Jar Full of Awesome

Facing the reality that I am a lazy blogger and journal-keeper, we just started writing down memorable items and cramming them in a jar.  New Year's Day seemed like a good time to review 2012's contents.

Kinda makes the opening of the jar seem less spontaneous when you take a break to photograph the moment and edit the pic.  Yet, here we are . . .

Look at those lovely little memories spill out all non-staged-like.  So casual, yet profound.  

Standing on porch

Max says, "Mom you aren't a lawyer anymore, are you?"

"Nope."

"You are a stay-at-home-mom now?"

"Yup."

Points to front door, "Get in there and get back to work!"

Here's one from Molly:

On seeing pants she liked:

"I want to put my butt in there!"

A few more of my favorites:

• Don't be mad mom.  Be cool.  (Molly)
• Follow me, I'm FIVE! (Max)
• Hear this now: we are going to a restaurant, and the restaurant shall be ... PIZZA HUT! (Max)
• From January through August, Molly exclusively called her brother "Wolfie." 
• A B C D E F G H I J K L M Bumblebee Q R S T U V W X Y Z (Molly)
• You stole my smarts!  I can't remember what "defenestrate" means. (Max - then age 4)
• Dad, I am going to pull out all the white hairs from your beard.  Gonna give 'em to an old man.  We're gonna make a wig for him! (Max)
• Once-a-time ... two little zombies fell down ... on a rock ... then I killed them.  The end. (Molly)
• I have to poop the BIG ONE! (Molly)
• Hey Beautiful!  Why don't you grab me a cookie? (Max)
• Max calls bad guys "Ne'er-do-wells"
• Hi, I am mommy, and I am boring. (Molly)

There you have it!  Our gushing sentimental year-in-review.  Aren't you glad we don't send out Christmas cards now?

Fuzzy Shag Sensory Pleasing Toy

Here is today's nomination for worst-named toy:

Step (1)   Purchase toy from Kushies

Step (2)  Place your name on the appropriate offender registry

Conversation with my trousers

Getting dressed this morning, I pulled out a pair of jeans that fit perfectly well this summer. Getting them on and buttoned today happend only after a long and uncivil battle.

PANTS: It’s not going to happen. You have allowed your butt to re-bigulate.

ME: Nonsense. You are just being unwieldy because the dryer got the better of you.

PANTS: The only one of us to change sizes was you, cookie-eater.

ME: Your lack of cooperation is nothing a little hopping and yanking can’t overcome.

PANTS: I’m pleased to see you getting some exercise, tubby.

ME: What are you talking about? I am a size 2!

PANTS: I think you are confused. I am a size 2. It says so on my label. You on the other hand are not a size 2.

ME: What is your problem? Why won’t you zip?

PANTS: Listen, if you must backbend over the staircase railing, the zipping simply wasn’t meant to be.

ME: Why I oughtta . . .

PANTS: Are you threatening me?

ME: Maybe I am.

PANTS: You have an unfair advantage; you are much larger than I.

ME: aaaargh …. hoooo-hoo-hoo …nnnnnnngggg … and BUTTONED!

PANTS: You feel like a big woman now? It’s only appropriate.

ME: SIZE TWO, BABY!

PANTS: You are not going to like this.

ME: Whaaa . . . ? [passes out]



Get back to me when you have a meritorious claim.

When I have to get out a ruler to measure the thickness of your Motion to Suppress, I find it very difficult to suppress my more sardonic tendencies.

I stopped midway through the .75 inch masterpiece on my desk to send the following email to opposing counsel:



Available at the mental_floss store.

So I have this theory

Subaru owners are not content to use their cars to drive from scenic point A to recreational point B.  They also want their fellow motorists to get to know them on a personal level.  They want to us to get them.  They want us to know that they totally dig nature on a much more profound level than the common man.  Oh, and in case you can't extrapolate from the 15 - 20 stickers on the back of the Forrester in your lane, they want you to know for whom they vote.  You better believe there is some consistency as to the voting patterns of Subaru owners.

So I started to wonder:  what would happen if you were to put a conservative-leaning sticker on the back of a Subaru?  Could  it even happen?

Here is my working hypothesis:

GOP Sticker

+

Subaru

=

Annihilation?

Of course, I can't test my theory, because I would never put the live of loyal retrievers at risk ... oh, and people, too (but mostly retrievers).

The OKO Trike

As insanely cool as it may appear,

the OKO Tricycle bears a disturbing resemblance to another vehicle.



Photos from last evening's run

I had a great run yesterday evening, and managed to take a few photos on the trail.  I would now like to share some of the poignant thoughts I had along the way.

Suck it, Frost!  Some roads are less traveled for a reason.

Poor parenting is its own punishment

Matt called me the other night to let me know he was going out with friends after work. I immediately seized upon this opportunity to shirk any nutritional responsibility for my kiddos.

At the McDonald's drive-thru I bought a salad for myself, but tossed my kids to the dietary wolves and ordered them up a mess of nuggets, fries, and the like. That's right. Screw their cholesterol levels!

A bit of instant karma awaited me as I pulled around to the first window where we learned the teen who had taken our order suffered from a most unfortunate acne affliction. Most unfortunate. I did the polite thing, smiled, said thank you, pretended not to notice the dermatological catastrophe before me.

That's when Max shouted from the back seat, "What did that mosquito do to your FACE?!"

I smiled sheepishly, apologized, returned to facing forward, and rolled up the window before Max could follow-up with another probing question.

We got our food from the next window, pulled away, and then discovered Max's cheeseburger (no pickles) had not made it into his Happy Meal. Making our return trip to the drive-thru, I told Max all about teenage acne, that it was most likely uncomfortable and a little embarrassing to the kid who took our money, and we don't want to talk about it in a way that might make him feel bad. Max agreed to say nothing when we saw him again.

During the awkward return encounter with the kid at the window, I explained our pickle-less cheeseburger quandary, and he told us to go ahead to the second window. Just before I could pull away, Max proudly proclaimed, "See mom! I didn't say anything about his pimples!"

Fear has a new name, poopiehead

Coming in October.

This fall, Mom and Dad won't be able to hear you scream.

I don't like to talk about my flair

No excuse for this cookie.

Eight years I have been out of college this spring. Still, every December and May I continue to have the final exam dream. You know the dream. You suddenly realize that you enrolled in advanced organic chemistry but never bothered attending class. Now it is too late to drop the class, you only have a couple days to cram, and you are a freaking political science major.

Then you bolt awake in a cold sweat.

Girl Scout cookie season is again upon us! Last night I had another chilling dream. I went to pick up my Samoas, only to learn that they had substituted Carmel deLites. They didn’t think I would mind, as they are “pretty much the same thing.”

If you know anything about me, anything at all, you can predict that I was blue with rage when I woke up choking and gasping.



Like the final exam dream, I predict that this one will reoccur year after year. The stress and trauma of having been maliciously ambushed with the Carmel deLite substitution has left too deep a scar.

I really, really need some rest. Really.

Molly is teething. I am desperate for sleep. So, so desperate for sleep.

Alternately, I am abusively surly and in the next moment obnoxiously silly. It really depends when you catch me. I almost look forward to random phone calls today; I am often surprised and delighted to see what comes out of my mouth.

I managed to take a break from my zombie trance this morning to fill out a survey from LexisNexis, who had the audacity to ask me to rate them, and then justify my rating. I tried to skip the latter step, but Lexis had to press the issue.



What is the single most important reason for giving Lexis.com this rating?
'I suppose a rating of 6 would indicate a slightly more favorable recommendation than merely neutral or indifferent. That seems rather intuitive on a 1-10 scale, but it may be just me. There are only two meaningful choices for legal research, Lexis and Westlaw. If a colleague, associate or friend were to ask me, "hey, should I go with Lexis or Westlaw?" I would answer with a solid, "Meh. My office uses Lexis. No complaints, it's been a few years since I used Westlaw, so I don't really know what I am missing at this point. Eh, what the hell, I say give Lexis a shot." That is the single most important reason for giving Lexis a 6. You sorry you asked now? I bet you are. Look, I tried to leave this space blank, but the survey required my input. I kinda feel like you forced this rather ambling and prolix response. No one to blame but yourselves LexisNexis. No one to blame but yourselves.'

You gave is a score of 6. What do we need to do for you to score us higher in the future?

One word: schwag.

I'm thinking fountain pen, or one of those nifty travel mugs that look like a take-out paper cup. Those are awesome!
I think I need at least a quick nap as a stopgap against additional douchebaggery.

The Grossest Job You'll Ever Love

While out to lunch this weekend Max had a productive and slimy sneeze. Matt and I scrambled for napkins and raced to clean up the child before Max could take care of it with his customary lingual wipe (I gagged a little just typing “lingual wipe”).

Relieved that none in our lunch party would be consuming mucus, Matt was yet a little shaken, “I have seen some really gross stuff in my time. I have seen what it looks like when someone shoots themselves in the face with a shotgun; I have cut open a man who had been decomposing for days in the river. But nothing could prepare me for how gross kids are! I have seen things eaten that should never be eaten, disgusting things that had to be cleaned out of horrible places, and the snot! The constant snot …”

I couldn't help burst out laughing when Tough Guy closed his eyes and gave in to a full-body shudder.

Like Manna from Snark Heaven

I am sure you, like me, have spent considerable time pondering the perfect descriptor for those cooler-than-you chain smoking beatniks nouveau. They are so tortured, so creative, so ... French (even when they are not). To find a suitable term that perfectly captures these people and all their gritty on-trend splendor is a difficult task, to say the least.
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I was supremely delighted when, while browsing Zulily for overpriced baby sundries, I came across THIS:
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It is sublime in its perfection!
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I am only saddened that I didn't think of this on my own.

Well, this shoots my week all to hell ...

Back in the office this morning, planning my week, and clicking through my email when I spot this in my inbox:

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My lifetime charter membership is ending on Friday? Sweet Mother of CRAP! Elder Care Matters is threatening to kill me!!!

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I'm going to go rough up Grandma Grace right now as a show of my defiance.

'Tis the season for disappointment

I haven't even started shopping yet, but I feel confident that I'll pick out all the wrong gifts. Again.

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One thing I always get right, though, is the wrapping. I am a world class gift wrapper. Really! But I am starting to worry that the more beautifully wrapped the gift is on the outside, the more crushing the disappointment with the item inside. So this year, I have made up some gift tags that will help manage recipient expectations.

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You should have heard the shriek of terror on that night

When we got our Halloween photos processed, we found some eerie images.

(For purposes of this post, let us just ignore the reality of digital photography, shall we?)

Care to venture what you are seeing in this image? Ectoplasm particles? Electrical disturbances? Ghostly artifacts ?
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Terrible guesses, all.



Matt and I made cupcakes to take with us to a Halloween party. They were frosted with an absurdly delicious whipped meringue icing to look like brains. Some with vasculature and some without (for the squeamish).


I am not terribly practiced at piping icing with a pastry bag, so it took me a lot of time to make our macabre little morsels. I was pretty pleased with how they turned out.
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You know where this story is going, right? You surely have to know.

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Oh yes.



This story ends up with brains splattered everywhere. It was very much like a scene from Pulp Fiction. Poor Marvin.

Yum!

Did anyone else get super carried away after watching Pan's Labyrinth?

Couple of words make a big difference

Matt and I were upstairs while Max was entertaining himself downstairs. He called up to us, "I got it! I got it!"

We shouted back down, "Yay! Good work Max."

It occurred to us that we need to be more attentive parents when Max clarified, "I got it ... all over !"

The cleanup was just as unpleasant as you might imagine.

The Old Distract & Redirect Tactic

Did I mention that I am dieting? World’s least exciting topic it very well may be. That notwithstanding, I shall forge on to bore you with another diet-related post.

I have been nearly fasting all day in anticipation of a deep fried Twinkie at the State Fair. It has been three years since my last deep fried Twinkie, and I intend to end that slump TONIGHT!

Despite its despicable suggestion that I set a weight loss goal of 200 pounds, I continue to track my calories over at the Livestrong site. Out of curiosity, I typed in “deep fried twinkie” into the Livestrong calculator. Fortunately, entering the words "deep fried twinkie" into a fitness website did not cause my computer to explode. I did get some subtle redirection, though.


The folks with Livestrong wouldn't even dignify my query with a response. Rather they cheerily suggest, "Won't you enjoy a wholesome peach. We think you should probably just have a peach."

You calling me fat, Armstrong?!

Like all mothers of a new baby, I am starving, angry, and just a bit lightheaded. Ah, the joyful post-natal ritual of calorie restriction ...
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I have been using the calorie tracker application available on the Livestrong website to keep tabs of every tasteless morsel that passes my lips. I logged on this afternoon to dutifully report my quarter-cup of cottage cheese when Livestrong challenged me to a fun little game of Truth or Dare.
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Well, not so much Truth, more like Wildly-Insulting-Dare.

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Oh yeah. Livestrong just suggested that I lose two-hundred pounds. Believe it.

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Screw you, Lance Armstong, and the bike you rode in on.

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Don't you shush me, Lefty.
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An offer I could refuse

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As part of the continuing legal education requirements for the Utah State Bar, attorneys must take courses on ethics and civility.

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A recent exchange with opposing counsel has me concluding that we need to dial back the civility just a notch.
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OPPOSING COUNSEL: How's the new baby?
ME: Great! Thank you so much for asking.
OP: So, are you nursing?
ME: Uh . . . yeah . . .
OP: Is that tough now that you are back to work?
ME: [shifts uncomfortably] I am able to send bottles of milk with the baby.
OP: Man! Those breast pumps are expensive!
ME: I guess.
OP: My wife had really nice ones.
ME: Excuse me?
OP: Breast pumps.
ME: Oh!
OP: If you want, you could have one.
ME: Thanks, I'm set.
OP: It would be good to have one at home and one at the office though, right?
ME: They are portable.
OP: Seriously, do you want the pump?
ME: No thank you, really.
OP: Why not?! It is in perfectly great shape.

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I was able to finally communicate that I wasn't really all that interested in a second-hand breast pump before I made my escape.

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My point is that civility can go too far. Uncomfortably, skin-crawlingly too far.
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Just a concerned customer

Dear Brothers-All-Natural,

First off: I love your products, specifically the fruit crisps. Yum!

Okay, now you are aware that I come to you out of love, you will hopefully not begrudge me for playing grammar cop. On the back of your packaging it states:
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We take great care to insure the quality and food safety of
our products … All raw materials and finished products are
tested daily to insure 100% purity and the best possible quality.

I appreciate and admire the guarantee on the package, but I am 99% certain you are misusing the term insure when you mean ensure.

I say 99% sure, because I suppose it is possible that you are actually referring to some sort of financial liability policy that would pay you for any damages resulting from a less than quality product (in which case the usage here would be correct). I strongly suspect, however, that you are making a specific promise of a quality or condition (ENSURE) rather than referring to limiting financial liability (INSURE).

Sorry to even write this email. Frankly, I disgust myself a little bit for bothering you. I only want good things for you and your tasty products, Brothers-All-Natural! I would hate for your magnificent product to be shunned by grammar-whackos – and you know they are out there.

With warmest regards,

Kerry

Par for our course

Why I Love my Husband

We welcomed our baby girl Molly into our family in May. With the blessed event, however, comes exquisite sleep deprivation. I am prone to pining for the rest that eludes me, even on facebook.

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Perhaps it is my out-of-whack serotonin levels, but Matt's response triggered a violent gigglefit. Sweet Sassy Molassy, I love that man!

Mood Swings

Baby is coming in precisely ONE WEEK from today. I am variably delighted and terrified about the prospect of a new baby in our home.
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I have put together a crude diagram that I just tap with my pen whenever people ask me how much I am looking forward to the big day.
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It's nice to have the arrow back on the right after several horrifying days in the red.

Catchy, catchy irony

I have had this song stuck in my head since the BP spung it's cute little leak in the Gulf of Mexico.




You are whistling right now, aren't you?

Why? Why would I like any of these things?

I read an article about the increase of babies born to highly educated mothers, and mothers over the age of 30. Based upon that reading, I was presented with the following recommended articles featuring terrible things:

Ew! What?!

I get a weekly pregnancy email from the American Pregnancy Association which include tips for the poor sucker stuck cohabiting with a gravid woman. The tips are usually something like "let her take a nap while you make dinner, and perhaps she won't threaten to cut your break lines." Helpful common sense type stuff.

This week's tip made me deeply uncomfortable.

Massage my perineum?! That's the tip? Well that just sounds horridly awkward.
"Honey, grab that shoe tree and come help mamma stretch out the old hoo-ha!"

That's actually kinda accurate

Amazon has a nifty new feature where you enter a specific PayPhrase that gives you a shortcut to spending your money even faster. If you have shopped there recently you noticed that Amazon will provide you with a suggest PayPhrase which is usually some random bit of word salad.



I was shopping for some baby products when spotted this proposed PayPhrase.

Kerry's Utter Responsibility

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Did they mean udder responsibility? This gave me a hearty chortle, and reminded me that I need to register for some Bag Balm.