Original Thoughts of an Unoriginal Thinker

Bust(ed)

2012-03-02T05:00:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. Last week, the mailman delivered my neighbor’s magazine to my mailbox. It was a magazine that I had never heard of, and it had Maya Rudolph on the cover. Combined with the magazine’s name (Bust), I became intrigued and gingerly cracked it open for a peek.

Seems innocent enough.

Yes, I read my neighbor’s magazine, front to back.

Truly, I had no intention of going through every single page, but I quickly became fascinated by this smutty magazine. And smutty it was. Well, at least to these delicate eyes, it was. Anything that has a dedicated section called “One Handed Reading” qualifies as smutty in my book. Others (non-prudes) might call it refreshingly candid.

A couple of observations about this publication. I get the feeling this is a magazine intended to liberate women, promote equality, and educate the world. Which explains the unconventional female celeb on the cover. But Maya Rudolph on the front cover was misleading. For a brief moment, I wondered if it was a magazine for well-endowed women. I didn’t know…there are all kinds of magazines out there, and Maya is rather bountiful in that area. But that didn’t seem her style, and the cover oozed a Marie Claire vibe. I expected page after page of clothes, shoes, hair, and makeup, with a few racy articles here and there. What I got instead, was a 4-page article about Christy (I've changed her name to protect her identity) who discovered she had already accomplished 200 out of 300 sexual exploits. She then proceeded to live out at least 20 more in one weekend with a noncommittal partner. But not without first practicing by herself at home.

I read it to the very last word, the way a passerby rubbernecks a car accident. I was strangely compelled to keep turning the page, out of sheer lurid fascination.

My other observation with this magazine was around their target audience. Who exactly was this magazine trying to attract? Maya Rudolph on the front cover is clearly in my age bracket. But the one handed story about a college girl who hooks up with her younger brother’s friend in the backseat of a car couldn't have been meant for my age group, could it? I mean, that’s the kind of storyline a hormonal 19 year old might dream up.

And then there were the advertisements…o…m…g… Did you know that there is such a thing as a cup that you can insert inside you to “collect yourself”, so to speak, during that time of the month? Ummm…eeeuuuuwwww. So take a moment to imagine the circumstances around when you'd need to use this product. And now I have two words for you: cup removal. It just seems like a bad idea and makes me queasy thinking about it.

After all this illicit viewing, I had a dilemma: deliver the magazine to my neighbor or throw it in the trash and pretend I never saw it. Either way, I had to get it out of the house or else risk my 12 year old son finding it. If I delivered it, I might run into my neighbor. We'd have to trade embarrassing, knowing looks (ok, I'd be the only one embarrassed). But if I didn’t return it, I would surely burn in hell.

Cliff hanger.

When You Can't Afford The Real Thing

2012-02-27T07:40:00.000-08:00

Men, you can check out right now, if you'd like. This one is for the ladies.

Do you ever find yourself paying attention to the jewelry worn by people on tv? I can't be the only one who does this. I keep mental notes of the stuff I like, in the hopes of one day finding a knock-off at TJ Maxx. Occasionally, I'll give jewelry-making a try, usually with acceptable results. By "acceptable", I mean "good enough, as long as no one zooms in for a close look".

We've been watching "Once Upon A Time" every week since it started. Sometimes more than once a week, if it's an especially fun episode for the kids (like the Hansel and Gretel one...we probably watched that four times). The evil queen's alter ego, Regina, has this pair of earrings that she wears in what seems to be every episode. Or that might be me replaying them in my mind over and over, because I like them so much. Either way, I'm fixated on them. I want them. Desperately.

Or maybe I just want to look like her. That might be it.

Now, I know I could go out and find something like these practically anywhere, but the problem is, I want them to be good quality earrings. And that kind of spending is just not in the budget. So I decided to take things into my own hands and make them myself. Fortunately, I had most of the supplies already...all I needed was the wires and hoops. Since the tools and beads (Swarovsky crystal pearls, they're so decadent, but only about $4 a pearl) were sunk costs from years before, I only had to come up with $9 for the hoops and wire ($8 for the hoops, $1 on the wire, all sterling silver).

Wire wrapping the bead isn't very difficult. You can pick it up pretty easily by watching a youtube video like this.

Or, if you happen to have a friend who makes jewelry, even better. Everyone should have a friend like that. A couple of years back, I hosted a jewelry-making party with a bunch of friends from work. My bff (beading friend forever, duh) NiqueSaulet, was so generous with us, sharing her techniques and giving us tips when our work looked like crap. It was a great way to get started with jewelry-making, and that easy investment of $25 for the tools was worth the tons of jewelry I've since made for myself and for family.

The earrings took about 15 minutes to make. In truth, if you're particularly talented, it should only take about 5 minutes, but I tend to be a little on the imprecise (read sloppy) side, which results in re-dos. I'll re-do it as long as it takes to end up with a decent pair. And no longer.

In case you're not the youtube type, I'll try to explain how I made them. Start by threading the pearl with the wire. With your weaker hand, use the round nose pliers to hold onto the wire that has been threaded through the bead. In your other hand, use the flat nose pliers to grab the end of the wire and wrap it around the round nose for a half revolution. Then in one fluid motion, change directions and wrap sideways underneath the nose, to create the neck between the bead and the loop. Do about 3 revolutions of this sideways move. Here's an image of what you should end up with.

Slide it off and clip the wire. Crimp the edge, if necessary.

Slide the silver hoop through the wire loop.

And just like that, I had my own earrings, like the ones I saw on tv. Or close enough.

Turns out I wish I just looked like her.

Big news! I've got a post published today on Scary Mommy...if you have a free minute, make your way over and check it out. Thanks!
http://www.scarymommy.com/a-clean-home/

A Kindergartener With Issues

2012-02-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

M: Mommy, what's issues?

Me: Issues? Like, to have issues??

M: Yes, mommy, what does it mean to have issues?

Me: It means you have stuff you need to work on.

M: Mommy, I have issues.

Me: You do? Like what?

M: I have boogies always in my nose.

Who Says Legos Aren't for Girls?

2012-02-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I laugh in the face of that. Behold my first Lego creation, the Technic Rally Truck:

Plus or minus a few pieces.

For those of you who have yet to notice, I'm a girl. And though it is a terrible stereotype, I've got to reinforce it by saying I think legos and girls don't innately go together. Sure, there are those few out there who would defiantly say, "I'm a girl, and I love Legos. Always have." But I feel pretty strongly that those people are few in number. Legos and Boys. That's how it is.

But why is that? Are Legos one of those nature v nurture arguments? Do boys seem more inclined to Lego play because they are conditioned to be so or because they're just born that way? And do girls show a lack of interest because they've never been encouraged to understand them or is it really due to brain differences? This has got me wondering.

When I was a kid, we didn't have much money. I remember wanting and wanting a Barbie doll for years. When I finally got one, at age eleven, I gazed at it, in all it's Barbie-beauty, wondering what to do with it. I hadn't had much exposure to doll playing, and when finally given the chance, I didn't know what to do. I remember feeling disappointed, wanting to play in the way I had seen the girls do for so many years. But somehow, I hadn't developed that play skill set.

It's not really a sad story, though. I had fun playing marbles with my brother and beating the boys at tetherball. My point is, I didn't have exposure to Barbie doll playing, so when I had the chance, I wasn't all that interested.

I think the same could be said for Legos.

When I became mom to one, two, and then three boys, I realized that there were areas that I was going to need to become very familiar with. Star Wars was one. Camping another. And Legos. When P got his first bucket at around 5, I had no idea how I was going to play along with him. I mean, I knew the universal "let's build a house" routine; other than that, they were just a bunch of bricks. But to him, these pieces provided unlimited creative options. It was fascinating to me, to see him come up with each new creation. But me, I just wasn't wired that way.

As he has grown older, and more boys have come along, we've grown more sophisticated with our Lego architecting. With the help of the many kits out there, we've taken a turn at nearly every line Lego has to offer, from the basic starter kits to the more elaborate sets which take thousands of pieces. (Note: when I say "we", obviously I mean "hubby and the boys").

And now, after many years of slowly easing myself into it, I finally created something I can call my own. M received this kit for his birthday, and after attempting it himself, getting frustrated, and throwing it at the wall, he allowed me to have a go at it.

I totally get the desire to throw it at the wall. Take a look at a typical instruction step:

45 tedious, torturous steps and 2 hours later, I had completed it! I would've finished it sooner, but the diagrams were, at times, less than intuitive.

This accomplishment is years in coming; after being exposed to these creations for almost ten years, it is finally clicking for me. To be honest, I used the kit and instructions; so I can't say that I'm fully Lego-actualized. It's a work in progress. But here's what completing this kit has done for me: it has helped me open my mind to thinking like a kid who sees each piece for what it can do, not just for what it appears to be, sitting there in the bucket. Exposing myself to all the different ways each piece can come together to create something fantastic is rewiring my mind to work a different way. It's like taking a tour of a museum to expand your horizon and become inspired. It's a form of creativity, but not in the conventional "let's paint a picture" sense.

So does this form of play give boys a leg up on their future? Well, it certainly encourages sustained focus and attention to detail. But have you ever seen a class full of boys try to sit still and stay focused? The girls clearly have the advantage in that area. While Legos help level the playing field in those areas, I wouldn't consider that a leg up on their future.

But then there's the theory that this unique form of creativity primes the mind for success in the areas of math and science. Here's an loosely related article I found on the subject:

The Mathematics of Lego (source: Wired Science)

It's a bit of a snoozefest, but what I take from it is that playing with legos (particularly the sets) reinforces some profound math laws without us even knowing it. And we all know that our subconscious picks up on stuff all the time, saving it for when we really need it. Like during math class.

In summary, I'd like to wrap up with this: Legos are (at least in part) a learned interest, girls should be encouraged to understand and enjoy them, and anyone who can complete a kit without uttering a profanity should feel very proud of themselves.

When Bad Things Happen to Good Shoes

2012-02-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

Just another day in the NW household, squeezing a load of laundry in between basketball practice and dinner. But today's different. Hmmm...something doesn't seem right about this load of laundry. What's this?

Is that a....a boot???

How the heck did that get in there?

My better half walks over to see what I'm chuckling about, and he says "you washed your boot? You wouldn't believe how dusty that boot was so I vacuumed it the other day. I put it in on top of the dirty clothes when I was done, I can't believe you didn't see it!"

"You put it in the laundry basket???" I say in disbelief.

"Yeah, I put it there right on top, nice and neat, after I finished vacuuming it. I can't believe you didn't see it there."

Seriously? By the time I did the laundry, 3 days later, it was nicely tucked between the the fruit of the looms and the fuzzy socks.

I'm not too sad though...it's a free pass to a new pair of shoes. And I wasn't too attached to them.

He doesn't need to know that.

Party On The Grid, Tron Style

2012-02-13T17:06:00.000-08:00

For M's 6th bday, we decided to throw him a party. Jolly jumper, games, prizes, the whole nine yards. In our household, we have a rule: birthday party every other year, family get together in between. So they have two years to wait, anticipate, and plan their big event. And I don't like to let them down.

Fortunately for my boys, I'm a lover of all things par-tay. Throwing them, that is. God forbid I have to attend one or am the guest of honor. That's a terrifying thought to this introvert. But throwing them, I love.

So when M asked for a Tron theme, I was all over it. It started with the cake. After years of making eggless, soyless, and milkless cakes so that L would always be included, most of the allergies are now outgrown, and I'm venturing out into store-bought cake territory. Both M and I had hearts in our eyes when we spied this one.

Because M's bday is just weeks after Christmas, I was totally behind on planning this fete. But the wheels were spinning. I may have mentioned this before...when I become interested in something, I jump in with both feet. Something like an obsession, this trait is both a blessing and a curse. But with less than 3 weeks to get this party started, an obsession was what I was going to need. A Tron-themed party is perfect fodder for this overactive imagination, and I took the challenge head-on.

It started with the flyer-style invites, which were easy enough. But that just whet my appetite. The birthday boy was going to need a customized helmet.

(You're going to be seeing a lot of blue tape in this post, just warning you.)

And then I moved on to the black flooring that would turn our dining room into "the grid".

(I warned you.)

T-shirts became my next project. As you can see from these final products, I don't let technical difficulties (like my failure to reverse the image) get in my way.

(I'm a wizard with that blue tape.)

After all this creativity, I thought to myself: what am I missing? Identity discs! Of course, how could I forget identity discs for everyone. That's how I ended up with these.

Did I go overboard, as I am want to do? I think so. Do I now look like the kooky mom of room 23? Probably. But I had myself a good time doing it.

And M had told me he had the best birthday party everrrrrr.

The Berman 'Do

2012-02-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

The other night, I glanced over at L, and I thought to myself, "he looks familiar." Not in the "of course he should, he's your son" kind of way, but more in a "who does he remind me of?" way. It didn't take long before I realized that he reminded me of Rodger Berman, Rachel Zoe's husband.

It's the hair. And the round cheeks.

This is L.

This is Rodger Berman.

My slight displeasure over realizing that all my mindless tv watching has seeped into my subconscious turned quickly to pride and a congratulatory pat on the back. Why? Because I cut L's hair! That's right. Cheapskate me, who recently wrote this lovely bit about how much I hate paying for hair cuts (Ridiculously Inconsistent Guest Blogger) am the talent behind this haircut.

This is a big deal, folks. Did I tell you I crunch numbers for a living? Edward Scissorhands, I'm not. Heck, I remember in kindergarten, being totally bummed to hear my teacher tell my mom that I needed to work on cutting. Funny the memories we hold onto.

Anyway, the Berman 'do must've cost him, what, 90 bucks? That's a total shot in the dark...in truth, he looks more like a $150/cut kind of guy. Personally, I like L's cut better. Better texture, better angles, ha.

I don't want to get a big head or anything, but...anybody need a haircut?

Boy Toys, Part 1

2012-02-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder what it's like to be the only female in a house full of XYs?

For starters, there are lots of sword-like objects.


And, of course, blasters.

I found more after I took these photos.

Coming soon: Part 2, Action Figures.

Love Notes

2012-02-03T05:00:00.000-08:00

My better half and I were emailing the other day. After 20 years together, we're clearly past the love note stage...

From: Whisperer, Number
Sent: Wednesday 11:39 AM
To: Better Half
Subject: gag

The ladies on the other side of my wall luuuuv to eat and talk at the same time. It is like your worst nightmare…muffled, gurgly throat talking…and all I can do is hear them through your ears.

Right now there’s three of them over there, sharing something crunchy and talking about giving birth. I’d put on headphones, but all my music websites have been blocked.

You’re totally rubbing off on me.

From: Better Half
Sent: Wednesday 2012 11:43 AM
To: Doyle, Tanya
Subject: RE: gag

Just chime in... "uh, is that cheetos I hear in your throat??"

What do you and your BH email about throughout your work day?

Panera, Peanut Butter, and Pickles

2012-01-30T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ever since Panera opened up in our neighborhood nearly 5 years ago, we've been regular, faithful customers. My better half (we'll call him BH), creature of habit that he is, derives great pleasure from the little things, like morning coffee and bagels with his family. So every weekend, we drag the kids out with us to spend an hour chewing, sipping, and basically just hanging out in a booth. Up until Panera opened, there had been a void in our Saturday morning routine, after moving from bagel-laden Orange County to bagel-baren Ventura County 90 miles north. Panera's arrival brought back the ritual we had lost when we relocated a year earlier.

Our support of this local establishment isn't limited to weekend visits. BH stops for his morning coffee before work. Religiously. And then about once a week, he runs over for a quick dessert to top off our "date night at home" (that's what poor folk with too many kids do).

From a product standpoint, this place is a-mazing. Bread to die for, bagels that are consistent, and baked treats that are always outstanding, these are the reasons we've single-handedly kept this place in business. And the service is typically above-average. When BH approaches the counter, he's greeted by name, like he's Cliffy climbing onto his barstool. You know what they say: you want to go where everybody knows your name. And they all know his name.

Surprisingly, after all these years, we've rarely tried Panera for lunch. Partly because it just doesn't feel like a lunch place to us, but mostly because it's kind of pricey. But today, we couldn't settle on anything, and we were short one kid, so I suggested Panera. Why not? We'll take advantage of the lemon water and one less kid. Should be fun.

And here's where the story turns sad.

Lunch rush was in full force when we walked in at noon. To their credit, the line went quickly and smoothly. Leaving the line, we went in search of a table. This place was busy, and as expected, the tables were mostly full. Of the tables that were empty, each one had discarded plates of food on them.

Nothing raises my ire more more than having to put my hands on the cast off dinnerware of a stranger.

Taking a look around, there was enough staff to be on top of this, but clearly it wasn't a priority. So I staked a claim at an open table for two and carried the dirty dishes away. After finishing this task, a table for four opened up. Great news for us, but those departing diners had also left their dirty dishes! Really? This isn't a sit down restaurant, folks, nobody's getting tips for the great service. Fortunately, a runner was nearby and picked up the dishes. The crumbs, globs of food, and streaks of mayo were left for us to wipe up.

This was disappointing, but I guess not totally unexpected. I mean, we see this kind of stuff in the morning; just not to this degree. Maybe morning people, by nature of being morning people, are different. More considerate. Cleaner. I kid.

Food arrives. Trying to hide the disappointment by how meager the kids' meals appeared, we get ready to dig in. But I can't get over this. This is what $5 buys for a kid's meal?

Pretty sparse.

M's peanut butter sandwich seemed especially lackluster, so I opened it up.

Peanut butter-less sandwich.

BH, in an unintentional dead ringer impersonation of Julius from Everybody Hates Chris, says "We paid $5 for this? That's only 8 cents' worth of peanut butter on there."

You'll see what I'm talking about at around the 30 second mark.

My vegetable sandwich was ok, nothing to write home about. But the pickle spear (which I look forward to) was clearly the runt of the bunch. And by now, I'm in the mood to criticize the pickle. I would've asked for another, but after making them give me more peanut butter, I wasn't feeling up to it. To top it off, they gave me a bag of chips instead of the requested side of bread (give me a break, I like my carbs). Defeated, I ate my sandwich and seethed about the $40 we had just spent on lunch.

Does this change my opinion of our beloved Panera? Yes. Is it going to change my spending habits at this eatery? Not really. I just need to remember why we don't do lunch here next time we get tired of Subway.

Heavy Breathing

2012-01-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I was kind of a high maintenance kid. Moody and full of stomach aches, I worried endlessly and had a bucket load of allergies. Looking at my endearing qualities on paper, I wonder how my parents put up with me as well as they did. I was a good student, so that probably helped. And I was awfully cute.

Not really.

Anyway, one of my childhood aggravations was asthma. Not the gasping for air, call the medic kind, just the “my lungs hurt again, I can’t get a deep breath” sort. My pediatrician, cutting edge that he was, called it borderline asthma, told my mom to expect symptoms on smoggy days, and sent us on our way. Since this was all I knew, I didn’t give a second thought to my herculean attempts at deep breath.

Fast forward thirty years and a couple of asthmatic kids later. My oldest has exercise-induced asthma, and my middle boy has the more traditional daily-inhaler variety. Between the two of them, we’ve had hospitalizations, pneumonia, bronchitis, bronchiolitis, croup, asthma attacks, and chest colds galore. I’ve devoted much time and effort into understanding the warning signs, symptoms, and protocols for anything having to do with lung functioning. I own a stethoscope, a peak flow monitor, and two nebulizer machines; and my neighbor has an oximeter, should I ever need to measure oxygen levels. I’m extreme, I know. But in my defense, 3 hospital stays under the age of 2 is enough to make any nervous mom hypervigilant.

I’ve gone soft, however. As my boys’ asthma has become more predictable, I’ve realized that I’m no longer on top of my a-game (a=asthma). So when I started feeling those old familiar lung pains in the morning and caught myself bracing the chair to try and get a satisfying deep breath, I began to worry about what was surely an impending asthma attack. And after a year of doing intense cardio weekly, I had my first experience with extreme shortness of breath. It was alarming, and put together with the other symptoms, I promptly diagnosed it to be the re-emergence of my childhood asthma.

I knew I was going to need an official diagnosis if I was going to get myself fixed, so I waited until I was good and sick before I made my way to the asthma doc. Looking forward to the end of my lung annoyances, I went into that PFT test intending to do my feeble best. I blew with all my might, spurred on by the assistant’s, “Keep blowing! Keeping blowing! Keep blowing!” And wouldn’t you know it? My lung volume came back at 125%. Not sure how a value over 100% is possible, but directionally speaking, I was in marathon shape. The look on my doctor’s face said, “you, my dear, are a big hypochondriac” even though her words said, “I don’t see anything to worry about.”

Perhaps out of pity, she sent me home with an inhaler. Over the next day, my cold progressed to a cough, and my lungs seemed very unhappy. The cough sounded odd, so I went online to see what I could find out. And that’s how I came across this site (http://children.webmd.com/pertussis-whooping-cough-10/coughing-sounds). Can I tell you how much I love the internet? Specifically for this reason. How awesome is it to be able to turn on your computer and use a sound byte to diagnose yourself?

And there it was…my cough. The one with the wheezing. That cinched it for me. I got out that inhaler and gave it a try. After choking on the first attempt, I tried again. It took about 10 minutes to feel my lungs calm down, and I got a headache from it, but after days of not being able to get a satisfying deep breath, I was breathing like the best of them. Hypochondriac or not, I felt better. Even the tickle that seemed to spontaneously force the coughs out of me dropped from every few seconds to every few minutes. Sweet relief.

For all I know, she gave me a placebo, and I inhaled a big old puff of saline mist. I don’t care. It’s magic saline mist.

After hearing my cough in that sound byte and seeing improvement with the inhaler, I shifted my search to “cough with wheezing.” Hoping to find more information on my noisy cough, I found this clip on youtube. Alarming and hilarious at the same time, I post it, for your enjoyment. Presumably, she is doing fine.

Kissin' and Tellin'

2012-01-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

One of P’s friends had his first kiss this week, and P was telling me about it last night. Here’s how the conversation went:

P: “Mom, I have to tell you something about Beck.”

Me (guessing): “He has a girlfriend.

P: “YES! How did you know???”

Me: “Because I can read your mind.”

P: “But did you know that he kissed her?”

Me (he’s got my attention now): “What?!? On the lips? Was that his first kiss???”

P: “Yes! He’s the man!”

Me: “Was it a sucky-face kind of kiss or just a quick smooch?”

P: “Well, he turned to kiss her, and…”

Me: “You were there???”

P: “No, but they both told me about it.”

Me: “Wait, they BOTH told you about it? Why would they both tell you about it? How did you find out in the first place?”

P: “Well Beck told me and Andy about it after school, and then I asked Sophie if it was true, and she said yes. But she said it wasn’t on the lips. She said that Beck came towards her and she turned her head, so he kissed her cheek. ”

Me: “So he told you it was on the lips and she said it was on the cheek? Did you go back to Beck and see if he would fess up? Did he?”

P: “Yeah, I did, and he said it was just on the cheek. But I don’t care. He’s got my respect for going for it.”

Me: “Don’t get any ideas.”

P: “Mom, how old were you when you had your first kiss?”

Me: “Fourteen”

P: “Was he ugly?”

End of loving mom-son moment.

Walk A Mile In These Shoes

2012-01-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

How can that be comfortable?

The bane of my existence.

Google Reader Sort: Mystery Unlocked

2012-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

There’s something that has been bothering me about Google Reader: the SORT on my reading pane. You know that big area on the right hand side that shows all the new posts? That’s what I’m talking about. I’ve been spinning my wheels for months trying to understand the puzzle that is this sort. It’s like the rubik’s cube of RSS, and all I'm doing is moving tiles around.

So here’s my problem with it. I can’t figure it out, that’s my problem with it! Isn’t it supposed to show the new posts, by publish date? Then why does it keep showing the same old ones that I’ve skipped over, time and again???

I tell you, this thing has frustrated me to no end. To compensate for this problem, I've had to resort to clicking on every blog on my list, every day, to see if anything new has popped up.

Btw, to all those bloggers out there whose stats are inflated by the same IP Address in California that is landing on your latest post over and over again: I apologize, that was me. It’s not that I’m stalking you. I’m just techno-challenged.

Occasionally, I’ve given Google a try to see if I can hit on that magic solution, but I haven’t had much luck. Then, this afternoon, it all came together, like some hallucinogenic episode of House. Up from my subconscious bubbled this tidbit I had read somewhere: Blog visits can look like visits simply because a subscriber happened to scroll down your post without actually looking at it.

And then I remembered seeing this on the top of my reader page:

As you view items in your reading list, they will be automatically marked as read as you scroll down (when in the "Expanded" view).

Somehow, these two seemingly irrelevant pieces of information had been percolating long enough in my brain to result in an idea. Instead of just scrolling down the window pane, how about it I select the blog first, AND THEN scroll down the pane, pretending to read (but really just scrolling). So I gave it a try. And you know what happened? It worked! With each post I scrolled past, I saw the count for that blog drop, until there was nothing. And then poof! That blog fell off my reading pane! Eureka!!! I had broken the code!

To be sure I wasn’t seeing things, I tried it again, with another blog. And again. And again. They all came off. This was some heady stuff. I was on a roll, and they were all going down. A few minutes later, I was staring at a pristine, white reading pane. It felt glorious.

With this huge milestone under my belt, I feel like I can conquer the world. Next on my list: world peace.

What's in My Fridge Today

2012-01-13T07:00:00.000-08:00

Mine is not a food blog. But I do love me some food, so there will be an occasional food post now and then. Take this post for example. It's going to be about food. Let's get started...

So I came home from teaching a class full of 4th graders how to create art like Cezanne today, when I realized that painting like the Masters builds an appetite of enormous proportions. Ravenous is too mild of a word. You know that feeling you get when it seems like you're so hungry that your stomach has started digesting itself? That's how hungry I was. But this was my fridge and my pantry that I was coming home to. I knew I was going to need to lower my expectations if I was ever going to experience any satisfaction from this meal.

With expectations duly lowered, I went to the fridge. Here's the sight that met my eyes:

The first things that jump out at me are
1) a bag of carrots
2) a bag of celery
3) a huge container of ketchup
4) a box of spinach
5) something mysterious in a bowl

This bowl looks like it might have something good in it. Let's take a look.

Umm, that's a negative. Anything that leaves pond scum-like marks on the dish deserves to be left alone. I carefully placed the wrap back across the bowl and returned it to the fridge for another unsuspecting soul to discover.

What is going on with my fridge? Someone must've switched fridges with me while I was out, because these options are way too healthy for this family. Or perhaps that's why these are the only items left in there. Hmmm.

I was so taken aback by these sparse and completely unappetizing choices that I closed the door and moved on to the freezer. Maybe there was a frozen meal left in there by the frozen meal fairy. And here's what I was greeted with in the freezer:

Dino Nuggets? Am I now reduced to eating Dino Nuggets?

This is not looking good, and I'm getting dangerously close to grazing status, but I decide to take my chances and head for the pantry, knowing full well I will surely be tested here. This is where I like to graze, for obvious reasons.

Aside from the Chewy, Gooey Chips Ahoy, did you notice the bucket and the giant ziplock full of candy? There are two more buckets, just out of range, along with a whole slew of other high salt, high fat options to fill this empty stomach. But the kids have begged me to stop eating both their favorite Gooey Chips Ahoys and their Halloween candy (all the Reese's Peanut Butter cups are gone anyway), so I reluctantly close the door and head back to the ~~vegetable patch~~ fridge.

Then it kicks in: mom mode. The mode that tells me "there's food to eat, you just need to make it." The mode that frightens me, because it reminds me that, at times like these, I am only one Dorothy Hamill haircut away from being my mother.

Looking fly, big brother.

With renewed purpose, I revisit the fridge and see that I can make a quesadilla with guacamole; an omelet with toast; a grilled cheese with tomatoes; or nachos. All perfectly reasonable options.

But wait, what's that brick-shaped item on the second shelf, all wrapped up in foil? GOLD MINE.

The mac and cheese that I had made earlier in the week. My day is looking better already.

All warmed up, with a side of carrots, I've got nothing to complain about now. Beats Dino Nuggets any day. I leave the table with an empty plate and a full stomach.

But I will be coming back for those Gooey Chips Ahoys in about an hour.

Things I Do At Parties When No One Is Looking

2012-01-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

What's a blogger to do when it's Sunday night and she has run out of time to whip up a fantastic, original post for a Monday morning deadline?

Why, dig up a picture of herself pretending to pounce on a family of gentle deer, of course.

Smize For The Camera!

2012-01-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

I work for a company that employees tens of thousands of other worker bees just like me. When you work in a company so large, there are certain processes that you have to get used to. Take, for example, employee identification protocol. Employee IDs and security badges are a way of life in a large company. Without them, all is chaos. And while they're necessary, they do have a way of making us feel more like numbers than people. But there is one way in which we get to express our individuality: our badge photo. This photo is our moment of individuality in an otherwise anonymous electronic existence. It travels with us throughout our years of employment, proof that we are more than just a number in a database.

I've had the same id photo for the last five years. It's not the best photo, but it has one overwhelming redeeming quality: it was taken when I was five years younger. That's reason enough to want to hold onto it. A couple of weeks ago, I received warning that new photos were on the way; rumor had it that these photos were going to be different (read disappointing). Word on the street was that we would be prohibited from showing teeth (as in, smiling) in these new photos. The theories for such a policy are enough to fill an entirely separate post, but I'll go with my initial reaction that HR merely wanted the closest approximation to my face, in death, should they need to identify me one day.

I'm aware that I am no longer a spring chick, so the prospect of taking what I can only anticipate to be an unflattering mug shot made me leery. In my mind, there are many different ways this photo can turn out. Worst case scenario, I end up looking older, more haggard, and more masculine than I truly look in person. Best case scenario, I end up looking like myself, after a long day at the office. I'm being realistic, folks.

Since I had some time to prepare, I decided to do what I could to increase the odds of a flattering shot. I was going to need to come up with my best Mona Lisa.

And then I remembered Tyra. As in Tyra Banks. The queen of Smize.

For those who are not in the know (aka tv junkies), smize is the term Ms. Banks came up with (yes, she is powerful enough to create her own language) to describe a smile that exudes from your eyes. Your mouth may not be showing it, but who needs a mouth when you've got smize? Here's an example of Tyra doing what she does best: smizing.

So after some due diligence (which included this lovely tutorial on how to smize), I got the camera out and prepared for a dry run.

Here's where it all turned ugly.

First of all, as the camera unrelentingly reminded me, I am no Tyra Banks. This reminder was especially harsh, as I had just spent hours (ok, minutes) combing through image after image of Tyra's flawless face. It's like spending the afternoon with beautiful people, sharing stories, enjoying your lush surroundings, only to come face to face with your reflection in the ladies room. After looking at all that beauty, you kind of forget what you look like, and the comparison is disappointing. Which cast the first doubts into my brain: can one of the greatest beauties of our time really tell us there is such a thing as smiling eyes? When you're that gorgeous, even a puffy, runny nosed, your-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-you face will look fabulous. Perhaps the smize is just a myth.

Whatever. I still had to take this mug shot, so I needed the myth to be true, now more than ever. I knew the basics from my tutorial: relax, think of something that makes me smile, have a hearty laugh to break the tension. And then SMIZE.

Here's my first attempt to channel Tyra:

Let me explain this photo. Tyra told me to imperceptibly squint, while thinking happy thoughts. Again, I think a lot of the success of the smize has to do with the face that the smize is being attempted on. I'm disappointed in my face, and this is barely the first photo. It usually takes at least 3 photos to get to this point, but again, I've just been staring at Tyra's flawless face before moving to mine.

Redo. But this time, scratch the squint. My eyes are small enough as it is. Instead, let's try to maximize my eyes.

Bad idea. Let's try another one.

Hey that's not too bad. I'm feeling a little hopeful. I just need to remember how I held my face for this one.

But that was 4 days before picture day. A lot can be forgotten in four days.

Picture day arrived, and I had developed a cold that left me feeling miserable. There's no getting out of this, so I decide to take some last minute practice shots, in the hopes that I could recreate that last face from the weekend.

I don't know what happened to me in the time between photos, but here's the treasure trove I came up with that morning.

Can these all be blamed on Nyquil? I wish. This is the ugly truth about photos and me. I have to take about 40 shots to come up with 3 good ones. Tyra would not be proud.

I finally gave up when I got to this one. There was no saving me today. I was off to work with a hope and prayer. And a box of kleenex.

The "photo studio" was set up in the main lobby, the one with the floor to ceiling glass wall. Perfect to let in all that natural lighting that would highlight every crack and crevice on one side of my face while casting unflattering shadows on the other side. As expected, the photographers brought nothing to the table. Nigel, where are you when I need you?

I did my best to make friends with my photographer.

"How bad are these turning out?" while peeking over her shoulder.

"They're not too bad," she tells me. I can see from the previous photos, she's lying.

We take the photo, and she offers a sneak peak. I hate it. She offers to take another one. I hate the second one even more.

By now there's a line of others awaiting their turn to smize. Why hadn't I been satisfied with the first photo? Serves me right.

I'm stuck with it. "Just use that one," I say as I walk away in disgust.

For legal reasons, I can't share the the final product. Pity. It turned out pretty bad. At the last minute, I tried to add some volume to my hair, which is how I ended up looking like the Goblin King. While I don't truly look like David Bowie, somehow this picture manages to capture the essence pretty well. If you could see the badge, you'd agree.

Lost and Found

2012-01-02T11:36:00.000-08:00

Over the holidays, we packed up the family for an extended stay at my mom's, about a half hour down south from us. These trips to our family property on the beach (I exaggerate) are really just cramped sleepovers, with me sandwiched between two kids (who magically appear while I'm sleeping) on a tiny full-sized bed. Despite the unbearable sleeping conditions, we look forward to these visits, because at some point we're able to dump the kids with my mom and disappear for an hour or two (or sometimes five).

Being the less than organized adults that we are, we usually leave a few items behind with each visit. A couple of toys, a pair of pants, perfume...minor things. We don't sweat it since, after all, they'll still be there next time we see her. But this visit we forgot the medicine cooler. On the importance scale, that little blue cooler falls right beneath my purse and above my kids. Ok, maybe my kids come before the cooler, but it's debatable. Between the necessary daily meds for the kids and the vitamins that keep my hair from falling out of my head, the contents of this cooler are an important part of our daily lives.

A quick call to Mom told us the cooler was nowhere to be found. Over the next couple of days, we made several sweeps of the cars and the house, checking places that didn't even make sense, hoping to find that little blue box. With each new day, we got farther away from the last time the kids had taken their doses. Four days of skipped meds later, we broke down and refilled the kids' prescriptions, to the tune of about $400.

Coincidentally, I was on the brink of death with the worst case of stomach flu ever to reach California at the same time that the cooler went missing. From my death bed, I brainstormed all the possible ways we could've lost that blue cooler. I even had dreams about it. But my subconscious did not reveal it's whereabouts.

Five days after losing the cooler and one day after refilling the prescriptions, I had recovered well enough to drag my sorry self to the grocery store. As I backed out of the driveway, careful to do all my head checks, something catches my eye. Is that....did I just see...are you KIDDING ME???

There it was, sitting right there, in my rear view mirror. If it were possible for an inanimate object to do so, I'd say that cooler was mocking me.

A Christmas Food Poisoning Story

2011-12-28T11:59:00.000-08:00

I trust everyone out there had a lovely 25th? I did too! From the 23rd thru the evening of the 25th, everything was great. Lots of fun, lots of family, very little drama (first time in years!).

And then it hit. Sometime in the wee hours of the night, I started dreaming that I was puking. Multiple, varied dreams. I specifically recall one where I was hugging a nice clean toilet. By the time I cracked my eyes open on Monday morning, it was evident that the source of my dreams was very real.

Since then, this has been the view from my bed:

(just so we're clear, the bed protector wasn't for me. Even though I know you don't believe me.)

I've had lots of time to ponder how this illness befell me. Five family members have been struck at exactly the same time. A sixth just got hit last night. It could be food poisoning, but plenty of people around us on the 23rd had also been sick. So it could be flu. Either way, the symptoms are the same, and the misery as intense.

But I have another theory. This one involves GOD.

Now this theory was hatched while in the lowest part of my illness, so it might be somewhat delusional. Let me know what you think.

I'm not an especially religious person, I don't go to church, and I haven't read the bible in years. But I believe in God, and I do my nightly thanks to Him and talk to my boys about him regularly. So I'm not completely remiss. BUT, this year, I completely forgot 'the reason for the season,' if you know what I mean. It wasn't until Christmas afternoon, on the way to visit family, that it occurred to me. It took hearing mention of it in a Christmas song to remember. Umm, yikes. I felt a little guilty as I turned to my kids and said, "You guys, I totally forgot about why we celebrate Christmas! Did you?"

They all shook their heads and said they remembered. And my husband nods in agreement, giving a story about how much our 5 year old has been talking about it lately.

I remembered this, as I was lying in bed moaning and feeling like I was dying from the stomach out. A short while later, this crept into my consciousness: on the way to a Christmas Eve party Saturday night, my mom and I got distracted (as usual), and I completely missed the turn-in to the street where the party was. I took the next turn available, which just happened to be a church parking lot, filled with people going to Christmas Eve mass. At the time, we all thought it was terribly funny, and we joked about those darn religious people making my drive through their parking lot more difficult.

Maybe He was mad at me for the whole "forgetting Baby Jesus" thing.

Now that I'm past my lowest point and am on the other side of the mountain, I'm feeling more positive about things. Maybe I was a little delusional, induced by the pain and nausea.

But I remembered one last thing this morning: for Christmas I wanted to lose about 5 pounds to fit back into my pants (I've been eating a lot lately). I'm now more than halfway there.

Hmmm...is there a higher meaning to all this?

'Tis The Season To Be Merry

2011-12-23T07:46:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays Folks!

It's December 23rd, and I still haven't figured out what to get our 12 year old for Christmas. He has repeatedly asked for the same three items over the past month, hoping against hope that he'll wear us down and we'll cave.

An Airsoft gun

Modern Warfare for the PS3

A box of fresh donuts

Apparently, "all the kids" in school have airsoft guns and are allowed to play Modern Warfare to their hearts' delight. And poor P is the only one in middle school with overprotective parents. Sigh. Not happy with being able to do these things at his friends' houses, he wants to be able to host his own war-themed events. Maybe we are the most conservative parents in 7th grade, but we're sticking to our guns (pun intended). He won't be getting these kinds of gifts from us any time soon.

That just leaves a box of donuts. I'm all for getting him the donuts for Christmas, but I can't find a single donut shop that will be open on Christmas morning! The clock is ticking and I'm getting desperate.

I've been devoting all my brainpower to figuring out what to get this kid, and as a result, the blog has suffered for it. Please accept my apologies.

So today's post is a bit of a cheat: a video of my neighbor's over the top holiday light show.

The first year they put together this light spectacular, I thought we had moved in next to the Griswold's. It has a slightly Las Vegas feel to it, and it took a good 3 days of driving past the flashing house before I noticed a sign out front with a radio station painted on it.

I turned on the radio to discover they've got...their own...radio station.

The music filling my ears synched up to the house lights, and suddenly little Las Vegas made sense to me. The songs are corny, and the loop is pretty short, but the kids love this holiday display, and I guess it I like it too, in all it's flashing glory. We look forward to it every year now.

This year they really pulled out all the stops and added sound bytes from, appropriately enough, Christmas Vacation.

I'll close this post with one last video I came across this morning. I couldn't believe it when I saw it, but here it is, in it's entirety, The Star Wars Holiday Special. This thing is painful to watch, and I dropped out at about minute 5. Hoping it would get better, I jumped over to minute 40 and was mildly entertained by the flashback to 1978 with the commercials for All in the Family, Alice, and Dallas. As awful as this show is, I'm compelled to post it. How can I not? It's a Star Wars Holiday Special!

I Heart The OC

2011-12-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, we took a drive down south to Orange County to spend the day at the South Coast Plaza. Being from the OC, my better half always enjoys spending time back in the old neighborhood, and I jump at every chance to go because I’m a big ol’ sap. Even though I grew up 2 hours north, Orange County is where I lived for many years. When bundle of joy #3 arrived 5 years ago, we moved back up north for a better career opportunity. We bought a home in a neighborhood we never imagined we could afford, and the feeling of community has been unbelievable. We can’t appreciate enough what good fortune we’ve had to be able to raise our kids in this kind of environment.

But I still miss Orange County.

I miss the average of three freeways it would take to get anywhere (and everywhere) I wanted to be.

I miss Shirley’s Bagels on 17^th in Costa Mesa. And that Chinese restaurant with the red door in Brea. Pumpkin City in Laguna Hills, the Back Bay in Newport Beach, and Wild Rivers in Irvine.

For the select few of you out there who can appreciate my unnatural attachment to an entire county, I’m so glad we’ve found each other! For the rest of you, I'll try to explain it. My adulthood was formed in this place. I had no ties, my responsibilities were my own to manage, and I was completely self-sufficient. I started my career, my marriage, and my family here. I’ve got many positive memories of this place, punctuated by lots and lots of good food. We’re talking authentic, ethnic, hole-in-the-wall eats. Ahhh, the memories of it gives me the warm fuzzies.

Our connection to this is place is strong, and our kids are not immune to the feeling. At 12 years old, P is starting to get too old for the day-cations, but L and M are still 100% on board with any trips back home. So last weekend, when M asked if we could go to Orange County to see Santa (because that’s where he thinks Santa lives), we were all over it. We’d make a day out of it, visit Santa, go eat somewhere fun, and make a stop at our favorite toy store.

The day started off better than I had hoped: traffic was light, and the mall wasn't too crowded. Everyone was having a good time, and I was wandering around, looking for gifts, when I came across a trio of friends in their twenties. I hovered, hoping they’d notice and move so I could walk by. One of them noticed, and said to his friends, “move over so the (old) lady can walk by.” Ouch. It stung a little. That happy “I’m having a great day” feeling went a little gray. Really? From something so benign? Yes, really.

I was totally unprepared to be faced with the politeness of a twenty-something as he sees me: an older woman. It kind of sucked. So I did what any normal, neurotic female would do in such a circumstance. I took a sad-face photo of myself to commemorate the moment. And then proceeded to delete it, because the lighting in that store was not being my friend. Now I see what prompted his respect for his elders. He was literally faced with one (an elder, that is). Tragic.

I shook it off, determined to enjoy my day. We spent hours, going from toy store to toy store, enjoying the sights and stopping for lunch at the Rainforest Café, before we finally headed over to see Santa. Along the way we lost a jacket, went for a ride on the carousel, and got separated from each other (without a phone…what on earth did people do before cell phones?).

Santa was a little uneventful, probably due to the hour wait. P refused to pose with him. L thought his yellowed beard was kind of creepy. M asked him if he remembered the chocolate milk we left him last year.

By the end of the day, we threw in a train ride and hot apple cider before heading back to the car. On the way out, we passed through the money wing of the mall, where the Tiffany, Valentino, and other expensive stores reside. It’s here where M decided to show his blue blood upbringing.

Good times.

What I've Learned From The BravoTV Housewives

2011-12-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

I like reality tv. I’m not especially proud to admit this, but it is what it is. I have a particular weakness for the BravoTV suite of offerings. I’ve got my Top Chefs, Real Housewives, Millionaire’s, Rachel’s, Tabatha’s, Jeff’s, Bethenney’s, and WWH's tivo’d to catch every new season. To say that Andy Cohen has me in the palm of his hand (the one that’s not holding the cocktail) is somewhat of an understatement.

Before you jump to judge me (and there’s a lot to judge here), let me clarify something. I’m selective with my reality viewing. Yes, I, of all people, have standards that I adhere to, however loose (and ever-shifting) they may be. These standards have less to do with the show and more to do with my mood. Or maybe it has to do with the show being on hiatus...hadn't thought of that. Anyway, because of my fickle high-horsedness (combined with my irrational hatred of re-runs), it turns out I don’t spend as much time as you would think watching trash tv. There’s plenty of time for intellectually stimulating television such as Modern Family, Spongebob Squarepants, and Battlestar Galactica.

Battlestar Galactica probably needs a little explaining. Every Friday night, we get together with our neighbors to watch a couple of BSG (that’s what the cool kids call it) episodes, and I’ve got to say (this is perhaps even more embarrassing to admit) that I am totally into it. Frak yeah! Right now we’re up to the part where Starbuck gets kidnapped by the cylons and is introduced to the child they created from her egg when she was earlier abducted and sent to be harvested at The Farm. So good. I’m a total nerd.

Anyway, let's get back on track. A highly esteemed colleague and I were discussing the trials and tribulations of the latest cast of Housewives (namely Kyle, Kim, Lisa, Taylor, and Brandi…hello…Beverly Hills, dahling), which led to a discussion of the utterly raunchy Atlanta Housewives episode I stumbled upon last week. As we debated the authenticity of Kandi’s mother’s reaction to Phaedra’s choice of birthday entertainment, it occurred to me that (being the student of human nature that I am) there are a number of learnings I think we can all benefit from, thanks to the many housewives we’ve seen come and go over the years.

And so follows my guide to navigating those Housewife potholes, should Andy ever ask me to join the franchise:

· Physical theatrics, such as high-pitched “woo-hoos”, repeated leg splits, and cowboy-roping ponytails will be perceived as attempts to get attention; keep these to a minimum, and preferably off-camera.
· Constant hair-touching is one of those nearly subliminal “I’m insecure” messages that everyone picks up on.
· Lucky enough to be well-received in your first year as a housewife? Don’t get too comfortable, because you’re sure to crash and burn in your second year. Each location has a story to tell: Jill in New York, Kyle in Beverly Hills, Tamra in Orange County. Play your cards carefully, my friend, and don’t get a big head.
· Poorly-received in your first year as a housewife? Consider yourself lucky. Bad blood seems to magically disappear, friendships bloom, and message boards are suddenly kinder in your second year. A combination of friendlier editing and improved personal filtering seems to be the culprit for the second year shift. Alex in NY is a good example of this. I can’t think of many more examples than that, because, honestly, it’s more fun to remember the ones that crash and burn (see previous bullet) rather than the ones that rise like a phoenix from the ashes.
· With great wealth comes great responsibility. Should I ever be fortunate enough to amass wealth as great as these housewives, I promise to give back to the community and help those less fortunate than me. As long as it doesn’t intrude on my lifestyle or personal spending habits.
· Love scenes, ranging from a foot rub to a private lingerie showing to a bathtub scene are gag-inducing to all viewers. They’re probably gag-inducing even to the participants (who are watching at home, months later). Don’t even kiss on tv. Let the real actors do their jobs.
· Do not brag about how everything is so attainable. When you’ve come from a privileged environment and were groomed to be everything you have turned out to be, claiming “you can have it all” is a little insulting. Same goes for the wives who married into wealth. Find me a successful housewife who had no help filling out her state college application, and then I’ll admiringly listen to her say “you can have it all”.
· Money can’t buy you class. But it can buy you a clothing line, a singing career, and a modeling contract
· It is never in good taste to accuse another female of being a crack head, a thief, a liar, or a man, no matter how deep the voice.
· Wigs and weaves are easy targets, both in verbal sparring and in physical attacks.
· The BravoTV audience is like a wild herd of spirited mustangs. They’ll turn on you in an instant. This can either work in your favor or against you.
· We’re all flawed, money or not. Editing will only magnify these flaws. It’s part of the deal.
· Never treat your pets like they're humans. This includes, but is not limited to, sharing your fork, spoon, knife or plate with them. Or encouraging them to drink from your neighbor's best crystal.

These guidelines are based on years of housewife slip-ups, fights, and regrets. But it’s not comprehensive. I’ll bet you can think of more.

Never Watched BravoTV? Discover the magic here.

My Google, My Friend

2011-12-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

Google, oh Google
You are my best friend
You're there when I need you
You're like a godsend

I call on you daily
With demands on the fly
You always deliver
You try not to lie

Allergies, Asthma,
Conversions and Time,
Finding phone numbers
And spelling l'chaim

My life is much better
With you by my side
What else can I do
I can't quit you, I've tried

What would I become
If you failed to appear?
A productive employee
Or Mom of the Year

That time when I needed
To clean a blood stain
You were right by my side
You had nothing to gain.

Remember that person
I wanted to meet?
You showed me the way
To his very own street.

And while others may come
And others may go
My love for your engine
Continues to grow.

So Google, continue
To show me the way
As I stumble and fumble
Through e-ver-y day

To give thanks in return
As I grow to old age
I promise to make you
My only home page

If I Can Sell This, I Can Sell Anything

2011-12-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

From NW Studios of California, introducing the newest creation to come from this prolific studio. Appropriately enough, the artist has named this work of art Metamorphosis.

Twice kiln fired and made of the highest quality resin/tin components, this nouveau-inspired piece is a delight to the senses. Allow your hands to linger on the luxurious curves of this sculpture as your eyes marvel at the glorious colors that seem to spring to life. With each angle, you will feel as though you've discovered a new spectacle.

The magnificent Metamorphosis is hand-crafted and one of a kind; and for a limited time only, NW Studios of California is giving you the opportunity to own a true masterpiece for the unbelievable price of $129.99 (plus shipping and handling).

For this low price, you will receive your own original work of art.

Dimensions

Size: approximately the size of a 14 oz. can of corn
Weight: approximately the weight of an empty 14 oz. can of corn

At no additional cost to you, we will enhance your sensory experience with your choice of corn, black bean, or pea scent. Please specify your requested scent when placing your order.

Note: as these are hand-crafted, one of a kind works of art, there may be variances in the nature and shape of your final masterpiece. But the scent is guaranteed.

As with all NW Studios works of art, each piece is designed and created in the USA.

A Message from NumberWhisperer: This is not really a retail ad, and there is no such business as NW Studio of California. My 9 year old and I created this mishap when I forgot to take it out of the oven last weekend. Dad is going to love it though. Guaranteed.

Laugh and I'll Laugh With You: Hillbilly Handfishin'

2011-12-05T07:00:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I was doing chores around the house, when I heard laughter coming from the tv. I stopped to listen, and whatever was going on sounded like a whole lot of fun, so I walked over to see what the kids were watching. I've already got a smile on my face, as I wander over, curious.

So the image on tv is this: a group of people standing in muddy water, watching one guy who appears to be crouching low to feel something under the water's surface. He's got a huge smile on his face, and periodically, he screams, then cackles, and says ouwwww, ouwwww, ouwwww. He doesn't really look like he's enjoying it, the laughter is more nervous than anything else. But the rest of the folks....they are laughing like it's the funniest thing they've ever seen.

Here's a link to what I'm talking about

It's called Hillbilly Handfishin'. If you've never seen this show, and are easily amused, this show deserves at least one viewing. The premise is pretty straightforward: vacationers pay these two guys, Skipper and Jackson to take them noodling in what looks to be the muddiest lakes, rivers, and streams Oklahoma has to offer. What is noodling? Not sure why it's called that, but it involves sticking your arms or legs into the cracks and crevices caused by rocks and trees and whatever else that might make a nice home for catfish. The goal is to tick off the catfish enough so that they bite you, get strung up, and pulled out of the water. That's noodling folks.

These fish can be huge. 12-15 pounds seems to be pretty common, but I saw one guy pull out a 42 pounder. Tell me again, why would anyone want to stick their foot into the home of a forty-two pound catfish? Oh right, for the fun of it. To add to the thrill, there are snapping turtles, snakes, and alligators to keep an eye out for. But no one seems to ever get hurt, except for some broken skin from the repeated biting.

Being the fraidy-cat that I am, I'd never go for this type of vacation, but that doesn't stop me from thoroughly enjoying watching others do it. The one episode with all the cackling has to be the best of them all. These guys had me laughing for days. I was laughing so much, just from watching them (and the other noodlers) laugh, it made me feel like those babies that laugh when they see other people laugh and cry when they see other people cry. I guess I pretty much have the emotional maturity of a child. Sounds about right.

As a bonus enticement, Skipper is perhaps the hairiest man I've ever seen. Most episodes, the female noodlers end up wrapped around him in their efforts to get a fish to bite. Which usually makes me stop to ponder which is more uncomfortable: sticking your foot in catfish mouth or bear hugging that wet rug?

Animal Planet's Hillbilly Handfishin' is on Sunday nights.