tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53723916522485714632024-02-18T22:27:29.230-06:00Three Mutts and a BabySamanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.comBlogger412125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-41811358174396184072013-02-01T14:21:00.000-06:002013-02-01T14:21:26.467-06:00A Skunk Tale<br />
<i>I began this post last January. It's about my first adventure in our new house. Like most of the projects in my new house, it went unfinished as "real life" issues got in the way. The subject of this post is a familiar one to our friends, and I'm still asked about it from time to time, so I thought I would finally publish my story and hopefully kick off a year of active blogging. Please to enjoy, </i>A Skunk Tale<br />
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It's 11:55 PM, a few days 'til Christmas 2011. It's the third night in our newly constructed home. I say "newly constructed" because it is essential to the story, not because I'm bragging about having a BRAND NEW HOUSE! </div>
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I am lying in bed, sleepy, but awake, when I am startled to full alertness by the faint sound of scratching. It's the kind of faint sound where one is unable to determine the source or location of the sound. </div>
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<b>Me:</b> Do you hear that?</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Hear what?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> It sounds like scratching. Or something. Or Libby banging her food bowl on the wood floors. I don't know. But it won't stop.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Uhh, I don't hear it.</div>
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I lie in bed silently, not even allowing myself to breathe...yeah, I <i>definitely </i>hear it. But <i>what is it? </i>I jump out of bed with a sense of urgency.</div>
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<b>Steve: </b>What are you doing?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> I'm getting to the bottom of this!</div>
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I scamper out the room on my tippy-toes, looking left and right as I go. I find my mom in the hallway, she's also heard the noise, but we quickly determine there is nothing inside the house. Together we hop around the perimeter of the house, guided by the World's Dimmest Flashlight. Nothing outside. But, standing outside our bathroom window, I hear banging and scratching coming from inside, louder than ever. Then a smack against the frosted glass. Mom and I scream! It's Steve. He's conducting an investigation of his own. <i>"Yep! Definitely something inside these walls right here!" </i>he shouts triumphantly. I sigh impatiently, <i>"Nice work, Dick Tracy. Glad you solved this mystery. Now can we try </i>not<i> to scare the ever-loving sh!t out of the animal trapped in our home? Thanks!"</i><br />
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The next day, I called the builder. That's the cool thing about new-construction warranties. I pick up the phone with any complaint, and they have to come running (within 48 business hours, sooner if a live animal is involved.) After a cursory inspection by the builder's liaison, Dave, he concurs that there is in fact an unidentified animal within the walls of my home. When I ask the obvious question, <i>"How the hell did he get there?"</i>, I am told that he must have entered during the late stages of construction and hidden under or around my jetted bathtub. I distinguish my tub as "jetted" because there was an incident where, during construction, a wire to the motor of the jetted tub was accidentally cut by construction workers, requiring a replacement motor, which caused the underside of the bathtub to remain open and exposed late in construction, when most tubs are already sealed up. This is when the animal had the opportunity to sneak in and hunker down. Had I been outfitted with an ordinary tub, I never would have had an animal in my house. I'm certainly not bragging about my <i>luxurious brand new jetted bathtub!</i></div>
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So...what to do when an uninvited animal is inhabiting the interior walls of your bathroom and can't escape? I learned that one must cut open the "skirt" of the bathtub and set an animal trap obtained from the city. We're really scientific here, and so we place a club cracker schmeared with peanut butter inside the trap to bait the animal. We have ascertained, based on our given clues, that this is a nocturnal animal, likely a possum, skunk, or raccoon, and know that we must wait til the late night hours to trap it. From here, it gets tricky. If it is a possum or raccoon, we can pick up the trap and carry it out to the back patio until animal control can arrive. Oops, I spoke out of turn. The Animal Control Officer <strike>quit</strike> retired, and so when this animal is trapped--in the middle of the night--I am instructed to call the police. Now, if it is a skunk, I am advised not to attempt to engage the animal or move the trap, because the skunk may spray, and that would be bad. Like, throw your furniture in a dumpster, gut your house down to the studs and rebuild it, <i> bad. </i> Armed with all this information, I take a deep breath, I close the door to my bathroom. And I wait. </div>
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<b>1:00 AM.</b> I wake to the sounds of scratching in the bathroom. I hear an animal struggling in the dark, throwing himself [yeah, I decided it's a boy] against the French doors that separate my bathroom from the bedroom. Here's the thing about those French doors: they're the kind that just click shut, and this fella was throwing some weight against them, and I get nervous that he would escape into the bedroom and bite me and give me rabies and kill my dogs. So I jump out of bed and braced against the doors to prevent them from opening, whispering to Steve to slide over some plastic storage totes against the door. Uh oh. I think I scared our friend away. I return to bed, having secured our doors. </div>
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<b>3:00 AM.</b> I wake once more to the sound of persistent animal scratching. Steve and I cling to one another, as if we are ill-fated characters in a 1980s horror film, helpless to save ourselves from the killer on the other side of the door. He is trying so hard to break through. Will he succeed? Whatever shall we do? We hold our breath, suspended in time, as his fit of fury persists. As I listen to the scurrying and the scratching, I imagine the scene I will witness when I open the doors to my brand new custom bathroom tomorrow. After twenty minutes of struggling, I hear the long-awaited squeak and creak of a metal spring closing on the trap. And silence. Steve and I look at each other, waiting anxiously to hear what happens next. The silence surprises us most of all. I sort of expected the wild animal, once caged, to freak the hell out. The silence is puzzling. I roll out of bed and tiptoe towards the kitchen, phone in hand.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Where are you going?</div>
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<b>Me: </b>I'm calling the police.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> [laughing] Why would you call the police?!</div>
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<b>Me:</b> So they can come get the animal.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> [still laughing] Wait, wait--let me get this straight--you're gonna call the police department, at 3:00 in the morning, and say, "Heyyy, I trapped an animal, can you come get it? K, thanks, bye!"</div>
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<b>Me:</b> [hissing] keep your voice down! Don't spook the <i>animal </i>[eyeballing the bathroom door]. And yeah, that's exactly what I'm gonna do, because those were my<i> instructions!</i> The Animal Control Officer "retired" [using exaggerated air quotes] and they didn't replace him, so protocol dictates that when a wild animal is trapped within city limits, using the city's animal trap, I must contact the police department. It's a freaking nocturnal animal, when do they expect me to make the phone call?!</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> [not laughing now] Oh. Well. I did not know that.</div>
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I call the city police department. County dispatch answers. I explain my situation and give my contact information. 10, 20, 30 minutes later, I'm not sure exactly how much time passed, I receive a call from...well, I'll let him tell you:</div>
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<b>Police: </b>Hi, this is Officer Sullivan, what seems to be the problem?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Hi. Well, I have a new house, and there is an animal inside the walls, and our builder picked up a trap from the city earlier today. Now we've trapped the animal, and I was instructed to call the police to pick up the trap.</div>
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<b>Police:</b> Ok. I need you to verify that the animal has in fact been trapped.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> [to Steve] Officer Sullivan would like us to verify that the animal has been trapped.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Uhh, just tell him that he's trapped.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Officer Sullivan would like us to verify that the animal has been trapped.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Uhh, just <i>say </i>you looked and that the animal is trapped.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Officer Sullivan would like us to verify that the animal has been trapped.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> Ugh! [gets out of bed and storms out of the room]</div>
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<b>Me:</b> [to Officer Sullivan] Oh, well, that's just <i>great! </i>This <i>whole time </i>we've been dealing with this "animal situation" and we've been all nervous and concerned, he's mocked us and made light of the situation. Now that it's the moment of truth, he's being a total pansy!</div>
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Officer Sullivan chuckles, catches himself laughing, and abruptly goes quiet. </div>
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<b>Me:</b> [hopping out of bed ] Ok, I'm going to verify that the animal has been trapped. </div>
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I step in front of the bathroom door. I take a deep breath. I set the phone down and re-do my ponytail to get the wispy hairs out of my face. I stand with one foot in front of the other in a lunge-type posture, shifting my weight back and forth from the front foot to the back foot. It's like I'm preparing to do my first round-off back handspring. My palms are sweating. I swing my arms like I'm stretching. I pop my neck.</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> What the f*#% are you doing?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Shhhhhh!!!!</div>
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I take another deep breath. Instinctively, I reach towards the bedside table lamp and turn it on. I gesture to Steve to turn on the overhead light in our bedroom. I figure that flooding the room with light gives me an advantage over my nocturnal house guest, right? </div>
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I pick up the phone. I place my hand on the door handle. In one quick and seamless motion, I open and shut the door, but not before making eye contact with a beady-eyed animal with black fur with a shock of white extending from the center of his head. </div>
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<b>Me:</b> [whispering as I run out the door on my tippy toes--always on my tippy toes] Oh sh!t.</div>
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<b>Steve: </b>[chasing behind me] What? I couldn't see anything!</div>
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I hold my breath until I reach the entryway, sure that the animal can't hear me speak, and I tell Officer Sullivan my findings in a panicked whisper: </div>
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<b>Me:</b> It's a skunk!</div>
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<b>Officer Sullivan:</b> It's a skunk?</div>
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<b>Steve: </b>It's a skunk?!</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Oh my god, it's a skunk!</div>
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<b>Officer Sullivan: </b>It's a skunk?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> It's a f^#+!&% skunk!</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> It's a skunk?</div>
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<b>Me: </b>It's a skunk. Oh, this is bad. This is baaaaadddd.</div>
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<b>Officer Sullivan:</b> It's a skunk.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Yes. This is bad. This is reallyyyyy bad. </div>
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<b>Officer Sullivan:</b> Ok. We outsource this sort of thing. I'm going to give him a call later, when he wakes up, and he'll come get it. Until then...just...don't do anything to disturb it.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Yes sir.</div>
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And so we wait...hours go by...sleep eludes us...</div>
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<b>Me:</b> So...what's his name?</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> The skunk?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Yeah. Any animal who stays in our house more than 30 minutes gets a name. What's this guy's name?</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> His name is Larry.</div>
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<b>Me: </b>Larry. That's nice. Let's not piss off Larry.</div>
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<b>Steve: </b>No, let's not. </div>
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Moments later...</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> What are you doing?</div>
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<b>Me:</b> I'm reading about skunks on Wikipedia!</div>
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<b>Steve:</b> And...</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Did you know they are part of the weasel family? And while they don't <i>hibernate </i>per se, they can be sort of dormant and hunker down and not eat or drink for days at a time?<br />
<b>Steve:</b> I did not know that.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> And they are <i>not</i> aggressive animals! Here, all this time, I thought they sprayed folks all willy-nilly, but it turns out that they are passive, timid creatures, and they spray only as a last resort, and it takes them 10 minutes to reload between sprays! Wow! They are pretty much useless creatures! I mean, I always liked them and thought they were cute, but they are so lazy and defenseless, I bet that if not for this whole "spray" defense, they'd be extinct by now!</div>
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<b>Steve: </b>You might be on to something.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> Hmph. I learned something today.<br />
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Later that morning, our builder liaison, Dave, arrives. He greets me with a solemn nod and the reverence normally reserved for the funeral of a Head of State. He always removes his shoes before entering. I greet him with a tight-lipped half-smile and a casual head nod normally reserved for two high school athletes passing in the hallway. I'm still in my pajamas, messy hair piled on top of my head. I'm red-nosed and puffy-faced from nursing a wicked cold.<br />
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<b>Dave:</b> How are you doing this morning, ma'am?<br />
<b>Me:</b> [dryly] Well, I haven't slept in two days and there's a wild animal trapped in my bathroom. All in all, I'm not doing so good, Dave.<br />
<b>Dave:</b> I understand, ma'am.<br />
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Poor Dave. He is so frightened of me right now.</div>
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"Do you know the game plan?" I asked. I assume he has been through this all before, and I don't want to tell him what he already knows. He hesitates to answer, as he tries to read my face for clues as to the "correct" answer to my question. Ahh, crap. I'm gonna have to walk <i>him </i>through this. I heave a big sigh and plop onto the sofa as I launch into my explanation:<br />
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<b>Me:</b> Ok, so apparently skunk removal is a tricky maneuver, and so they outsource it to this guy..."Dan the Animal Man" or "Kevin the Animal Dude" or something like that. Ever heard of him?<br />
<b>Dave:</b> No ma'am.<br />
<b>Me:</b> Ahh, well, he's The Guy. Officer Sullivan called him, and I'm told he'll be here as soon as he wakes up.<br />
<b>Dave:</b> [checking his watch] It's 10:00 AM<br />
<b>Me:</b> Yep. My thoughts exactly.<br />
[uncomfortable silence]<br />
<b>Me:</b> Screw it, I'm calling him.<br />
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I search for the phone number on Google.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> <i>Brian</i><br />
<b>Dave:</b> No, I'm <i>Dave</i><br />
<b>Me:</b> No, the "Animal Guy". <i>Brian.</i><br />
<b>Dave: </b><i>Ohhh...</i><br />
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I dial the number and listen as the phone rings and rings. Is that a home answering machine picking up, like the old-fashioned kind? Cool. I leave the following message, in my most cheerful-sounding voice, like he's an old friend:<br />
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<i>"Hey, Brian! It's Samantha, the lady with the skunk trapped in her bathroom. Anyway, I'm just sitting here...me and this skunk...for about nine hours now, and I was just wondering if there is anything I should be doing...or not doing...with this skunk...until you arrive. Thanks so much, byeeeee!"</i><br />
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Dave's jaw goes slack.<br />
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<b>Dave:</b> Wow, ma'am. That's the <i>nicest </i>way I've ever heard somebody say "Hurry up."<br />
<b>Me:</b> [a smile slowly crosses my face] Ya like what I did there, don't ya, Dave? I told that guy to get his ass in gear without using the words "Ass" or "Gear".<br />
<b>Dave:</b> You sure did!<br />
<b>Me:</b> Well, Dave, if there's anything I've learned in this life, it's that there's certain people you don't want to piss off: the person who answers the phones, the person who serves your food, and the person who removes the skunk from your bathroom.<br />
<b>Dave:</b> That is the truth.<br />
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Within 30 minutes, Brian shows up, having already returned my phone call, urging me to stay away from the skunk and promising he was on his way. I am so relieved to see him, and to know that this ordeal is nearly over. I've been avoiding my bedroom and bathroom all day as if there's a bomb inside. Or a dead man. I'm so creeped out right now. That's when Brian gives me the worst news of the day: protocol dictates euthanizing the skunk for removal. What?! I've gone through <i>all this, </i>only to learn that I've merely been babysitting Larry until his executioner arrives? I can tell you one thing, had I known this, I never would have <i>named him. </i>This is all getting really personal. I cover my hands with my face as I bemoan Larry's fate.<br />
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<b>Dave:</b> Are you ok, ma'am?<br />
<b>Me:</b> Dave! He's about to murder an animal in my brand new custom bath! Do you have any idea how much bad juju that is?!<br />
<b>Dave:</b> No ma'am, I do not.<br />
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Brian administers a lethal injection to a sleeping Larry using a really sophisticated, high-tech syringe-taped-to-extension-rod technique. I peek through the door.<br />
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<b>Dave:</b> You really want to <i>watch?</i><br />
<b>Me:</b> Dave, a man is about to die in my house. Attention must be paid.<br />
<b>Dave:</b> Yes ma'am.<br />
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The rest of the removal played out without incident or fanfare. Larry fought the good fight, he went quietly into the good night, he didn't spray his stinky spray all over my brand new custom bath. Dave sent a cleaning crew to erase all evidence that Larry had ever been here. But I'll always know he was here. He damaged one of my fancy Restoration Hardware Turkish Cotton bath towels. So long, Larry. I'll remember you with melancholy fondness. </div>
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Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-22192659212587926602012-07-23T16:41:00.000-05:002012-07-23T16:41:04.880-05:00Robinson is TwoI can't believe my baby boy is two! We celebrated with a Bubble Guppies-themed birthday party the day before his birthday. The Guppies are his <i>favorites.</i> We just invited a few of our favorite toddler friends over for lunch. It turns out that when a dozen small children are involved, there is no such thing as "low key". Our friend Nick described the scene best as "controlled chaos." It was fun though, and the two hour party went by in the blink of an eye. Thanks to everyone who came, and here are some snapshots of the day for those who couldn't be with us!<br />
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xoxo<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspz5C9-f2IgTp2mOsh-Ue9ax4iEOp5b-ghhUZD9E8SDFkGFLa87GVKzTSRPUfOjvMJz51VCH4nSuPjtYIZV8VdVNgjyHHDnlpQ8xbVB71DpC0Wemen7UQ1jQC2X-Ss_MTU2TCLr0LSk9Y/s1600/party+invitation+protected.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspz5C9-f2IgTp2mOsh-Ue9ax4iEOp5b-ghhUZD9E8SDFkGFLa87GVKzTSRPUfOjvMJz51VCH4nSuPjtYIZV8VdVNgjyHHDnlpQ8xbVB71DpC0Wemen7UQ1jQC2X-Ss_MTU2TCLr0LSk9Y/s320/party+invitation+protected.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I've never made invitations before, but this was actually fun.</div>
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Don't ask how long it took to make the bubble curtain or the banner!</div>
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Refreshment table with banana pudding, butterscotch blondies, brownies, and Texas Caviar</div>
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I like the <i>idea </i>of this bubble backdrop, but it made for tricky photography lighting, yes?</div>
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Bubble and water pistols for the kiddos</div>
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Love these boys! So glad <span style="background-color: white;">Uncle Jay was on hand for the occassion!</span></div>
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...and Kelly Bean too! Love my sissy<span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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I made this cake with love...and lots of marshmallow fondant!</div>
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Family Picture</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGjkB8PyKfm_RKXnVVUY-iAJh6TNjfaAmwReTCYmxDzlctzfA4Y5BQ4xtU4VkqLoLP-de3c-H_KAPXg_nQbBQPZXgAJZpbZfd2gfVHnzIVytPknEeC5x7cmqn3H0MW97yXcL_pu3_N1gQ/s1600/birthday+guests.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGjkB8PyKfm_RKXnVVUY-iAJh6TNjfaAmwReTCYmxDzlctzfA4Y5BQ4xtU4VkqLoLP-de3c-H_KAPXg_nQbBQPZXgAJZpbZfd2gfVHnzIVytPknEeC5x7cmqn3H0MW97yXcL_pu3_N1gQ/s320/birthday+guests.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Pizza was a hit with the kids, and easy on us!</div>
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Rob is learning to color in his new Bubble Guppies coloring book<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3Jo8ubzclYIHMFjhJg68gh_J1N9MjZJk7b3n_VmlOkiaXktLVQ8WUZ8o3mMaUG10MO-u7MPzF_pJaFwHRl37-lT17SJ6que5JrR7b2RGcUclen0S-Cwm15_Cnokb5TgMzqumW522ibA7/s1600/Birthday+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3Jo8ubzclYIHMFjhJg68gh_J1N9MjZJk7b3n_VmlOkiaXktLVQ8WUZ8o3mMaUG10MO-u7MPzF_pJaFwHRl37-lT17SJ6que5JrR7b2RGcUclen0S-Cwm15_Cnokb5TgMzqumW522ibA7/s320/Birthday+5.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Birthday Brunch at Cowboy Chow the next day</div>
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Birthday smiles!</div>
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<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-52970783937180813592012-07-02T17:03:00.000-05:002012-07-02T17:03:56.703-05:00Locks of Laziness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The past twelve months have been pretty action-packed for our family. We've moved (twice), attended my brother's wedding, numerous tot birthday parties, and have stayed busy keeping up with our toddler. In the midst of all this, I let a few things slide...like remembering to get a haircut at regular intervals. </div>
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Here's a photo of my hair after my most recent haircut, in November. It's long, right? Well I didn't bother getting a haircut again until MAY. Imagine how much longer my hair grew in six months. You have to <i>imagine, </i>because I sure as hell didn't take pictures!</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1q0qU6xqdJJP2ABF74ByhbK8PLw8bNl2ksqJPN_LSFHqBJ0VszdfcgVyGn8rxGEvP87heds13cq3x8pzbGvkZ8UzylkAZ_tLg5g6RiZ1Wev7VJneVusvkZqIdvXDYI_5UXt0kEtlzXUA/s1600/43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1q0qU6xqdJJP2ABF74ByhbK8PLw8bNl2ksqJPN_LSFHqBJ0VszdfcgVyGn8rxGEvP87heds13cq3x8pzbGvkZ8UzylkAZ_tLg5g6RiZ1Wev7VJneVusvkZqIdvXDYI_5UXt0kEtlzXUA/s400/43.jpg" width="265" /></a><br />
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Since I moved <i>wayyyyy </i>across town, I thought I would try out a new hairstylist in one of the local salons.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I arrive early for my appointment and am greeted by my new stylist, Lindsay. Lindsay has short-and-sassy blonde hair and tattoos that say poetic things about a girl who had the courage to jump and then realized she could fly. Something like that. I stand beside her in stark contrast. My hair, which I normally keep in a ponytail at home, is flowing free and hits at about my waist. She looks like a carefree sort of girl who would be a fan favorite on a reality show. I look Amish. This is not the look for me. Lindsay knows this too, but she will handle this conversation with the care one gives to a Faberge egg. Am I one of those kooky broads who hides behind her mass of hair? Lindsay has no way of knowing, but she knows she doesn't want to upset the crazy hair lady.</span></div>
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<b>Lindsay:</b> [running her hands through my endless strands] So...you want to...keep it <i>long? </i></div>
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<b>Me:</b> Not exactly. See, I have hairorexia, which is a term I made up. You know how anorexics are skinny, but they think that they're not? Well, my hair gets ridiculously long, but when I look in the mirror, it seems average-length to me, and I think that I just got my hair cut a few weeks ago, but then I look at a calendar and realize that it's been seven months, and maybe I should so something about that.</div>
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<b>Lindsay:</b> [nodding slowly] <i>Right?</i></div>
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<b>Me:</b> So yeah, you can cut all this off, I don't care. I mean, don't go <i>crazy</i>, I think it's plain to see I don't have the bone structure to carry off a short hairstyle. </div>
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<b>Lindsay:</b> Yes. But you don't really have an attachment to your hair?</div>
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<b>Me: </b>Oh, I think I obviously have an attachment to my hair, as evidenced by my thrice yearly haircuts.</div>
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<b>Lindsay:</b> Yeah, right.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> But you know, if you cut it a little too short, it's no big whoop. I'll probably forget to make another appointment until Christmas.</div>
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<b>Lindsay: </b>Great!</div>
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I show Lindsay an "inspiration photo" </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3oIWHFMicTbE3jNClu_0OxG3LJpD3t6BKcyXmjgBD0KguHlGfF3AgiAPv3suLs6Cv9kcexoOpvY8nMSG8tc3IR_o3k0QZXYeUwJeI06qo7P-cUPNEwAnqhPf2Sujf0x6x5R9mSFwnr7AO/s1600/Reese+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3oIWHFMicTbE3jNClu_0OxG3LJpD3t6BKcyXmjgBD0KguHlGfF3AgiAPv3suLs6Cv9kcexoOpvY8nMSG8tc3IR_o3k0QZXYeUwJeI06qo7P-cUPNEwAnqhPf2Sujf0x6x5R9mSFwnr7AO/s400/Reese+hair.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://tabathacoffey.com/" style="background-color: white;">Tabatha Coffey</a><span style="background-color: white;"> says it's a good idea to bring photos to consultations with a new stylist, and who am I to argue with Tabatha?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Me:</b> I figured that since we're already cutting so much hair off, we might as well cut enough to donate.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Lindsay:</b> Oh, that's nice! Have you done that before?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Me:</b> Never. But I figured hey, I let my hair get stupid-long for no reason other than I'm absent-minded and apathetic. Might as well help make a wig for a kid in need while I'm at it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Lindsay:</b> That's the spirit.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Me:</b> Oh! Another thing, before I forget--I will <i>always </i>ask for bangs. Don't let me have them. They don't work on me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Lindsay:</b> Got it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I'm donating my hair to <a href="http://www.locksoflove.org/">Locks of Love</a>, whose rules dictate that hair be donated in the form of ponytails that are at least ten inches in length. Lindsay sections my hair into two ponytails, but furrows her brow in hesitation about the drastic cut she's about to make. As she runs her fingers down the length of the strands, she cautiously asks:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Lindsay: </b>So, your husband--does he like you to keep your hair long, or wear it a certain way?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Me:</b> Huh? I mean, he prefers long hair over a pixie cut, but he doesn't really care. He's not Jim Bob Duggar or anything. He doesn't require me to wear waterfall bangs and a home perm...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Lindsay:</b> [relieved, mixed with nervous laughter] Oh, good!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWkJVGboo1uPeS3vnPWs3kRbnsSGTtkR5kWiRp7Pg7RrNSJP1gZcXshjlaOUPHhvK5FYNsxG3jfmJFWE06P1UQpMiJHxZrKw_8F_Dqw7sUnaMmNnz7JaEnXRIsdDlJNq9ijIbs_Hm3gJr/s1600/MichelleDuggar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWkJVGboo1uPeS3vnPWs3kRbnsSGTtkR5kWiRp7Pg7RrNSJP1gZcXshjlaOUPHhvK5FYNsxG3jfmJFWE06P1UQpMiJHxZrKw_8F_Dqw7sUnaMmNnz7JaEnXRIsdDlJNq9ijIbs_Hm3gJr/s400/MichelleDuggar.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I learned a lot from my Locks of Love donation experience:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">1. If you wear your hair too long, people will approach you and speak to you like you're some crazy cat lady or a member of a fundamentalist group who believes that Jesus and the dinosaurs walked the earth together. I will never let my hair be that long again.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">2. When you chop off a ponytail, the remaining hair will be very crooked, so...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">3. Even if you used a ruler to gauge how short your hair will be after you've donated your hair, it will be even shorter.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">4. If you don't like your haircut, but you're happy about the cause for which your hair was cut off, you won't really mind enduring the awkward growing-out phase.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b>The result:</b></span></div>
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bye bye, hair!</div>
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My hair looks nothing like Reese Witherspoon's. To me, it looks like an asymmetrical bubble that I feel compelled to wear pulled back because it looks so odd. I'm not kidding myself, I realize the hairdo pictured above isn't much better. I don't blame Lindsay, because it wasn't her idea to chop off ten inch ponytails. She salvaged my remaining hair as best she could, and just as soon as I have enough hair growth to even out this mess, I'll be back to see her. September. I'm holding myself to that!Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-86126560482994810112012-03-19T07:17:00.000-05:002012-03-19T07:17:00.274-05:00Mischievous, Clever, AffectionateWhen I enrolled Robinson in preschool for next school year, the application asked me to choose the three words that best describe him. I imagine this question is designed to tell the teachers and administrators of the preschool as much about the child as about the parent who fills out the application. I avoid words like "stubborn", which though not inaccurate, carry a negative connotation. I also avoid anything effusive that makes me seem like I lack self-awareness or that I have my head stuck up my kid's butt because I'm just so blindly in awe of this magnificent being I created. Nobody likes that mom, and by extension, that kid. I avoid words like "bright". Everyone thinks their kid is bright. Unless they think their kid is a dope. Then they describe him as "loving". See, I chose "affectionate". That way, when Robinson becomes so overcome with joy and excitement during dance time that he impulsively grabs the nearest child in what can only be described as a bear-hug-like embrace, as he has a history of doing, the teacher will not be surprised, she'll just think, <i>"Ahhh, I get it." </i>And "mischievous" and "clever" is meant to serve as a heads-up that Rob will try to circumvent her safety measures and find loopholes in her rules. At least I find him to be pretty crafty in that way. But totally in an adorable ragamuffin sort of way.<br />
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Robinson has a few words he can use. We call that his "vocabulary". Wanna know more? Read on.<br />
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<b>Puppy:</b> "Puppy" doesn't refer to actual puppies. It only refers to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jingle-Husky-Interactive-Storybook-Hallmark/dp/B004BB874K">Jingle the Husky Pup Interactive Story Pup</a>, a Christmas gift to Robinson from his Auntie Vickie. My mom reported to Vickie that Jingle Puppy is now always at Robinson's side and has become his favorite companion. Vickie's reaction was something like "<i>It is?! Uh, I mean...It is!" </i>Puppy becoming the Six to Rob's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blossom_(TV_series)">Blossom</a> was a development nobody saw coming. You see, Jingle the Husky Pup Interactive Story Pup is intended only to be a companion to night time story books, and these night time story books have Christmas subject matter. So, he's really meant for story time only, and only during Christmas. I tried to pack him away after the holidays so that he would be fresh, exciting, and new next year, and Rob had none of it. He carries him everywhere. They have meals together. Rob likes to gnaw on his face. One morning, I picked Robinson up out of his crib before he had a chance to swipe Puppy, and the whole time I was changing Rob's diaper, he shook his head back and forth with his eyes shut tight, moaning <i>"Pupppeeeee!" </i>To those who respond, <i>"Hmph, what's the big deal?" </i>I would include the information that Puppy has a battery back in his tummy, a speaker in his skull, and if you press the button on his ear, a woman's voice purrs, <i>"Jingle wants to read a story to you". </i>He's <i>so </i>not machine washable, <i>so </i>not designed to live up to the wear and tear of an active toddler, and he's <i>so </i>not prepared to read a story on his own. I imagine this ending months from now, <i>Velveteen Rabbit</i>-style.<br />
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<b>Bubble:</b> "Bubble" refers to <i><a href="http://www.nickjr.com/bubble-guppies/">Bubble Guppies</a>, </i>Robinson's favorite children's TV program. He can't get enough of it, in fact, and when he wants to watch one of the episodes I have saved on my DVR, he walks around the house chanting <i>"Bubble, bubble"</i> until somebody turns it on for him.</div>
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<b>Outside:</b> A word he learned from <i>Bubble Guppies, </i>because they sing a song about going outside every episode, Robinson also happens to <i>love </i>going outside, and since he can say the word, he chants <i>"ow-sad, ow-sad, ow-sad" </i>and opens the back door, teeters over the threshold and steps into the yard. There's no stopping him. No, really. He can't be stopped. I've tried. He loves to just stomp around, barefoot in the grass. If it's wet grass because it's beginning to rain, even better. </div>
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<b>More: </b>pronounced "moe", this word accompanies the gesture of thrusting a sippy cup into my lap, or my favorite, when Robinson picks up my left arm, removes whatever item is in my left hand (or he simply opens my fingers) then he places the cup in my hand. <i>"Moe". </i>I taught him to say that. It is so much nicer than listening to him cry and wail. I used to stare at him calmly, while he was mid-tantrum, and ask, <i>"Do you want more milk? Is that why you're screaming? Just tell me you want more. It doesn't have to be this hard." </i>He sniffled. His face relaxed and tear-free, he hands me his cup and says <i>"Moe". </i>Then I ask him to say "please". He furrows his brow and frowns at me, like he's thinking, <i>"Well, do you want me to say 'more' or do you want me to say 'please'? Which is it? Make up your mind, woman!" </i>I'm working on "please" and "thank you".</div>
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<b>Penny:</b> He loves <i>The Big Bang Theory, </i>and the beautiful Penny is a favorite character. If you don't watch the show, I'll tell you that there is a bit they do every week, where the obsessive-compulsive Sheldon knocks on her door, but his ritual goes like this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2BlUN8viVp4i1Pjy5eq1a1TRow8jiE5sQK5kYkiwugJVFnlmQpSLMN2lnxpb6Sf3oq6gGl_18QyFL5Rv-E75pDr5FrmwDVjHCWMPHMh2ndxVE1kMJAo4YoiT6oeqEVqDAxQjn9C2cHI0/s1600/sheldon+knock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2BlUN8viVp4i1Pjy5eq1a1TRow8jiE5sQK5kYkiwugJVFnlmQpSLMN2lnxpb6Sf3oq6gGl_18QyFL5Rv-E75pDr5FrmwDVjHCWMPHMh2ndxVE1kMJAo4YoiT6oeqEVqDAxQjn9C2cHI0/s320/sheldon+knock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>knock-knock-knock "Penny!"</i></div>
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<i>knock-knock-knock "Penny!"</i>
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<i>knock-knock-knock "Penny!"</i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPeiRrdlk3EGHz1ooWjFzLQzSYS9oiOf2fZDzIlOLUFrTMEIz2MyPZ-945Dd_DGaiI8VEvA19L_bY8ceCPeCVGa_T2IgMm1AojnxUDJusspbshkc_nXBjRPIg60J2B9-GDI6ZrxGun3Iv/s1600/penny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPeiRrdlk3EGHz1ooWjFzLQzSYS9oiOf2fZDzIlOLUFrTMEIz2MyPZ-945Dd_DGaiI8VEvA19L_bY8ceCPeCVGa_T2IgMm1AojnxUDJusspbshkc_nXBjRPIg60J2B9-GDI6ZrxGun3Iv/s1600/penny.jpg" /></a></div>
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So, one afternoon, while I was working on an art project that involves <i>actual pennies, </i>I pulled Robinson onto my lap to show him my progress and asked, <i>"What do you think? See the pennies!" </i>And Robinson smiled and knocked on the dining room table. Three times. Then he said, <i>"Bea". </i>I was a little taken aback, so I asked, <i>"Penny?" </i>Again, he smiled, knocked on the table three times and softly said <i>"Bea." </i>Now, if anybody knocks at the front door, he shouts <i>"Bea!" </i>If he sees a commercial for <i>The Big Bang Theory</i> on TV, he knocks on the nearest hard surface and shouts <i>"Bea!" </i>I'm telling you, if the actress Kaley Cuoco knocked on my front door, and Robinson answered to find the real Penny standing there, it would totally make his decade.</div>
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<b>Mama:</b> Ok, this seems obvious, but wait until you read more. Over the course of decorating the house, I have hung dozens of framed photos on the wall. As you might guess, I appear in many of the photos. Early on, Robinson began pointing at pictures of me, mostly in my wedding dress, and sweetly saying <i>"Mama". </i>I melted, Steve melted, we all clapped and cheered and had a <i>big</i> reaction. What lesson did Robinson take away from this? If you point at a picture and say <i>"Mama", </i>you get applause and kisses and cheers. So guess what happens to every picture Robinson sees? <i>"Mama". </i>Cardboard display of Rachael Ray in Walmart? <i>"[pointing] Mama". </i>Dakota Fanning on the cover of <i>Cosmopolitan </i><i>"[pointing] Mama". </i>Ed Helms on <i>The Hangover 2 DVD </i>in the Walmart checkout aisle? <i>"[pointing] Mama". </i>I get a lot of strange looks from people. Every photographed image is <i>"Mama"</i>, including images of Steve, much to his dismay. Also, anybody who is in a position to <i>do something </i>for Robinson, like give him candy, he calls <i>"Mama". </i>He just thinks <i>"Mama" </i>is an all-purpose word used to win friends and influence people. He isn't wrong. So what does he call me? He doesn't have to call me anything, because I never <i>go away. </i>He just hands me sippy cups and says <i>"Moe"</i>. I very briefly believed that his name for me was <i>"Moe". </i>Sometimes, if he is in the playroom and I am in the kitchen, in a moment of desperation he will dramatically cry <i>"Mahhhh-meeeee". </i>That might be my name.</div>
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Other vocabulary words, shared without anecdotes:</div>
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bye (buh-bye, bye-bye, g'bye)</div>
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uh-oh</div>
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no</div>
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night-night</div>
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up</div>
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Oh, and this <i>one </i>time...<i>one time, </i>I was feeding Robinson his breakfast at the kitchen table. He gazed out the window and saw our dog Libby walking in the backyard. It totally blew his mind that <i>we </i>were inside, on one side of the window, and <i>she </i>was on the other side. His eyes got huge, he pointed at her, grinning, and said <i>"Uh-bee"</i>. I was dumbstruck. <i>"Libby?! You said 'Libby'?!" </i>He did, I swear, and I <i>cannot </i>get him to repeat it! Darn it!</div>
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<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-89261556608001069242012-03-16T15:37:00.000-05:002012-03-16T15:37:18.407-05:00An Open Letter to Celebrities Who Refer to Marriage as "Just a Piece of Paper"This morning, I was reading an excerpt from a recent Jon Hamm interview with <i>Elle UK </i>(via <a href="http://www.celebitchy.com/214221/jon_hamm_on_kim_kardashian_being_a_f--king_idiot_is_a_valuable_commodity/">Celebitchy</a>), and in it he talks about a lot of things, like his 15-year relationship with Jennifer Westfeldt:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaTo2Fd8X0SLHiBl-JcgMbaxL2pZgs2GaX-iCFgINBvwaMwqFVc1d91uu0g_oznsFGVKp_17qJ2MF4c7ojIojtgLy3O0vUBS5iJQHITQiQ0unT6Ow9k4XNeP3KNcFxnRsZHCewEBvLVlq/s1600/jon+hamm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaTo2Fd8X0SLHiBl-JcgMbaxL2pZgs2GaX-iCFgINBvwaMwqFVc1d91uu0g_oznsFGVKp_17qJ2MF4c7ojIojtgLy3O0vUBS5iJQHITQiQ0unT6Ow9k4XNeP3KNcFxnRsZHCewEBvLVlq/s400/jon+hamm.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<i>"Having a piece of paper serves to remind you of your commitment, but we do a pretty good job of reminding each other."</i><br />
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The statement isn't all that controversial or original. Celebrities in long-term relationships who choose not to marry are regularly faced with questions about why they aren't married, and the "it's just a piece of paper" argument is their go-to defense. I guess since my own wedding anniversary is this weekend, the comment hit a little close to home. I thought, <i>A piece of paper? What, like the marriage license, or the marriage certificate, because I think the marriage license is on file in the county courthouse. I guess he means marriage certificate. I wonder where my marriage certificate is? Crap. I hope I didn't lose it in the move. No way. I put it somewhere safe, for sure. I think it's in my special "memory box" where I keep a lock of my son's hair and a poem my vet gave me when he put my dog to sleep about how I'll see my dog again at the Rainbow Bridge when I get to Heaven. Yeah, I'm sure that's where it is. Whew.</i><br />
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<i>The blogger and her husband on their wedding day, signing the church marriage record.</i></div>
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Yeah, the piece of paper. That's totally why I got married.</div>
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During our six years of marriage, whenever we've had a dispute, one of us has waved that piece of paper to remind the other of our commitment...zero times. In fact, it's interviews like Jon Hamm's that serve to remind me that I even <i>have </i>a piece of paper. </div>
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I guess The Hamm is marginalizing marriage as "a piece of paper", because if it were more meaningful than that, he should have done it already. I don't think that people who subscribe to that belief realize that it can be a little offensive to those of us who are married, and who consider marriage much more significant than the paper on which the legal record is printed. Then again, it's not the job of the unmarried to validate my life choice. Isn't it the role of the married people to make those who chose the "alternative lifestyle" of remaining unmarried to feel inadequate or like they need to explain themselves? No, but these sorts of magazine interviews, like Jon Hamm's in <i>Elle UK</i>, and countless others before it perpetuate this. </div>
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I considered this further, while taking my son for a stroll through the neighborhood. What if Steve and I <i>hadn't </i>gotten married? I don't mean what if we hadn't <i>stayed together. </i>Ha. We were always going to be together. We're like Ross and Rachel. Hmm...comparing us to Ross and Rachel ages me a bit, yes? <i>Friends </i>ended eight years ago. What TV couple do youngsters reference nowadays when talking about a couple who breaks apart then reunites, because everyone knows they're meant to be together? I guess we're like Leonard and Penny.</div>
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So, if I were to postulate an alternate universe, wherein Steve and I share a home and a life and a child, everything that comes with being married, <i>except </i>we did not stand up in a chapel in a white dress and a tux in front of friends and family and make a solemn vow to God that we will stay together until we die, would our life in this alternate universe be any different from our real life, save for the legal document that serves as evidence that a wedding ceremony took place?</div>
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Well, for starters, I would have a bare wall where my wedding photos are hung...</div>
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But beyond that, what else? In most love stories, marriage is the grand finale. And they lived happily ever after. As a married couple. I mean, what if Ali and Noah never got married in <i>The Notebook?</i></div>
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What if, instead of Noah's famous "So it's not gonna be easy" speech, he proposed an alternate lifestyle? It might have gone something like this:</div>
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<i><b>Noah:</b> I wanna cohabitate with you indefinitely. I don't know if that means we can file a joint tax return, or if we'll still have to file separately, but I wanna merge all of our assets. I'd even cosign on a loan with you. That's how serious I am. And maybe someday we'll have a baby. Your Memaw will disapprove of our child-out-of-wedlock, because it goes against her religious beliefs, but after awhile she'll only grumble about it at family get-togethers. And it's always going to be a pain in the ass when there's a new teacher at daycare, and you have to explain why you and our baby don't have the same last name so they don't think you're trying to kidnap your own child, but they'll get used to it. We'll have a joint checking account, and become so financially immeshed that even if we wanted to break up, years from now, it would take a team of skilled lawyers to sort out the tangled wreckage of what they'll call a "common-law marriage", despite the great lengths we will have gone to avoid such titles. Are we gonna fight? Sure. Ours is a stormy love. But we'll stay together forever, and not because of a piece of paper! Because we choose to stay together! Every day!</i></div>
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Isn't that the most romantic prose you've ever read? So, without the marriage certificate, would old-man Noah have gone to visit old-lady Ali in the long-term care facility every day as her health was failing? I hope so. Is "not needing a piece of paper" really the best reason cohabitating monogamous couples can offer for not marrying? Can they offer a reason that doesn't involve business or finance? I can't answer that, nor can I say whether the life and the relationship shared between two monogamous, cohabitating people is more or less satisfying or meaningful than that of a married couple*, so I asked myself why <i>I</i> think people get married. </div>
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I think that the decision to marry is a sign of optimism. I think it is a bold declaration to the world, that you intend to make a permanent commitment. More than legal, it's formal; it's public. Also, it's pretty sweet and romantic. And for many, it's traditional, and has much to do with the couple's religious upbringing and beliefs. To those who dismiss the institution of marriage as merely a piece of paper, I'll give them a pass. But those of us who are happy to be married, well, we know better, don't we?</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Blogger's Note: I can say that I've had a front row seat for the break-up of one of these unmarried, cohabitating couples, and it's every bit as messy and painful as a divorce. In fact, in a lot of ways it was worse, because dividing the assets and responsibilities was ambiguous, as there were no divorce proceedings to sort things out. Break-ups are hard for everybody. </span></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-32718537016114197872012-03-14T07:25:00.000-05:002012-03-14T07:25:00.150-05:00Wordless Wednesday | Technicolor Photo Wall Hallway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-9817136534680202252012-03-12T07:04:00.000-05:002012-03-12T07:04:00.172-05:00Of Toddlers and Easter BooksI recently enjoyed a rare outing alone. I went to Barnes and Noble, where I picked up Mindy Kaling's new book and another Chuck Klosterman book. As I was standing in the long checkout line that snaked around partitions and tables of seasonal books targeting impulse buyers like myself, I began examining a table of children's books about Easter. Steve and I were just talking the other day about Robinson's Easter basket, and now that I'm shopping without Rob, this is the perfect opportunity to pick up something from the Easter Bunny! My train of thought during the three minutes spent perusing the table was something like this:<br />
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<i>Let's see..."Guess How Much I Love You"...he already has that one. Ooh, a Berenstain Bears Easter book! I loved Berenstain Bears when I was little...this could start his own collection! Oh, I read online that Jan Berenstain died last week. That's so sad. Hmm...this is actually a pop-up book, and Robinson thinks the point of pop-up books is to rip the pop-ups out of the book. I don't like him to deface books. And if I buy him an "Easter" book, I'll want to only keep it on his bookshelf during Easter time, then I'll pack it away, and what's the fun in that? I know! I will pick a book that is Easter-ish, like this book about farm animals! Rob likes farm stuff. Maybe I'll make that the theme of his third birthday party. How is a farm Easter-ish? Why is it on the Easter book table? Oh, because farms have chicks, and chicks hatch from eggs. Easter. Eggs. Gotcha. Actually, that would be good for his Easter basket. Only, it's a small board book, and he seems to gravitate towards larger books. Ugh, I'm feeling some Protestant guilt that none of the books I'm considering say anything about Jesus. I'm sending a wrong message that Easter is only about bunnies. Oh, but he's only one. What's wrong with a book about eggs? Hmm...come to think of it, Rob wouldn't like any of these books. I'll look elsewhere. None of these are right for Rob.</i><br />
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Lucky for me, the line advanced forward and I was free from the shackles of agonizing over which Easter-themed children's book to not buy for my nineteen month old. That's when the realization hit me, and I felt a huge grin across my face: My son has grown up and developed his own personality to the point where I can reasonably disqualify an entire table of perfectly good children's books. It's difficult to explain, but there is something so gratifying about bringing a tiny human into this world, and then watching him slowly evolve from helpless, expressionless, sleeping, eating, swaddled newborn, to the fully-formed toddler he is today. And Steve and I are the only people who could have glanced at that table of books and formed the same conclusion. It made me oddly giddy.Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-37999407880822196062012-02-20T15:11:00.000-06:002012-02-20T15:11:03.898-06:00"Don't Talk About Me Like I'm Not Here!"<br />
I don't really read "parenting material", but I picked up a nugget of advice somewhere; it was something along the lines of not openly humiliating your baby or toddler by pointing out embarrassing or unflattering truths. For instance, don't crinkle up your nose and announce <i>"You're stinky, eww!"</i> when your kid takes a shadoobie in his diaper and is, well, stinky. Eww. Ok, makes sense. I mean, he's just a baby. It's not his fault if he's stinky. Actually, it's <i>my </i>fault if he's stinky. Duly noted.<br />
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In that spirit, Steve and I try not to name-call or refer to Robinson in a negative way. Especially in his presence. I once declared that a teething Robinson was acting like a little monster, and Steve was horrified that I said it in front of infant Robinson. In my defense, he <i>was </i>acting like a little monster. And I mistakenly thought that Lady Gaga nicknaming her fans "Little Monsters" as a term of endearment made it ok for me to use the term to describe my baby. Big mistake. Huge.<br />
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Steve and I gradually developed a number of code names to identify Robinson's numerous and ever-changing personas. It's an easy way to de-brief with one another during the day, and if we're describing not-so-nice behavior, we can do it without tipping him off that we're talking about him.<br />
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Meet Robinson's Alter Egos:<br />
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<b>Velcro Baby: </b>He's attached to me at the hip. He accepts no substitutions. Closely related to <b>Linus</b>. I've learned that if you try really hard, there's just about nothing you can't do with a baby on your hip. Apply mascara. Tie your own shoelaces. Scoop and dispose of dog poop. I know, I know. I don't <i>like </i>gloating about the glamorous life I lead, but it's essential to telling the story.<br />
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<b>Linus:</b> He's a mild-mannered chap. He always clutches a blanket and has his thumb in his mouth. He's very sweet and snuggly. I'm especially fond of Linus.<br />
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<b>Squirmy McFidgets:</b> He never sits still. Trying to keep hold of Squirmy is like trying to catch a greased pig. It's exhausting.<br />
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<b>Pig Pen: </b>This guy! No matter what I do, he looks like he's auditioning for the role of "Street Urchin" in a revival of <i>Oliver! </i>And he really, really doesn't like when I try to wipe his face and hands.<br />
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<b>El Diablo:</b> He's inconsolable and incorrigible. He screams. He throws things. He's red faced. He is what happens when two stubborn, feisty people procreate.<br />
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<b>Pterodactyl Baby:</b> We meet this creature whenever El Diablo's behavior goes unchecked, escalates, or cannot be contained. It produces an ear-piercing animalistic sound not heard outside a movie based on a Michael Crichton book. Anyone who has been on the phone with me when Pterodactyl Baby unleashes himself can attest to this.<br />
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<b>Mr. Magoo: </b>He teeters. He totters. He weebles. He wobbles. He lacks coordination and focus, and seems precariously perched on the verge of an epic accident or stumble, but he manages to avoid disaster, to the astonishment of onlookers.<br />
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<b>Back Washington:</b> What can I say about this fellow? Well, for starters, he's thirsty. He wants to drink after you. But you <i>don't</i> want to drink after him.<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-68402728016422666162012-01-30T20:32:00.000-06:002012-01-30T20:32:59.595-06:00Two Mutts and a TotWow! It's been a while, right? Things are really different here. For example...<br />
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I don't live here anymore:<br />
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I live here.</div>
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I don't take pictures of Robinson in his chair with Laney every month.<br />
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I sold the chair on Craigslist, and due to Laney's building resentment and acts of aggression towards Robinson, our vet has strongly advised that Robinson and Laney keep a safe distance from one another. Laney hides like a cat, and Robinson...well Robinson runs through the house like a streak of lightening from sunrise to sunset.<br />
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Robinson is a total handful and a pure joy. He turned 18 months last week. I was late in scheduling his official 18-month pediatrician appointment, so I'll write a post about Rob when I can publish his stats. Or when I have a free moment. Whichever comes first.<br />
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An interesting thing about moving is seeing the way your furniture and decorative items translate from your old home to your new home. In our case, the new house has a playroom and clearly defined hallways, and this has created additional wall space for decorating with art projects! All the time I used to spend blogging is now spent trolling Pinterest for ideas, shopping at the hardware and craft stores, and creating my arts and crafts to decorate our new house. It has been lots of fun, and in the coming weeks I'll post photos!<br />
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I've been at a loss for blogging inspiration, but I want to try to recommit to writing. I love having written records of our adventures and experiences. This time with Robinson is one of the happiest of our lives, but chasing a toddler is exhausting! My only hope of preserving these happy memories is through the blog. I tell you all this to explain why some of my future posts may be about events that took place in the recent past, because I want to get it in writing before I forget it entirely! Please bear with me through these first few wordy and long-winded posts--I tend to ramble when I've gotten rusty with my writing.<br />
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I have missed the interaction with all my "blog buddies", so whether you comment on my posts directly, or on the links I post to my Facebook page, I want to say a big "Howdy!" to ya, and hope that we're still friends after this huge absence!Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-78240326826754790592011-12-08T12:54:00.000-06:002011-12-08T12:54:00.090-06:00Misty Doesn't KnowIn this season of hope and charity, I hesitate to report this sad news, but I've put it off for long enough:<br />
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Misty got fired, y'all!<br />
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Let me rewind a click for those who need to be brought up to speed. The Methadone Scarecrow, a.k.a. Misty, was my brother's co-worker for two or three years. She sat at a desk near my brother, and her propensity to overshare, her habit of jabbering incessantly, her absence of a filter, complete lack of inhibition or shame, and her eagerness to share her usually misguided and uninformed opinions was the stuff of frustration for my brother. Wisely, Jarred realized a long time ago that if he couldn't find a way to laugh at Misty, he might go insane. Thus, the Misty emails began. Jarred would type up their daily dialogue and forward it to a few folks, much to my delight. I laughed. I cried. I wet my pants a little. A <i>little</i>.<br />
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As I began writing this blog last year, I thought that my friends reading might enjoy Misty as much as I do. Folks seemed to respond to the posts, and I since I sometimes need extra blogging material, periodically I would update readers with Misty's latest ramblings. Still need a memory refresher? Click <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/05/play-misty-for-me.html">here</a> to meet Misty. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/06/misty-watercolor-memories.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/07/motivational-misty.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/08/tardy-for-partyoops-i-meant-to-say.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/08/thats-what-misty-said.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/09/misty-monday-morning.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/10/secret-agent-misty.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/10/workplace-gossip.html">here</a>. And <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2010/11/misty-wordsmith.html">here</a>. And one of my <a href="http://threemuttsandababy.blogspot.com/2011/04/what-misty-likes.html">favorites</a>.<br />
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To those who asked: No, Misty doesn't know that I blog about her, and now that she's been canned, and I expect she'll never know. To those who wonder <i>why </i>Misty got fired: Come <i>on.</i> Haven't we been secretly wondering this whole time how she managed to keep her job <i>this</i> long? I know I asked myself that question. I asked Jarred. He shrugged.<br />
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Now, I am left with two options with how to distribute what remains of my as-yet-unpublished "Misty correspondence". I mean, it's not her best material, I pretty much posted all the good stuff, but I feel like I have to put it <i>all </i>out there. Do I roll it all out in this post, which has already gotten a little long, or do I publish part of it today, and the remainder at a to-be-determined date in the future? What? What's that you said? Save some for later? Ok! Here's a Misty Snippet for your afternoon. Savor it.<br />
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<b>Misty:</b> Did you hear the government banned light bulbs?</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jarred:</b> Get out of here!<br /><b>Misty: </b> No really, they couldn't stop the block on the ban of the bulbs</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jarred:</b> What?<br /><b>Misty: </b> I mean they didn't ban the block...the banning of the bulbs</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jarred: </b>Use your words<br /><b>Misty: </b> Crap let me look it up, they did something</span></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-53710774581280669692011-11-23T10:27:00.001-06:002011-11-23T13:53:31.373-06:00You See Your Gypsy: Lace and Paper Flowers Not IncludedHi, friends! It's been a while, yes? I had to actually take a peek at my blog to see where I left off. A lot has happened since my last post...<br />
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<b>We sold our house</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Goodbye House! In my grand tradition, I made a Shutterfly book to remember it by.</span></div>
As I was driving around with my Two Mutts and a Tot while Real Estate Agents showed my house to potential buyers, I had all sorts of blog inspiration to write about my experiences selling my home. I may go back and post later on, maybe not. I had the good fortune of getting my house under contract in a mere eight days, and was given 26 days for my home inspection, appraisal, making requested home repairs, packing, securing temporary apartment housing...it was a whirlwind of planning and activity that left me too preoccupied to blog!<br />
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<b>We were homeless...for seven days</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">All of this change has been rough on Robinson</span></div>
Big thanks to our friends and family who graciously welcomed us into their homes during the week between vacating our old house and taking possession of our temporary apartment! It turns out that there <i>is </i>a difference between sleeping in someone else's home because you're <i>on</i> <i>vacation </i>and sleeping in someone else's home because <i>you have no home. </i>We're lucky to have good friends and family to help make the transition as smooth and comfortable as possible.<br />
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<b>My brother got married!</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Happy Couple</span></div>
In 2000, I was working as a hostess at J. Alexander's with this fabulous girl named Kelly. We soon became friends, and, as friends often do, we went to parties together! It was at one of these parties at Steve's apartment that I introduced her to my brother. The events that unfolded, and the ways our lives intersected over the eleven years that followed is the stuff of romantic comedies. Like all romantic comedies, this story has a happy ending: a wedding! I am so happy, and I have to tell you--their wedding was <i>so fun! </i>Like, so fun that I want to do it again. I wish I had a wedding photo to share, but maybe later I can update.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Photos by <a href="http://steelphoto.com/">Steel Photography</a></span></div>
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<b>Two Adults, Two Mutts, and a Tot in 600 Square Feet</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I slept here ^</span></div>
"It's only six weeks, let's move in with the least amount of stuff possible..." Yeah. So, the mattress is on the floor, the clothes are in suitcases, and the food is of the microwaveable-comes-in-its-own-bowl variety. If you want to look at our living situation as "camping", I'd say it's a pretty sweet set-up. We have electricity, cable, and indoor plumbing. The only downside is the dogs have wicked separation anxiety since I picked them up from vet boarding after nine days. Laney acts like she just graduated from a Scared Straight program. She has barely so much as grumbled at Rob since returning to us. It's as if she believes she was sent to the kennel for being aggressive towards my son. Their anxiety has reached such a fever pitch that they cannot be left alone, for fear that their incessant barking would lead to our eviction--and as I've covered previously: homelessness < not being homeless. I imagined these six weeks would fly by, enjoying the outdoors with Robinson, running errands, picking out paint and fabric for the new house...if I want to do any of those things, I have to load up the dogs and take them to Steve at work. You see, when disclosing my pet information to the apartment leasing manager, I sort of fudged on Laney's size...and neglected to mention Libby altogether. You can probably understand why I'm trying to keep a low profile. So, that's the story of why we are hunkered down in this campsite like gypsies. Today is day 15 out of 42. Sigh.<br />
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Oh, and in case you were wondering, Two Mutts and a Tot outdoors together = Mama tangled up in leashes, skittish mutts and screaming Tot.<br />
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<b>We Are Getting A New Home for Christmas!</b><br />
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We're so excited, we can hardly stand the wait, but it will be oh-so-worth it!</div>
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Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! Our family is extra thankful this year! xoxo</div>
<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-34808176326124692762011-10-11T14:08:00.000-05:002011-12-05T13:55:58.392-06:00I Put My House on the Market. Three months ago. I'm Exhausted.Ok, full disclosure: I started this post back in September when I had just listed our house for sale. I was wide awake early one morning and jittery (probably from the stout pot of coffee I brewed) and so I attempted to tap out a post about my experiences selling our home. It was really rambling and disjointed, so I never published it. Here is the condensed version, mostly for Steve and me to remember the experience. Maybe you've bought or sold a home and have some of your own experiences to share? I'd love to read about it.<br />
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Selling one's home can't usually be done on a whim. Much preparation is required. First, I interview my Realtor. There are so many options when choosing a real estate agent. How was I to proceed? Basically, I selected one of the largest Realty companies in the city and scanned the agent directory until I found the agent with the most professional headshot (not the Glamour Shot where the agent is pretending to talk on her phone. <i>"Get it? I'm so committed to you, the client, I'll take your call any time. And I mean <b>any time</b>."</i>) An impressive website was the real clincher. You know whose website didn't impress me? The agent whose mission statement highlighted her goals for the year 2002. So...how <i>did </i>2002 work out for you? This website doesn't bode well for your attention to detail and your demonstrated ability to follow up. Also, I automatically eliminated agents whose email addresses contained their birthday, zodiac sign, or favorite hobbies. I'm sorry, if I had to give up "sassiestgirluknow@hotmail.com" when I graduated college and entered the work force, you have to grow up and get an email that legitimizes your profession. It's only fair. That is, if you expect me to entrust you with the sale of my most valuable asset. There are so many real estate agents out there, and I just don't feel comfortable emailing my agent at "luvs_2_dance@yourmomshouse.com." I need to feel like selling real estate is your top priority, not some side gig you use to pay the bills until your acting career takes off.<br />
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But I digress. I reasoned that the Realtor who best markets<i> herself</i> would likely best market my home. I don't have the wherewithal for this to be a long and drawn out process. I have set a goal of being in my new home by Christmas, an ambitious but not unrealistic goal. I need a winner working for me to get this house sold, and my listing agent is a damn champ! Once she tours my home and begins pointing out the areas where potential buyers might find objections, I get to work with the help of a handy man. The hot pink laundry room is one, which I accept even though I love my hot pink laundry room.<br />
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The other major change was the carpet in the master bath. Yeah, you read that correctly. Until two weeks ago, my master bathroom was <i>carpeted. </i> Let me just say that a carpeted bathroom is one of the worst ideas ever, right up there with the classic children's toy "Bag O' Glass".<br />
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Next, the handy man comes to make the requested improvements. Handy man is polite and courteous, but not what I would consider friendly; despite my attempts at friendly banter, his demeanor is very flat. This sorta bums me out. Why do I feel like I have to make friends with everyone I meet? I don't know, but the man caulked my tub, which is more than I can say for any of my friends. He may lack charisma, but damn it if he isn't handy.<br />
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After my home has been improved, I have thoroughly cleaned out all my cabinets and closets so that my home appears spacious, and I have packed up all my tchotchkes (yeah, that's the correct spelling of "chotchkies", and thanks to me, you just learned something new today. You're welcome) and other personal items that make the house look like <i>someone actually lives here</i>, a professional stager hired by my Realtor comes in to rearrange furniture and add decorative elements that at the same time make the house look <i>more </i>furnished and <i>less </i>lived in. I thought I knew what staging was about, but I had no idea. For instance, she removed my fluffy, expensive white Restoration Hardware towels from my double towel bar, replaced it with some paper-thin brown towel and tied a tulle bow around it. Additionally, she placed a basket filled with about a dozen wash cloths on my counter, and placed some sort of "decorative accessory" resembling a sheaf of wheat and a sign that says "Relax" on the seat of my garden tub. (Side note: Telling Steve that <i>"Frankie says..."</i> and pointing at the bathtub sign <i>never </i>stopped being funny to me). So...my bathroom has never had more towels, but I'm not allowed to touch <i>any of them. </i>And the sheaf of wheat and the sign instructing me to "Relax" makes me do the opposite. Ok, I think I get it now. You want to fill the house with generic decorations to make the house look full, but you want it to be impersonal enough so that the buyer can visualize themselves in the house and not think about the fact that anyone has <i>ever </i>bathed in that bathtub. Basically I'm living in a model home. I feel like Michael Bluth.<br />
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Welcome to Sudden Valley!</div>
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Then she goes to my guest room, and her singular improvement is to turn down one corner of the bed. Wait, I'm confused--I thought the house was supposed to look like nobody lives here. Doesn't the turned down bed imply that someone may sleep here later? Unless we're showing this house to Goldilocks, this seems counterintuitive. I still have so much to learn.<br />
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After a whirlwind week of preparation, the house goes on the market. I had no idea how <i>strange </i>this would feel. Why? Let me count the ways:<br />
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1. There are photos of my house on the internet. Photos of every room of my house. There is a <i>virtual tour </i>online. Thousands of strangers can see where I sleep. I realize that isn't the same as thousands of strangers <i>watching </i>me sleep, but it's still unnerving on some level.<br />
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2. Strangers will tour my home outside my presence, make judgments and comment on whether they like or dislike my home, and I will receive feedback. I've been judged before; I competed in a couple <strike>beauty pageants</strike> scholarship programs and I went through sorority rush, and I know I was sized up and discussed, but I never had to hear about it later. I suddenly feel vulnerable. This is <i>my </i>home. I am a stay-at-home mom primarily responsible for the decoration and maintenance of this place. I know I'm not supposed to take this criticism personally, but if people dislike my home--it isn't pretty enough or sparkly enough--how is that not a reflection on me? If this house doesn't sell, I'll feel like a failure.<br />
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3. Preparing for a showing is not unlike <i>Mission: Impossible. </i>Robinson and I are enjoying our Saturday morning in the living room when a message appears on my phone:<br />
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THERE IS A SHOWING REQUEST ON SAT 9/24 @ 11:45-12:45. REPLY WITH YES TO CONFIRM OR NO TO DECLINE<br />
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It's like saying, "A stranger wants to snoop through your house, and possibly buy it from you. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to clean up this mess, make your house look like nobody lives in it, pack up your kid and your dogs and haul ass out of here. You have one hour. This message will self-destruct in 60 seconds"<br />
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It is then I begin running around the house, like Jane and Michael Banks tidying up the nursery:<br />
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A key element in successfully selling one's home is to create an atmosphere where the buyer can visualize herself and her belongings in her future home. Part of that requires that the Potential Future Lady of the House never sees the Current Lady of the House. Buyer walks in the front door, seller walks out the back door, and never the two shall meet. I did have a couple of close calls where I was attempting to make a to-go cup for Robinson, and once where I was backing out of the driveway and remembered that I left my engagement ring inside. I stopped the garage door, ran in the house, heard the Realtor's voice calling <i>"Hello?"</i> from the front door, frantically darted into my bedroom, retrieved my diamonds and hauled ass to the nearest exit, breathless and with my heart racing. I had no idea that breaking in and out of your own house could be so suspenseful! I later told Amy, <i>"I am my own cat burglar". </i>It's a weird feeling, being a grown woman and sneaking in and out of my own house.Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-86744040005313622252011-10-06T23:06:00.000-05:002011-10-06T23:06:14.363-05:00My Next 30 Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hey, guess what? I turned 30 on Tuesday! I know, I didn't make a huge deal about it. No big "Birthday" post this year. It got me to thinking about my friends who make <i>huge </i>deals about their birthdays. You know the types, they begin discussing it in detail for several weeks leading up to the birthday, that way nobody can have an excuse for forgetting. They will often declare that their birthday isn't simply one <i>day, </i>that they celebrate a birth<i>week </i>or even a birth<i>month. </i>For these friends, a sheet cake and a card are never sufficient. At the minimum, there is a party, but ideally there would be an entire vacation.<br />
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I have never been one of these people, and this is partly because of <i>when </i>my birthday occurs. Being born in a month like October, I cannot plunge a flag into the calendar and call the entire month mine. I can't change the name to "Samtober". It's not <i>mine </i>to take. October belongs to Autumn leaves, and football season, and Pumpkin Spice lattes, and Halloween, and Oktoberfest, and pumpkin patches and Columbus Day. If all of my family and friends can manage to stop whatever they're busy doing to call me/text me/Facebook me within the 24-hours of my <i>actual </i>birthday, I consider it a Happy Birthday. There is no big 30th bash for me. My birthday is on a Tuesday. My husband left for a week-long business trip that happens every year at this time. And I have a toddler who is with me constantly. (No, I still haven't hired a babysitter. I have control issues.)<br />
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Ok, so everybody makes a big deal about turning 30. It's a milestone birthday, and milestone birthdays are a time for self-reflection and goal setting. Well, let me clarify: milestone birthdays <i>can </i>be for self-reflection and goal setting, but I'd say that 30 is probably the <i>first </i>milestone birthday for this. The previous milestone birthdays are associated with other things:<br />
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1: cake<br />
13: insert chosen "teenage" privileges here (makeup, phones, whatever)<br />
16: driving<br />
18: voting and legal adulthood<br />
21: drinking<br />
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And...then you're 30. Turning 30 means joining a new club, a new demographic, taking on a new identity. You're a "thirtysomething". It also means that your membership in the twentysomething club is abruptly revoked, and that a major part of your identity--the age group to which you belong--is gone. Think about it, advertisers trying to win my business will market to me differently now. True story.<br />
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How does it feel to turn 30? Well, imagine you've never been to...<i>Italy</i>. You've heard about it. You've studied it in school. You've seen photos and movies set in Italy. Your friends have been there. You have an <i>idea </i>of what it would be like to visit, and you've thought about it. You've just never <i>experienced </i>Italy. So, one day, you fly to Italy. You step off the plane, take a look around, and--much to your surprise--discover that Italy looks a lot like Austin, Texas. You've been to Austin, and you love it. Italy is remarkably similar. It isn't mysterious or unknown. It's a lot more familiar than you expected. Now, this is just an analogy of course. I really haven't been to Italy and I'm not trying to say that it in <i>any</i> way resembles Austin. But, what I <i>am </i>attempting to illustrate, however poorly, is that turning 30 is like a long-awaited voyage to a far away land that feels surprisingly comfortable. Unlike, say, a trip to the moon, which is how some people act when talking about a looming milestone birthday. <br />
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Of course, there are other issues to face when turning 30, because this is the first milestone birthday where people begin to think about things like aging and mortality, and let's be serious--that can be sort of a bummer. I have a friend who turned 50 a few years ago. He's a darling man. Imagine if Rock Hudson had collagen lip injections...<br />
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He explained to me that milestone birthdays in and of themselves typically aren't a reason to get the blues. It's when you reach a milestone birthday while at the same time feeling unhappy or dissatisfied with your station in life that a person gets a case of the sads. If, for instance, you are in a co-dependent relationship with an emotionally unavailable commitment-phobe, or that temp position you took as a receptionist right out of college has turned into your job for the past five years, or you're living in your parents' basement, a milestone birthday can shake you to the core. It can send you down a shame spiral, <i>or </i>it can be a catalyst to make you stop being complacent and start a fresh new chapter. Maybe take that trip you planned to take "someday" or take a risk you've been putting off out of fear. </div>
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So, I've made it to 30. I have a happy family and I enjoy my life, but now what? What does "thirtysomething Samantha" want to do? I've got a few ideas:<br />
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1. I want to be a jogger. Why? Because honest-to-goodness "joggers" are physically fit pretty much 100% of the time, and jogging is free. Seems like a logical decision to maintain my overall wellness. Full disclosure: I have never run <i>voluntarily</i> unless I was earning college credit. Seriously, I took a class in college called "Jogging". I made an "A". For the Final, I think I ran a 15-minute mile or something equally ridiculous. To help me ease into running I am attempting the <a href="http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml">Couch-to-5k program</a>. So far, I have run exactly once. Stay tuned.<br />
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2. I want to participate in something that isn't all about <i>me. </i>Perhaps something in my future neighborhood, some sort of charity work. I didn't even want to talk about it here, because I don't want to sound like some sort of do-gooder announcing <i>"Look how charitable I am. Aren't I a great person?", </i>but it's something I'm thinking about. I haven't really thought this through completely, but I figure there is more to life than online shopping and Pinterest and attempting to jog, so I'm gonna check it out and get back to you. Also, it would be nice to meet other grown-ups. At this point I spend most of my days jibber-jabbering with Robinson in some made up language that only he can understand. I may be losing my grip on reality.<br />
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3. I am decorating my new house in neutral colors. I know, shocking. The kaleidoscope color scheme that appeared in my current home will not be repeated. It's time to live in a grown-up house, and my grown-up house should have grown-up things, such as...<br />
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4. A wine refrigerator. I think my new house should have a wine refrigerator, and other accoutrements that say, <i>"I'm a sophisticated, grown-up lady".</i> I don't know why the wine fridge speaks to me on this level. I think it says, <i>"I am an adult, so I drink wine, and I am successful, so I have enough money to purchase a wine fridge along with several bottles of wine at one time to </i>necessitate<i> a wine fridge, and I'm sophisticated enough to care about serving my wine at the proper temperature". </i>I've given this some thought. Help me out, what other items or possessions make up the trappings of sophisticated adulthood?<br />
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5. I want to be the friend who remembers birthdays early enough to send out a birthday card. In the actual mail. For some reason, that sort of thoughtful attention to detail says "I'm a grown-up" What other habits or behaviors should I adopt now that I'm the big 3-0?Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-58606679029778766422011-10-03T07:46:00.000-05:002011-10-03T07:46:00.184-05:00Your Handy House Hunting Translator<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Be vewy quiet, I'm hunting for a three bedroom, two bathroom with walk-in closets!"</span></i></div>
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House hunting and preparing to list our house for sale has introduced me to a whole host of buzz words commonly used in real estate that I rarely have the opportunity to use in any other area of my life. Oh, and these words are almost always used in the first line of a real estate listing. For the uninitiated, here is a rundown of my personal favorite Real Estate terms:<br />
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<b>Sparkling: </b>Previously only used to describe Edward Cullen's skin and my personality, sparkling is *the* word that needs to best describe your home, specifically your home's surfaces like counter tops and floors. I have spent hours viewing homes that "really sparkle". Sidenote: I now use the word "sparkle" on a daily basis, and I am incapable of saying "sparkle" without incorporating an enthusiastic set of "jazz hands". I just need you to know this.<br />
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<b>Delight:</b> An ideal kitchen is characterized as a "chef's delight". This typically means that there is ample counter space, a sizeable oven, and there are often upgrades such as granite counters, stainless appliances and a gas stove (my personal favorite feature). When viewing photos of a "chef's delight kitchen", I immediately picture the Cinnamon Toast Crunch chefs running around the kitchen, jubilantly preparing Cinnamon Toast. Sometimes the Pillsbury Dough Boy and Chef Boyardee are there too. All are delighted, of course.<br />
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<b>Oversized:</b> An oversized mortgage is bad, but an oversized breakfast nook? Delightful. Especially if it sparkles.<br />
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<b>Boast:</b> In her song "Gossip Folks", Missy Elliott proudly announces, "I don't brag, I mostly boast". Your mama told you not to be boastful, but when it comes to your real estate, boast away. Your kitchen can boast granite counter tops, your entry can boast hardwood floors, your bathroom can boast a jetted tub. But if you buy this house, you shouldn't boast to your friends. It's tacky.<br />
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<b>Delightful/Cute/Adorable/Charming: </b>These words are selected when characterizing a lovely home under 2000 square feet. They're trying to accentuate the positive. Kind of like when a plus-size dress is described as "flattering".<br />
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<b>Completely updated:</b> "You should have seen what a train wreck this place <i>used </i>to be! It's all good though; we fixed it up real nice for ya."<br />
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<b>Immaculate:</b> If a house is described as "immaculate", its owners have gone to great lengths to make sure you can find no fault with this home. Not a speck of dust or so much as a burned out light bulb, a perfectly manicured lawn and carefully staged interior. They're basically killing themselves to please you, so you better recognize!<br />
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<b>Move-in Ready:</b> The entire house is beige.<br />
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<b>Great Value:</b> This means a low price per square foot. They don't price houses this way out of charity. There is something undesirable about this house, and the seller hopes an enticing price will help you to overlook the home's shortcomings. There is probably a neon orange stain on the carpet or the deck is about to cave in on itself. But at this price, you can almost visualize your dream home, yes? Used interchangeably with "great potential", "opportunity to make it your own", "UNBELIEVABLE price for this area!"<br />
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<b>Exceptional:</b> Ok, you know what "exceptional" means, but let me just say: I have yet to tour a home described as "exceptional" that <i>was </i>exceptional. I found them all quite ordinary. Charming? Maybe. Exceptional? Not so much.<br />
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<b>Impressive:</b> This word gets tossed around left and right. In my quest for a new home, I've learned that one of my top priorities needs to be to <i>impress my friends. </i>They need to walk away from my new house feeling like chumps for having to live in their dinky shacks [shakes head "No".] One salesman pointed out the brick pattern of the ceramic tile in the secondary bathroom shower as a unique feature that my friends likely haven't seen, which will therefore leave them impressed. If my ceramic tile impresses my friends...I need new friends.<br />
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<b>Desirable:</b> The home may be in a desirable school district, on a desirable street, or on a desirable, oversized lot. Most importantly, it will impress your friends. Used interchangeably with "highly sought after"<br />
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<b>A Must-See:</b> It doesn't photograph that well, but it's a cute house. I promise! It's exceptional, don't miss this opportunity to make this house your dream home!<br />
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<b>Backyard Oasis:</b> There is a swimming pool and/or landscaping.<br />
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And, finally, no good real estate listing is complete without an ENTHUSIASTIC use of capital letters and LOTS! of EXCLAMATION POINTS! For added EMPHASIS!<br />
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<br />Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-53298832584545850652011-09-30T11:59:00.000-05:002011-09-30T11:59:18.523-05:00Picking Up Where I Left Off...Previously, on <i>Three Mutts and a Baby</i>:<br />
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My <i>Baby</i> turned one.<br />
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My <i>Mutt</i>, George, passed away suddenly at the age of five.<br />
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Then I ceased all blogging. I was just in no mood. I had nothing to say. Can I even continue blogging on <i>Three Mutts and a Baby</i> when I don't have three mutts, and my baby isn't a baby anymore? How was I to proceed?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"I can't think about that right now. I'll think about that tomorrow."</span></i></div>
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If these coping skills worked for the incomparable Scarlett O'Hara, they can work for me.<br />
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Tomorrow came, and I received word that my 80-year-old maternal grandmother, widowed for twenty years and living independently, had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and would have to move to a nursing home.<br />
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Later that same week, Amy boarded a plane and moved to New Jersey.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"She was my best good friend."</span></i></div>
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Forrest Gump coped with his grief by running. I only run when I'm being chased or when I'm trying to catch one of my mutts on the loose in the neighborhood. Instead, I fell into the rabbit hole that is <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/">Pinterest</a>. I began compulsively cleaning out all my closets and cabinets and trying out craft projects I found on Pinterest:</div>
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I decoupaged a wreath</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_iMLkGAgX5Q9ROYtGb0D6fQgy34IqLkEsHXQnms4WJyn1TSe358HAiLzqPoj2RqJ1Abwpn_4wC9XKYVHd1IEdvhyphenhyphenN3wHBk-ZU_yKfS5MtUOnymMB-ylLtYmZcFSUa6pKODYcmp3qW0vK/s1600/067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_iMLkGAgX5Q9ROYtGb0D6fQgy34IqLkEsHXQnms4WJyn1TSe358HAiLzqPoj2RqJ1Abwpn_4wC9XKYVHd1IEdvhyphenhyphenN3wHBk-ZU_yKfS5MtUOnymMB-ylLtYmZcFSUa6pKODYcmp3qW0vK/s320/067.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
I began a t-shirt quilt project using all my old t-shirts that has, at the moment, stalled. If I can just complete the next stage, my Aunt Wilma will quilt it for me. Yeah, I have an Aunt Wilma. You wish you did, too.<br />
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I constructed a new jewelry display</div>
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I reorganized my closet for the fourth time in as many years</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsODxQYkmUyWGolZSBmgSxldu_FZBeENWHl96kJ4zj2lajrXssDpHv6f2O6hTqs2D8wGfDY1wRJAcYQKZTdpGcLm76pkP8POhyphenhyphen-u8WBI_68V4Vo2y4V5ygP59A37ix6g41jTuNZR4aFbJs/s1600/040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsODxQYkmUyWGolZSBmgSxldu_FZBeENWHl96kJ4zj2lajrXssDpHv6f2O6hTqs2D8wGfDY1wRJAcYQKZTdpGcLm76pkP8POhyphenhyphen-u8WBI_68V4Vo2y4V5ygP59A37ix6g41jTuNZR4aFbJs/s320/040.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I made homemade laundry detergent. And I'm not even a Duggar!</div>
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I am obsessed with making <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/">Shutterfly</a> books. My latest creation? A tribute to George. Obviously.</div>
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As a little side note, I learned a lot about crafting during this experience. It is expensive! I always thought crafting was a hobby for women who weren't athletic or rich enough to play tennis. Turns out you have to fork out plenty of dough to make your own decorative household items. If I hadn't clipped coupons and purchased all the supplies over a period of a couple weeks, from a number of different stores based on lowest price and special discounts, it would have cost me about $50 to make that little wreath. I spent about $25, but chasing down sales and waiting for coupons was kind of a pain in the ass. I realize that people craft as a hobby and they have a special satisfaction from making something themselves, but seriously? Did you know for another $10 you could have the peacock wreath from ZGallerie?</div>
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Me likey.</div>
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So, I was leaving Hobby Lobby the other day, when Steve calls me from work. He has a bee in his bonnet over the ever-decreasing home mortgage interest rates, and says he wants to refinance our home to get in on the savings. </div>
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My heart sinks. </div>
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We live in a lovely neighborhood, but it is more than 30 miles away from where Steve works. Steve leaves every morning between 6:00 and 7:00 AM to beat the traffic and get a jump start on his day. If he works until closing, he doesn't get home until 7:45 or 8:00 PM. He only takes a couple days off <i>a month. </i>What I'm saying is, we don't have much of a family life. We have always said that our next home will be larger (read: more expensive) and closer to Steve's place of work, and that we'll make the move once we've saved more money, but before Robinson begins school. Anybody who understands home refinancing knows that it is foolish to refinance a home you don't plan to live in for at least five more years. If we stay in this home five more years, Robinson will be playing tee ball, starting Kindergarten, he will have friends. We will have planted roots here, and we'll never leave. Since Amy has moved away, I don't really have anybody up here. The rest of my friends are scattered throughout the metroplex. I feel like I live on a deserted island. I never saw Amy on a daily basis, but now that she's gone, I realize how comforting it was just knowing she was down the road. It made me feel like I'm not alone. </div>
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Through Steve's job, he's made a lot of friends and acquaintances in the community where he works. He is invited to socialize, participate with volunteer organizations, and just be part of the community. I want that for our whole family. I just want to be someplace where we feel like we belong. I want to run into somebody I know at the grocery store. I want to know my neighbors. I want to spend more than an hour a day with my husband. </div>
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So I throw out a suggestion: <i>"Hey, instead of refinancing this house and continuing this brutal commute, wha-da-ya-say we make a lateral move across town? Think of how much you'll save in fuel and tollway charges! And you can actually see your son before bed time every day..."</i></div>
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To my surprise (and delight. and relief.) Steve agreed. And so begins our latest adventure...</div>
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Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-77556192943309671142011-09-07T18:46:00.002-05:002011-09-07T18:46:25.929-05:00Steve's New Fantasy Football TeamThe Two Steves<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJ9rb1lo6aiR1U0gspSp0qJhM752PhPNDaED7yTsiyr028UXHEhQiR0jXsGkPz1I191_6a1giQe43Ms4TY22lAxEIyhTOb3-ZOSUX1udibYwM5hE867PBqMCCcH1SGOlFaGU1ltbxq7aS/s1600/The+Two+Steves+Logo+2011" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJ9rb1lo6aiR1U0gspSp0qJhM752PhPNDaED7yTsiyr028UXHEhQiR0jXsGkPz1I191_6a1giQe43Ms4TY22lAxEIyhTOb3-ZOSUX1udibYwM5hE867PBqMCCcH1SGOlFaGU1ltbxq7aS/s320/The+Two+Steves+Logo+2011" width="319" /></a></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-89011797176172356332011-08-23T14:31:00.000-05:002011-08-23T14:31:49.160-05:00Bye, George.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5Fh5iNbPuKgcXbwacKIZnsNi3Rfxpt-5fMD4d11EgJo9juHj74yIq0AQ8DyEwDIOrkqTKjzZDgeBoQAC2NwQYCRGFASzqXF4CD-lATcPSdTStHm3Mv05k2akbxnDGdQbcCu6rp0haiqS/s1600/sam+and+george.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5Fh5iNbPuKgcXbwacKIZnsNi3Rfxpt-5fMD4d11EgJo9juHj74yIq0AQ8DyEwDIOrkqTKjzZDgeBoQAC2NwQYCRGFASzqXF4CD-lATcPSdTStHm3Mv05k2akbxnDGdQbcCu6rp0haiqS/s400/sam+and+george.jpg" width="257px" /></a></div>I lost my George last week, at the age of five. It was very sudden and unexpected, and caused by "a neurological event" (exactly what, we could not determine without a $3000 MRI and a time machine) and a myriad of genetic flaws that went undiagnosed until the day before his death. Over a period of about a week his body completely shut down to the point where he lost all the qualities that made him George, and he no longer had the functionality to do any of the things that brought him joy. I'm being purposely vague to save myself from launching into a detailed, tearful explanation of George's medical problems, which were shockingly vast. This entire experience has been excruciating. George's genetic problems are the result of inbreeding on a level that is to me grossly negligent at best, and at worst, highly unethical with a cruel disregard for the consequences. I had in the past raised concerns about some of these health problems that I'd observed, but they were dismissed by my former veterinarian as "behavioral problems." Even if I only learned the truth at the end, I'm relieved to know that George's quirks and problems all had a medical explanation, though nothing could have been done to save him (<em>"George is a ticking time bomb"</em> were my vet's actual words). In another home, George may not have lived more than a year or two. George was such a rascal, he cheated death a number of times. I grew to believe he had nine lives. Every time he found himself in a pickle, I prayed that he would survive his latest scrape, and it was such a helpless feeling to watch him die so young and be unable to help him, and to learn that I could never have helped him survive this. <br />
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My mom was by my side as we said goodbye to him. Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars" was playing on the radio. I sobbed uncontrollably. As heartbroken as I am, I am glad George was mine. But I don't cope well with death or bad news. I'm not the kind of person who wants to be cheered up or is able to put on a smile and be a brave girl. I'm more likely to stay in my pajamas, in a dark room, listening to sad songs and eating chocolate, <em>if </em>I eat at all, and taking frequent naps. This grief is going to take a while to shake. Until then, I'll be on blogging hiatus. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisX5RjGH8hCW8teToGMwwSwsG5Wk6a11kM8xM6TGvZSkCyHPD-mVet2tXcykUh7CRRt8OzGJJXbqR3CrQyp0JHqbewacZ3ywVt6OSkY9C006fiK58FlaTrgW1xxuolXQJ1CRdKzXXnJlYy/s1600/Old+Camera+Import+127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisX5RjGH8hCW8teToGMwwSwsG5Wk6a11kM8xM6TGvZSkCyHPD-mVet2tXcykUh7CRRt8OzGJJXbqR3CrQyp0JHqbewacZ3ywVt6OSkY9C006fiK58FlaTrgW1xxuolXQJ1CRdKzXXnJlYy/s400/Old+Camera+Import+127.JPG" width="400px" /></a></div><em>"You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you." </em><br />
— J.M. Barrie<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QDiePfXrYCEa8MGXnB158RUX90LbPWoXJyNYbufiAKSFGM5HyCqOn0YkHsHOwd9SSPPEhhk7Z2YrB2Uab668rF8Z-AYkzdico5cyVTnci80M0ZvFMNKNAcqByw0jC9PNjw1k8pIf50xn/s1600/Old+Camera+Import+131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QDiePfXrYCEa8MGXnB158RUX90LbPWoXJyNYbufiAKSFGM5HyCqOn0YkHsHOwd9SSPPEhhk7Z2YrB2Uab668rF8Z-AYkzdico5cyVTnci80M0ZvFMNKNAcqByw0jC9PNjw1k8pIf50xn/s400/Old+Camera+Import+131.JPG" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYyFXbWRydHfT-_wuIKuz6Ot41QmvehsniWiIk9SlvGJk1xKhBYFkpjaaCKAMSSv-r7HFJMgfQvwopZtj32uuAsOYz-gWAidu4nPBTsIUxu4MZ_McttJRIEXCQ4lAopoPSRUyNgtgDUTi/s1600/Old+Camera+Import+223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYyFXbWRydHfT-_wuIKuz6Ot41QmvehsniWiIk9SlvGJk1xKhBYFkpjaaCKAMSSv-r7HFJMgfQvwopZtj32uuAsOYz-gWAidu4nPBTsIUxu4MZ_McttJRIEXCQ4lAopoPSRUyNgtgDUTi/s400/Old+Camera+Import+223.JPG" width="300px" /></a></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-47505205408381115712011-08-07T14:02:00.000-05:002011-08-07T14:02:49.853-05:00I'm the Party of the Day!<a href="http://catchmyparty.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Catch My Party" src="http://catchmyparty.com/images/promo/cmp-featured-300.png" title="Catch My Party" /></a><br />
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This is kinda cool. I shared Robinson's birthday party with <a href="http://catchmyparty.com/party-of-the-day/1389">Catch My Party</a>, since it was such a great source of ideas for me when planning Rob's party, and guess what? Rob's party is featured on their main page as a "Party of the Day". That's so nice!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7fFd0wQZb-ZvZAjPp2xStbjzKTiINeh_G8H-go7cfeSsSAzAd6L94O_O-ZC7vtsLgxXd2hHC01CdfRvGUz14ax1C8C9DKACwJ23goi79ZXf_cv4qcQAIwAoZsVnAYzSVSLiyz9gjB1l5/s1600/samantha-vintage-toy-birthday-party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7fFd0wQZb-ZvZAjPp2xStbjzKTiINeh_G8H-go7cfeSsSAzAd6L94O_O-ZC7vtsLgxXd2hHC01CdfRvGUz14ax1C8C9DKACwJ23goi79ZXf_cv4qcQAIwAoZsVnAYzSVSLiyz9gjB1l5/s400/samantha-vintage-toy-birthday-party.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-9843510071856034542011-08-03T13:47:00.000-05:002011-08-03T13:47:54.125-05:00Wordless Wednesday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyo5ftHGOXXM2LhaBHuF_0hyJqsVT_HS17zvRd-WFDk1cvIDoqIQVXRZL-H48XzN4RJqcOGawp-D0HaecleM3MRu5VNK_on3_r1H1HLDE_cdy01lDsEkyL8IpgA3Xwj7yG6zr-Bzd1Pj9/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyo5ftHGOXXM2LhaBHuF_0hyJqsVT_HS17zvRd-WFDk1cvIDoqIQVXRZL-H48XzN4RJqcOGawp-D0HaecleM3MRu5VNK_on3_r1H1HLDE_cdy01lDsEkyL8IpgA3Xwj7yG6zr-Bzd1Pj9/s640/005.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-58733126914602724252011-08-02T17:49:00.000-05:002011-08-02T17:49:45.569-05:00Rob is One.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Robinson's birthday party was a big success! I was very touched by the excellent turnout...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>"Uncle" Bean:</b> [scanning the room filled with wall-to-wall people] This is a lot [of people]. I was not expecting this.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Me:</b> I know! I can't believe so many people came out today!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Uncle Bean:</b> How many <i>people </i>did you <i>invite?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Me:</b> Uhh...50?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Bean: </b><i>Why </i>did you do that?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Me:</b> [quietly] I don't know. I didn't think anybody would come.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know why I have this anxiety that nobody is ever coming to my parties. We are very fortunate to have lots of people who love us, and they all fought the oppressive heat to travel to our little corner of Texas to celebrate our baby boy's first birthday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This was obviously my first time planning a child's birthday party, and let me just say that even the simple cake and punch home parties today are vastly more elaborate than when I was growing up. I began brainstorming and planning Rob's party way back in January, and it's a good thing I did, because it took a long time to make all this stuff and to get an education in Children's Party Planning in the Year 2011. I have to credit sites like <a href="http://catchmyparty.com/parties/rob-is-one">Catch My Party</a> and numerous blogs and sites where I researched and found inspiration in planning Rob's shindig. I feel like I ought to share some of what I learned here on my blog since I learned so much from the dozens of blogs I read. Pay it forward, right? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The party had a vintage toy theme and a red and aqua color scheme. My inspiration? The invitations:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaQuWKiURVDNCfZbHyV0q4JlEruRjMH3vVcKYycWnV2fT2FBj5i_qFo_I_wru0Y3SJ5_E9MOnclcH94IaIdZGJcPtNE0fKlUny7wvyJ3frAcO9fTcbvcRMk8ARRaBekTcPku_0kPPM8Sv/s1600/Rob%2527s+invite+edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaQuWKiURVDNCfZbHyV0q4JlEruRjMH3vVcKYycWnV2fT2FBj5i_qFo_I_wru0Y3SJ5_E9MOnclcH94IaIdZGJcPtNE0fKlUny7wvyJ3frAcO9fTcbvcRMk8ARRaBekTcPku_0kPPM8Sv/s400/Rob%2527s+invite+edited.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I found them on <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/PaperandPigtails?section_id=6915997">Etsy!</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQJm9XUZHRBsNO3bcz4YLfnH4wVBZU2LzrcVuSMEBAiHgcfLGi_8eYCvoeU0uTtP3oZF9ATTc6NAKQM9s_yp2CKIN3Ny1SyRu1OL5sXpi1AVFnmuxCVum3Alj1iofR6_c_-xgbzp77Wh5/s1600/IMG_0913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQJm9XUZHRBsNO3bcz4YLfnH4wVBZU2LzrcVuSMEBAiHgcfLGi_8eYCvoeU0uTtP3oZF9ATTc6NAKQM9s_yp2CKIN3Ny1SyRu1OL5sXpi1AVFnmuxCVum3Alj1iofR6_c_-xgbzp77Wh5/s640/IMG_0913.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I turned the entry table into a display for vintage and retro toys and books. I "shopped my house", though I did have lofty ideas about a Classic Sock Monkey, jacks, marbles, yo-yo's, jump ropes and a Slinky. Ultimately, I chose to concentrate my party budget on the food instead of buying toys. And check out the photo collage that's hanging in the spot usually reserved for my bridal portrait. Do those pics look familiar? They are the monthly "Rob and Laney" photos arranged chronologically in a <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/prints/collage-posters">Shutterfly collage poster. </a> I also replaced other wall decor throughout the house with framed portraits of Rob. You know, so everyone knows that it's <i>all about Robinson. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1kCzfGJazEG0EmXMZ4Iuh8Y-yjHCSffC6yzNgfXJmoeughEYgcujiTU1jVdBjgGsJCF09LxVKP6Q7x3utyZ1mD6K09-GbBHVznyA0_jk6h3zwj3wqrfLntRaWv9KWQu8EcNV34lmidwze/s1600/IMG_0910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1kCzfGJazEG0EmXMZ4Iuh8Y-yjHCSffC6yzNgfXJmoeughEYgcujiTU1jVdBjgGsJCF09LxVKP6Q7x3utyZ1mD6K09-GbBHVznyA0_jk6h3zwj3wqrfLntRaWv9KWQu8EcNV34lmidwze/s640/IMG_0910.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>Ever since I saw "sweets stylist" <a href="http://www.amyatlas.com/">Amy Atlas</a> on the <i>Today </i>show talking about creating dessert tables for holiday parties last year, I have been itching to create a dessert table. I had never heard of them before, but I suddenly felt that they were absolutely crucial to the success of a party.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFExk0MTCqcMG1r6Co_qB096VAwK-dMfMeyHyG11DCOkEJtn9Or9hT3tAEmoaHIgvv6JvSN2u0fqir-LuNx_3RH46uPekq67XF7diI087jzjbz9fl1okB5vOcFJLDUO1gW7iMf91pfZQNo/s1600/IMG_0898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFExk0MTCqcMG1r6Co_qB096VAwK-dMfMeyHyG11DCOkEJtn9Or9hT3tAEmoaHIgvv6JvSN2u0fqir-LuNx_3RH46uPekq67XF7diI087jzjbz9fl1okB5vOcFJLDUO1gW7iMf91pfZQNo/s400/IMG_0898.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I scoured the internet for blogs and photos to teach myself how to create a dessert table. Perhaps I could save people some of that work and share what I learned are the key elements to creating a dessert table:<br />
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<ol><li>Identify a color palette to use throughout the table</li>
<li>Create a backdrop. Mine is foam board covered in gift wrap, but there are loads of other clever and creative ideas. A Google Image search is a great place to start looking.</li>
<li>Use a tablecloth. Aesthetically, the tablecloth was more important than I originally thought. </li>
<li>Use risers to create a height variation. Dessert tables where all items are placed flat on the table look a little "off". This riser was created using a giftwrapped box, but I've seen professional tables that use polystyrene blocks, acrylic blocks or risers...you're really limited only by your imagination and your financial resources. Mostly your financial resources.</li>
<li>Create a symmetrical presentation. I've seen tables with a more varied presentation, with varieties of candies and sweets on pedestal stands and in jars, and it looks terrific. If you're a dessert table novice like me, and don't already have all the serving platters and pieces, it can get expensive in a hurry if you're trying to duplicate an elaborate display seen on designer blogs and in magazines. I had all sorts of cute ideas, mostly involving red rope licorice, blue sour straws, custom M&Ms, and apothecary jars. But guess how expensive it is to collect a half-dozen large apothecary jars and 20 pounds of candy to fill them? Very. Think in the <i>hundreds </i>of dollars, and you better be careful you don't buy old, gnarly candy from some wholesale candy warehouse unloading old product. Guess who<i> can't</i> eat candy? The birthday boy and most of his friends. Guess who <i>won't</i> eat candy? The health conscious adults who composed the majority of my guests. I loved the idea, but ultimately decided to pass on candy this year.</li>
</ol><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_gjenh14yGQrEN5eLqyQAM5fTJ_YlFrZG3eEmsfAFXLSEksxptS6LAaRk75XhAsSKD1aLWTrYfkoj4Bj-zFfkMU6W43zycyFeYmAnznAT09BjTjsszJozYDSv2rmE78gmj2GpMNe3w7q/s1600/IMG_0903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm_gjenh14yGQrEN5eLqyQAM5fTJ_YlFrZG3eEmsfAFXLSEksxptS6LAaRk75XhAsSKD1aLWTrYfkoj4Bj-zFfkMU6W43zycyFeYmAnznAT09BjTjsszJozYDSv2rmE78gmj2GpMNe3w7q/s400/IMG_0903.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>After a few practice runs, I baked this cake from scratch, y'all. My baking adventure deserves it's own post, so stay tuned for that. The bottom tier of this cake is 7-Up pound cake with lemon buttercream filling. My great grandmother used to make 7-Up cake for me when I was little, so it's a sentimental favorite. Added bonus: its density makes it ideal for stacking tiers of cake. The top tier is red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting filling. I covered the cake in marshmallow fondant. I won't lie, it's kind of a big undertaking, but I wanted a big cake, and I knew that a professional cake this size covered in fondant would have likely cost over $100. How much do I estimate I spent in supplies and ingredients to create this cake, plus the previous cakes I made as my "trial runs"? Let's not talk about that. I think by his third or fourth birthday this little investment will have paid for itself. Plus, I had fun. It was a great creative outlet for me. I wish I had cakes to bake for him all the time!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSG4clGhUqKa-tmBJzPmwuJqNMQ3lI7x9jCwed6otzyG2kJGaOM8S-DgXR38gdnkF2wvissPlFePFNumyODtkQlsJzfeIcxDZnF7Lss4PrC2xVnoB9poJ0wBY27MxKaO-Vcb8hFStrUizu/s1600/IMG_0906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSG4clGhUqKa-tmBJzPmwuJqNMQ3lI7x9jCwed6otzyG2kJGaOM8S-DgXR38gdnkF2wvissPlFePFNumyODtkQlsJzfeIcxDZnF7Lss4PrC2xVnoB9poJ0wBY27MxKaO-Vcb8hFStrUizu/s400/IMG_0906.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>My kid likes banana pudding, and Paula Deen's "Not Yo Mama's Banana Pudding" is the tastiest recipe I've tried. So that's the story behind that. Not everybody at the party tried the pudding, but everybody who <i>did </i>try the pudding went back for seconds and requested the <a href="http://www.pauladeen.com/recipes/recipe_view/not_yo_mamas_banana_pudding/">recipe</a>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlo62QhQpbXUtJ26OJy7eWcbyE9nLqJULeUcQsVcsZkx6xAdlls-2UWuYIbktXpyDwmMJm96cAU_auDnMcI3bjj0D72fK4lSYCYNU15DMIpjvheTF0-x3qa1nXK1-tsAC3FOqF2s_T6vM/s1600/IMG_0908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlo62QhQpbXUtJ26OJy7eWcbyE9nLqJULeUcQsVcsZkx6xAdlls-2UWuYIbktXpyDwmMJm96cAU_auDnMcI3bjj0D72fK4lSYCYNU15DMIpjvheTF0-x3qa1nXK1-tsAC3FOqF2s_T6vM/s400/IMG_0908.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>It was important that I made treats for the party that my son and his buddies could eat, but that the adults would also want to eat. Hopefully I struck that balance with the blondies, brownies, and chocolate chip cookie bars that rounded out my dessert table. If I had a little more time, and table space, I think I would have included something like sliced strawberries. I offered no fruit at this party, and I think this group would have enjoyed something like that. I think next year I will omit one of the baked goods in favor of some fruit and a cream cheese dip.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv3s5xL_RSWXzFVWB60q8yoV1hCgnHxtgNIj5s8ppABGIgmcv3qUmsr2TxMy6mE9PGsLsKZNXtl-yi4iUYpgu41QZz2L9r_iWXlxf1EirBVKua3RPe3haZqvG7cRNZRHjY9B-py85-0r8/s1600/IMG_0917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv3s5xL_RSWXzFVWB60q8yoV1hCgnHxtgNIj5s8ppABGIgmcv3qUmsr2TxMy6mE9PGsLsKZNXtl-yi4iUYpgu41QZz2L9r_iWXlxf1EirBVKua3RPe3haZqvG7cRNZRHjY9B-py85-0r8/s400/IMG_0917.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1ZweSZS6nCD_XcTr6fPp7Mb6m66tkAoP-KJ5hwpqljOKzfTTRDiRdu5kfpxMw05mGcDJtqW7Cp3tBvFfvBvc1P7gAy5lQVXHLh7_tFlteu-IYIfXljNYj0CVxUoO4pWIYY5H6_XIV4u3/s1600/IMG_0918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1ZweSZS6nCD_XcTr6fPp7Mb6m66tkAoP-KJ5hwpqljOKzfTTRDiRdu5kfpxMw05mGcDJtqW7Cp3tBvFfvBvc1P7gAy5lQVXHLh7_tFlteu-IYIfXljNYj0CVxUoO4pWIYY5H6_XIV4u3/s400/IMG_0918.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Everything at this party was available in miniature. Miniature brownies, miniature burgers, and a miniature Radio Flyer as a cake topper! Apparently Radio Flyer made these a few years ago, but no more! I scored this bad boy on eBay.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uhT39OIHNgH_Mj5Ud5RIlUaHPOfjQQz3Q0bJ7u0QiUr0ZeAaLC58c4dMsVoCqcT1NBqfBD0noCEZEoaEeQqQ11n5HV1y7VyMDCwUJtSyFOzJpdjPTFhDY1Y89cZurXh2mPcMhE57X_eV/s1600/IMG_0919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uhT39OIHNgH_Mj5Ud5RIlUaHPOfjQQz3Q0bJ7u0QiUr0ZeAaLC58c4dMsVoCqcT1NBqfBD0noCEZEoaEeQqQ11n5HV1y7VyMDCwUJtSyFOzJpdjPTFhDY1Y89cZurXh2mPcMhE57X_eV/s400/IMG_0919.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I was convinced this party required a "birthday banner" and I enjoyed making this for Rob.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnUECxyaxeQkm3hVIiIkqklW7VW6iA_qRlvBy3T6B0L2JVUL0YrLxBP4f0GhrY1sy8TOonbegHc0qWkjTRLQiRjollWE2qeYij7uxOPg3MCglnR4X6eeGnuEg7Use3vm57fpYa0Ry7rJs/s1600/IMG_0925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnUECxyaxeQkm3hVIiIkqklW7VW6iA_qRlvBy3T6B0L2JVUL0YrLxBP4f0GhrY1sy8TOonbegHc0qWkjTRLQiRjollWE2qeYij7uxOPg3MCglnR4X6eeGnuEg7Use3vm57fpYa0Ry7rJs/s400/IMG_0925.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Sliders and mini hot dogs (or hot dogs that we cut in half, if you want to get technical). I called them "baby burgers" and "hot pups". You know, because it's a party for a baby. It seemed fitting.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mk4YuRZWW44VHgyIuqH_aHOJVM0LaDCafCfS_xteQgjbWtm0yEnFaI3FQK3GvE9w4u-ZRcJkxD56sboX0tolSaLlomy1yBCKTvhOZXK22AuPSfdU3bVuq6OB6ff7dqLtzNn7k5drQMpy/s1600/IMG_0927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mk4YuRZWW44VHgyIuqH_aHOJVM0LaDCafCfS_xteQgjbWtm0yEnFaI3FQK3GvE9w4u-ZRcJkxD56sboX0tolSaLlomy1yBCKTvhOZXK22AuPSfdU3bVuq6OB6ff7dqLtzNn7k5drQMpy/s400/IMG_0927.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9hIbIq-0y8jbBw10Y17EysYvjxEnLJeYeawN8_ImSCh99n4_GfGqEMDu9mEvKlPNblj0Qpfiz6KIRZb8vb2mRsOCtco7bFk4ID2lYn40NuPrKNFsDI1fGUCHq9ctNq4frOqh-nJimQ_W/s1600/IMG_0928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9hIbIq-0y8jbBw10Y17EysYvjxEnLJeYeawN8_ImSCh99n4_GfGqEMDu9mEvKlPNblj0Qpfiz6KIRZb8vb2mRsOCtco7bFk4ID2lYn40NuPrKNFsDI1fGUCHq9ctNq4frOqh-nJimQ_W/s400/IMG_0928.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> I may have gone a little nuts making tent cards to identify everything.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGY8wP0Ljzbia2O-VI74NbCCnaSGTvJ1xS1vBCGj4flOSefDjtrfMGnsumW4AeyfULVYvPTLj2tJiV48nkGwuLEHgwy6Ee4LspuemkkvHqz3VcJDEch15oAfJmh34LydICkHh-st7JOMd/s1600/IMG_0930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGY8wP0Ljzbia2O-VI74NbCCnaSGTvJ1xS1vBCGj4flOSefDjtrfMGnsumW4AeyfULVYvPTLj2tJiV48nkGwuLEHgwy6Ee4LspuemkkvHqz3VcJDEch15oAfJmh34LydICkHh-st7JOMd/s400/IMG_0930.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I made a huge batch of homemade mac n cheese, but even if nobody but Robinson ate it, the effort was well worth it! He had THREE bowls!<br />
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For all my planning, I wasn't quite sure what to <i>do </i>besides make sure everybody had a beverage and that all children who locked themselves in the bathroom were rescued. About an hour into the party, I asked one of the guests, a father of three, "What do I <i>do</i>? Cake, then presents?" Turns out you do presents. Then cake. This is what Robinson wanted to do while we were opening presents:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVaKRESTgBVxo-c_Mqwcq5En63pbX9k8w4q7Y8OZNnie-mxj-yFc-kn4AsBNc4MnFGECi9YZEwNw7hGsZSC6l7wN3GtIaaLAVLNb_ui8_DICK7F2_trW1ncCg3cfoV7lu7J30o5STl5bJH/s1600/IMG_0948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVaKRESTgBVxo-c_Mqwcq5En63pbX9k8w4q7Y8OZNnie-mxj-yFc-kn4AsBNc4MnFGECi9YZEwNw7hGsZSC6l7wN3GtIaaLAVLNb_ui8_DICK7F2_trW1ncCg3cfoV7lu7J30o5STl5bJH/s400/IMG_0948.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>He's fascinated. Lucky for me, who felt a little silly and self conscious about opening a dozen or so presents intended for a one year old boy by <i>myself</i>, while my child sat absentmindedly nearby, there were a couple of sweet little girls who were <i>super stoked </i>about opening Rob's presents for him. Blogger's Note: Rubik's Cube was decoration from entryway, not a new gift.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8dvreyGqyAGlpAwVCEAgkmBKYP27eVOGZzceVxAY-oBNR85-rKb96qwW66xGnnRcQDii5Vz1M_bo0iomPE_Rkq_HJPGO1xmDs2nl4r80V2fMNadAb4uQBUBrxuZ0uc3dbMomDSuuzH5N/s1600/IMG_0947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8dvreyGqyAGlpAwVCEAgkmBKYP27eVOGZzceVxAY-oBNR85-rKb96qwW66xGnnRcQDii5Vz1M_bo0iomPE_Rkq_HJPGO1xmDs2nl4r80V2fMNadAb4uQBUBrxuZ0uc3dbMomDSuuzH5N/s400/IMG_0947.jpg" width="400" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"This present is from me. Well, actually, my dad bought it. But it's from me."</span></i></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfj9EliYva6GGkxWf2W0rQRoGGguQk379292gzzK3I297tiPU02KRvaW-t-xYXtRqvYoRLFiNIa9NzwQrkicUFJlH-oBH__SXxz1YISuh7W3sLaRVTq-2qmciJjkCOn3SeCfj1MXhWX5xn/s1600/IMG_0944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfj9EliYva6GGkxWf2W0rQRoGGguQk379292gzzK3I297tiPU02KRvaW-t-xYXtRqvYoRLFiNIa9NzwQrkicUFJlH-oBH__SXxz1YISuh7W3sLaRVTq-2qmciJjkCOn3SeCfj1MXhWX5xn/s400/IMG_0944.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Could these sweet girls <i>be </i>any more excited to open these gifts?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPmXDS6-ijm3ITDSYDVh80Ayilt-9rCuzZAVYroNSZf4IXQjkUb2hysL3JKe6k2FhcbXQ5HleDYvcDMHizZwHQEAnM4_tjbja9EkIWzgQnUlAURPz7J8gX9S_kiWb2ApBSBgKoMG2VUSb/s1600/IMG_0945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPmXDS6-ijm3ITDSYDVh80Ayilt-9rCuzZAVYroNSZf4IXQjkUb2hysL3JKe6k2FhcbXQ5HleDYvcDMHizZwHQEAnM4_tjbja9EkIWzgQnUlAURPz7J8gX9S_kiWb2ApBSBgKoMG2VUSb/s400/IMG_0945.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Look, Robinson!"</span></i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyGZTQf8-H53vpjgrudswkW0gCj4DtKdNaYsQuSuCLVX8vywgnFaAhgfQ48fMxu2y8sGyea6An9IfDKSHAHHxhyphenhyphenctOYki-9xMdBXio5omIl6fh46TqIi0aa9LKhcUF-CbVUhrp9SleEj0/s1600/IMG_0956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyGZTQf8-H53vpjgrudswkW0gCj4DtKdNaYsQuSuCLVX8vywgnFaAhgfQ48fMxu2y8sGyea6An9IfDKSHAHHxhyphenhyphenctOYki-9xMdBXio5omIl6fh46TqIi0aa9LKhcUF-CbVUhrp9SleEj0/s400/IMG_0956.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>This party hat was made on impulse earlier in the week. I didn't even expect him to wear it, but "Uncle Scotty" was quick thinking and balanced the hat on his head in the middle of singing "Happy Birthday" so that Angie could snap a quick photo. He looks contemplative, yes? He was actually really happy to have all of us singing to him and cheering for him. I knew that could be a little overwhelming for a tot, so I practiced with him in the week or two before the party. Every time he sat down for a meal I would sing "Happy Birthday" and cheer enthusiastically. By the time of the party he was accustomed to this and smiled big.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbfqSRzelX-hKRZZVyapYcXccc7-hgkTC1YuvCvaWPaDD8mCOZuSIuWlTvl2qF0hFswFGiUNp0zdC1LUrkCkLuDN8cjhLSJ5S8yF16DQM8UIS8ookmt8kgXtqQyUTDroSKWtr59xVynit/s1600/IMG_0964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbfqSRzelX-hKRZZVyapYcXccc7-hgkTC1YuvCvaWPaDD8mCOZuSIuWlTvl2qF0hFswFGiUNp0zdC1LUrkCkLuDN8cjhLSJ5S8yF16DQM8UIS8ookmt8kgXtqQyUTDroSKWtr59xVynit/s400/IMG_0964.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>A birthday bib might have been a good idea. I actually didn't plan a bib at all, and if he got dirty that was fine with me. It really made no difference. He played with the frosting a little, and ate a couple bites after some coaxing from me. By the time he blew out his candle, he had eaten the three bowls of mac n cheese and two cups of chocolate milk. He was STUFFED.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9yM5JQTS1Y07ni13cwz4P9tXwXOH_gE4efkSZoRt8HnSDOnCbKfrl_0GZaX6LLiO9GG1z70r4XOrqAbXRoHVEx-cWzf8JiBTdt5ZgvNWmpoAhBX_gUn5VAkW1t6ZdHHKxg9KhOmnCAi6R/s1600/IMG_0969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9yM5JQTS1Y07ni13cwz4P9tXwXOH_gE4efkSZoRt8HnSDOnCbKfrl_0GZaX6LLiO9GG1z70r4XOrqAbXRoHVEx-cWzf8JiBTdt5ZgvNWmpoAhBX_gUn5VAkW1t6ZdHHKxg9KhOmnCAi6R/s400/IMG_0969.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>This was a favorite moment: Scotty took Rob's hands and plopped them splat against either side of the cake, and Rob just <i>kept them there. </i>I'm not kidding, he didn't move his hands for a full minute or two.<br />
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All the beautiful photos in this post were taken by Angie. Thanks, girl! It was great to be able to enjoy the party, mingle with guests and be "in the moment" without having to sacrifice having photos. Plus your camera is bad-ass, and you're highly skilled and loaded with talent.<br />
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We had a wonderful day. Thanks to everyone who helped make Robinson's day extra special, and for being so wonderful throughout the year! We love y'all! Already thinking about next year...Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-84578930377591292132011-07-29T14:34:00.000-05:002011-07-29T14:34:52.762-05:00Wonder Woman Super Mom Party PlannerI've been preparing for Robinson's first birthday party for months, and it's been a labor of love! I've been so inspired by other people's party blogs and sites like Catch My Party and Etsy. I started with an invitation, which guided my choices in theme and color scheme. From there I tried to thoughtfully plan a menu that adults would enjoy but that Robinson and his baby-friends can also eat.<br />
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I love to throw parties, but I rarely have the opportunity, so I jumped into planning Rob's birthday party with both feet. Somewhere between constructing a handmade "Happy Birthday Robinson" 10-foot pennant banner and testing made-from-scratch red velvet cake, I realized something. These Wonder Woman Super Moms who plan these elaborate, extravagant, inspiring Super-Sweet-Birthday-Parties typically <i>order </i>their refreshments from a <i>bakery, </i>and/or purchase <i>printable </i>or <i>pre-made </i>party decorations. Never on any of these blogs did I find a party where the mother single-handedly made <i>all</i> the food from scratch <i>and</i> designed and constructed all the decorations from nothing more than cardstock, glue stick and an x-acto knife. It's a minor observation I didn't notice until I was knee-deep in confectioners sugar, with food coloring stains from my fingernails up to my elbow.<br />
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What does Wonder Woman Super Mom know that I don't? That there is no glory in making everything from scratch, it's all about the finished product? That doing everything yourself is for suckers? That I just bought a one-way ticket to Crazytown by taking on more than I can handle? What have I gotten myself into? Martha Stewart I am <i>not. </i>I'm no Superman. I meant well--I was just a proud mama approaching this with a can-do attitude, wanting to make every element of Robinson's party with love. Plus, it seemed like fun. And it seemed more economical to do it myself. So far everything is going just fine and I've really enjoyed the challenge. But everything up until now has been planning and staging. As the party looms closer, I've reached the place where the rubber meets the road. I've tested all my recipes over a period of months, but now I have to make them <i>all </i>within 48 hours. And it needs to be delicious. Right now I'm in the middle of crumb coating the birthday cake so I can cover it in fondant and decorate it tomorrow. I tell you all this so that if I collapse in a heap in the middle of my floor, covered in confectioners sugar and red food coloring, everyone will know what happened to me.<br />
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I will post party pictures and details when everything comes together! Yeah, I think I've lost my mind, but there's no turning back now! Wish me luck!Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-31688600981181621222011-07-28T13:01:00.000-05:002011-07-28T13:01:02.077-05:00Don't Stand So Close to Me | Shopping Etiquette ReferendumDoes "shopping etiquette" exist? I think it should. I would suggest a few basic guidelines that people should abide by when shopping:<br />
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1. A shopping cart is an extension of the shopper.<br />
2. Do not invade one's personal bubble, including their shopping cart.<br />
3. In the checkout line, the shopper whose items are currently being rung up is King. Act accordingly.<br />
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Yeah, that's pretty much all I've got right now, but I think it's adequate and all-encompassing. Why am I suddenly so fussy and concerned with shopping etiquette? I was appalled at a recent trip to Wal-Mart.<br />
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I am purchasing groceries, along with items for Robinson's birthday party. I am paying with cash and want to be sure I have not gotten carried away or overspent. I'm trying to be responsible, y'all. The lady behind me in line is very typical of shoppers waiting in a checkout line. She would like to jump <i>up </i>my butt, and somehow have all her groceries scanned and paid for while I'm still in line. Pay attention: I am in <i>front</i> of you in line. No matter how close you stand to me, or how many of your groceries are placed on the conveyor belt behind that handy divider bar, you're not getting out of here before me. Slow your roll.<br />
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This time, I am standing in front of my cart, because I'm still unloading items and at the same time monitoring the cashier scanning the items to be sure everything is ringing up at the correct price. I would submit that this is my right and responsibility as a consumer. Woman behind me steps forward and <i>pushes my shopping cart forward about three feet. </i>My child is in the cart. So, by my reasoning, she touched my child. I shoot eye daggers at the woman. I feel like the chick in the Axe body spray commercial.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiy9Yc3a2-8LQpwrR8hbx21srC4SB3KW5KjERBA01OuZ1DFlHvHnL7ipTWn5NlaGc-NcPYqSlx7FQh6vgsUCqHt8KYB85l3EVpF-pEPXlIjKkKjWzl0UXPgUmIJTJTyp72DNOKquoaY76/s1600/axe+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiy9Yc3a2-8LQpwrR8hbx21srC4SB3KW5KjERBA01OuZ1DFlHvHnL7ipTWn5NlaGc-NcPYqSlx7FQh6vgsUCqHt8KYB85l3EVpF-pEPXlIjKkKjWzl0UXPgUmIJTJTyp72DNOKquoaY76/s1600/axe+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiy9Yc3a2-8LQpwrR8hbx21srC4SB3KW5KjERBA01OuZ1DFlHvHnL7ipTWn5NlaGc-NcPYqSlx7FQh6vgsUCqHt8KYB85l3EVpF-pEPXlIjKkKjWzl0UXPgUmIJTJTyp72DNOKquoaY76/s200/axe+3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I know you're not touching my mannequin!</span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah, except instead of a mannequin, <i>it's a baby. </i>Never touch my shopping cart (which I commonly refer to as a "buggy", much to Steve's annoyance). Never touch my baby. Never touch my shopping cart <i>while </i>it contains my baby. Are we clear?</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I didn't <i>say </i>anything to the woman, because I wondered if I was alone in my shopping etiquette beliefs. Steve says, "Oh <i>hell </i>no, she did <i>not </i>touch your cart with Rob in it." Haha, I'm paraphrasing of course, but I just made it seem like Steve talks like a sassy girl. I'm amusing myself, but I digress. Anyway, Woman had two children with her. Also, she was of a different nationality. Maybe in Mumbai, people push each other's shopping carts. I don't know. I've never been there. I decided to let it slide this once. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm not the only person whose personal space is invaded. Recently, my mom was on the phone with me while she was shopping, when she abruptly ended our conversation. I later learned what transpired that afternoon in the Hobby Lobby. Mom says she was being followed aisle-to-aisle by a woman who was crowding her so closely that she kept hitting my Mom with her shopping cart. Mom finally decided that enough was enough. Mom hangs up the phone, turns to the woman behind her and says:</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mom:</b> I don't know you, and you are standing in my personal space.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Creepy Lady:</b> [in a low, breathy voice] Yes you do.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mom:</b> Uhh, <i>no. </i>I don't.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Creepy Lady:</b> [still in the breathy voice] Yes you do.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mom:</b> <i>Who</i> are you?</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Creepy Lady: </b>Who do you<i> think</i> I am?</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mom:</b> I think you're a stranger and you're standing too close to me and you need to back off.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ok, so I have to applaud my mom on her directness, but it was ineffective nonetheless. Creepy Woman continued to follow my mom through the store, eventually purchasing $300 worth of feathers, or "plumage" as my mom would say. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Shopping is a universal, public, yet personal experience. When I need to buy my toilet paper or pregnancy tests or [insert name of item you're embarrassed to purchase in front of strangers], I don't want to do this while a stranger stands over me, close enough to braid my hair. At the cash register, I'm handling my cash, or presenting a debit card, or entering a PIN number. This is also a private matter. Back the hell off. Don't touch my stuff. You'll get your turn. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Am I asking too much?</div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-35571329906230483002011-07-22T15:34:00.000-05:002011-07-22T15:34:23.677-05:00One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU__LCN5QnSLpPoi1Ar8f_fDZUFNOEtpGW0DzyJmYuita_f0vre_IGpxoW8LUFQwMidp5JSnxRCk0v5eCFo1N9D6-RPtWNwwMD8XLwrK3xFqfvmkyTmHZVPjBbR46oxypnpiTUKJ2OgQRo/s1600/Official+12+month+nominee+B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
<img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU__LCN5QnSLpPoi1Ar8f_fDZUFNOEtpGW0DzyJmYuita_f0vre_IGpxoW8LUFQwMidp5JSnxRCk0v5eCFo1N9D6-RPtWNwwMD8XLwrK3xFqfvmkyTmHZVPjBbR46oxypnpiTUKJ2OgQRo/s400/Official+12+month+nominee+B.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I thought I'd be in a puddle of tears today because my first born, my only child, is no longer a baby and now a toddler. Today is his first birthday. I'm a crier. I cry when I'm sad. I cry when I'm happy. I cry during the local news. I cry during the cheesy predictable ending of a romantic comedy. Today, I haven't cried. As a matter of fact, I've been the <i>opposite </i>of crying. I've been downright euphoric. Giddy. Happy. Robinson and I began our day at the pediatrician's office for Rob's one-year check-up, where I greeted the doctor with such enthusiasm that he was taken aback.<i> "Wow. You're...bubbly." </i>He actually took a step backwards. All I did was smile and say hello, I promise. Robinson's doctor is always reacting with surprise to see me in a good mood. What does he expect? Do all you mothers out there go to the pediatrician's office in crabby moods and I just don't know about it? I mean, I can imagine he encounters many mothers on a daily basis who are visiting him because their child is sick or injured, and I wouldn't expect them to be peppy; but I've only been to the pediatrician for the well-baby check ups. Should I be in a sour mood about that? Maybe my doctor is a glass-half-empty kind of guy, and he enters each appointment with the expectation that the mother is going to be a complete chore. I dunno. I'm not gonna speculate.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu8XLWGrZ07tlK_H8pn_lHYLAAl6BbzanIISjyHLmCdGttbEJGuN1sbEUIA9nHk0RsSJ9DvAgOJfNJ3oU3hsaa8LpGRDhooaLbDriyoGiCEo0yYQP71I9IhPJg_2_LpuC73saZOCJiI-q/s1600/062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu8XLWGrZ07tlK_H8pn_lHYLAAl6BbzanIISjyHLmCdGttbEJGuN1sbEUIA9nHk0RsSJ9DvAgOJfNJ3oU3hsaa8LpGRDhooaLbDriyoGiCEo0yYQP71I9IhPJg_2_LpuC73saZOCJiI-q/s400/062.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>After the pediatrician, we went to an early lunch at Chick-Fil-A. I thought he might enjoy the play area. It's called "Toddler Town". It's an entire town for toddlers! What could be more fun? Well, if I was feeling wistful earlier that my "baby" is all grown up, Toddler Town showed me that my tot isn't <i>all </i>that grown up. There was no way he could have held his own in Toddler Town. There were tots in there with ankles bigger than Rob's thighs. My kid's gonna have to learn how to scrap before he can play in there. Also, he needs to learn how to walk. I saw no crawling in Toddler Town. Robinson sat happily for an hour, watching all the children run around and play. His mind was blown.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAM_efNtXPAzrScjQqnCERoiApfI0Sp7NhTJRCi9aZG96L_Tc6b218WMoB1FyiMBwQl3v9nk7Pyastm5m55Tkbb-NiVlb4t2A7obsKpBbwG5FaroBxkNBl3sFGAKaJTCoavaB2FbyaPlO/s1600/051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAM_efNtXPAzrScjQqnCERoiApfI0Sp7NhTJRCi9aZG96L_Tc6b218WMoB1FyiMBwQl3v9nk7Pyastm5m55Tkbb-NiVlb4t2A7obsKpBbwG5FaroBxkNBl3sFGAKaJTCoavaB2FbyaPlO/s400/051.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Steve and I are so grateful for our healthy, beautiful, sweet, precocious baby boy, and we're excited for what the next year holds for our family of three!</div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-66166831191698575802011-07-21T12:56:00.000-05:002011-07-21T12:56:32.438-05:00Veruca Salt and Me: A Story of Interfriendtion and RedemptionHi, guys! Do you remember the time I was furious with my best friend of over ten years and so I wrote a strongly-worded blog post and published it on the internet and hundreds of people read it?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K8Cqswuya3MBTWxhKgH0B1fd_MSChlqhavn0fzAVngRX5dFanZ9pSPmW6RbQjh6ndAoKGkouEDStS0qwMDEVuyT8otOgfgwOSnqwcLP0iyMvelY1MITHReRE3pl9KCoqGrvVeI6Y0Ier/s1600/Chris+farley+quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K8Cqswuya3MBTWxhKgH0B1fd_MSChlqhavn0fzAVngRX5dFanZ9pSPmW6RbQjh6ndAoKGkouEDStS0qwMDEVuyT8otOgfgwOSnqwcLP0iyMvelY1MITHReRE3pl9KCoqGrvVeI6Y0Ier/s400/Chris+farley+quote.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Did you wonder if my friend Veruca Salt read the post?<br />
<br />
She did.<br />
<br />
Do you think it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside?<br />
<br />
It didn't.<br />
<br />
Should I have saved it for Festivus?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgi3wP3U6aS5UJM93HUY35MHVSam-0hKIbOscC8MJJR58EucltrX8O9b3m7KocTNMdK3kR3_HIhZUHnvw3_VJm0CsXkJST8q6_aAUbSlSpSaXMGssOCquagFDkjkt__J9iEZqGbowA-xU/s1600/Festivus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgi3wP3U6aS5UJM93HUY35MHVSam-0hKIbOscC8MJJR58EucltrX8O9b3m7KocTNMdK3kR3_HIhZUHnvw3_VJm0CsXkJST8q6_aAUbSlSpSaXMGssOCquagFDkjkt__J9iEZqGbowA-xU/s400/Festivus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Should I have worked through my feelings in a more private and productive way, like talking to a therapist?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's not a bad idea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Better still, could I have perhaps taken my issues directly to Veruca instead of publicly humiliating her on the internet?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She certainly thinks so.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the interest of forgiveness (and as a testament to the power of friendship), the title and content of the aforementioned blog post have since been edited, so this post will only make sense to those who read that post in its original form. However, enough people read "The Blog" that I feel a follow-up is in order. It's only fair that I stop referring to my friend as "Veruca Salt". She would like to henceforth be known as "A1". It's an old nickname. Don't ask.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I believe that I best process my feelings and express myself through writing, and that in doing so I was able to lay out my detailed account of how her words and actions hurt others and that this would prompt her to re-examine herself and return to being the sweet, loyal and fun friend I have known and loved for so many years. Urban Dictionary would call this an "interfriendtion". It's catchy and concise, so let's go with that. I would like to think that my post opened up a healthy and honest dialogue that repaired our friendship. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A1 would say that I could have accomplished this in a much less public way. One woman's catharsis is another woman's humiliation, and I take no pride in hurting someone. I recognize that my blog is available for public viewing, but to say that the response to this particular post was <i>unprecedented </i>for this blogger would be an understatement.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You should know that A1 and I both agreed that this post is necessary. She certainly didn't want me to leave this story open-ended, with her cast as the villain. We have been friends since we were 18-years-old. The events I described in The Blog do not accurately reflect A1's character, or our history together. Hearing her heartfelt apology and <i>explanation</i> (not to be confused with <i>excuse</i>) provided clarity and a context that made it clear to me that we can absolutely move forward from this. We value our friendship and hurt feelings on both sides have been mended.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you've been blessed in your life with important friendships that have withstood the test of time, then you know that times can get stormy. Borrowing from one of Steve's favorite expressions, "It's not all rainbows and lollipops." If you take anything away from this mini-drama, I hope it's the understanding that we all fall down sometimes. We hurt the ones we love the most. Sometimes when we hurt our loved ones, they hurt us back in ways we never imagined. But we always forgive, because we're a family. A1, The Gypsy, Mama, Cara, Beana, Sally, plus Panda and The Dr. (both absent from this year's trip), and me--we'll be playing cards in the old folks' home when we're 90. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVj8kH4R179OgL4kdGz1_zrKbVPysRHi4pQzC7gxeIJ8PLaIvMpELNXjbuIbBT-9fgIqm9QUjFvEbSt6X3RpUTg9_F1o93O0jcnYA9p-MG6sYyamb7TAb3mJNxofqKJGk5L-EJEnGXSVnB/s1600/laughing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVj8kH4R179OgL4kdGz1_zrKbVPysRHi4pQzC7gxeIJ8PLaIvMpELNXjbuIbBT-9fgIqm9QUjFvEbSt6X3RpUTg9_F1o93O0jcnYA9p-MG6sYyamb7TAb3mJNxofqKJGk5L-EJEnGXSVnB/s400/laughing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtpu93zvRoNk79PfgBrFwwSAQ7tHN9c1hToZGbpLHM3Ch-w8hYXS_-VvhbXpZHqhGNFCb0He1UKK3VZdRtOIM2sLUfELyE6BEgsB1o3LVP1WVxcnN7QYnJzyvsOgagIGUcoVFDFk2vQKo/s1600/hug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtpu93zvRoNk79PfgBrFwwSAQ7tHN9c1hToZGbpLHM3Ch-w8hYXS_-VvhbXpZHqhGNFCb0He1UKK3VZdRtOIM2sLUfELyE6BEgsB1o3LVP1WVxcnN7QYnJzyvsOgagIGUcoVFDFk2vQKo/s400/hug.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you have your own "Veruca Salt" in your life, A1 and I would encourage you to pick up the phone. Y'all talk it out. The outcome could be better than you ever hoped. </div>Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5372391652248571463.post-79493891635486390262011-07-21T07:37:00.000-05:002011-07-21T07:37:00.408-05:00Step Right Up, and Feast Your Eyes on A PAIR OF REDHEADS!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQeBggK3-fzc8XArpDVQN-hVjFphpf_scMVXYnFOWyD_zAZR2-cbw7hVDWMkSXj1HWW9C6De8GbYu0WQuZ8I6iJacEjQGhT1sdIUuJpu2_ILLkHlXq7kmDYfRd9iBT01DC5Ph7sVU8Knl/s1600/31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQeBggK3-fzc8XArpDVQN-hVjFphpf_scMVXYnFOWyD_zAZR2-cbw7hVDWMkSXj1HWW9C6De8GbYu0WQuZ8I6iJacEjQGhT1sdIUuJpu2_ILLkHlXq7kmDYfRd9iBT01DC5Ph7sVU8Knl/s400/31.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>In case you haven't noticed, my son Robinson and I both have red hair. If I ever forget that my red hair is an anomaly, there are plenty of strangers eager to remind me. As I've gotten older, and therefore more likely to go out with a ponytail pulled through a ball cap, people make fewer comments to me about my hair. But, now that I have a redheaded baby, we attract considerable attention. As the title of this post hints, I do at times feel like a bit of a freak show. Here are the odds of what's likely to happen if Robinson and I <i>ever</i> go out in public together:<br />
<br />
<b>9 out of 10:</b> chance that someone will approach Robinson and strike up a conversation with him about his hair. Robinson can't talk of course, because he is a baby, so I stop checking the expiration dates on the milk in the dairy case and engage a stranger in a conversation about hair.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77pNv-wcSYsqy9p6-K_bdesdwHEruaJN72TIXyv2zs_0XIth5SXvnMIs5m6d8w8k6TcuTOlmLT6tZ3t448fLFl2hAzWlS5dnoF_ik5dHs8YfugWtQZeHj7GPWeRCls_NvWgk1uN3Z-T20/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77pNv-wcSYsqy9p6-K_bdesdwHEruaJN72TIXyv2zs_0XIth5SXvnMIs5m6d8w8k6TcuTOlmLT6tZ3t448fLFl2hAzWlS5dnoF_ik5dHs8YfugWtQZeHj7GPWeRCls_NvWgk1uN3Z-T20/s400/6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b>3 out of 4:</b> chance that the person who approaches me will have a family history of red hair and will launch into a detailed account of their family tree, which members of their family have red hair, which generations the red hair skipped, and miscellaneous redhead topics, such as the occurrence of red hair with blue eyes versus red hair with brown eyes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0rXGNGz5vK_BCwe234cu3cxN4jgJwMe_qdlktRnASvbGDXSj6jx4s51G41JgD_EFvSY_XT2tcSKyvn4xygwN9z1Sc2Vywvaw4_j0nj5Hs4GGv1e9jbEiQnlRWTChMN7-TbDoJe6MUvp2/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0rXGNGz5vK_BCwe234cu3cxN4jgJwMe_qdlktRnASvbGDXSj6jx4s51G41JgD_EFvSY_XT2tcSKyvn4xygwN9z1Sc2Vywvaw4_j0nj5Hs4GGv1e9jbEiQnlRWTChMN7-TbDoJe6MUvp2/s400/2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b>1 out of 10:</b> chance that the person who approaches me will somehow insult red hair or pay a back-handed compliment.<br />
<br />
Example:<br />
<b>Wal-Mart Employee: </b>"My baby has red hair. Of course, he's all grown up now. He got to where he really hated it--said he got tired of everywhere he went he got noticed."<br />
<b>Me: </b>[laughing] Yeah, I know the feeling.<br />
<br />
Wal-Mart Employee sheepishly scurries away and pretends to rearrange the eggs in the dairy case.<br />
<br />
Meow! I didn't realize until typing this that my reply was kind of pointed and catty. That was not my intention. I basically said it sucks that strangers (read: <i>her</i>) approach me everywhere I go because I have bright red hair. Then again, I was responding to <i>her</i> statement, which was basically, "My son has hair the same color as you--and he <i>hates</i> it." I'd call that an unintended insult. If you can think of a nicer way to respond to that, I'm all ears.<br />
<br />
Another funny aspect of the "redhead conversation" is when a person who knows a redhead approaches me, and they like to discuss what I would call "the plight of the redhead". It's basically all the stereotypes about the "redhead experience", which they seem to believe is universally shared by all redheads. They'll say things like, "I bet people gave you hell when you were a kid, but you like your hair now!" or "Ya know, redheads don't turn gray like so many other hair colors. Your hair color will probably just slowly fade," or "Have you ever noticed that most redheads are pasty and ugly?" or "Redheads bleed a lot when you cut them". All true. Seriously, whenever I am being prepped for surgery (as you do so often) and the nurses or surgical techs get a look at me and my copper locks, they shake their heads and say to one of the associates "No one told us she was a redhead. We're gonna need more blood."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ACNIISkethlJyoqniTSJXHF-BhHMQ7Q4iq8JbnTfgAEmUDKON40AeKHh0JoL8vPixerq6TDx-n45rx0oN-6Aarqn_AH5Jvb7bn1DjglA5XsxvX8eOx7SvKUl6oxujLPy6HL2IyuCjh_4/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ACNIISkethlJyoqniTSJXHF-BhHMQ7Q4iq8JbnTfgAEmUDKON40AeKHh0JoL8vPixerq6TDx-n45rx0oN-6Aarqn_AH5Jvb7bn1DjglA5XsxvX8eOx7SvKUl6oxujLPy6HL2IyuCjh_4/s400/10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>If I sound like I dislike mine and my son's shared red hair, I don't. Nor do I mind that people approach us. My mom told me this would happen. She said grocery shopping took much longer with Baby Samantha because people wanted to talk to her about my hair. And because every time a stranger approached me <i>I wanted them to pick me up and take me with them. </i>She had to keep a close eye on me. There are much worse things in life than being on the receiving end of positive attention. Added bonus: if (God forbid) something terrible happened to Robinson and me, like we went missing, and police were investigating our disappearance by retracing our last known whereabouts, I feel pretty confident that people at Wal-Mart, Kroger, Starbucks, etc. would remember us. I know, I know, that's a very morose place for my mind to wander...I'm just sayin'. I find comfort in being distinctive for that reason alone.Samanthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862336614779951583noreply@blogger.com1