I Got My Christmas Present Early

Santa brought me exactly what I wanted this year.

No, not the Lego Santa! The REAL Santa...

Cleverly disguised as a birthday present for this guy. Isn't he cute? Doesn't he look cold? He didn't bring a hat. Or a scarf. Or gloves. P.S. You don't know it yet, Cutie Pie, but it's going to SNOW tomorrow.

A birthday present that was just just as much fun for This Girl. Doesn't she look cold? I said COLD, not OLD. Notice, please: Scarf? Check. Hat? Check. Gloves? Check. It's possibly the first and only time in 19 years of being with Cutie Pie that I was more prepared than he was. (evil laugh). I did, however, wear loafers and cute trouser socks instead of boots. Well, I had to look good, didn't I?

We did NOT do this. Because we choose not to compete. Also, our chiropractor advised against it.

Would you look at that? I mean, really. I heart New York, yes I do. And I would have bought the shirt to prove it. If it hadn't been so cold. No, I don't want to marry it. But that's because I already have a cute husband.

And look, now he has a hat. And a scarf. And gloves. And ear muffs. We may be southern but we catch on fast. Don't mock his hat. Everyone had one in New York. No, not just people over age 60 either. Hey, if Brad Pitt can wear one, why can't he?

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

My Baby is Telling Me What to Do

I recently had a weekend alone with my girls, which was actually pretty fun, but also had its trying moments as I'm spoiled by the fact that I usually have my Cutie Pie with which to tag-team. One particularly trying moment occurred on Sunday morning when Big Stuff was giving me the business, and I'd not even had one cup of coffee. I sent her away from the kitchen a) to get dressed and b) because the situation was deteriorating at the speed of light. I looked up, heavenward, and said "God, Help Me!!" Then Small Fry pipes in, "Mama, if you want God to help you, why don't you just prayer to Him?" Yes, yes... Why didn't I think of that? Later, she was talking with me while I got ready to go out. She asked me, "Mama, why don't you have a chart?" (Referring to her "chore" chart, which reminds her to brush her teeth, brush her hair, and put her clothes in the dirty clothes basket). I said, "Well, I'm a grown-up. I remember all the things I have to do." She says, "Then why don't you pick up your clothes off the floor?" Yes, yes... Why, indeed? Thank you, darling. You are much wiser than those preschool teachers give you credit for.

Happy Feast of St. Nicholas

St. Nicholas came to visit Small Fry at preschool today. This was a huge deal, because he leaves TREATS! IN OUR SHOES! TREATS! MAMA! TREATS! In their little shoes placed outside the classroom door, they found "Landy Cans," "Licklish" and chocolate kisses. How sweet is that? I really like Christmas Number 3. At 3, you're old enough to understand the concept, but young enough to be thrilled by the most simple of gestures. When Big Stuff was 3, she asked Santa Claus for a candy cane. That's it. Just a candy cane. Santa was apparently so impressed by this simple, sugary request that he brought her a candy cane the size of my arm. My favorite Christmas picture of all time features Big Stuff thrusting her Candy Cane treasure toward the camera with a look of complete and utter joy on her face. And in keeping with the feast, which is meant to teach us to love others the way St. Nicholas did, Small Fry held back one chocolate kiss to share with her sister - all her idea, swear. She did accuse her sister of eating all her candy afterward, but you take what you can get, right?

Thanks for the Memories

Birthdays still have the power to enchant me. Some people start to dread them after the age of 30 or so. Maybe it's the sand-slipping-through-the-hourglass feeling a.k.a. How Many Good Years Have I Got Left? Some people thoughtfully contemplate the past and the future. I save that for New Year's Day, usually. On my birthday, I still live in the shallow mindset of "Hey, look...presents!" How can you not love a day dedicated to celebrating YOU? ...Where little girls make you cards and gifts marked "Don Open Til Saterday" ...Where sweet friends tell you how glad they are you were born...Where people give you homemade cake and insist that you eat a really big piece...Where hubbies take you out for pancakes...Where mamas and daddies reminisce about the Great Day When You Came Into the World. What could be better than this? Nothing, I tell you. The only thing I don't like about birthdays is when they come to an end. What? You mean I have to wait a whole year until I get one of these again? Grrr. Luckily, because my birthday is in November, my indignation is soothed by the eminence of Thanksgiving (a perfect follow-up to the decadence of birthdays), Cutie Pie's birthday (in which festivities and gifts I get to share if I play my cards right, see how that works?) and then Christmas (Yay! Christmas!!!) There's so much to look forward to that I can't be too sad about the appearance of a November midnight and that princess-turned-back-pumpkin feeling. Oh yes, and there are the memories. I can bask in those for as long as I want!

I Told You It Was Too Early For Christmas

Because if I were thinking about Christmas, I might have missed this:

And this:

And this:

And, the ultimate in pumpkin-y goodness....This:

Although, I kind of wish I had missed this:

But never mind my CRUSHED SPIRIT ....in general, I'm thinking Fall itself just can't be rushed. It must be savored. Because really, is there is anything more savory than a child, dressed as a vegetable (or is it a fruit?) downing as many packs of the anti-vegetable (also known as M&Ms) as is humanly possible? Does a witch with shocking pink hair normally mix it up with those little elves and their flighty reindeer? I think not. Apparently people, fall has arrived!

I intend to savor it.

And we'll just pretend fall football doesn't exist. We can face that tomorrow. Or next year. Whatever.

I've Fallen Off the Wagon

Maybe it's the full moon.

Maybe it's the many hundreds of dollars I dropped on new brakes today. You may not know this, but brakes are apparently coated in 18K gold these days.

Maybe it's Sabrina the cat's fault for coming in and out of doors all day long. And also pooping on the white carpet. And also tearing open the garbage bag in a quest for 3-day-old chicken legs. She looks innocent, doesn't she? Don't let her fool you.

A day like this one can only end in one way:

Look at all the lovely uneaten fruit in the background. I don't even care. I'm so glad I got this new jar of peanut butter this morning.

For the kids.

Wordless Wednesday

"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia....."

See more Wordless Wednesday here.

Why? Because We Like You!

And because anything that makes me laugh out loud at my computer screen is worth sharing.

So what is the deal with the perfection gene? I have been pondering the topic of Worry lately. It seems, through many intersecting conversations, readings and events, that the Big Guy is flashing a neon sign at me, you see. It's like one of those crawlers at the bottom of the C-SPAN screen: Stop Worrying....Cease Fretting....Desist Hand Wringing....I Am Not Kidding....Are You Listening to Me, Woman????? Worry. I know it's wrong. I know it's bad. It makes me yell at my kids. It makes me snappish with the mister. It gets me all wound up in a tight, furious little ball by the name of Mrs. No Fun. And what really gets me (and Worries me, if you want to know the truth) is that I know better! Worry gets me nowhere, and it implies an extreme lack of faith and gratitude. And still I do it. Why? Because I want to be perfect! I want to hold on to the delusion that I'm in Charge Here People, and I'm Doing it Perfectly and Don't You Forget It! Even Big Stuff, at age 6, suffers from the struggle with perfection. Yesterday, as I very proudly read the teacher's comments about her from her report card (She is a delightful child! She is a great reader! She excels in almost every area!), she immediately blurted out - "What does she mean, ALMOST?" Oh dear, dear girl. Indeed you are your mother's child. Have I passed it along to her, or is it just the common struggle of the crazy humans? I don't know, but I'll tell you this. I got the nicest comment from Cutie Pie the other night after he listened patiently to a tirade of my worries over the gals. He said the sweetest words - You are Too Hard on Yourself. Which I would never have believed or accepted from anyone else but him. Because he's smart. And he adores these little creatures too, so I know he's not just blowing me off. My voice of reason guy reminded me - they are kids. Tomorrow is another day. They will be all right. Of course, he almost blew all his street cred when HE read the report card and commented - "What does this mean, she could 'Work on Her Handwriting?' What's wrong with her handwriting?" Oh dear, dear man.

Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?

Matthew 6:27

Merry What??

OK, I'm looking at a Web site recently about organizing Christmas, and I am swaying between two opposing thoughts:

a) Wow, this is a great idea! Some entrepreneur was really using her head.

b) Organizing Christmas? What the?

Has it really become necessary to obtain organizational tools to handle the overwhelming toil and stress of Christmas? The stress of Christmas? Did I just say that? I am not happy with Society at Large and what they have done to my favorite holiday. Really I'm not. A recent topic of conversation (in OCTOBER) was Christmas gifts and how some of us aim to be finished shopping by the time school starts. Which again, is a fantastic idea to help simplify and avoid the stress of the holidays (there's that word again), but an idea I wish was not thought necessary by so many of us. It's Christmas, people. Not an impending war or famine! What happened to the joy, the happiness, the sweet anticipation? I also saw some ladies looking for Christmas cards at the new Target yesterday. With excitement. I refused to even glance at the display. I may be in a completely different card "mood" by next month. Why would I buy them now and be stuck with cards in December that no longer inspire me? Besides, I am in a spooky, spidery, witchy kind of mindset at the moment, and New Target, nor any other freakish peddler of premature Christmas joy, will deprive me of it. If you still see pumpkins outside my door on December 1, you'll know why. I'm rebelling!

Who Was That Girl in the Floral Dress?

Guess what internets! I cleaned out my closet. That's right! Earthshaking news, people! This is a BIG accomplishment. Well, not really. Not in the whole scheme of things. But a stay-at-home mama has to grab hold of the accomplishments where she can get them. I used to clean out my closets once or twice a year, thanks to much smaller closets and an insatiable thirst for new clothes. My closet is much bigger now, and I still have the insatiable thirst, but thanks to a lighter load in the wallet (see the stay-at-home mom thing), I'm not as likely to overfill the bigger closet as quickly. I think the last time I cleaned out the closet, I lived in a different house and my outgoing trash bags were full of maternity clothes. I shudder to think how much unwearable apparel I hauled between houses during the move because I couldn't handle the thought of cleaning out. Because I hate the thought of cleaning out the closet, but I rather like the act of it. Once I'm in the middle of it. It's soothing, you see. It's manual labor, and you don't have to think too much. And you do get a free and groovy trip down memory lane. Especially when you're finally letting go of clothes two sizes too small that you haven't worn in 10+ years. Because you are finally accepting the fact that even if you could fit in the darn things, they really are NOT in fashion anymore. And never will be. It was all there.... the red silk dress Cutie Pie gave me when we were dating. The ivory floral suit, with shoulder pads and large pearl buttons no less, that my mom bought me when I got my first job in the big city. The black and orange floral dress, with shoulder pads, that I wore on my honeymoon. The short floral sundress (Hmmm, I see a pattern emerging here...) that I wore once a month for photos when I was pregnant to show how much I was growing. (Why do we want to document these things?) The really cute shoes I bought on sale, because they were on sale, even though they were about a size and a half too small. (Why, you ask? I'm not smart.) The Harley Davidson jacket with polyester lining, purchased during our brief fling with a motorcycle (not even a Harley Davidson), that always made me sweat. Everything had a little memory attached to it. I didn't linger too long, however. I slapped Cutie Pie's hand and told him he wasn't allowed to look in the bags and try to talk me back into anything. I was brutal. Heartless. And four overflowing trash bags later, and I feel like a load has been lifted from my shoulder-padless shoulders. From my mind. From my very soul. Now if I could just live in the clean closet, everything would be A-OK.

Wordless Wednesday

The Virtual Bookclub...Installment One!

I wrote this a few months ago, but thought I would post for The Virtual Bookclub....

If you haven't yet read Eat, Pray, Love....consider this your spoiler alert. If you're going to read it, progress no further! Because really, I would love to hear your opinion untainted by mine. I read this book just last month, and the author was on Oprah this week (love those serendipitous surprises). For me, Eat, Pray, Love was Magnificent, capital M. And although she and I will disagree on her theology, or lack of it, I rooted for her throughout the whole book. What I liked about Liz was that she was off to find not only herself, but she bit the universal bullet and decided to try to find God too. Not to mention her Purpose, Inner Peace and a host of other completely elusive and seemingly unattainable goals. What I really liked about her was that she was so purposeful about it. She knew what she needed to learn, and she chose three locations specifically for what they had to teach. Liz said that one of her main (and one of the more daring, to my mind!) goals in India was to be still, something she had rarely been able to do before. The Hebrews believed that if you saw God's face, you would immediately drop dead. Maybe a little of that terror still exists in our modern hearts, which is why so few of us seem to be able to sit still and listen to our inner thoughts for more than 5 seconds. She really dove into it though. She was determined to heal. And finally, she nears the end of her yearlong journey. She feels that she's heard her Creator's voice (she describes writing comforting words to herself in her journal in a voice, "not quite mine"). She believes she's sat in the "palm of God." She's experientially learned something about what it means to be on this earth- she's grasped love and compassion. And then she abruptly concludes by saying that maybe the voice she heard back in the dark days, comforting her, was just herself. Her future self (more mature and growing) comforting her present self (crippled and struggling). And I thought, OH NO, she's missed it! No, no, no! You were right the first time! God was there. God was guiding you. God was revealing Himself to you. You spent all that time trying to give up control, just to snatch it back when things began to go well. You found inner peace and then tried to take credit for it. I felt strangely disappointed in the ending. I listened closely to her interview on Oprah, trying to figure her out. I guess the conclusion I came to is this: We all have completely unique paths to God. And certainly He is awesome enough to take every one's unique journey into account, to even delight in each twisted path. Because that's how He made us. No two exactly alike. And maybe the point I'm trying to grasp here is to have the courage to take the journey. How He must love it when we do that! So more power to you, Liz. Keep going! And it was nice to see you on Oprah. Smiling.

Family Trees

Let me just tell you what Small Fry is doing as we speak... She is dressed in a pink princess costume, bouncing a Barbie basketball in the marble foyer and saying (loudly) "Praise the Lord, I'm going to meet Beanie B. Jones!!!" (AKA Junie B. Jones) She's a vision in pink chiffon, let me tell you. She has kept us laughing these days, as we have been saddened by the recent loss of a family member. You know what they say: We never get together like this, except for weddings and funerals? Wish I had been at a wedding. But it was truly touching to see so many family members gathered in one place, and my girls got to meet some lovely people for the first time. They got to hold their four-month-old cousin, with the beautiful red hair. They got to play with cousins Shelby and Cranky (Small Fry-speak for Frankie), whom they have not stopped talking about since. They "searched for clues" in the Selection Room. (Can you guess what that is? I didn't, until it was too late. So much for protecting them from life's harsh realities.) But the larger point is that they were part of something big, huge even. Two newly formed leaves on a family tree with many, many branches - some broken, some grafted on to the trunk, all going in different directions. And what a legacy to the one who has gone ahead that all those branches were gathered for a few days under the same roof. Unified in purpose. At peace with each other. Loving each other. Comforted by the promise of seeing their loved one again. As we circled and held hands in prayer before the service, I was overwhelmed with the thought that Life goes on. Love goes on. And maybe the most important mark you can leave on this world is to be a part of that cycle, nurturing the love part and loving the life part. Praise the Lord indeed.

Am I Smarter than a First Grader?

Apparently not. Do YOU know the meanings of any of these words?

count on
doubles
rule
number line
count back
related facts
fact family

If you do, don't tell me. It's too depressing. Big Stuff's first grade teacher sent this math vocabulary list to we underachieving parents to prompt us to, I guess, practice them at home with the little tykes? I wonder if she intended the secondary effect of all parental self-esteems within a 10-mile radius falling in unison as we come to the realization that we don't know these words and never did? I guess it's all part of the circle of life, Simba. Your kids are going to know more than you do, and this is inevitable. Recently, some friends and I were discussing when your influence over your kids switches from size and position (as in I am bigger and smarter than you, therefore you will bend to my will) to respect and relationship. I'm all for that, really I am. But I didn't expect to lose my smarter-than-you card so early. Well, at least I'm still a few inches taller than she is. Although, knowing our shared gene pool, I don't expect that to last long either.

The Simple Life, Part Deux

Cutie Pie and I once visited Costa Rica, and we were treated one day to a tour of the farm of a "very important man," a big landowner by the name of Don Pedro. The richest man in all of Costa Rica, mind you. The tour appeared on an official-looking, glossy brochure, which I fervently wish that I had saved. Because it was a totally classic marketing spin job targeted at the American mind. And being the Americans we are, we naturally had visions. Visions of touring a Costa Rican mansion, with manicured lawns and rolling vistas, and meeting some kind of Latin American Honcho and having a spot of tea with him. Turns out Don Pedro may have been the richest man in Costa Rica, but he had very few teeth, very many cows wandering in his front yard, and a rope belt around his waist in addition to his regular belt. Never figured that one out. His "estate" was apparently entirely hand-built by him - house, animal stalls, everything...nailed and tied-together wood planks with tin roofs. No windows - just cut-out holes in the walls. We were served lunch. And let me tell you, it was probably one of the best lunches I have ever eaten. They served homemade bread and cheese, coffee from his own beans and plantains from his own trees. It was delicious. We ate on an open-air porch. With the cows and horses looking on. Our food was served on sweet little china dishes. He and his family let us make conversation with them in our stumbling, ridiculous Spanish. His daughter picked flowers for my hair and made a big speech when she handed them to me. I didn't understand a word, so she could have been calling me a stupid, wretched American, but it sounded really warm and lovely and generous. We loved every minute of it. We ate many great meals in Costa Rica. All were simple. Fish, mixed vegetables, plantains, beer. It was jolting to come home. Everything suddenly seemed so Loud. So Big. So Fast. And so Overdone. The billboards on I-75 were Obnoxious, SCREAMINGINYOURFACE, whereas before my trip, I had barely noticed them. The portions when we went out to eat seemed big enough to feed entire families. What a waste of mediocre food, we thought. That feeling went away after a few days, but I was sad to see it go. It can't be helped - you are a product of your culture and you adapt to whatever your circumstances may be. But I do dream of that simple place now and again. It's the kind of place where you can hear your own thoughts, without someone or something trying to drown them out all the time. I could use more of that.

My New Favorite Dream

Isn't it the coolest thing to be on a similar wavelength with someone across the miles? I was just reading this post from my dear cousin, which reminded me of a news byte I saw last week. I have already discussed with Cutie Pie, at length, (or he may say ad nauseum) the cost, logistics and possibility of me starting an Outstanding in the Field in Atlanta for my next career. It will never happen, of course, but I was completely enamored with the thought of it for several hours. It combines absolutely everything I love in life. Beautiful places...fantastic, locally grown food - right out of the ground or sea or pigsty, so to speak....great wine, with every course, no less - yum!....great conversation with interesting people. Well, if nothing else... maybe I can attend a dinner. OITF is coming to Atlanta and Florida next year, ya'll. It's a mere $350 or so a couple to sit down to dinner. Hey, it's only money! Let's go! Take a look at this sample menu if you need convincing. OK, I agree...I myself would probably look askance on the pigs feet paté and the chicken liver and gizzard “campagnola.” It sounds a bit like what my poor, southern ancestors may have eaten. Not by choice, but because that was all that was left after they ran out of grocery money halfway through the month. But my, how they've gussied it up eh? I would try it anyhow. In homage. And because I paid a whole lot of money for it. But really, I'm thinking that you wouldn't even have to be this fancy. In fact, in accordance with the simple, fresh, farming theme - you could do a whole lot with simple food and maybe bring the cost down a bit for the penny pinchers like myself who would probably not pay $150 a plate for any kind of food. Unless George Clooney was spoon feeding me or something.

Pachelbel Bedtime

Gotta love Daddies who GET IT! Ain't nothing better!

Brain Clouds

I just did two things that made me laugh at myself. One: I swatted a fly after putting up with its torturous buzzing for more than 30 minutes. (There it is again. Maybe it will go away. Why is it so lively? Maybe it will get tired and go away. There it is again. Why is this fly trying to kill me? There it is again. My GOD, that is an annoying fly) I swatted it, with a gusto bordering on rage, and then I couldn't see it. But I could still hear it. Still buzzing. Still buzzing. The buzzing sound is following me. Where is this freaking fly? Where? Where? Finally I realized that it was stuck to my rolled-up paper swatter, which I was holding in my hand, because I had swatted in a corner and picked up a whole bunch of cobwebs. To which the fly was now nicely stuck. Good Lord, I need to dust this place.

Two: I kept looking at a date I had written on the blog - 2008. (That's not right. It's not 2008. Yes, it is 2008. No, it's not. Let's see, last year was 2006. No, 2007. What the heck year is it, cobweb brain???) I actually had to check my email to determine WHAT YEAR I AM LIVING IN. This is sad beyond belief. I was once a smart girl. I swear. Darn kids.

Ellen and Madonna dancing

OK, now really...just because you CAN wear something, does it mean you should?? I am so flashing back to 1978 band color guard baton twirlers meets Sparkles roller rink backward skating with Shane and Raymond.

And here is proof! Exhibit one: the purple sparkly 9th grade majorette uniform, with the unfortunate flesh-colored strap LOL. Madonna has ripped this woman off. Outrageous!

Buddies and the Brouhaha

Here's something fun to do. Gather up all your best buds and cart yourselves up to the lake for a need-free, demand-less, apple pie-laden brouhaha. Stay up until all hours. For fun, not because one of your kids is throwing up. Watch a show called Intervention together so you can psychoanalyze strangers. When that gets too sad, flip to the Miss Teen USA pageant and psychoanalyze hairdo choices and the mindset of the runners-up as they come to grips with the inevitable fact that their lives are ending. Talk about Everything. With a capital E. Eat Anything. With a capital A. Make sure nutritional value is minimal while fat and carbs are maximal. (I know. It's not a word, but it's descriptive.) Create a new drink. Name it the Lake Runner. Declare it medicinal and healthy because that splash of Pomegranate juice really does outweigh the 8 ounces of rum it's mixed with. Swim around on floats for six hours straight, getting out of the water only to have a snack, a cocktail, or because you fear the pruning may be permanent. Meet a dog and invite her to join your merry band of Beeches. Call her Buddy. Because she is. Until she starts eating your pistachios and smelling like a dog that has been swimming in lake water and chewing on fish heads. Be forgiving. Even when Buddy's family leaves her with you while they go on a boat ride, happily waving at her from afar as if they know quite well that she's a big ole pain in the rear. One of us is meant to be a vet or an old lady with 12 cats, and we love that about her. Learn to play Gin Rummy. Even though strategic thinking is not the easiest kind of thinking to do through a Lake Runner haze. Wave at boys on the lake and pretend that they find you remotely interesting. Sit on a dock under an almost-full moon for hours. And talk. And talk. And talk. There is nothing at all better than this. There is a certain kind of therapy that takes place when you learn that a bunch of people you love and admire are going through the same things you are. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Even the really bad stuff that you wouldn't admit to most people. The book I'm reading at the lake calls it L'ho provato sulla mia pelle, which means in Italian "I have experienced that on my own skin." The author explains that it means- I have also been burned or scarred in this way, and I know exactly what you're going through. Somehow there is nothing more comforting than L'ho provato sulla mia pelle. Being understood... it just makes everything better. And then you get to go home to a little family, who is happy to see you. Who, really and for true, missed your presence. And you feel needed. In a good way. Amazing what a little brouhahaing can do for you.

Because I Couldn't Have Said it Better Myself

This is what I wanted to say.

If a Tree Falls, and Everyone Hears the Cursing....

We had some trees taken down at our house recently. If you haven't had the opportunity to witness such an event, it really is the bomb. I wish I could have gotten some better pictures, but I felt a little strange snapping photos of my shirtless guests, like some crazy suburban mother papparazzo. But let me tell you, it's pure, riveting entertainment for 8 straight hours. The passion, the drama, the blood, sweat and tears, the firings and rehirings all before lunch, the massive consumption of Gatorade, cigarettes and hose water...And for the low, low price of thousands of dollars you too can get the show to make a stop in your very own backyard! I was a little disappointed that the girls didn't find it quite as thrilling as I did. Boys would have been more fascinated by the process, perhaps. The girls instead were in all their bossy, nosy glory. First things first...Big Stuff comes to tell me (in case I was unaware) that there are some strange men in the backyard, and I should tell them to not even THINK of cutting down her friends, the small Christmas trees. Or there would be TROUBLE. Maybe she thought I would have the guts to put 6 grown men in timeout? Then Small Fry pipes up with her loud cautions and warnings directly to the crew, through the windows: "Be careful! Don't fall! That's too high! Stop yelling!" I don't know where she got that litany of bossy phrases. Finally, it was the colorful language that drove us away from the windows. Although I was riveted for longer than prudent I imagine. After 6 years of constantly stifling various curses, it was quite a shocking something to hear them flying freely and unrestrained throughout my backyard. I thought, this is the most excitement we've had around here in weeks! But, being the Mama and everything, I tore myself away from the show and hightailed it to Target, where the curses are muffled and the living is easy. We shopped in the usual boring fashion for school supplies, with nary a What The? Except in my head, of course.

See What The Heat Has Reduced Us To?

Sunday afternoon, overcome by heatstroke and too many episodes of Looney Tunes. And if you think a very similar version of this picture was not being staged in an upstairs bedroom amongst the adults, you are sadly mistaken.

It's Hot, and I'm Not Kidding

Houston, we have survived Week One of first grade. I say we, because naturally I've been as nervous and anxious as Big Stuff has. Or I guess more accurately, I've been nervous and anxious. She's been fine. Cutie Pie had to point out to me last week that I was not the one going back to school. Like I don't know that. Sheesh. (Maybe I should change his name to Smarty Pants...) Something about the Times They Are A Changin' just gets me all tied up in knots! Can't help it. Maybe I'm just going stir-crazy. Because it's like ONE THOUSAND degrees outside, and you don't even want to think about going outside, even to travel a mile or two in your swamp of a van so you can run as fast as you can to the door of your destination and collapse inside in the AC. I mean, are we living on the SUN or what? Yes, I'm a total wimp. Yes, I should be able to handle the heat better. I'm from Florida, the Sunshine State, for Pete's sake, where it is hotter than your wildest nightmares of Hell for most of the year. Which is why I MOVED, hello? But at least in my current state, you have the hope of cooler temperatures just around the corner. And I am all about hope. In the meantime, I will be hibernating indoors and talking myself down from the proverbial ledge, called Changes I Didn't Ask for Nor Want. Especially those involving little girls growing up.