Clean-up on Aisle 4!

Dear Target,

I highly recommend that you take out the trash on Aisle 4. The stench eminating from that area may or may not have to do with a fully loaded diaper that I placed amidst candy wrappers and sample napkins in the trash bin, which probably hasn't been emptied in a year.

While I cannot confirm or deny any rumors that I actually changed Miss Dub in the aisle, I will say that ethnic foods are her favorite so she was quite content underneath a beautiful array of glass noodles. And if I did it, I obviously used a changing pad, though a quick mopping of the floor would be best.

Often the best lessons are taught to us by children. And as they say, "When you gotta go, you gotta go." And when you gotta change a diaper, you gotta change a diaper. Like, before a bad situation gets all over the cart.

But, seriously, you should take out that trash. I'm there at least three times a week, and I don't want a nasal reminder of the whole experience.

By the way, thanks for the $8 pair of black pants. I'm quite thrilled to be wearing a single-digit size after all these years.

Your adoring fan always,

Mrs. Dub

P.S. You should read my comments and hear some of the diaper-changing horror stories my friends and family have personally experienced. You know, once they share them!

Ali Update!

My swap package from Ali just arrived in the mail, and after carefully opening its contents ... otherwise known as ripping it open, stopping only for bits of air and photographs ... I was thrilled to find the following:

(Note she totally disregarded the THREE favorite things guidelines, much to my delight.)

* A notebook to keep track of books to read, books read and favorite quotes and passages. I could not need this more as motherhood as brought on a major memory loss where I arrive at the library and cannot think of any book title except for "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler." Which was an excellent read in fourth grade, but not at all the great book so-and-so recommended to me.

* Tiny, coin-sized notes and envelopes in my favorite aqua blue for the smallest of notes - not to mention tips for stylists.

* A vintage-y trio of dainty earrings from Forever 21 (one of my faves), which will spare my ears from major damage now that Miss Dub wants to rip out all my ginormous earrings. Plus, I'll look a little less like a hooker. And that's always a plus.

* Birthday candles that look like they were hand-dipped for a fabulous soiree. Probably in France. Because I kind of think all pretty stuff has French origins. And did I mention it's always the south of France?

* The prettiest sugar cookie from Bakers de Normandie - great, apparently it's northern France - which I instantly devoured despite all Weight Watchers' advice to the contrary. I like to think all gifts are fat-free. And please, please, do not inform me otherwise. Also, please, please, do not tell me where this bakery is located, or I may have to move to Utah and visit there daily. (Chuck-a-Ramas be darned!)

* Two beautiful floral photos captured on Polaroid film. And, yes, I am now so inspired/jealous by them I am going to hunt down a Polaroid camera for myself. (You didn't think I was going to garden, did you?)

And all of this was typed up in cellophane with colorful embroidery floss and accompanied by a sweet note. (Literally, it was adorned with a cupcake, which so plays to my eternal love for Strawberry Shortcake and her gang of tasty truants.)

And did I mention my gifts were tied in colorful embroidery floss? And that I sent earrings from H&M? And that I sent notebooks? And that I included something sweet, though not nearly as decadent, to pad the package and Ali's hips?

I mean, is that eerie or what?

Of course, I quickly emailed and inquired about her birthdate and birth place as we were clearly separated at birth. (Or just missed the boat by not being BYU roommates and/or friends.)

Mom, now is the time to come clean about any hospital mix-ups.

Seriously.

p.s. My sister's belated b-day package also arrived, which contained two fab books on sewing and HTML. I must mark them in my notebook ASAP.

Swap sisters

Meet Ali.

Ali is my swap sister/friend/fellow blogger/soul-writer and all other adjectives that denote things pleasant, coincidental and divine.

Yes, against my better judgment I signed up for Kelly's fabulous "My Three Favorite Things" swap. I don't mean that negatively - I've been coveting swaps for some time now. It's just that I know I'm not nearly as crafty, clever or downright punctual as most bloggettes out there. So I was really scared by the prospect of having to directly swap gifts with someone for fear that her favorite things would be so much more favored than mine.

Thankfully, my gift hasn't arrived quite yet in the mail, though I'll take pics as soon as it does. At which time, I'm sure to wish I was as brilliant as Ali. Except I already know she is because in my attempt to research my swap sister, I ended up addicted to Ali's blogs found here and here. The latter almost makes me want to move back to Utah. Almost. (Chuck-a-rama scares me, people!)

I'm pretty confident you're already reading her stuff. If not, grab a snack and get started.

And to find out the contents of my paper packages tied up in string - how could I resist when sending a few of my favorite things - click here.

Meanwhile, I'll be checking my mail.

Incribceration

To keep with the prison theme - and to hopefully change my current Google ads, which are associated with all sorts of naughtiness thanks to my last post - I pose the following Q:

Which came first,

jail cells

or

cribs?

Because now that my lil' Miss can pull herself up to standing, she greets me after naptime (or when she should be sleeping) by pounding on the slats and squealing for her release! And I can't help but picture her in an orange jumpsuit with a bandana about her head.

And she's only 8 months! And the crib is on the lowest setting!

(Though she has been sporting an 18-24 month swimsuit.)

I guess I'll know it's time for a toddler bed when she starts to make shanks.

HTT - Hilton Edition

Today’s HTT topic is ---

WAIT, breaking news here, people!

Paris Hilton is a free woman.

Hallelujah! Now she can return to her very busy and important life mentoring young women on the proper way to cover one’s privates when wearing a dress hemmed just above them. Now she can get back to inspiring the world with her words of wisdom, like, “Doing stuff is totally hot!” Now she can go home and appreciate the simple things in life like having multiple houses, designer clothes and an assistant whose sole job is to handle emergency hangnails.

OK, my sarcasm is oozing all over my keyboard so give me a second to wipe it up. But sufficeth to say I find the whole thing ridiculously sad.

The girl drove on a suspended license. She broke a law and had to suffer the consequences. Whether or not they were increased or alleviated because of her celebrity status doesn’t matter. Three weeks in jail were within the legal realms. And she served them because, well, she had to. (Although she’s done a great job of making it sound like she sucked up her pride and did it out of responsible obligation, even though she had no choice.)

The real question is – why did we have to do the time with her? Not just now, but for the last few years. What crime did we all commit that merited a punishment as bad as seeing her face plastered all over magazines for no reason besides her last name, vapid personality and endless array of extensions?

Now, let me be clear: I LOVE People magazine. I love to look at the pics and get the scoop on Hollywood’s hottest. Mostly, it’s about coveting purses and shoes and getting inspiration for my next TJMaxx binge. Sometimes it’s to play voyeur. But the endless deluge of self-destructing celebutantes like Lindsay, Britney, Paris and Nicole drives me crazy.

As a person, Paris Hilton deserves as much respect as the next person. (Something about us all being created equal, which also the philosophy behind her stint in the slamma.)

But as a public figure, she frustrates me because a lot of it is an act. (Same goes for Jessica Simpson and Tara Reid, let's hope.) Yet so many innocent young girls are following her cues and giving up important goals like saving the world in lieu of looking hot. Or playing dumb or snobby because they think that’s empowering.

Reese Witherspoon said it best: “Creating a cultural icon out of someone who goes, ‘I’m stupid, isn’t it cute?’ makes me want to throw daggers. Saying that to young women, little girls, my daughter, is not okay. I want to say to them, ‘My grandma did not fight for what she fought for, and my mother did not fight for what she fought for, just so you can start telling women it’s fun to be stupid.”

Amen, Reese. Too bad more girls don’t look up to you. Even your ditzy Elle Winters was smarter and more benevolent than Paris has ever been – in public, at least.

I nominate Reese to be the new tween idol. No, I nominate Reese’s grandmother. Or America Ferrera, who is giving Ugly a pretty name.

Shoot, let’s forget celebrities altogether.

What about Kory Arvizu-Johnson, who became an environmental activist at the age of 9 when she founded Children for a Safe Environment and continues to fight to keep toxic waste out of low-income communities?

Or my mom, who is one of the most sincere, honest and dedicated people I know. Not to mention she makes a mean gazpacho.

What do you think?

Is Paris your idea of an icon?

And who do you consider to be a real role model? (And how do you convince your kids to look up to them instead?)

Share. ‘Cause that’s hot!



p.s. Part of this is research for an upcoming article so if you’d like to elaborate, please email me!

Meet that mom

Princess Dub dons her crown

As you know, I really thought I wasn’t going to be that mom.

You know, that mom who is so coddling and controlling that she can’t bear to leave baby with a babysitter until she’s 12. Or that mom who is so undisciplined that she resorts to throwing baby in the car seat to lull her to sleep. Or that mom who loses her patience, thinks negative thoughts about her own child and declares to her husband, “When do I get a day off?”

But it dawned on me this weekend that despite my best efforts, I am that mom … which is a sad realization of a personality I desperately don’t want to have, but mostly a better understanding of that mom’s sheer humanity.

For example, Saturday was the first time we’ve left Miss Dub with a babysitter EVER. And did I mention she’s EIGHT months old today?

I’ve got a ton of justifications: “There are no good movies to see!” Or, “She’s so easy to schlep along!” And some real reasons, like I’ve just been too lazy to find a babysitter. Like, I have to drive 20 minutes just to pick up the young woman from church who lives closest to us. And, like, the going rate for a babysitter is $8-$10 an hour, which seriously, seriously makes me wish I’d joined a babysitter’s union when I had the chance. (And I didn’t.)

But the real reason is I’m a softy. I hate the thought of a crying, lonely or confused Miss Dub. I hate the thought of a poor teenager trying to calm down a screaming infant who’s never been left with a babysitter because her mom is totally paranoid. Because I really hate the thought of Miss Dub getting hurt or neglected because some 13-year-old is too busy texting some guy who doesn’t even like her and still wets his bed.

However, I bit the bullet and got the babysitter – who didn’t even bring a cell phone or make any mention of an incontinent crush. And it was great. We saw a movie. We got some lunch. We enjoyed life sans sippy cups. And I only thought about Miss Dub every 10 minutes or so, which is pretty good considering I’m that mom.

Then yesterday, I decided to give up my endless struggle to convince Miss Dub to sleep during church and/or do anything besides making scary Darth Vader sounds at the top of her lungs. (Her new favorite trick.) So rather than spend all of church in the mother’s lounge, I took her for a drive during Sunday School. She slept soundly throughout the final hour, and I got some much-needed spiritual nourishment. But I felt a little guilty; like I had cheated. And at church nonetheless!

Miss D’s happy streak ended, however, when we got home and it was time for another nap. The struggle to get her to not crawl around her crib Nascar-style combined with her increased whininess and my general fatigue created monsoon Mom conditions, which took me from frustrated to ticked in a flash. Suddenly, visions of a stubborn 7-year-old pitching a fit for a toy in Target filled my mind. And I honestly wondered what I had gotten myself in to. I honestly wondered if I had it in me to rear one child, much less a few more.

And then I tried to make Italian meatloaf for dinner and rather than risk a series of ailments including salmonella, I had to toss it. And that happens way more than I or my inner Ina would really want.

This time, visions of all the meals I would have to prepare flooded me: All the shopping, all the chopping, all the mental strain to think of something to make when the cupboards get bare. And I thought to myself, “When do I get a day off?” "When do I get to sleep in?"

"When did I turn into that mom?"

Because, my friends, that mom is human. That mom gets tired. That mom gets frustrated. That mom wishes bladder control issues on her imaginary babysitter. And that mom just does her best to try and be anything but that mom.

But unfortunately there’s a little bit of that mom in all of us. I just got a heartier helping of it.

The real question for you to ponder, however, is how much do you pay your babysitters? Because I opted for around $8, and I need to know if that was cheap.

Now that is something to think about.

A girl who loves water

I am a girl who was a lifeguard for several years. Who would start her work shift as early as 5 a.m., only to return home to teach more swim lessons or swim in my own pool.

I am a girl who grew up in Arizona but yearned to be a SoCal surfer girl. Who started a school-sanctioned surf team with her BFF, only to declare each surf meet to be “rained out,” since admitting one would be improbable was too painful.

I am a girl who would start swimming as soon as a wet suit wasn’t required. Except when visiting California, when I would turn into a girl who would brave dangerously cold waters for a quick dip just to know I hadn’t passed up an opportunity to acquaint myself with the ocean over Christmas break. Who was so excited on one such occasion that she bruised the soles of her feet while running across a rocky beach to enjoy a chilly swim.

I am a girl who spent last summer lounging my whale-like assets poolside with no shame. Who has never worn shorts over my swimsuit while swimming. Who almost always gets her hair wet. Who doesn’t mind the smell of chlorine. Nay, who loves it.

I am a girl who loves water.

I am a girl who isn’t afraid of cold water.

So yesterday when we went swimming at our apartment pool and the water felt frigid, I knew it must be really, really cold. I knew that the when the pool had been closed for repairs recently, it was because the heater broke. I knew that the chilly water and cooler breeze were combining forces with potentially hypothermic results.

But you know who didn’t mind the freezing water? Miss Dub.

She is a girl even stronger than her mother.

And I couldn’t be prouder.

Swim on, Miss Dub, swim on!

p.s. What’s your pool personality?

Introducing ...

... Miss D's scrunch face!

Also popular ...

... the big grin face

and

... the Elvis smirk face

Jure ma far

You know how you can get sucked into the link vortex, where you hop from one blog link to the next in hopes of finding a long-lost friend? Though you usually just end up finding someone you kinda knew at college around the 12th link. You’re more likely to connect yourself to Kevin Bacon before you actually rekindle a friendship, though it does happen on occasion.

Well, I discovered this blog the other day whilst blinking. And while I have never met the author, I couldn’t help but read EVERY SINGLE post in lieu of lesser things like being productive. Mostly because it’s hilarious, but also because I can relate to living the vida loca in Central America, having done a stint in El Salvador myself. Her posts reminded me of the different traditions, customs and general hilarity of life down there.

Which made me think of how young kids would always come up to me asking for translations of English words they’d heard. Most are unprintable but involve four letters including an F. So of course I said those words meant things like, “I’m an idiot,” or, “I’m ugly,” in hopes that they would stop chanting them at me in the streets. Though all obscenities or random English words were followed by “baby,” as in, “Microwave, baby!” Or, “Bye-bye, baby.” So I guess that made it all better, even though I hate being called baby almost as much as I loathe being called “honey” by store clerks, hairdressers and anyone under 60.

However, sometimes it took some serious listening to even understand the English words they wanted me to translate. A common one was, “Jure ma far.” For weeks I didn’t know what the heck they were talking about … until I woke up to someone blasting the Backstreet Boys chanting, “You are my fire.” But somehow “Tu eres mi fuego,” just conjured up images of pyromaniac boyfriends.

Speaking of pyros, another common translation request was, “Butaf Peej Pell.” Which after some time in El Salvador, and better understanding of the Salvadoran love for both WWF and Marilyn Manson, I realized the phrase was from the latter’s “Beautiful People” tune.

But those random memories don’t compare to the time I saw a guy with a machete through his arm, or the 1,003 sketchy remedies people insisted I try for their scientifically-proven properties. Or taking my life into my hands driving a 23-passenger minivan missing a third gear.

Because I don’t have time right now to regale you with all my humorous anecdotes. I’m too busy doing really important stuff like clicking on any and all links. Oh, and simultaneously admiring and cursing Miss Dub’s new crawling ways.

Bye-bye, baby!

HTT - Shakespeare Edition

Today’s Hot Topic takes the form of a meandering tale so I highly recommend you buckle up as some twists and turns are anticipated. (And you do keep some sort of restraining device by your computer at all times, don’t you?)

It’s the story of two star-crossed lovers, er … cell phones. One is mine, Nokia Capulet. The other is Mr. Dub’s, Motorola Montague.

I took Miss Capulet with me on my trip out West, but made the horrible mistake of leaving her behind in Utah – an oversight I discovered at the SLC airport. I even had to use a pay phone to call on her whereabouts, which was so bizarre because:
a. Who has change these days?
b. Who uses a pay phone these days?
The correct answer to both is no one, which is why I worried Homeland Security would come bearing down on me any moment. Because if anything says “suspicious behavior,” it’s using a pay phone. Thankfully, no one reported me, though the threat level may be raised in coming weeks as a result.

After the initial sadness over the loss of Miss Capulet – who was being sent in the mail to Arizona - I felt a little bit liberated. In addition to being cell-phone-less, I was also on a blogging break and quasi-computer strike. I wasn’t really answering emails. I wasn’t really checking my favorite 649 blogs. (Yes, yours is on the list!)

I was just having fun with my family.

Sometimes I would head off to a store, hear a familiar ring and instinctively reach for Miss Capulet. Realizing she was nowhere to be found, I actually felt an enormous relief. No one could interrupt me in Target. No one could find me when I didn’t want to be found. No wrong numbers. No, “Sorry, I’d love to teach Primary, but I’m on vacation.” Nothing. The silence was audible, and it sounded sweet.

As my week in Arizona wore on, it became clear that the USPS wasn’t going to bring Miss Capulet back to me. With sadness, I boarded the plane and headed home with no idea when or if Miss Capulet and Sir Montague would ever be reunited.

Once home, the reality of a Capulet-life set in. Since we don’t have a land line – and haven’t for years – I had no means of cellular communication on days Sir Montague was needed by Mr. Dub. And while it was sometimes a hassle, the peace of being unreachable was hard to ignore. Returning to blogs and emails killed some of that, but I approached them with a new triviality. After all, I’d gone nearly two weeks without them and nothing catastrophic happened. Maybe they weren't that important after all.

Another week passed with no signs of Miss Capulet. I gave up on her return. Unfortunately, so did Sir Montague. He became sullen and unresponsive. So when Miss Dub left a pile of slobber on him one day, he took the opportunity to end his pain. In a second, Sir Montague was gone.

Unfortunately, it happened right as Mrs. Jay and her fam were headed our way for dinner. Suddenly, cell phones went from being a nuisance to a necessity. What if they got lost? How long would they try to reach us before turning back? Would they call the police? Would they draw their guns on arrival? Would they eat our pizza?

As an hour passed with no signs of the Jays, I became anxious. I felt so cut off from the world. But then I remembered my frienemy, the Internet. I hopped online to see who was available to chat. Luckily, our dear friend, Mr. R was online. I asked him for a random favor and he obliged. I gave him Mrs. Jay’s number (which is one of few I actually know without Miss Capulet’s help) and asked him to call her, inform her of our tragic loss and determine her whereabouts.

“They just pulled up,” he chatted back.

And like that, I remembered how brilliant modern technology is. How wonderful it is to find people any time of day.

Maybe my positive attitude sent good karma to a Utah mail carrier, who returned Miss Capulet with a wrong Arizona address denoted. A few days later, she was back with me.

Of course, there is no happy end to this story. When she realizes that Sir Montague mistook her fake death for the real thing, resulting in his demise, she’s sure to end her own misery.
Then again, there’s a new cell phone on the scene. His name is Sir Paris Samsung, and he’s a looker. So maybe Miss Capulet will stick around. Who knows, maybe she was always meant for Paris.

But the point of this tale is that my relationship with technology is complicated. I so loOove all the new gadgets we have today. Our TiVo and iPod are our household pets. They make life more convenient, more entertaining, more enhanced.

But cell phones, computers and PDAs can make life complicated, even worse if you’re working because the work day never ends. Vacations are never truly vacations. Because you’re never alone.

But help me sort through these feelings.

Love your cell? Or hate it?

All about technology, or dreaming of yesteryear and its simplicity?

And if your phone was to star in any Shakespeare play, who would it be and why?

I'm waiting.

Fruit for thought

STOP what you’re doing!

There is something called a Grāpple. And it’s a cross between a grape and an apple.

Strike that. It’s not.

Despite delicious daydreams of a crisp apple with gooey grape center, it turns out a Grāpple is more like an apple soaked in Otter Pop juice. (Alexander the Grape juice to be exact.)

It’s not of the hybrid fruit variety, like my coveted pluot, which I paid tribute to previously.

It’s not like a seedless watermelon, which revolutionized the picnic.

And it’s nothing like a slimcado, which reminds you that an avocado is a fruit and only good because it’s full of fat.

The Grāpple is a fruit travesty, if you ask me. And no one did. And, no, I haven’t tried one, but I’ve seen the website.

But the real question is … with all they can do to fruit and vegetables these days, why the heck are there no seedless cherries?

Or bananas that stay ripe for longer than 20 minutes?

Or a white chocolate-covered strawberry that comes off the vine drenched in yummy goodness.

Or a caramel apple that requires no dipping and/or bobbing. (And if possible, doesn’t break your teeth.)

OK, so those last two may have to wait a few centuries. I mean, if people are up in arms about cloning, just imagine the caramel apple debate. It would get sticky! (Pun painfully intended.)

But what about you –

what would be your fruit of the future?

My Two Dads

It's not a contest,

but let's say it was ...

These two would totally tie for first place!

And while I could make a really, really long list of why they are both spectacular fathers

- thanks Dad for my ennumerating skills -

both of them are very humble

- thanks hubs for limiting my ennumerating skills -

and both would prefer sarcasm to praise.

So let's discuss who would do better in the swimsuit portion of the competition.

I'm so torn ...

Tales from the Crib

I firmly believe that every baby comes with one big challenge, at the least. Some don’t like to eat, some love to cry. And some, like my dear Miss Dub, don’t like to sleep.

(Though thankfully that seems to be her only hurdle thus far, though I’m pretty sure being sassy and talking during class are inevitable.)

It’s not that surprising – I’d heard talk of sleep-deprived new mothers. I mean, the mere thought you’d wake up and do something in the middle of the night made me tired so I expected some initial fatigue. And I read all the books on how to turn a confused newborn into a sleeping genius so I felt forewarned. (And by all the books, I mean ALL the books.)

Babywise had me convinced that my child would be sleeping through the night by 12 weeks, if not sooner. Since 12 weeks sounded unreasonably long, I really focused on the sooner part. When I mentioned it to friends, some happily reported that their babies had starting sleeping through the night at 7 weeks. They were my heroes. Others told me theirs didn’t sleep for months; some still weren’t at one or two. Being the judgmental person I am, I instantly assumed the latter group was full of softy moms who jumped at the slightest cry. I didn’t think they were bad moms, just unwilling to make their own nocturnal destiny for the sake of some extra cuddles.

(Now, this isn’t an argument about Babywise and its respective virtues and vices. Save it for another Tuesday! Because I think that book has saved many a mom and offers some great nursing advice, though it is odd that Mr. Ezzo is not a doctor and never graduated from college. But if it helps one mom, that’s good enough for me!)

Well, all books aside – and I really did find “The Baby Whisperer” to be the best for me and the Miss – books are worthless. Good advice, good intentions, but a ton of pressure, work and promises that can’t always be fulfilled. (And I will kick Dr. Sears, Dr. Ferber and any other Dr. Sleepyhead in the crotch if they tell me I failed somehow.)

When I feel best as a mother, I’m just being me. I’m not obsessed with the clock. I’m not obsessed with Miss Dub. I’m just living my life and caring for Miss Dub while I do. Even if that means forsaking an occasional nap. Even if that means I let her stay up late when she’s clearly not ready to sleep, no matter what time it is. Even if that means I’m winging it, not scheduling it.

And even though I still don’t get any sleep, at least I’m not obsessed with sleep. Every night waking doesn’t signal failure. Every nap isn’t a test.

But, boy would I like to buy some Zzzz’s. (Illegal drugs and questionable Nigerian money-wiring included.)

Miss Dub is going on eight months and has slept through the night for one miraculous month only, several months ago. Naps are mostly dreamy – she goes down awake and wakes up giggly an hour or two later. Bedtime is mostly painless – she goes down awake BUT this is where it gets gnarly. (Pronounced ga-narly, according to Webster’s.)

Usually she wakes up once or twice for a nibble. Now, this is a girl who has been eating three hearty meals of baby food since five months. Who nurses quite frequently though her disinterest keeps her from really guzzling. And who has happily mastered a sippy cup of H20 in the last few weeks. But she’s still hungry enough for a full feed. And then it’s off to lala land, unless she wakes up and decides to play or babble or have another McMilky.

And while that’s not bad, I’m not very good at going to bed before 11 p.m. And I pretty much cannot nap, despite Mr. Dub’s continued threats. Since Miss Dub goes down around 7 or 8 p.m. she’s got a massive head start on me so she’s perky around 6 a.m., while I’m still lusting for some snoozing.

But some nights are even worse.

Last night, Miss Dub decided to scream from 1 to 3 a.m. Not my favorite way to spend those hours, by the way. I generally prefer to sleep and/or sleep at that time of night. So I was fairly frustrated – the words “shut up” may or may not have graced my mind, though I managed to mutter, “It’s OK, sweetie,” instead. Finally, Mr. Dub lured her to the crib with a favorite singing bunny and we headed back to bed. Until 6:30 a.m.

The point is – I have no idea what my point is. All I know is I’m sorry for judging mothers with children, who, heaven forbid, came to Earth with their own personalities. I mean, I’ve NEVER been someone who sleeps through the night. I always wake up several times a night, and I like it! It gives me some quiet thinking time. The only difference is I know how to put myself back to sleep quickly, while Miss Dub needs to cry or babble for a half hour before she’s tuckered out again. Yet, I expect her to sleep like a log for 10 hours.

I expect someone who’s never met her to tell me what’s wrong.

I expect me to know exactly what to do when I’ve never done this before.

I expect her to be perfect, but only if it’s my idea of perfect.

But I need to take all of my expectations and throw them out a window (preferably a very high one with a view). I need to let Miss Dub be Miss Dub. And I need to chill out.

Also, I need to sleep.

Any suggestions?

In other news

The happy couple in the early stages of their courtship

I’ve got some big news, peoples!

Despite owning the domain for some time now, you can officially access my musings and occasional misadventure at www.musingsandmisadventures.com. I realize that while your weary digits will be spared the additional “blogspot,” my blog title and URL is still ridiculously long. But I had a sneaking suspicion that http://www.m-ms.com/ would be taken.

Of course, the blogspot URL will still be active so my purchase was mostly in vain. And remember to type the “www” first when accessing my new URL because Blogger isn’t totally tech-savvy. And neither am I, which is why we’re a good fit.

But in other news, we had the local Mormon missionaries over for dinner last night. We’ve had bad luck with them in this ward - stood up twice, one bad response to Mexican meatloaf and a pizza to go - but our evening was quite nice and classic Italian-themed. The only odd spot was when we ask Elder Just-Out-Two-Weeks to say the dinner prayer. He proceeded to pray in the softest whisper imaginable. I actually have no idea if the food was blessed, or if he invoked some sort of wrath on our household. Although, a little wrath adds some spice on occasion. But I’ve been noticing that whisper prayers are somewhat common in the LDS culture. Not that I don’t appreciate some reverence in such sacred matters, it’s just that I also like to hear the prayer. Also, I don’t like to have to spend the entire prayer resisting laughter, as I was last night. I mean, if he had been out for a few months I might have given into the urge, but I didn’t want to make him feel bad. That’s how kind I am.

In other news, this week’s posts are starting to sound like Mormon Week.

In other news, having themed weeks are all the rage in the blogosphere – Father’s Week, Apron Week, Corrugated Aluminum Week. So I’m either super cool or a total poser. And, yes, aprons are really that big in the blogosphere. And while I do find them oddly appealing, I have to admit I wasn’t aware of their popularity and passionate following prior to all this apron-palozza-ing. And I don’t own one. Because I’m much more likely to spill on myself while eating than cooking. Therefore, I hereby declare this week, “Adult Bib Week.” Send your pictures accordingly.

In other news, Eliza magazine is about to debut, which is very, very, very exciting for several reasons. One, it is going to be a fashion magazine with fashion you wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear in front of your boss. Two, it will have articles that won’t cause you to blush, unless of course the article is about blush. And three, I may have written a few of these articles, though none about blush. Though I have been working a free Clinique blush for, like, two years now, which is pretty much disgusting. But my articles aren’t. You should read them and pretend to loOove them. Subscribe here.

In other news, we had the great fortune of having Mrs. Jay and her family to dinner the other night during their Illinois travels. It was way too short, but my recent Arizona trip salved my sadness. And I won’t say which of the boys I think is going to marry my Miss Dub, but it’s the middle one. The same one who begged to play outside for “82 minutes.” And, really, isn’t 81 minutes just too little and 83 minutes just too long? This is why he and Miss Dub will make such a great match: They’re both practical. I mean, Miss Dub likes to mess her diaper in spurts so that I use the maximum possible number of diapers a day. Practical that one!

In other news, we’ve been swimming.

In other news, I haven’t used a single parenthesis in this entire post, which is a true miracle for me. I’m obsessive about additional insights. (And who isn’t?)

In other news, I’m a liar.

Lest you think I don't recycle

HTT - Calling Edition

Today’s Hot Topic is for all ye Mormons, but it’s a microcosm of the human experience so all you Mo-haters out there can stay seated for the duration of my rant.

It deals with church callings, but it’s also about perfectionism.

And I must preface my remarks with a declaration that I AM PROUD TO BE A MORMON. My religion and faith is the most important thing to me on this very beautiful earth of ours. It gives me answers, direction, peace, clarity, happiness, friendships and joy. I love going to church. And if I haven’t invited you to church recently, consider yo’self invited because I promise you’ll loOove it!

But like all things earthly, despite the perfection of the church, it’s run by mere humans who are anything but perfect and subject to foibles. And I’m the merest of them all.

And that is never more evident than when serving in my various church capacities.

(Quick lesson: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has a lay ministry, which means no one is paid to hold to leadership positions, which means that anyone who meets certain standards is eligible for most positions or “callings.” So every few years or so you might be assigned to a new calling, meaning the pastor – called “bishop” – might teach small children next. Or I might suddenly be in charge of a huge organization of women and their needs. It’s overwhelming, but extremely rewarding and helps develop all sorts of skills and understanding over the course of a lifetime. And while you can say no to any calling, most don’t. We believe we’ve been selected by God for each assignment.)

The problem is that some people think callings must be approached like an important dinner party; that everything must be formal and nice and perfect. Or like a major corporation, meaning there must be meetings to plan a meeting about a possible meeting about a small idea.

And that’s not my cup of (herbal) tea.

Currently I serve on the activities committee in my ward, which is one of the more secular callings because we plan parties for our congregation. And while I’m no fan of Jell-o salad or casseroles, I’m all for convenience, so potluck dinners at a local park with mellow conversation are up my alley. (I just do my best to make sure my personal contributions aren’t culinary faux pases, or take charge of the decorations if I hear streamers might be involved.)

But some people think every activity must be a major production. For example, they constructed a life-sized gingerbread house for the Christmas party. And at a recent beach-themed party, there were more decorations than people. It looked amazing, but it stressed out lots of people, cost lots of money and made people like me feel guilty that I wasn’t welding lifeguard towers all day long.

More recently we staged a production of Broadway vignettes for one night. Someone suggested we assemble props for each of the numbers, which is normal. I was given charge of a couple. One of my assignments was to build a wooden hut … for a short musical number … for a church production seen by friends and family. I said no. It wasn’t worth a sleepless night and crash course on construction just to enhance the set. Thankfully, my superior understood. (We nixed a wooden sign as well.)

But it was even worse when I was younger. There was a certain ward (that a certain family who reads this blog once belonged to) that actually hired a professional choreographer to do their annual Roadshow musical and spent big bucks on professional costumes and scenery.

And it wasn’t uncommon to hear of Relief Society meetings where decorations and themes eclipsed post-Oscar bashes.

And while it looked impressive, does anyone still care?

Does anyone still remember the dance numbers or the decorations? And if you do, did they overshadow the real purpose of the events?

And isn’t so much of what this great gospel teaches us about balance?

Balancing a home and family and work and friends and church responsibilities?

And I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that a wooden hut would tip the scales.

But what about you?

Do you prefer convenience in church callings or life? Or do you insist on perfection, no matter how much it taxes you or others?

Because I’m a perfectionist in most things, but when it comes to church, I’m willing to endure some cottage cheese laced Jell-o for the sake of convenience.

Well, almost.

What about you?

For Your Edification

I feel a clarification is in order.

For the record, I HEART Chicago.

I don’t just like Chicago.

I don’t just endure Chicago.

I don’t hate Chicago.

I loOove Chicago so much I would make-out with it and there would be frenching involved.

But I don’t want to live here forever. And I think that’s OK.

Because I can love Chicago for what it is (a beautiful, vibrant, cultured city) and still not like things about it (i.e. the winter and any darn thing I don’t care for, so sue me).

Part of the reason you might think I don’t HEART Chicago is because Chicago was never meant to be home. Chicago was supposed to be an amazing 1-2 year adventure, where Mr. Dub would get his master’s of smarty pants, and I would explore the city when not heavy with child. We would savor every last bit of our urban life, only to pack up and head back to western suburbia when our time was done.

But two days shy of our western voyage, we ended up staying here. And while we traded our $100-a-month parking space for a piece of the ‘burbs, we’re still 30 minutes from the Magnificent Mile. And nearly four hours on plane from anyone who shares our genetic composition.

Which is OK … for now.

Just this past weekend we headed downtown and joined the throngs at Millenium Park celebrating the Blues Festival. We dined with a close family friend and walked around the city in late summer sunlight. It was fun. It was invigorating. It made me HEART Chicago all over again.

And not a day goes by that I don’t drive my dearest to work and remark on the sheer beauty of the tree-lined street and its lush canopies. Chicago may be a city, but we’re still the Midwest, which means there are forests a’plenty and scenic farmscapes mere minutes from The Loop.

(To be honest, Arizona looked a little dirty to me when I was visiting. And I double-HEART Arizona.)

But in the winter here, not a day goes by that I don’t complain about the cold, gray look of leafless trees, salted roads and dull skies. That I don’t lament the fact that I have to lug Miss Dub around in negative temps. That I don’t try my darndest to figure out just what you’re supposed to do with your ankle-length down coat and six additional layers once you get inside the grocery store.

And I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss the West and its spirit.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not making friends out here, that I’m not happy where I am, that I’m not treating Chicago as a permanent destination and not just some stopping point on my life road map.

I enjoy it.

I treasure it.

I HEART Chicago because Chicago is home … for now.

And when it’s not, that will be OK, too.

I’ll just open my HEART to some place else.

Just thought you should know.

Village people

I firmly believe that it takes a village to raise a child.

If not, Miss Dub is in serious trouble.

However, I sometimes wish that her particular village didn’t include cashiers and/or random strangers.

Most of the time it’s great: Everywhere I go I am suddenly friends with everyone by virtue of my adorable daughter. Scary men turn into cooing teddy bears at the sight of her goofy grin. Elderly women stop and chat with me about their mothering experiences during various world wars. Cashiers stop clamoring for my store discount card long enough to play a game of peek-a-boo with Miss Dub.

OK, so that last one sort of crosses over into the not-so-great realm. Because my once-efficient cashiers are suddenly slow as molasses. “Harry, what’s the price on these … Hello there, honey! You’re awfully cute. Can you wave at me?” And thus the lemons go unchecked for another five minutes until Ms. Cashier remembers that Harry and the rest of the line don’t care if Miss Dub waves at her or not. (And she usually doesn’t.)

But I can handle the delay. I mean, baby Dub adoration is one of my favorite pastimes, as well.
It’s the random chit-chat and unsolicited advice that I’m not so fond of, especially when I can’t understand what they’re trying to say.

Just yesterday at Target the teenage cashier went on and on about how she doesn’t know why she likes “the really young ones.” And then went on to insist that Miss Dub, who can confidently wear 12-month clothing at seven months, couldn’t be more then three months old. And how she doesn’t know why but she really likes that age. And a bunch of other stuff that was really hard to understand either because she had a foreign accent and/or I was just pretending to listen but really thinking about other more pressing matters. (Like whether or not my haggard feet are responding to my latest lotion.)

Another Target cashier saw me buying some girly dresses for my lil’ one and proudly proclaimed, “Wow! You sure had them close together.” Befuddled, I asked, “Um, what?” She then went on to explain that she could tell by the gender and age range of the clothes I was buying that I had a baby girl in addition to my male toddler. (Who, of course, was none other than an infant Miss Dub.) But rather than clarify that there was no other baby girl hiding under the cart (or wherever else she thought I was keeping her), I just played along. I nodded and um’ed in all the right spots until the awkward exchange was over.

And they are awkward. And they are frequent. And they inevitably end with me or Mr. Dub saying something in baby talk like, “Can you say bye, honey?” to appease their baby-drooling and bring our cashier chatter to a close. But, of course, she never says bye. In fact, we’re still lucky if she makes legitimate eye contact. But it’s like an unspoken rule that we have to engage her in the whole conversation.

Still, I’ll take strange conversation to random advice.

Just the other day at the airport, a very chic woman came up to me and asked, “Do you have anything warmer to put on that baby?”

Knowing that an unseasonal cold front had set in, I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m sure glad that I brought a blanket with us.”

To which she said, “Well, I think you should put it on her right now. She must be freezing. Seriously, you should put it on her.”

For the record, she wasn’t. She’s inherited my sweaty tendencies and was clammy to the touch. But I put on the blanket to please the woman with indie jeans and great highlights.

Because I don’t have it in me to tell her to bug off. Because I don’t have it in me to tell the cashier that red is a girl color, too! Because I don’t have it in me to tell the well-intentioned teenager that everybody likes the little ones because they’re, well, little. And because I don’t have it in me to ask Harry to check the price on the freaking lemons already!

Because the reality is it’s touching. Even when it’s annoying. Even when it’s unsolicited.

Because I like the idea that in our crazy, disturbed, conflict-ridden world, people still like babies.
And they really, really like mine.

It’s good to have a village.





(Who are some of your village people?)

Travel-locks

Do you like analogies?

I do. In fact, I like to drag them out so far that they go beyond ridiculously cheesy to positively inspiring. Seriously. If you start with a little comparison between life and sports, for example, by the fourth reference to your “game face” or “keeping score”, people will start to gag. But if you keep at it for ten or more references and end with something like “because it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game” … you’ll bring tears to the eyes of grown women. (Which is way more impressive than grown men because they actually like sports.)

And that is why I am going to tell you about my recent trip to Utah and Arizona, using haircutting jargon to cover all my bases … er, roots. (See, what I mean?) By the end, you’ll either be penning a sweet letter to your stylist or making an appointment. Whatever the case may be, you’ll be blown away. (Get it? Blown? Like a blowout?)

HIGHLIGHTS
* Seeing family and friends in two states I’ve called home. Catching up and hanging out was extraordinarily fun. And it didn’t hurt that there were always extra hands and hugs for Miss Dub, giving me some much needed respite from mommying. The days flew by, which made the trip fun but way too fast.
* Meeting my nephew, lil’ Gee, for the first time since his March debut. For the record, he’s really, really, ridiculously cute - so full of smiles and personality already. Although it was hard to get used to his slender build after hefting my hearty Miss Dub around. (For the record, I like her a little chubby!)
* Watching my bro and his new wife dance down the aisle in their custom Converse to the tune of “Happy Together” by The Turtles. She looked so gorgeous, and he wasn’t too shabby himself. Though he’ll always be a toddler obsessed with dinosaurs in my mind. Deal with it, Bogey.
* Lunching with an old mission companion, who I sadly hadn’t seen in a couple years. Did I mention that she looks like Barbie? Minus the plastic features, horrible cowlick and effeminate boyfriend. Oh, and she’s way nicer. All my Barbies had attitudes.
* Swimming with Miss Dub, Mrs. Jay and the extended Gourmet Girls clan. Mrs. Jay even went so far as to overnight matching swimsuits for Miss Dub and lil’ Gee to match her fam. Thankfully, Miss Dub loved the pool, which is good since I’ve been daydreaming about her Olympic swimming career for decades. I really didn’t want to settle for gymnastics.
* Not blogging or reading blogs for more than a week. No offense, but it was nice. Blogs can be computer crack for me sometimes so it was nice to go cold turkey. (Though the shakes were rough.)
* Eating way too much.

LOWLIGHTS
* The fact that my dear friend, Mrs. R, had to cancel her baby shower, which was the point of the Utah leg of my journey. You might be familiar with her plight, which you can read about here and hear about here and here. But sufficeth to say that bureaucracy and D.C. are synonymous for a reason. She and her little boy are separated from her husband for the unforeseen future because a signature and a piece of paper can’t seem to make a connection. So sad! (But in a lil’ highlight, I was able to sneak into her pad and leave some gifts, some signs and some lemon-fresh cleanliness!)
* Not seeing Mr. Dub for an entire week. Ouch. That was the sound of my heart breaking remembering our separation. Some people like the occasional reprieve from their other half, but we’re best as a team. (Shoot! I should have used a sports analogy.)
* Leaving my cell phone in Utah. Having my mother-in-law send it to me in Arizona, only to have it never arrive. Not being able to call my friend and congratulate her on the birth of her newest son. (Congrats!) Not being able to call Mrs. R and check up on her adoption proceedings. (How goes it?) Checking my messages and realizing that only three people tried to call me since I left it behind. And two of them are related to me.
* Finding out in the SLC airport that my sole suitcase was six pounds overweight. Being informed that I would have to transfer said six pounds to my already overflowing diaper bag. Ditching a huge load of diapers in a restroom instead.

* Eating way too much.

All in all, the entire journey was shear joy and a cut above all other trips. It took my straight life and turned it into an adventurous updo. It was a brush with greatness. My life was the splits and it acted as a hot oil treatment.

-- OK, so maybe some analogies are just too trite to use.

But in the end, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.

Or something like that.

Picture pages

Twelve days,

three states

and a lot of

good food.

No, it’s not the proposed epitaph for my gravestone.

It's the shortest description of my über-fun trip to Utah and Arizona.

But since I’ve never been one for brevity, I’ll share a little more of my travels … tomorrow.

(Ha, look at me building suspense! Take that Angela Lansbury!)

For now, it’s all pics, all the time.

(And 60 percent of the time, it works every time!)

HTT - In-flight edition

Welcome back, me!

Why thank you, me!

And while I would love to engage you all in a rousing travelogue of my adventures of traveling with child, I must note that my calendar says it’s Tuesday. And we all know what that means …

But in honor of my recent travels, I thought I would make today’s Hot Topic about airlines.

Flying is amazing. Sometimes when I’m in flight, I stop to realize that I’m hurling through the clouds to my destination in a fraction of the time it would take to drive the same distance. At first this thought makes me marvel at the miracle of flight, its unbelievable convenience and sheer beauty. Shortly followed by the thought that flying is about the stupidest idea ever. I mean, does hurling through the clouds sound safe? (I know, I know, more people die in car accidents than plane crashes, but at least I’m driving the car and in control.)

But unfortunately flying happens in airplanes, which come from airports, which are run by airlines, which are the most inefficient companies on this planet and possibly the entire solar system.

Yesterday, for example, our flight was scheduled to leave at 8.53 a.m. At 8:50, we still hadn’t boarded, though there was no announcement or indication of any delay. When we finally did board, no apologies were made or additional explanation, until the pilot announced as we fastened our seat belts that we would be sitting on the tarmac for at least an hour waiting for weather-related clearance in Chicago. Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait the entire hour and Miss Dub slept through most of the delay. Then, we were air bound for a 3 hour and 2 minute flight, or so the steward happily announced.

But nearly 20 minutes after hearing we were making our “final descent” we were still above the clouds. And airplanes were breaking through behind us, giving me the sense we were overshooting the airport. When I saw Lake Michigan peeking through the clouds, I knew that we were circling the airport. Of course, there was no announcement or explanation. I mean, what right would I, a passenger, have to know why my flight was being continually extended?

Finally, we landed. But our adventure had just begun. We had to get our baggage, which was delivered to the sole baggage carousel for all of U.S. Airways’ flights (at O’Hare, the nation’s busiest airport). It took over an hour to get every item of luggage and another half hour to find a way to an elevator, shuttle and out of the economy parking lot. (All which lacked signs to help navigate them.)

An empty tank of gas, rush-hour traffic and rain make our story even more sad and soggy.

But the real issue is: Why is it so hard to fly?

I understand weather. I’m all for fixing any mechanical problems. I even somewhat encourage additional screening to prevent terrorism, though we all know I prefer civil liberties to a slight increase in safety.

But what about customer service?

What about being on time?

What about telling your passengers what the heck is going on?

My favorite airline is Southwest. Cry if you want to about having to choose your seat (and the losers who insist on standing in the A line an hour before boarding), but they are fast, efficient and friendly. Plus, they dress in costumes on Halloween and have playful cockpit banter.

But the rest just make me want to gouge myself with bobby pins. Seriously, I just did. (Seriously, I didn’t.)

Granted, our bumbling flight was still faster than driving from Phoenix to Chicago. (26 hours per Google.) But our three-hour tour took us seven hours from check-in to drive out.

What about you?

Do you looove to fly, or do you loathe it?

What’s the best airline?

And what’s the worst?

Best airport?

Worst?

Oh, and horror stories are a must.

Like, now.