean, so there's one less thing on my bucket list.

Beach bummin'

About an hour and a half into our 24-hour drive home, three warning lights lit up on the dash, included the potential omen of doom: the check engine light. We pulled off the highway and found the closest mechanic while I flipped through the owner's manual and Googled the symptoms (the vsc light, trac off indicator, and check engine light for those interested). We'd just filled up with gas, so I was hopeful that the forums proclaiming it a potential temporary glitch in the gas tank/oxygen sensor/toyota witchcraft mechanism/or whatever were correct. But Nathan wasn't as willing to continue driving 1500 miles on hope, so we had the mechanic plug in his diagnostic thingy into the car.

Six hours straight of movies on the iPad? Huzzah!

The dreaded Code P0025! Meaning some camshaft sensor was retarded (that's literally the term used). The mechanic said he couldn't work on it until Monday, and that it was bad. I Googled some more, and was inspired by more accounts of P0025 being a temporary clog in some teeny, overly-sensitive hipster filter. I'm an optimist!

Nate's a realist, so we set out to find another mechanic. There was one across the street, but a quick Yelp search revealed bad reviews, so we pulled out of their parking lot about five seconds after pulling in (I love smartphones).

This was later in the trip, when I turned into an orc after consuming Graham's weight in MSG in the form of Ranch-flavored Corn Nuts.

Meanwhile, in the car ...

Graham: What are we doing?

Nate: We're going to look for another mechanic. Mom's afraid this one will break our car.

We tried another place down the road, but it was closed for the weekend, so we turned back around to try Shady Mechanic, reviews notwithstanding.

Shady Mechanic wouldn't even plug his diagnostic thing into the car unless we paid $65. Sheesh, California, hadn't I just sunk enough money into your economy (cough Seaworld)? Stop being so greedy! Shady was pretty put out that we were put out about paying for him to do something the guy across the street had done for free ... maybe this was augmented by Graham emerging from their bathroom and declaring, "My mom said you are going to break our car!" Gah.

So we went in search of yet another mechanic ... found another one, also closed ... so we continued driving around aimlessly, getting frustrated, when I remembered the story of Mary Fielding Smith (Mormon pioneer whose oxen fell ill and were healed through a priesthood blessing). You might think this is when I suggested softly to Nathan that as a family we bow our heads in humble prayer to petition God to heal our minivan, but instead I decided to be a dork and placed my hand on the dash in a most solemn joke, and intoned with mock severity, "I command the evil spirits in this van to depart!"

Then I looked at the dashboard. The three warning lights were off.

:o

There are three explanations:
1. I am a mechanical exorcist
2. God has a sense of humor
3. The clogged hipster filter decided to get over itself

I'm thinking it's a combination of all three ... so maybe stop by if your car is acting up, and I'll see what I can do. I accept payment in dead chickens, garlic amulets, or good conversation.

My mom's a shaman mechanic? Say what?

***
Let's say this post were a huge bowl of guacamole, and you know some of your friends have some tortilla chips in need of some adornment. Share the guacamole, share the post.

Maybe that's a bad metaphor because everyone knows guacamole is best devoured alone in a dark corner of your kitchen while your children sleep and your husband works downtown, but don't feel too bad because he gets free food at work all the time so you deserve to be selfish with the avocado dip of the gods, even guacamole.

Introducing Clove and Peppercorn Photography / Ombré Dove Portraits

noreply@blogger.com (Kimber) — Thu, 31 Jul 2014 02:32:00 +0000

Path to blogger domination:

* Use a weird synonym in the place of children (cherubim) ✓
* Have a charming and twee nickname for your husband (Nate?) X
* Get an iPhone ✓
* Go to hip restaurants all the time (Chick-fil-A represent!) X
* Acquire moccasins for your baby/toddler (in all seriousness, these are actually super cute, soft, and affordable) ✓
* Convince your husband to agree to purchase a DSLR and start your own professional photography business! ✓✓✓✓✓ohmyheck☺☻♥♦starfish emoji!!

I couldn't decide between my two best name ideas, Clove and Peppercorn Photography and Ombré Dove Portraits, so I decided to use them both (thank you, Erin, for your sage business advice). Clove and Peppercorn will cover the engagement and wedding side of the business, while Ombré Dove will focus on newborn and boudoir projects. I'm working on a scented, double-sided business card as well as a website that will take forever to load because of all the RAW format images I'll post.

This will be filed in the "Sports" section of my portfolio because the horse in the background was caught in the middle of a dramatic tail-whip.

I have my first shoot tomorrow morning at a gritty urban location. I'm getting paid in chocolate, which is totally reasonable because chocolate:money::my skills:real skills. I also get to tell my husband I'm finally using the camera I made him buy me after he bought an expensive, yet comfy, leather recliner. And the final pico on top: my favorite taco place is nearby so I'm planning to get some breakfast tacos afterwards because being a professional photographer is hard, you guys. I actually don't even know because I haven't done it yet, but I'm pretty sure I'll suffer the kind of fatigue that can only be ameliorated with a potato-egg-cheese Torchy's taco.

Ignore the line behind her. I haven't learned Photoshop, yet, sheesh. Stop criticizing.

Really, though, I love my new camera even though it weighs as much as a 24-week fetus. Despite my incompetence, it takes great pictures. And by "great," I mean way better than my old point-and-shoot that gave everyone devil eyes.

Sometimes the background is a little off and your kid looks like he has a purple monkey tail. These things happen, and the true professional knows not to let it convince her to give a discount on prints.

If you want to schedule a session, I charge milk chocolate for a family sitting, a box of Trader Joe's hot lava cakes for a newborn shoot, and a $5 donation to the Houston Public Library (in my name ... to be put towards my debt there) for individual headshots (20% discount for fellow aspiring authors, but you MUST pose with your fist under your chin, elbow propped on a stack of Reader's Digest anthologies, eyes staring into the post-apocalyptic future).

Book yours today!