chasing my Bees

Loving the treats @SweetLoveBakes

2012-01-30T10:50:00.004-06:00

A few weeks ago, my friend Kelli invited The Bees and me to meet her brand new baby, Sweet Love bakery.

Sweet Love logo from InArkansas Weddings article

As I tend to do with all brand new, sweet smelling babies, I fell in love instantly.

cookie dough truffles

Kelli has worked on Sweet Love for such a long time, and I am so happy that she has actually done it. She went from making treats in her kitchen, to taking orders, to thinking she wanted to do it full time, to being all "I want to open a bakery. There. I said it." to buying a much-storied megamixer...

...to painting and sanding and mixing and baking and really working her butt off to make her dream a reality.

There were lots of friends and lots of true-to-the-name sweets and lots of happy things going on at the preview.

Audreya and Berit Probably laughing at #DestructoTot. Or smiling with mouths full of deliciousness.

Kerri's Monkey Boy eyed the buttercream and ganache-y chocolate cupcakey things.

Amy, who loves The Baby and loves bothering The Baby, was keeping her from pouring the entire contents of the coffee/pink lemonade table onto the floor.

Kat and her also-sweet-smelling baby Nora Kate stood by and laughed at Amy's futile efforts.

That lump of brown in the left corner? Is the best pile of brownies I've ever eaten in my life ever.

The Boy hides from anyone who might steal his coconut bar

The Girl agrees: best. brownies. ever. ever.

I have seen (and tasted!) some incredible creations Kelli has made over the past two years. She has a natural talent, and has honed her skill. The girl is awesome. I'm not even a little jealous that she literally whips up these amazing treats when I can't even do slice-and-bake cookies properly. Ok. I'm a little jealous.

But? Now that Sweet Love is open Tuesdays through Fridays 9:00am to 5:30pm and Saturdays from 9:00am to 1:00pm (see what I did there? pertinent information, yo), I can visit practically any time I'm in Little Rock near 8210 Cantrell Road (also pertinent information).

I love this picture of Audreya and Kelli (and I extra love Kelli's awesome bakery-owner jacket. I'm sure that's not the actual word for it, but whatever). So happy.

You can see more of Kelli's super fantastic creations on Sweet Love's facebook page, and follow the fun on the twitters at @sweetlovebakes.

Also? There have been a virtual TON of write-ups, all praising Kelli's bakery, I couldn't possibly link to all of them. Google it, though. Two of my favorites are Sarabeth's and Gina's. Go see.

Go ahead. Now. Get yourself some Sweet Love. You won't regret it, I promise.

Possibly the coolest cake in the universe.

Some Thoughts on Relationships... Well, Just One Thought, Really

2012-01-23T16:33:00.002-06:00

I work with a bunch of kids. And when I say "a bunch of kids," I mean, "A bunch of 18-22-year-old college kids."
Now, there are intelligent, well-mannered, not-high college students (I even know some!), but they don't work at the Mom 'n' Pop Diner with me for four hours every Friday evening.
The kids I work with wear me out. But they also make me laugh. And there is so much they don't know. But they have time to learn.

One of the girls told me last weekend that she broke up with her boyfriend (again). When I asked her why, she answered simply, "I'm not happy." Although I could write a 5,000 word essay on those three words, I spared her.
"Is he mean?"
"No."
"Do you like him?"
"Yeah, I love him to death."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you like him."
"Is that not the same thing?"

Oh, sister. No, it is not.

via wallpaperstock.net

In the past, I dated several guys I liked (though never at once!), and a few who I loved. There were a few who I loved, but didn't like very much.

It wasn't until I met Jeremy that I found a man I loved and liked in equal amounts. The amounts vary from day to day, and sometimes from hour to hour. There have been several occasions when I've yelled, "I DON'T LIKE YOU VERY MUCH RIGHT NOW. GO AWAY FROM ME." There are times I feel unloved, unlovable, and unloving.

But it's the having balance that is key. If you love someone, but don't like who they are, there is practically no point in going on. If you like someone but feel no love, it may grow.... but it may not.

If you are single, hold out for someone whom you love, and whom you really really like, too.

If you are not-so-single, remind yourself why you love the one you do, and why you like that one the best.

from my awesome friend Robin's etsy store

This is why I hate Pinterest, people.

2012-01-20T14:46:00.000-06:00

Yes. There are cute pictures of dogs/babies/happy couples.
Yes. There are delicious-looking recipes that I would hardly dare try to replicate.
Yes. There are all manner of D-I-Y ideas to make me feel inadequate doing-it-myself.
Yes. There are lots of clever/sappy/geeky quotes.

But.
Then.
And.

There's a ton of stuff that just
a) irritates the fire out of me
b) is plain dumb
c) makes my eyes roll so much I get a headache.

Case in point:

This is a screen shot of three pins on my "This is Hipster Crap" board. Granted, some of the pins aren't hipster-ish, and most of it isn't crap. But it's all a little bit ridiculous.

The first black arrow points to my comment:
Dear Internet, Not everything has to be spray painted. xo, SB

Because, really. NOT EVERYTHING HAS TO BE SPRAY PAINTED!
Trash cans are for trash, not for cute.

The second black arrow points to my comment:
...as opposed to walking into a classroom as the tooth fairy, I guess.

Because, really, the entire caption makes me cry. Obvs, whoever pinned this watched too many video cassette tapes and listened to too few lessons.

The yellow lightning bolt, I have to admit, points to:
Awesome.

The score so far....
Savannah: Eleventy-million
Pinterest: One

I still don't like your stupid face, Pinterest.

Finally telling the truth. Alternate title: Eventually, I'll have to buy some shades

2012-01-03T12:01:00.000-06:00

I wanted my first post of 2012 to be an energetic, lighthearted missive, looking forward to the bright future and all that jazz. This isn't that post.

Or, maybe it is.

I don't usually scratch the surface on my blog/twitter feed/facebook updates/general web presence. I keep it light, yo. But after convergence of events over the last few months, and some blogs posts I've read over the last few days, and one that showed up in my reader this morning, I'm going heavy today. Bear with me.

Before I begin, if you have time, please read these posts. Or, if you don't have time right now, go back and read them later. They are more eloquent and more moving in their honesty and hope and beauty than I hope to be here.
My beautiful friend Kerri, saying things you shouldn't say.
The Bloggess, Jenny Lawson, walking the tightrope, being furiously happy about it.
Cleolinda, a blogger I hadn't previously heard of, but whose take I love.
Kate Hart, author and fellow Arkansan, on her lower-case year.
And again, The Bloggess, who keeps fighting.

For most of my adult life (and certainly most of my teen years), I have been dealing with depression and anxiety.

Marc Davis' concept art for Disney's Haunted Mansion

I say dealing with, instead of suffering or fighting, because that's exactly what I've been doing. Just dealing with them. Dog-paddling against them. Ignoring them. Making a strange bed-fellows out of them.

I have never been suicidal (except for maybe once in junior high, but who wasn't suicidal in junior high?), and I don't self-harm. I've never had an eating disorder accompany my depression, except maybe eating my feelings. If my feelings were covered in chocolate or cheese or ranch dressing.

For clinical purposes, I have mild depression and an anxiety disorder. But I've come to believe that depression is never mild. It affects each person, and the people who love them, differently, and it's rarely mild. Everyone has blue periods, everyone finds themselves in funks. Not everyone suffers from depression. My funks, for as long as I can remember, were cyclical. Every 6 or 8 weeks, I'd falter. I would hole up inside my head and think about how crappy my life was. Jenny Lawson, and countless others, have spoken out about how depression is a liar. An ugly, stinking, rotten liar. My life has rarely been actually crappy. But depression doesn't care about actuality.

My personality and temperament is such that I am most comfortable radiating a giggly, happy light. I tend to surround myself with smart, funny people. It irritates the fire out of me when people are constantly complaining about their luck/lack/life.
And yet.
I feel like a person split in half. The A side who really is truly happy and satisfied and who is pleasant and shiny and who dances a lot. And the B side who can't do anything right, who wants to run away for every else's benefit, who is a poor mother and a worse wife, a girl dark and twisty.

In the past, I have tried to fix myself half-assedly. I would casually mention to my doctor that I was feeling down. I would exercise with abandon... for a few days. I would eat healthy foods and root myself in routine... for a little while. I would immerse myself in reading/napping/mommying.

It wasn't until the summer of 2011 that my best friend of ten years, a brilliant and hilarious woman with a Master's degree in psychology, finally convinced me to purposefully say something to someone and find some way to get better. In August, with the cheerleading of my tireless husband, I worked up the courage (and oh, what courage it takes to admit you aren't a fully functional human person) to tell my ob/gyn, of all people, that I wanted help. Instead of the judgement, the wary-eyes, the heavy sigh, and the pen scratching notes on my record that I expected, he simply asked, "What's going on?" After we talked for a few minutes, he said the most blessed words I'd heard in a very long time.

"Let's fix you."

Through the miracle of modern medicine and with shoulders unburdened, I walked out of his office with a prescription for some anti-depressant/anti-anxiety drugs and a sleeping pill. Because on top of the evil twins of anxiety and depression, I'd been given the repeated face-punch of insomnia.

It took me well over a decade to understand that the pull to sleep for days at a time is not just fatigue.
To realize that the apathy toward my appearance is not just because I'm not a girly-girl.
That the funky times weren't just when I was about to get my period and was all moody and stuff.
That my lack of energy and my aversion to keeping the house/laundry/dishes clean wasn't just laziness.
That staying home and avoiding the public at large for days on end wasn't just a quirky eccentricity allowed me by my heritage as a quirky, eccentric Southern woman.

Oh, what a difference a few pills have made. I haven't had any funks worth mentioning since August. I have been a better, more attentive mother. I have been less gripey toward my patient, loving husband. I've worked harder at working harder.

I would be an idiot to think that medication has been my sole savior. My mother, who revealed to me that crazy does in fact run in our family, has been incredibly supportive. My best friend has talked me off more emotional ledges than I can count. My supportive circle of friends make me laugh and don't mind if I send them expletive-filled text messages. My husband has been nothing short of incredible- taking charge of the Bees when I need an hour or three alone, sending me off on faraway adventures, making me mashed potatoes when I don't feel like eating anything of real substance, shielding me against curious glances and cutting words from people in our lives who just. don't. get it. And mostly, he never left me when I was entrenched deep inside Crazytown.
But (wo)man doesn't live on people and heavily-buttered bread alone. Time and time again over the past six months I have gone back to Scripture, to prayer, to the Truth I've always known. You've heard that cute little maxim, "Let go and let God"? Well, what's too long to be considered a cute little maxim is that you have to let go and let God over and over and over and over and over and probably over again. Sometimes the only light I could see through the haze of worry and sadness was God. Even when I felt far away, and sinful and useless and broken, I knew I wouldn't be deserted. My faith kept me afloat more than any little white pills and bowls of popcorn ever could.

The thing about being broken is that there is hope for repair.
The very idea of brokenness springs from the notion that something once was whole. There have been bleak times where I've felt that there were vital pieces of me missing, shattered, irreparable. There is still a dark bit lurking for its opportunity to spring into fullness, to send me to bed, to break my heart.... but for now, and hopefully for a very long time to come- through prayer and patience and pills- it has been relegated to a tiny hidden part of me. Like, my little toe or somewhere.

It just took a working-up of courage, one small request for help, and several pounds of ~~comfort~~ chocolate.

2012 is looking awfully bright right now.

weird.

2011-12-21T10:22:00.001-06:00

Over the course of our ten-year friendship, one conversation has come up over and over between my best friend and me.

Player One: "Gah, (he is / she is / they are / that was) so weird!"

Player Two: "You are so weird."

Player One: "I am not weird."

Player Two: "Um. I know all your secrets. You are weird."

Player One: ...

Player Two: ...

Player One: "You're right. I'm ridiculously weird."

Player Two: "Exactly."

Player One: "Whatever."

More often than not, I am Player One in this situation, but occasionally the BFF will admit her own oddity, too.

from pinterest

It is so good to be known. Not for what you can do, or what you can offer, or what you have learned, or where you have been, or where you are going, or what influence you have... but to be known simply for who you are...

best friend, me, best friend
circa: when we were all skinny

And how how truly weird you can be.

.

I don't like your stupid face, Pinterest.

2011-12-06T10:23:00.001-06:00

Way back in March, I wrote a post extolling the virtues of tumblr.

Tumblr is easy. Tumblr is pretty. Tumblr is nice.

Tumblr is so great, in fact, I have two of them:

The Things I Love
and
#DestructoTot Strikes

And then the new It thing came along. Pinterest. What a dumb name.

I don't know exactly what I have against Pinterest, but a text from my friend Audreya might hold a clue:

And don't be all hipster "I'm going to actively try to dislike this because of how much everyone else likes it."

Whatever. Except, our whole textual conversation was just me yelling at her in all caps things like, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS CRAP." and "THIS IS STUPID AND DUMB." To which she replied:

"Take off your black framed glasses and stop being a hipster."

What. ever.
It's not that I'm a hipster, it's more than I'm a grumpy old lady and I don't like new things.
At first.

I mean, I didn't really even like my second kid at first. She screamed a lot.

So far, all I can tell is that Pinterest is a bunch of pictures of pretty crap and ~~sappy~~ inspiring words in swirly fonts and food that will make me ~~happy~~ chubbier and DIY crafty things I probably can't replicate, even if I fool myself into thinking I can.

Basically, it's a wonderland of a time suck.
I want to want to like Pinterest, really I do. So many of my friends across the internets have great big ooey gooey hearts for pinning.

THERE ARE JUST SO MANY THINGS TO SEE AND PUT ONTO THE PROPER BOARDS AND I DON'T REALLY GET IT AT ALL.

Sorry about the all caps again.

Luckily, Audreya created a Pinterest How-To ~~for me~~ for the internet at large.

I'm going to read it again and try to figure it all out.

You can follow me, or look at my pins, or whatever you people do there.

Although I still think it's a bunch of crap.*

*check back in 4-6 days for a follow-up "I'm totally Pinteresting!" post, wherein I gush about the awesome-itude of Pinterest. Sigh.

Let's Hear it for the Girl: Elizabeth Owen and her Not So Storybook Life (AND A GIVEAWAY, TOO!)

2011-11-29T11:42:00.001-06:00

My (not so) Storybook Life, Elizabeth Owen

And the winner is....
entry #5

Kat!

If your name is Kat and your avatar is a super cute pair of socks, email me at Savannah (at) chasingmybees (dot) com!

I mentioned my friend Liz's book once before here on the little ol' blog. If you follow me on the twitters, you've seen me mention it at least 16 times. Leading up to its pub date, the actual pub date, the day I received my copy, the day Liz had a book signing (which I couldn't attend and am still pouting about)... Lots of tweeting about this book.

Clicking on this link will take you to my first post about My (not so) Storybook Life, where you can read an excerpt to get a taste of how delicious Liz's writing is.

Clicking on this link will take you to Barnes & Noble where you can purchase the turquoise wonder.

Clicking on this link will take you to Amazon where you can buy the hardcover OR the Kindle edition.

Exciting!

Liz and sweet baby Jane. Happy girls.

I really loved this book. There were more than a few times I lol'd, and you guys, I don't lol over just anything. There were also several, "Uh-huh, girl. I know exactly whatchu mean" moments. And some unexpected sweetness, which, I totally should have expected. This tale of friendship and faith, both honest and imaginative, is one of the loveliest books I've read in a long time.

And it can be yours.*

Let's make this easy, shall we?

Tell me your favorite work of fiction or your favorite memoir and tell me, if you can, why it's the best.

That's it. Just leave a comment (with a valid email address. very important.) and you could win a copy of My (not so) Storybook Life.

But you might as well buy a copy to give your sister, too.

Or for your BFF.

Or yo' momma.

Or (even if only because she birthed your favorite guy) your mother-in-law.

Really, this book deserves to sit on the shelf of every woman you love.

*I received a copy for review because I am super awesome. Or, more likely, Liz asked her publisher very politely if I could have a copy, because she is undoubtedly a politer person than I.

The giveaway will be open until Friday, December 2nd. On Friday, some magical forces will reveal the winner to me, and I'll reveal the winner to you, and you'll get a copy, too.

Clearly, She Wrote This Book for DestructoTot

2011-11-17T09:39:00.001-06:00

Emily Jenkins is fast becoming a family favorite 'round here. She is basically who I want to be when I grow up: a picture book and kid lit writer, a YA author, and novel-er.

The first Emily Jenkins book we read was Invisible Inkling, a middle-grade chapter book with really great pictures. The Boy and I loved it instantly, and quickly moved on to the The Secret Life of Billie's Uncle Myron (which she wrote with her dad) and the Toys series.

But what I love most about Emily Jenkins, so far, is that apparently she bugged our house and watched The Baby very closely and then decided to write a book about her. Which is weird, because Love You When You Whine was published in 2006, and The Baby wasn't born until 2008. Semantics, schemantics. She's got a crystal ball. Probably.

Judging on title alone, Love You When You Whine is a perfect book for The Baby. Judging on Jenkins' words and the illustrations by Sergio Ruzzier, it was made for her.

www.emilyjenkins.com

"Love you when you whine."

"Love you when you pour cereal on the floor."

"...and chew with your mouth open."

"Love you when you mess with my checkbook."

www.ruzzier.com

There are over two dozen "Love you when..." scenarios, which account for roughly four hours of one day with The Baby.

I love this book so, so much. There are no saccharine, "You're the most perfect baby ever to have never puked on her mommy" moments. There are no, "I made one hundred and twelve organic carrot cake cupcakes with applesauce-sweetened icing made from the apples grown in my pesticide-free orchard that I cultivate with my own hands and don't forget there is a soccer game tonight of which I am coach and also have you noticed my beautiful highlights and perfectly manicured fingernails and by the way I showered today before 7 am" mothers. Nowhere. None.

As much as I love the sticky-sweet stories and illustrations in many classic children's books (and really, I really do), I am absolutely in love with this book, because through hilariously sad illustrations and simple declarations, it's clear that the parents are not afraid to say Look kid, you are bat-snot crazy, and you wear me out, and I wish you would just take a nap already, and oh my gosh you are wonderful and exquisite and I love you so much that there are just no adequate words to make you understand how important you are to me.

Because that's exactly how I feel about The DestructoTot Baby.

We're Off to See the Wizard! Ticket Giveaway!

2011-11-11T09:17:00.001-06:00

I am so excited, y'all. Dorothy and her pals are coming to town as part of UCA's Public Appearances Broadway series!

The show, at 7:30 pm on Saturday, November 19th, is already sold out.

But I, faithful friends, have tickets. No, that's not an opium haze from the poppy field you're feeling... you read that right.

The performance is sold out but I have four tickets. For you!!

My Bees and I will be there, representin' Little Rock Family magazine and taking pictures of all the costumed show-goers before the show goes. The wonderful wizards at UCA's Reynolds Performance Hall will have a yellow brick road ready for sparkly shoes and scarecrows and lions and tinmen, oh my!
We just happen to have a Dorothy outfit in our dress-up trunk, so The Girl will be donning the iconic blue gingham dress (or, an approximate polyester variation thereof). I'm considering making The Baby go as Toto. She certainly barks enough for the part.

from UCA Reynolds facebook

Entering to win the four emerald tickets is easy.

Just leave a comment telling me your favorite Wizard of Oz moment, or your favorite memory associated with the Wiz and Company.

The giveaway will be open until Thursday, November 17th, when I'll announce the winners.

*disclaimer* I get comped tickets because I'm awesome, and also because I'll be there photog-ing for Little Rock Family. The lovely folks at UCA totally agreed when I emailed them, saying, "Hey! A ticket giveaway would be super!" I received no monetary compensation for this post, so don't sic the flying monkeys on me.

Live, Love, and Leap. A LeapFrog Review

2011-11-07T11:51:00.000-06:00

We love Leap Frog 'round here.
The Bees still play with the (now ancient) My First Leap Pad...

And the (also ancient) first Leap Pad...

And a vast array of other Leap Stuff...

Didj, My Own LeapTop, Text and Learn, and My Own StoryTime Pad

That's not even including the Alphabet Pal pull-along toy, the TWO talking Baby Tad toys, the My Day with Tad magnetic toy, and the four LeapFrog movies we have in our Netflix instant queue.

I'm telling you, we love LeapFrog products.

So when the Clever Girls Collective had an opportunity to review a new LeapFrog product, I... well... leaped on it.

This is the new My Own Story Time LeapPad

Find it here!

This is what LeapFrog.com has to say about the Story Time Pad:

Personalized play, stories and activities on a tablet just for little learners! Children can watch fun animations and listen to stories, emails and music as they explore the world of Scout & Friends. Parents can personalize the story time pad with their child's name, favorites, customized “emails" from family and a music playlist. My Own Story Time Pad comes pre-loaded with 1 story, 1 email, and 3 songs, and holds up to 5 stories, 10 songs and 3 emails at a time.

And this is what my kids say:
It's awesome.

And here's what I say:
It is actually pretty awesome.

We personalized it for The Girl (since The Baby has the My First LeapTop personalized for her), using the LeapFrog Connect computer app we downloaded. Any of the LeapFrog interactive/personalized toys use LeapFrog Connect. I really like the Connect app because it shows the Learning Path of each kid/each game, and they're all available in one glance.

The programming of the Story Pad is very similar to the LeapTop. But, like laptops vs. tablet computers, there are some differences. The Story Pad is very light, and has stories in addition to "emails," songs, and games.

It was super easy to set up, and super super easy for the girls to figure out. The Baby was very excited to see and hear from her friends, Scout and Lilly.

The only drawbacks I can see are that the screen is a bit smaller than I'd expected, and the keyboard is ABC format, instead of QWERTY. The Text and Learn toy is QWERTY, and I wish the StoryPad was, too. However? The girls didn't care. :) They loved it.

I am certain there will be a few LeapFrog items under our Christmas tree this year, like there are every year. I love that they teach letters and numbers and technology, and the kiddos love them- flat out.

Thank you to LeapFrog for sponsoring this review. While LeapFrog provided the product to me for this review, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest point of view.

Halloween Pics and a Parent-Friendly PSA

2011-10-31T10:40:00.000-05:00

We're not big into Halloween, 'round here. We're not like, anti-Halloween, we're just not huge fans.

But we DO love any chance to dress up. And collect candy. For no good reason, other than to eat so much we puke.

We love that.

It's a long-standing family tradition to hit up Jeremy's sister's church's (how many more 's's could I work in?) Fall Festival each October 31st-ish.

Grumpy Old Man

This year, I totally forgot about the dressing-up part of Halloween. I guess I was just so intent on THE CANDY part. Luckily, the kids' Nana bought costumes for the girls. The Boy? His was totally original. He got the fake glasses/nose/mustache from the treasure box at school and came home all, "Do you think I could be an old man for Halloween?" and I was all, "Sure thing! Your old man dad will help you find clothes." but secretly I was all, "You're kind of a grumpy old man half the time anyway, dear firstborn, so it would totally make sense."

In any case- he rocked the 'stache, and the suit jacket, and my dad's old walking cane, and then Jeremy dumped half a bottle of baby powder in his hair to turn it old-man-white. At some point, the "old man" turned into an "old man/professor/scientist," which also sort of suits The Boy.

And it was awesome.

Wackadoo Pirate

The #DestructoTot Baby was a pirate. Which also totally makes sense, since she yells ARRRGGHH approximately 17 times a day, and she's a pro at looting and plundering. Daddy did her make up, complete with piratey unibrow.

Pretty Pretty Princess (and her steed)

The Girl was, naturally, a princess. All effervescence and light, pinkness and smiles.

And she got to ride a white horse, so she was totally in her princessy element.

My (brilliant and very pretty) friend Kerri has this reminder for you today:

Parent PSA: Remember this Halloween, your kids live rent-free in your house. That means as Supreme Allied Commander, you get first dibs on the good candy.

What about you? Do you do Halloween? Do you steal your kids' good candy, like any self-respecting mother does?

The Importance of Being Nekkid

2011-10-26T11:24:00.000-05:00

There is a difference between being naked and being nekkid. Naked simply means not wearing clothes. Nekkid is being naked and up to something.

I think Mark Twain said that. Or maybe Margaret Thatcher. I get confused.

wearing my overalls, circa 1986

The Baby is NOT a fan of being clothed. I mean, she makes do in public- we have yet to experience a full disrobing outside the house. But when we're at home? 92% of the time, she's nekkid as a jay bird.

*side note* Jeremy and I have had a relationship-long dispute over this phrase: he thinks it's "naked as a blue jay" but I have always heard "naked as a jay bird." What say you, oh wise readers?

She and her siblings are so often in their birthday suits that my friend Audreya tweeted the other day:

Every single time Aud has visited us, one or more of my children have been nekkid. And, usually, it's The Baby. Okay, it's always The Baby.

Her naked booty normally doesn't bother me. In fact, this time of life is a blessing to my mother-heart. There is no sucking-in of the belly. There is no pushing out of the boobies. There is not a hint of self-consciousness in the way my babies carry themselves. Plus, really, we stay home most days and rarely have company that isn't kin (which may or may not be why I spend so much time on the twitters), so I'm pretty much okay with the naked. Saves on laundry work.

The only thing is, I have GOT to get this kid out of diapers.

Potty training the first two was easy, or so I remember. With The Boy, I just told him to watch carefully and "do what Daddy does." With The Girl, I was anxious to get away from buying two sizes of diapers (since she was 2 when The Baby was born), and I don't remember much, except that she took to the potty (and the bribe-prize M&M's) quickly.

Both of the elder Bees were fully potty trained by their third birthdays. (Although, because ~~I'm lazy~~ I was always dealing with a middle-of-the-night baby, I kept diapers on both kids at night-time until their fourth birthdays. By then, they were old enough to either hold it all night or get up and go by themselves.)
The Baby will be three in 54 days.

To be fair, she pee-pees in the potty 100% of the time... if she's nekkid. One hundred percent. But if she's wearing panties? She'll just pee right in 'em as if they're diapers.
Even though she totally knows they're not, and she totally looks at me with her demented little face and she totally laughs her maniacal laugh and then totally innocently asks for a bath, pretty pretty please.

I thought maybe some new panties would work some new-panty magic. (Ladies, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout here, right? Sometimes, some new skivvies just makes you feel... better.) I bought her some Big Girl Undies last night instead of the thick cotton training ones.
This morning, she was ecstatic over new drawers. She shrieked with glee. She put on a pair and pranced, actually pranced, around the house.
And twenty minutes later, she'd tinkled all over them.

I just don't remember how to do this part.
How do I convince her not to wee-wee in her unmentionables?
She's too smart for bribery, she's too brazen for admonishment, and by this child -baby number three- we've learned that discipline is not a great tool for successful potty training.

So, help me out, you beautiful internet patrons, you.
What do I do now?

ps- we're not even going to mention the poop situation right now. just don't bring it up. just. don't.

.

Hello, sweetface(s).

2011-10-18T13:34:00.002-05:00

in a train car at Magic Springs

more Magic Springs last weekend

after EcoFest in September

They make my whole world happy.

Beautiful Fall

2011-10-11T15:21:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Walgreens for underwriting this post. I was paid as a member of the Clever Girls Collective, but the content is all mine. Visit http://moms.dailybuzz.com/channel/style.

It's fall, y'all!
(I love how that particular, pervasive Southernism is co-opted in the autumn, all for the sake of a few cute yard signs.)

credit: pinterest

I am a BIG fan of fall. I am NOT a big fan of seasonal extremes- you can keep your hunnerd-and-ten-degree July and your 22-degree January, thank you very much (I'm talking to you, Arkansas). In fact, you can keep your pollony, fake-Easter-egg-basket-grass springtime, too.
I live for fall.

photo credit: my sweet friend Becke'

Cooler weather.
Warmer drinks.
Football games.
Heavy, carb-loaded meals.
Crunchy leaves.
Cinnamon smells.
New makeup.

Wait... what?

I don't generally spend a lot of time on my beauty routine, unless it's for A Big Event. I have friends who do not venture out to their mailbox without their full face on. Me? I'm lucky to take a shower before 2pm most days. But one thing I really love is the chance to buy new makeup for the fall new season.

While the temperature cools down, wardrobe and makeup colors warm up.

photo credit etsy

The names of autumn makeup are kinda gross: rust, olive, khaki, kelp, taupe (I really hate taupe), poop... you get the idea... the colors themselves are rich and bold and deep and subtle, all at once.

photo credit: talented Becke' again!

I have so much fun playing around with new eyeshadows and liners. I'm big into lipstick or blush, but I do love a good non-pink matte lip color. I am a classic Summer when it comes to facial color analysis. (Need a more in-depth makeup analysis? Read Amy's Southern Girl Academy post!) Which means I look best (and feel most comfortable in) a stunning array of colors from plum to charcoal. Drab? Never. Muted? Most of the time. Navy or chocolate? Nearly every day. Yellows? Not. on. my. life.

The foundation of my daily beauty routine is Clinique. My favorite mascara comes from Lancome. But for all other intents and palatte purposes? I'm a drugstore kinda girl. I can't justify spending $25 dollars on one compact of eyeshadow, but for $4? You bet your pencil-skirt bottom.

Fall is a great time to try new colors- the bright spotlight of summer has faded, and clothes tend to be thicker and more cover-you-up-ish.... so what better way to highlight some of your best features than to play them up with autumn's gorgeous hues?

Do you have a Fall beauty regimen, or do you wear the same colors year 'round?
C'mon... share your cool weather beauty tips here and on chasing my Bees' facebook page!

Thank you to Walgreens for sponsoring this blog post. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions are my own.

Lovely Liz Owen + an excerpt from My (Not So) Storybook Life

2011-10-10T07:00:00.000-05:00

Y'all. I'd introduce you to my friend Liz Owen, but you already read her blog and salivate over her beautiful pictures and craftiness, right?

Liz has an adorable dog named Mabel, a super-talented arty husband, and one of the cutest little girl babies to ever be a girl baby.

This is Jane. Hi, Jane!

Liz is a great blogger. By that, I mean that she actually blogs useful and cute and informative and inviting and honest things. And she does it more often than ~~I do~~ once a month.

And Liz wrote a book. And not just the kind of book that sits around on a hard drive and never gets any fresh air, but a real, live, funny, published book. Because I like Liz so much, I'm choosing not to be annoyed that yet another friend of mine is going to be a famous author before I am. (See: Kyran and Jerusalem)

Instead of being jealous and keeping Liz's talent and grace (and her love/hate of literary heroines I also happen to love/hate) a secret, I'm going to share.

She posted an excerpt from My (Not So) Storybook Life: A Tale of Friendship and Faith on her blog, and I'm swiping it.

Folks, you're going to want to read this book. It will be out and about, making people happy, next Tuesday, October 18th.

Pre-ordering is your friend.
You can find My (Not So) Storybook Life at any of these fine book-selling establishments:
(click on the links below, yo!)
Amazon
Walmart.com (and, maybe in stores? I dunno)
Barnes et. Noble, inc
IndieBound.org
and BAM!
(ps- if you google "Elizabeth Owen" she is not the one with the book about clairvoyance. fyi. she's the one with the supersweet cover)

I haven't read it yet, but I've been promised an early copy. I'll review it here when I've read it, and possibly, since I was planning on buying it anyway, maybe, if you tell me I'm pretty, I'll give away a copy, too.

For now, enjoy. And pre-order. And thank me later.

******************

Once one has breathed in the deep pungent aroma of sewage, you never again forget the nose-hair singeing, eye clawing, throat gagging experience. It comes over you slowly. You begin to feel like a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as your muscles involuntarily jerk and you run screaming and blowing raspberries. Anything to get away from the mind-numbing stench.

But let me explain.

It was 6:30 a.m. I was standing in my retro pink tiled bathroom trying to open my bleary eyes and ready myself for work. As I stood there, peering into the mirror and wondering what demented nighttime fairy had planted four new wrinkles on my face, I paused and sniffed.

“Matt… what’s that smell?”

Matt staggered from the bedroom in his underwear, eyes half shut. “I don’t smell anything.”

I pointed my nose into the air like a hunting dog. “Seriously? You can’t smell that? Did you go to the bathroom in here earlier? I told you to use the room spray when you do things like that.”

Matt puffed out his bare chest and gathered his pride as best a man can with sleep in his eyes and a small hole in the side of his underwear. “I just woke up!”

I frowned, catching a glimpse of my makeup-less hot-rollers-in-hair state and tried not to think about the fact that I looked fifty instead of twenty-nine. “Well, help me figure this out. Because something smells ripe.”

We sniffed the sink drain and ruled it out as a suspect.

“Is it coming from the toilet?” Matt asked, examining it from top to bottom.

“No, that’s not it,” I snapped. I’m not known for my milk of human kindness in a disaster. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a survivor. I plan on eating my radish like Scarlet and clawing my way out of the nuclear dust while dragging my loved ones with me. But I won’t be doing it with positive phrases and a smile.

“Hon, I just don’t know. We’ll call a plumber after work, maybe it’s coming from under the house.” Matt staggered a little, trying to get past me and out of our tiny bathroom.

“Well, that’s just great,” I moved aside and pulled the shower curtain back so I could perch on the side of the tub and give Matt room to move out the door.

That’s when the full brunt of nastiness filled the air around us, a swirling mix of excrement and acrid stench that would have brought the sewer dwelling Ninja Turtles to their knees. Where the normally slightly-clean-with-a-hint-of-soap-scum bottom of the tub should have been, there sloshed gallons and gallons of brown sewage.

I clutched the front of my sweatshirt and held my breath. Matt began to dry heave.

“Get out and shut the door!” I screamed as we bumbled into the hallway.

“I’ll deal with this,” Matt grabbed my shoulders, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

I could feel my eyes glaze over, the horrors of typhoid and hepatitis in our bathtub filling my mind. But more importantly, I could envision our evaporated savings account. In my mind’s eye I could see the long, gray hallway at the bank. A worker shrouded in a black suit pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlatched a small locker labeled “Owen Bank Account.” Inside were two small stacks of quarters and a few crumpled dollar bills. It was bleak, not only because the banker with an unimaginative wardrobe gazed at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “You’re a Big Fat Loser,” but also there was a very definite possibility we wouldn’t be able to pay for a plumber.

I wasn’t necessarily a spend thrift. In fact, I was downright frugal when it came to decorating with thrift store furniture and rewired vintage lamps. But the fact was, we were poor. We were starting out at starter jobs with starter salaries. We were starter adults with a starter bank account.

“Okay,” I nodded numbly, thankful that Matt was taking the lead on such a disastrous biohazard. “But make sure the plumber is super cheap. We don’t have much money!”

I left for work like a wino stumbling through a fog, not really remembering my commute, not really doing any work as I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at the computer screen. A disaster of such gargantuan proportions had previously been unthinkable in my life, and now I found myself attempting to push the image of a vast sea of bathtub poop from my mind. But I was sure of one thing: Anne Shirley never had to get ready for work while breathing raw sewage.

It's gonna be so cool, right? I know. I'm excited, too.

Mechatar Robot Winner and Discount Code

2011-10-03T17:34:00.001-05:00

And the Mechatar goes to.... Justin Wright!

Don't forget to visit iLoveRobots.com to see their entire lineup of cool robots.

And, the code MECHMOM is good until November 30 to get get 10% off! (Hellooo, Christmas shopping!)

I was selected to participate in this sponsored post series by Clever Girls Collective. I can only assume it's because I'm so pretty, but it probably also had to do with the fact that I have three toy-crazy kids that live in my house. Rent free! In any case, all of the opinions are my own.

Mechatars!! Robot Review & Giveaway!

2011-09-19T21:46:00.000-05:00

www.mechatars.com

Meet our new friend, Wrexx.

We got this bad boy last week and have been playing with it since. Wrexx is one of a new line of ~~toys~~ robots called Mechatars. Mechatars blend real world/online play from iLoveRobots.com.

And that? Blew. my. mind.

I guess I'm an old lady, or we deny our kids the finer toys in life, because I had no idea these things existed.

Straight out of the box, Wrexx connected to his wireless remote. Then, Mr. Bossy Wrexxpants demanded we connect him to the computer "to download critical data." The downloading and data collecting took several minutes, and we used the time to read up on the Mechatar warfare. Apparently, it's us and the robots vs. The Swarm. Whoever they are. Bad guys, obviously.

The Boy loves anything remote, anything mechanical, anything digital, and anything that scares the bejeebees out of his sisters (and dog). Wrexx fit the bill. He had a good enough time just playing with the wobbly-legged robot, making it chase the girls. And me.

Jeremy and I got online before The Boy did. We keep a close eye on what he plays online, and how often (which is to say: not much, and not long). The Mechaverse is an online game where the Mechatars battle the baddies with all kinds of "elemental" weapons. It's pretty advanced stuff for a seven year old, though I think older kids would love it.

You can personalize nearly every step of the Mechatar experience, and The Boy particularly liked that part. The picking out of stuff. We didn't spend much time in the Mechaverse, but it seems to be a pretty cool way to integrate real word play into an online setting.

For now, The Boy is (and the girls are) happy to play with the IRL version of Wrexx. The Dog? She's not so thrilled.

So, you want to win one, right?

You totally can! Right here!

Here's what to do:

Visit www.Mechatars.com
In order to see the Mechatar line up, you'll need to click on “play now” then “register” but no information needs to be submitted.
Check out the Mechatar lineup and decide which Mechatar you'd would most like to win.
Leave a comment here telling me which one you choose.
Bonus entry: Tweet this text and link... "Super exciting Mechatar robot review and giveaway from the very pretty @SavannahB! http://bit.ly/np5Njx #CleverRobot #spon"
Easy peasy. One. Two. Threesy

I'll keep this post open until Wednesday, September 28, and then one lucky gal (or guy. Hey, guy readers!) will win a Mechatar of their very own.

(iloveRobots will do their best to fulfill the request for the model you choose, although they can’t guaranteed the specific model due to stock limitations.)

If, on the off chance that you don't win, you can always visitb iLoveRobots.com and buy one for the kiddo(s) in your life. Special secret bonus: Enter the code MECHMOM and get 10% off!

I was selected to participate in this sponsored post series by Clever Girls Collective. I can only assume it's because I'm so pretty, but it probably also had to do with the fact that I have three toy-crazy kids that live in my house. Rent free! In any case, all of the opinions are my own. Although, I may add that The Boy's opinion was thus: "Awwweeeesooooommmeeee!"

If Facebook hadn't told me...

2011-09-15T19:57:00.000-05:00

I might never have known.

Doing Good Involves a Little Doing

2011-09-12T09:14:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Walgreens for sponsoring my writing. Help Walgreens help others! Visit their Facebook page here to learn about their charitable partners and decide which cause Walgreens will donate to with a quick vote.

We live in a culture and in an economy that sometimes overlooks the value in simply doing good.
The parents of Little Leaguers turn a ball game into a bar-room brawl. The checkbook says it's impossible to give back. The hours in the day are often too few to really invest the kind of time we'd like to spend helping others. All the obligations within our own homes sometimes make it feel like we have nothing left to give to anyone we're not bound to by blood.

Which is exactly why Jeremy and I try to have an on-going conversation about servant-hood, stewardship, compassion, and grace with the Bees. Every time we pull to the side of the road to let an ambulance or fire truck pass with its lights flashing, we say a prayer for whoever is in need, and for the responders who are on their way to help. Each time my husband rolls down his window to hand a five dollar bill to someone holding a sign, we talk about how God calls us to love each other. Whenever we excavate under the kids' beds and find toys we haven't seen in six months, we put them in a bag and take them to a local battered women and children's ministry. All those free samples of formula and diapers we got each time we left the hospital with a new baby? Went straight to a ministry devoted to teaching families how to be families. With every new season and every few inches my children grow, their clothes are donated to Soul Food Cafe, which in turn hands them out free of charge.

photo credit

These are little things, tiny things, that barely interrupt the flow of our abundant days. But we are teaching our kids to be mindful of the world and the people around them. They are learning to extend a hand to people in their own community, but also around the world. Each Christmas, we buy animals from Heifer International, not to build a farm in our own backyard, but to teach a family half the world away to care for livestock, and to give them a way to make a living where before there was no way.

And still, there is more we can do.

There is always so. much. more. One Thanksgiving, we loaded up a shopping cart with food that would make for a delicious meal, then donated all of it to a local church who would be feeding the hungry. But we haven't done it since. We could, if we would take the time to do it. Driving by the Habitat for Humanity village, and explaining the work they do for our neighbors in town, is not the same as taking my children to a work day, and handing them a brush and a bucket of paint. Taking five boxes of macaroni and cheese to church once a month is not nearly as effective as having the kids hand out the boxes on Tuesday mornings at Soul Food.

Max & the Toronto Blue Jays' Habitat story here.

We tell the Bees about doing good, but what good is it if we don't show them? If we don't train them to see ways to help someone else, every day, how will they know what to look for?

It is so easy to overlook the pain and the need that permeates the world around us. It is harder to do something about it.

What can you do today to make your small slice of the world better? How can you initiate a shift in your own thinking, in your own actions?

Don't forget to help Walgreens help others! Visit their Facebook page here to learn about their charitable partners and decide which cause Walgreens will donate to with a quick vote. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

Newbery Medal Reading Challenge

2011-09-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

It seems I'm all about challenges lately.

The Boy and I have taken on a new reading challenge. Really, I just said to him, "Hey, I have this idea," and he said, "sounds good, Ma."

We are going to read at least one Newbery Medal Winner or Honor book from each year since the award's inception in 1922.

Together, we've already read a few medal winners:

The Tale of Desperaux

Mr. Popper's Penguins

The Invention of Hugo Cabret

I was excited to learn that several of my most favorite books when I was younger were all Newbery Medal winners. Proves, once again, that I've got great taste.

The Boy and I spend an hour last night jumping from web page to web page, in a very methodical- and yet easy peasy- fashion.

We'd start here, with a list of all the winners and books of honor.

Then, we'd hop over to GoodReads.com to check out the book(s) we picked. If we both liked the synopsis, we'd add it to The Boy's TBR list.

Next, we checked our local library's database and, if we were lucky and they have copies of the books we wanted, we'd request them online.

Et voilà.

There we have it.

We only made it up the list to 1950, because it was bedtime. So far his Good Reads shelf has 51 books read, and 84 to-read. He reads an average of 3 chapter books a week, a fact of which I am purty jealous.

I will chronicle each of books we read here, and I'll try to convince him to let me interview him on his thoughts about each book. Better than writing a book report, right?

We'll start the challenge as soon as the library emails me to say they have our books ready. Right now he's reading The Mayflower Adventure, and he has Fantastic Mr. Fox and Sideways Stories from Wayside School lined up next.

I imagine we'll be at this challenge for a while, and at any time during our progress, I'd love if y'all would give us book recommendations, even if they aren't award winners. Our only requirement? Awesomeness.

The No Fast Food Challenge That Might Make Me Bonkers

2011-08-31T11:45:00.000-05:00

I have been arguing with myself for a few weeks now. I've managed, so far, to keep the discussion in my head, so as not to sound like The Crazy Lady who Fights with Herself. In any case, it's really a losing battle. Either way it goes, I'm hearing voices or talking to myself. I lose.

Finally, after much debate and a mental pros/cons list, I blurted it out to my husband a few days ago:

I'mthinkingaboutnoteatingatanyfastfoodplacesinSeptember.

Whew.

Also, wha???

My motivation for this possibly crazy-making plan is twofold:

Fold One: It is, generally, a better idea to eat food that is prepared in your own home. Whether it's an all-organic, gluten-free, dairy-free home-cooked meal (Holy Hyphenation, Bat-man!) or it's frozen deliciousness from a bag, so long as you don't indulge in a steady diet of Cheetos and Dr. Thunder, house-prepared food is just... better. Right? Healthier, yes. Cheaper, too.

Not fast food, but DANG that looks delicious/disgusting.

Which brings me to...
Fold Two: The Cheapness. On average, our family buys out-of-home food, I'd say, 5 times a week. (That's not a real average- I just made that number up. Some weeks we buy out-of-home food thrice, some weeks, it's more like ten times.)
Here's how my spending usually goes:

Monday: Medium Diet Coke from McDonald's. Maybe a few hashbrowns if the girls notice we're in the drive-through line.
Tuesday: Stop by my once-a-week place of employment, pick up lunch and charge it to my house account.
Wednesday: Happy Hour at Sonic after school!
Thursday: I don't feel like fixing lunch, let's just grab more McD's.
Friday: Celebratory "It's Friday" lunch at Chick-Fil-A.
Saturday night: If there's money left over from ~~all the gorging~~ paying bills, our family might go out to eat.
Sunday: Extended family time at Pizza Inn, courtesy of the my husband's grandmother.

That list just grossed me out. It's a fairly typical schedule. And that's not including the nights during the week when neither Jeremy nor I can ~~handle the kids~~ bear to make dinner, so we go for an impromptu night out.

I don't want to add up either the cost of all the gluttony or the calories consumed.

So, I'm thinking, just as an experiment in willpower, budgeting, and healthy choice-making, that I'm going to refrain from fast food joints and semi-fine dining establishments for the month of September.

*gasp*
*big sigh*
*huff, puff, stomp*

I know. I'm already having an internal dialogue, pre-rationalizing my imminent failure.

The only caveats? My mother-in-love and I have reservations at Chick-Fil-A one morning early in September. Reservations, y'all. For a free chicken biscuit. I can't say no to that.
Also, the weekly family gathering at Pizza Inn. Much as I'd rather bow out and spend that precious Sunday afternoon time curled up in my bed... I really like seeing my extended family on a regular basis. So I'm gonna go. And I'll probably eat some of that dadgum delicious cheesebread. But, not a lot, ok?

No popping by the restaurant for freeish food. No waiting in line for carbonated, caffeinated ambrosia. Not a single French fried potato if it isn't fried Frenchly in my own home.

This is gonna suck/rock.

What about you? Have you ever willingly/begrudgingly given up something near and dear to your ~~arteries~~ heart?

.

The Best Person I've Ever Met

2011-08-23T07:12:00.001-05:00

We were introduced five years ago today.
When I met her, she was literally a hot mess. She was angry and loud, fearful and fearsome. It took a long time to gain her trust. For over a year, all of our conversations were one-sided. I talked my head off, and she just stared at me, daring and begging me to go on. For another year after that, she flew into hysterics when people looked her in the eyes. Like a regal, breathtakingly beautiful tyrant.
Once I convinced her that her secrets were safe with me, she started sharing her heart, bit by bit. I have learned to trust her at her word; she is honest and true. I see in her the epitome of grace and compassion. I once watched her give the last of her meal to a hungry boy, knowing that she would have rather polished it off herself. She holds doors open for strangers, she treats old people kindly, she is gentle with babies and small animals.
She dances with abandon, like she has hot coals under her feet and ants in her pants. She curls around a good book in such a familiar way that it brings tears to my eyes. She laughs loudly and from deep inside her soul. When she cries, you have no choice but to cry with her; your heart breaks alongside hers.
I am fairly certain she has a better relationship with Jesus than I do. She is keenly aware of His presence in her life, and she loves Him with her all of her heart. Every move she makes begins and ends with an observation of His will in her life.

I have been blessed ten thousand times over by knowing her. She is, far and away, the best person I've ever met. She has manners and modesty, wit and tact to rival any good Southern belle. She prays fervently for her enemies, nonexistent as they may be. She carries herself with confidence and assurance that while she may be the center of it, she has room in her heart for the whole world. I would do well to learn from her.
She is a fountain of joy when I feel like my own wells have gone dry. I have seen the faces of sad, lonely people brighten in her presence. She has certainly brought light into my life.

Happy birthday, Ladybug.

I love you louder than a lion, and stronger than steel.

I love you fluffier than a tutu, and more colorful than a rainbow.

I love you higher than frogs jump, and more than you'll ever know.

chasing my Bees featured on DailyBuzz Moms Top 9!

2011-08-20T10:51:00.000-05:00

I love the DailyBuzz Moms site.

They feature a Top 9: posts from all around the internets on different topics each day. I had a post featured once about homeschooling (sorta). And then one more time about moms and social media, and my huge crush on tumblr.

Today, I have a post up on the #DBM9 again. This round, all of the posts are about nurturing marriage. Some are sweet, some are helpful, some are (ok, mine is) tongue-in-cheek.

I'm honored, and super excited to be on the same page with some pretty awesome bloggers: @WomenOnTheFence, @parentingsquad, @mommytracked, @Faiqa from @aiminglow, and, ahem, @dooce among others.

So, go see. Go read. Learn something. Laugh.

Jerks be jerks

2011-08-17T14:18:00.002-05:00

When I was in eighth grade- after mono lightened me of baby fat but before I was introduced to the wonders of eyebrow waxing, and smack in the middle of two years of braces- I stood at my locker, equal parts transfixed and horrified at the scene in front of me.
The biggest jerk in junior high had just pantsed the most popular girl in junior high in front of, basically, everybody.

The Big Jerk was never this funny.

They broke up the night before, I later found out. The Popular Girl recovered more quickly than I would have, and slapped him full-on across his face. I think they got back together shortly thereafter.
The Big Jerk continued being jerky all the way through high school. I had exactly one class with him in the six years I went to school with The Big Jerk. The only time I ever had conversations with him were in our senior year AP World History class, and they went like this:

TBJ leaning forward in the desk behind me: "You know, my favorite {adult film} star's name is Savannah."
SB long since over the shock of such blatant ickiness, and long exhausted of the line: "So you've told me. Every day this entire semester."
TBJ leaning forward even further and whispering in what he surely thought was a seductive tone: "Do you want to be my favorite {adult film} star?"
SB weary for having to repeat herself daily, mustering up as much sarcasm as she possibly can: "No. Not particularly. But thanks for asking. Again. I'm incredibly charmed."

I wondered how many girls had fallen for his ridiculously bad attempts at... what? flattery? degradation? Was he trying to humiliate me or hit on me? Either way, I was immune to his particular brand of skeeve.
We graduated and went about our own lives, and I completely forgot about him.
During occasional fits of nostalgia with my girlfriends, his name only ever came up under the "Man, That Guy was a Jerk" category.

Ten years later, by some wild twist of fate, I was the one planning our reunion.
Since I was one of the few weirdos who actually enjoyed high school, I was (mostly) looking forward to seeing (most of) my former classmates, but I wasn't taking any chances. I armed myself with nerves of steel, brand-new invisibility glasses (should I need to disappear at any given moment-- a leftover reflex from junior high, which, by law, sucks for everybody), and the strongest shield available in my armory: my husband.

The reunion was a smashing success. I saw conversations between people I knew for certain had never spoken in high school. I saw two dudes who I once watched beat each other to pulp shake hands and introduce their wives. That one girl I could have sworn wanted to shank me back then? She gave me a bear hug. We're grown-ups now.
Most of us.

It was my self-appointed job to round up awesome door prizes to give away. Before I announced any of the prizes, The Big Jerk came up to me and threw his arm around my shoulders. "So, what's the biggest prize in there?" he slurred. When I told him, he asked, "Well, how much will it take for you to pull my name out of the bag? C'mon... I won't tell anybody. Just let me be the one to win it."

I have never been a cynical person. I believe the best about humanity in general, and people individually. But sometimes?

Jerks be jerks, and they stay that way.

I'm just glad he didn't pants anybody.

.

Classic Kid Craft- Countdown Chain

2011-08-10T13:51:00.001-05:00

My mom was pretty crafty when my brother and I were kids- before crafty became Crafty; before something to entertain and educate and kill boredom became a Way of Life and for some, a Job Title.

We made the requisite macaroni noodle necklaces (though never with my mother. she had more imagination and less patience than the macaroni called for), we made mirror-paint butterflies (which is still my most favorite simple way for kids, and grown-ups, to create art), we made our own paper, our own potato stamps, and we made erupting volcanoes and crafts that blurred the lines between art, science, exploration, and good old messy fun.

My (second most) favorite kid craft project is the classic countdown paper chain.

Last week, on the five hundredth day of five hundred degree heat, the natives were restless. It was BFP time. Our stockpile of art accoutrement has been low this summer, so I had to think quickly.
Given The Boy's love of order and natural progression, The Girl's love of, well, everything in the whole world, and The Baby's love of annihilating things, we busted out the construction paper, scissors, crayons, and stapler. Easy peasy.

(Of course, being the freak that I am, I had to rearrange the paper colors into groups- they were packaged all willy-nilly. The colors need to go together, people! No red-purple-green-green-pink-purple-brown-yellow-brown... No! Red-red-red-purple-purple-purple-green-green-green... you get it, right? To further out myself as a crazy person- I was really irritated that there was no orange. That's how the rainbow goes! Red, orange, yellow, green, blue... Geez.)(Um. What was I just saying about The Boy loving order and natural progression. Hmm.)

Anyway.

I cut strips of paper (equal in length and width, duh) for The Baby's chain, and as an example, then set the two big kids loose with their own paper and scissors. Eventually, The Baby just started ripping the paper to shreds, which was kind of what I assumed she'd do anyway. The annihilation gene and all that.

The Bees colored on the paper strips and we numbered them for the countdown.

Boy Genius: great reader, not a future calligrapher.

Wait, what were we counting down to? Good question. I probably should have addressed that a few paragraphs ago, huh? I'm not so hot on the How-To posts, huh? Huh.

Whatever.

The Girl's fifth birthday is August 23rd. Countdown One.

The Boy is going back to school, as previously mentioned, on August 15th. Countdown Two.

The Baby decimated her paper, so. Countdown... Aborted.

After the cutting and decorating and the shredding, we were ready to staple.

The Girl had a little trouble circling the paper, holding the paper, holding the stapler, stapling the paper while holding the paper, rinsing, and repeating.

But she's a trooper.

The two big Bees and I decided to hang the finished products in safe places... which basically meant anywhere The Baby couldn't reach, even if she stands on something, which she'd totally do, that sneak.

The Girl put her chain above her bed. And yes, that's totally a black fleece blanket hanging in front of the window. We're too cheap to buy blackout shades. What?

The Boy, inappropriately clothed for photos, hung his beside the living room window. (Yes, again with the blanket. Since this photo was taken, my ~~ghetto~~ brilliant husband put foil up between the blinds and the curtains. So we're still cheap, but you can't tell by looking.)

They have all really enjoyed waking up ~~at the crack of dawn~~ every morning and tearing off another number.

I love that this supereasy craft:

Is not messy
Can be done with Bees of all ages
Is fairly quick and painless (unless you staple yourself or your children)
Reinforces counting and number writing
Gives a visual aid to the idea of calendar days
Can be done for almost anything- birthdays, special events, holidays...
Can even be done in reverse- adding a chain for every day spent doing something (peepeeing in the potty, cleaning a bedroom, having a good day at school...)
Cuts down on time that the kids spend begging me for either tv or popsicles and me telling them no because I am WAY mean.

What are your favorite tried-and-true kid crafts?

I realized that I didn't take a single picture of The Baby while we were doing this craft. I wonder where she wandered off to. Ah well. Here's a gratuitous photo of The Baby being all cute and muddy:

Back to School for the First Time, Again

2011-08-08T16:01:00.000-05:00

So, The Boy is going back to public school. We had an absolute blast homeschooling for first grade, and, according to the standardized tests I made him sit through, The Boy learned a thing or two. I plan to post more about the decision to send him back to school, and the decision to homeschool The Girl, later. But for now, I'd love it if you click on over to read the Family Chatter piece I wrote about it for Little Rock Family magazine.

(And... how fantastic is that artwork? I've never met her, but I'm a little bit in love with Hannah Alexander. She's illustrated two of my editorials for Little Rock Family, and both of them have been absolutely perfect.)

English is Dumb. And I Love it Anyway.

2011-07-29T10:04:00.002-05:00

I make no secret about my love of words. I love reading them, I love writing them, I love learning new ones and teaching them to my children.
I borrowed a book from the library last week that was very.... odd... but it had so many delicious words, I wanted to run out and buy a copy and fill it with underlines and highlighter marks. I can't remember the last time I read a novel that had me looking up at least one word per page to find its meaning. (I'd add some of them here, but I already took it back to the library. And I'm thisclose to ordering it right. this. minute.)
(Like: gaol. Do you know what a gaol is, and who gaolers are? I bet you do. A gaol is a place where criminals are locked up behind bars. And gaolers are the people who make sure the criminals don't escape. Got it? Did I mention this scrumtiously-worded book is set in Victorian England?)

In any case, the English language is to-the-brim with wonderful words.... and a whole bunch of mind-boggling rules and regulations and glaring oddities. (My mother is an English as a Second Language teacher/facilitator. It also makes her crazy how ridiculous the English language is. I suppose it's hereditary. The crazy, not the English. Although, ok, maybe that is, too. Also. Anyway.)

This whole post formulated because I was looking at a "warming green tea" face mask on my bathroom counter this morning. Under the English title, it reads, "masque au the' vert," because everything's fancier in French. And I thought (in my early-morning brain fog), "Huh. Vert. Like 'verde' in Spanish. Like 'verdant.' So ver = green in every other language but ours. Weird."
And of course, that line of thinking led to, "It's like how 'luna' means 'moon' to everybody but us. Dumb English."
And then, it circled back to ver: "Verb-something has to do with words. Verbal, verbiage, verbose..."

(I never claimed to have deep thoughts before 8:00am, just long, disjointed ones.)

So, why not just leave things at verde, luna, verb.... It's like the originators of the English language just plucked letters out of our alphabet and lined them up and called it quits. Green. Moon. Words.
I don't know why Latin is a dead language. It seems so much.... easier.

I'm sure there are tons more out there, but this is as far as I got before The Baby started playing in my makeup.

Then I remembered this video:

Because homophones are awesome.

And awful.

At the same time.

There are some really fantastic (Latin-based, I'm sure) words out there, too:
adumbrate
betwixt
curple (do YOU know what a curple is?)
diaphanous
ennui
facetious
grandiloquent
(What? Do you not keep a list of lovely/fascinating/fun words? That's only for serious geeks? Huh.)

Oh wait, I just remembered one more example of English ridiculousness:
Piscis.
Poisson.
Pez.
Pesce.
Fish.
See? Wacked.

Ooh! One more:
Decalogue.
Decimal.
Decimate.
Decade.
Ten.

So... what silly English-born words am I leaving out? Do you have any super favorite words?

found and tumbl'd

(PS- if you need any book recommendations, follow the #FridayReads tag on the twitters. There arealways new books to be found!)

Raving Rabbids Winner!!

2011-07-22T11:12:00.000-05:00

Congrats to Emily, who won the Raving Rabbids Wii game!

Have fun, Emily! And be sure to thank Ubisoft and The Clever Girls!

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Raving Rabbids Giveaway from Ubisoft and the Clever Girls!

2011-07-15T10:33:00.001-05:00

Giveaway time!!

I haven't posted much about the (awesome) Type-A Parent Conference a few weeks ago in Asheville, NC because, well, I haven't posted much at all.

It's summer time. Give me a break.

But while I was hanging out in (beautiful, funky) Asheville at (amazing) Type-A Con, I met some (very pretty and way smart) Clever Girls.
Cat and Sheila are (no parentheses necessary) super awesome ladies who, along with my also very-smart-and-pretty friend Lisa of A Daily Pinch, threw a rockin' Ubisoft dance party at the conference!!

....get to the giveaway, lady....

Ok. So. Folks were shaking their groove thangs, and drinking Smurfy blue drinks and there were wine and patios and amazing women and like three dudes and... Ok. Fine.

Courtesy of the Clever Girls and Ubisoft, I give you:

The Raving Rabbids Travel in Time for Wii!

And I'll include three ~~cute~~ rabbid little Rabbids figures, too!

Per their website: The Rabbids are about to change the course of human history and you’re invited to the party! The Rabbids are bwaaack and this time they have an infallible plan to invade the human world: CONQUER HISTORY! When they discover time travel with their Time Washing Machine, you can bet they will cause loads of ridiculously wacky mayhem in history.

Looks fun, huh? I can't provide a review here (because I don't have a Wii. whah-whah), but maybe when you win you can write one for me? Yes! Yes, that's a great idea!

Raving Rabbids is kid-friendly, and by all other accounts I've read, it is really fun.

I'm a little jealous of you for getting to win it.

To win (leave one comment for each Easy, Informative, and Fun Task):

Easy: Like chasing my Bees on facebook.

Informative: Check out (and like) Clever Girls Collective on facebook.

Fun: Like Raving Rabbids (also on facebook. weird, huh?), and play the mini-game!

Bonus comment: Tweet about this post. Say something witty and wonderful like, "I just entered to win Raving Rabbids from a very pretty lady named @SavannahB. You can too, at http://bit.ly/RabbidscmB!"

I'll draw a random winner and announce it next Wednesday (7/20)!
Good luck, and may the rabs be with you! (whatever that means.)

(Disclosure: I haven't played the game and I didn't get paid for this post. I just like giving stuff to people, and the Clever Girls said I could. So there.)

Go On, Brush My Shoulders Off

2011-07-05T09:12:00.002-05:00

(that's two hip-hop themed blog post titles in one week. go me!)

I hope each of you had a safe and happy and star-spangled Fourth of July yesterday. I'll have to steal some pictures from someone who had a camera, and post some celebratory evidence later.

For now, I'm all over the internet again. It's like I'm viral (which, doesn't sound nearly as cool as I thought it would).

I wrote a post over at And Nobody Told Me.
It's about the phenomenon in motherhood known as the dreaded Dirty Shoulder.
And it went up yesterday, but I was in panic mode most of the day because all three of my children were running around with sparklers in their hands and I totally didn't realize that "it'll post on Monday" meant "which is a national holiday and nobody will be reading blogs, not even you, so you'll have to remind folks about it on Tuesday when they're all back at work and grumbly."

Our President: he's patriotic, he's a parent, and he's way cool.

So. Go read.

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Post-camp Tradition

2011-07-02T09:11:00.000-05:00

The Boy, post-camp 2010

The Boy, post-camp 2011

I think he had a good time.

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I blame the rice cooker

2011-07-01T09:03:00.000-05:00

It is so rare that Jeremy and I get into an actual fight. I can’t even really think of three times in our six years of marriage that we have had a blow-out. That’s not to say we don’t occasionally drive each other nuts. We totally do.

So when last night turned a little ugly, it threw us both.

We have this rice cooker. It’s relatively new. Jeremy’s mom gave it to us, knowing our propensity for eating rice, like, three nights a week. I hadn’t used it before last night.
After a full day of battling a growing headcold and a wild toddler, I was in no mood to cook. (Ok, I’m never in the mood to cook. Whatever.) Jeremy has been sick for over a week, and had unloaded a trailer full of lumber into the back yard. (Coming soon: a big honkin’ playground, courtesy of my Momma!) Also, The Baby hasn’t been sleeping in ~~ever~~ weeks. Suffice it to say, we were both sick and tired.

Eventually I filled up the rice cooker and set it.
And eventually it started spurting water everywhere.
And then it began.

This is the conversation we had:

He: “How much water did you put in this thing?”
Me: “Six cups. Three cups of rice. You said not to put in more than four cups of rice.”
He: “I said not to use more than four cups of water.”
Me: “You got me. I put too much water in there on purpose, just to piss you off.”
He: “Of course you did. Why don’t you just go to bed. You’re not doing me any good.”
Me: “I don’t care that I’m not doing you any good!”
He: “Well, you’re not doing anything for the kids either. mumblemumble.”
Me: “That’s right. I’m not good at doing anything. At all. Ever. mumblemumble.”

And that was pretty much it. Then he fixed the girls dinner and I went about hanging up clothes in my closet. We didn’t speak for nearly an hour.

He: “Do you want me to fix you more rice?”
Me: “Nope.”

I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and took a long shower. He ate with the girls and started their bath.

For as much as we pride ourselves as a couple who can truly communicate with each other, occasionally- and expectedly- there are breakdowns.

Keeping in mind that I am only presuming to know what was in my sweet husband’s head at the time, here is the conversation we weren’t having.

He: “You screwed it up again. I’m kind of tired of you messing things up in the kitchen.”
Me: “I put in exactly what you told me when you explained it last time.”
He: “That’s not at all what I said.”
Me: “I’m sorry. I might have misunderstood you. I didn’t mean to screw it up.”
He: “I know you didn’t. I’m tired and I feel like crap. So do you. Just go, I’ll take care of it.”
Me: “I hate feeling like I don’t ever do anything right! I feel like I’m failing as wife and mom sometimes.”
He: “I get really irritated after a long day at work and I come home to chaos. Plus, I really do feel like crap right now.”
Me: “I know. And I feel awful when the house is wrecked and you have to come home to it. But I am barely treading water here.”

And then we parted ways, both of us stewing in our hurt/anger.

He: “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Can we be ok now?”
Me: “I’m sorry too. I just need a few minutes to myself.”

We will be fine, we always are. We don’t throw things at each other, or hit each other or cut so deeply with our words that the wounds can’t be repaired. We pray for each other, we respect each other, we support each other.

It’s hard sometimes when the person you love most knows exactly how knock you down.

But then, it’s the same person who reaches out to pick you back up.

Pack it up, pack it in. Let camp begin.

2011-06-30T11:43:00.002-05:00

The Boy is at camp for a few days.

It's the same camp I attended for one week (and sometimes two) every summer for thirteen years. And when I was too old to be a camper? I became a counselor for a summer.

After hours upon hours of getting myself ready for various summer camps and fall/spring youth retreats (once my mother delegated the task to me) and all manner of road trips, I have become a truly excellent packer.
I may wait until the very last possible minute to do it, but once I'm in the bag-packing groove, I totally zone out. And when I'm done? And standing in front of a well-packed suitcase? It's a very strange, and very satisfying high.

I've learned a few things, though, about packing a boy for a trip. The Boy went to camp last year, and I over did it.
Last year I packed him several shorts and several t-shirts. For the three-day-two-night camp, I sent six shirts. All but two of them came home folded exactly the way I had sent them. The big toiletry bag I stuffed with shampoo, conditioner, bar of soap, lotion, powder, sunscreen, chapstick, toothpaste and a toothbrush? Un.touched.
Boys are gross.

So this year I packed lightly.

Three sets of shorts/shirt combos, rolled together
One pair of pajamas
Hotel bottles of shampoo and body wash (wishful thinking, I know)
Toothbrush
One pair of swim trunks
One towel
Some socks (that may or may not have been matched)
Six pairs of underwear (two tighty-whities, two boxer briefs, two boxers)
Bible
Flashlight
His pal Lucy.

The Boy and Lucy, circa fall 2007

The underwear was overkill, I know. But I'm hoping the excessive choices will lend to actually wearing the drawers. (Because he has a habit of going commando. And has since he was four.)

The thing I'm probably most proud of for remembering to pack? A fitted sheet for the bunk bed.

When I was a camper, we had three-hundred-year old bunk rolls. That may be an exaggeration, but only barely. They were grody. And I'd get hot, sleeping in my sleeping bag. And I'd stay awake for hours to make sure that no part of my body made direct contact with the bed. It was excruciating.

My summer as a counselor was full of egg-carton mattress pads and sheets and comforters. I had learned by then, trial-by-disgusting-bedding.

So as not to deprive my son of the real camping experience (In the now-geothermal heated and cooled cabins. Not the screened-in business I slept in two decades ago), I sent a sleeping bag, but I made sure to send that fitted sheet to go under it.

He probably won't even use it.

Because we've established: Boys are gross.

The Boy, post camp, 2010

Elsewhere on the Internets

2011-06-27T12:08:00.000-05:00

So, Type-A was fantastic. And I have so many words bouncing around in my head about it.

But for now ~~there's laundry and unpacking and kid-cuddling~~, I'm excited to share this link:

I'm one of the Top 9 today on DailyBuzz Moms!

DailyBuzz is a great site full of great posts. Today's Top 9 are about Homeschooling Tips and Experiences. One of my my favorite posts made it to the front page.
My little blog is growing up, y'all.

The Only Good Thing Dora Ever Did

2011-06-20T07:48:00.002-05:00

I hate Dora.

(I know. What a great opener, huh?)

She makes me crazy. She's too yelly, she asks obvious questions, she rarely blinks, she's pretty helpless... and what kind of parents let their pre-schooler run around in the jungle with only a bug-eyed monkey for a babysitter? Irresponsible.

Anyway.

I managed to avoid Dora entirely with the first two Bees. The Boy was a big fan of Elmo, and dinosaurs, and really, we rarely watched TV. The Girl fell fast and hard for Abby Cadabby, and that was alright with me. But for some unknown reason, The Baby loves Dora. I mean, loooooves her.

But she's not so great at opening bedroom doors.

(Awesome segue, me. I'm really on fire with the doing of the writing today.)

So, a few days ago when The Baby shut herself in her brother's room, she stared shouting.

Ayúdame, Ayúdame!

She has a tendency to yell incoherent words and phrases, loudly and often, so I wasn't certain I heard her correctly.

Until she did it again.

Ayúdame! Help me! I am in! this! roooom!

So, I think I can start telling people that The Baby is bilingual, right? Because having a bilingual child is just so much better than having a kid who zombs out in front of the television when cartoons are on.

The Baby Reads the Classics

2011-06-17T08:08:00.002-05:00

When The Boy was small, under 18 months old, he could spell his name. He could recognize exotic animals by sight. He could distinguish an octagon from a hexagon.

My husband has a cousin who, at two years old, could tell you the square root of several numbers.
The pastor who married us? His daughter could point out body parts like clavicle, sternum, and philtrum when she was a toddler.

None of these kids were Mensa members. They weren't exceptionally gifted (ok, well, The Boy was kind of astounding in his sponge-like approach to academia), it's just that they were taught these things the way other kids were taught lips, nose, and eyes... circle, square, and triangle... one, two, and three.

Kids learn what you teach them.
They learn what you intentionally teach them, and they learn when you don't even realizing they're learning.

the sweetest pile of reading Bees

For as long as I've been reading to The Bees, which is to say- since they developed hearing in utero, I've added the author and illustrator names when I announce the title of the book I'm about to read.

"Here is Jesse Bear, What Will You Wear? by Nancy White Carlstrom, illustrated by Bruce Degan."
"Next up: Quick as a Cricket, by Audrey Wood, illustrated by Don Wood."
"Ok, this is the last time, I'm serious. Pajama Time, written and illustrated by The Fabulous Sandra Boynton"

It's become a habit, to introduce the books like this when we read together.

So it made my heart extra happy-fluttery when I heard The Baby reading to herself the other day, alone in the reading corner of the living room.

"Da Berry Hun-gy Catapilla, by Eric Cahl."

I love the image Google used!

She knows every word by heart, even the long bit about the cocoon and the caterpillar's staying inside "fa more than TWO WEEKS, MOMMY!"

And the ending? When he turns into a beautiful butterfly? Has got to be the most emotionally and visually satisfying book ending ever. For a two-and-a-half year old. And maybe even for me.

What classic kiddo books do/did your kids love?
What learning habits do you try to instill in them?

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One Year Away from The Itch

2011-06-14T09:03:00.003-05:00

Happy anniversary, love.

The past six years have been fast and full and wild and wonderful.

Here's to sixty more.

June 14, 2005

Our song... because after months of me secretly loving it, he came home one day and declared it ours.

Improper Foundation Garments, or, How I Prevented My Own Heat Stroke

2011-06-10T11:24:00.000-05:00

It's hot, y'all.

I vacillate daily between wanting to whine about how hot it is, to wanting to punch the people who whine about how hot it is.

Oh, look, a highly appropriate ecard.

I don't remember summers being this hot when I was younger. I mean, I also don't remember why on earth I would ever eat bologna and mayo sandwiches when I was younger, but still.
It may be global warming, or it may be the extra __ pounds I've put on in the last 6 years (have I mentioned our 6th anniversary is next week? There is no mystery there. Happy = Chubby), but either way, I'm burning up.
So much so that I am thisclose to eschewing all modesty and/or propriety and am about to start running around in tube tops and hotpants. Like a deranged Hollywood starlet, minus the cocaine and Uggs.

Ok, fine. No, I probably won't go that far. But it's true I can't remember the last time I wore a spaghetti-strapped shirt or dress without a tank or tee underneath. And lets be honest- that is a combination of about 30% true modesty, and 70% I'm uncomfortable baring arms. (My arms, not actual weaponry.)

Last week, however, we hit 90something degrees in central Arkansas, which might as well have been 237°. I pulled out my favorite light-weight tunic dress and decided to forego the bottom layer.

Which is when I realized: I don't own a single strapless bra.
Not one.

I do have two new heavy-duty numbers that I just love. (Lift! Separation!) I also have several ~~ratty~~ comfortable nursing bras that I can't part with, because I am just that nuts. But no strapless ones.

And so, I did this:

(That is neither my actual bra or my actual hand using actual scissors. It's a graphic representation of my dramatic act, found on the grand ol' google.)

Yes. I cut off the straps off one of my bras. Not one of the new ones, one of the ~~ratty~~ previously more useful nursing bras.

And you know what? It felt good to have the cool car A/C blowing on my bare shoulders again. I was hyper-aware of my heavy artillery (My arms, not my bazoombas) on display for all of Chick-Fil-A to see, but for just a little while, I didn't care.

Now, I doubt I'll be running around in tube tops and hot pants any time soon. Or strappy sundresses. And yes, maybe I need to actually purchase a proper strapless bra instead of my ~~mutilated~~ home-made version.

But at least I'm one step closer ~~to self-confidence~~ away from passing out on a fainting couch/punching someone in the face.

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche {Wordless Wednesday}

2011-06-08T12:11:00.000-05:00

Because sometimes, using a fork is just too much trouble.

Marriage Advice: Make Helpful Diagrams... Alternatively Titled: A Letter to My Husband

2011-06-07T12:06:00.001-05:00

Dear Sweet Helpful Husband,
I really appreciate all that you do for our family. You work tirelessly at your paying gig, and just as tirelessly at all the other non-financially profitable gigs. That you volunteer to do. Because you are a fantastic person.
You are an incredible father, and the best husband I've ever had. Easy on the eyes, too.
But.
It makes me crazy when you do the laundry.
I know, I know, if I would only do the laundry when I say I will, you wouldn't have to passive-aggressively wash the girls' bathing suits and my bras in the same load as your yard-work shorts and dog-pee clean up towels.
You are a naturally helpful, organized, clean person, and I am a natural ~~slob~~ free spirit.
It's just...
Well.
I can't stand it when you put away our daughters' clothes. I will be the first to admit: I am a freak-and-a-half when it comes to proper putting away of clothes. (If only I was so crazy about doing the dishes, am I right?)
There is a system, honey.
It's been in place for years.
I've never changed it.
But since you haven't mastered the system yet, I drew a Helpful Diagram:

It's easy. Systematic. Logical.

So, when I find The Girl's Easter dress wadded up in what is clearly her baby sister's jammy drawer, I get a little tense. And when a 24 month zip-up onesie sneaks its way into the bottom drawer- the one filled with 5T t-shirts and denim cut-offs, I seethe, just a little bit. When there are little girl panties on hangers in the closet? I lose. my. mind.

So, I'm hoping that this Helpful Diagram will help. Because it takes away valuable housekeeping time (I could be mopping!!) when I have to dump the contents of five separate dresser drawers onto the floor and start from scratch.

I love you.

You look handsome today.

And thanks for letting me eat the last of your white chocolate vanilla bean cheesecake.

Did I mention how much I love you?

What's Your At-Bat Song?

2011-06-02T10:01:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I went to an Arkansas Travelers baseball game with Audreya and a few other fine folks. I've been to several baseball games in my life. As opposed to ~~everything but football~~ other sports, I really love live baseball. But baseball on tv? Not unless I'm couch-napping.

I must be older and crotchety-er than I had previously thought. There was a whole group of people sitting with us on the berm at the Travs game, and I couldn't hear a word any of them were saying. It was just. so. loud. When I complained about being an old lady and the poor selection of jock jams that seemed to be on an endless 15-second repeating loop, I learned a little something.

Baseball players get to pick their at-bat songs.

Oh, hey Chipper.

This was a revelation to me. My sweet friend Sarah Leer was shocked, shocked! that I didn't know this tradition. She said that one of the first things she asks people, to assess their awesomeness and calculate likelihood of future friendship, is what their at-bat song would be.

I was floored. I've had this recurring daydream for about 20 years now: I'm a rockstar, I'm standing in the backstage area of a mega-arena filled with my adoring fans, and they're all cheering- ready for me to make my grand entrance. (Pathetic? Maybe. But it's my happy place. You have your beach, I have my limelight.) I imagine this is how ball players feel when they step up to the plate, energized and totally psyched up by the song of their choosing.

Your at-bat song is no light matter. I thought about what mine would be for weeks before it dawned on me.
Duh.

There is one song that has stuck with me since the first time I heard it about nine years ago. It's like a Pavlovian booty-shaking response when I hear it. It makes my happy and it makes me dance. I have applied various lyrics to various stages of my life. It gives the listener no choice but to love it more.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you.....

My at-bat song.

Turn it up loud.

Isn't it fantastic?

So give your at-bat song some serious thought (or maybe you've had it picked out for years? Wild Thing? Pour Some Sugar on Me? Bo Diddley?) and let me know!!

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Five-Word Wednesday

2011-05-25T15:05:00.000-05:00

I'm exhausted.

More blogging soon.

Husband Hump Day: P is for....

2011-05-18T11:34:00.000-05:00

*Yes, I realize this isn't the first Wednesday of the month. Neither is it the second. But... any Wednesday is a good Wednesday when it's also Husband Hump Day. Take it away, honey.....*

A few of the P’s of my life.

Playing:

This one is now a faded, distant, dusty memory of a period time forgot. The memories I have of these days I am sure are skewed, but fondly looked upon. I grew up in the suburbs of Tulsa in a cul-de-sac with some neighbors close in age to my sister and me. I spent the preteens and teens in Arkansas. My best friend throughout that time was my middle sister. We were thick as thieves until evil puberty hit my sister smack in the face and all of a sudden, I was left on my own. Don’t cry for me Argentina, I bounced back with puberty of my own and found out why the change happened in my sister. Hormones had grabbed, me flipped me upside down, and changed everything I thought I knew about girls. I realized that they didn’t have cooties, I really didn’t know anything about them, and they weren’t as bad as they seemed. It wouldn’t be until much later that I realized again that some girls really do have cooties (but we call it something different), I still don’t know anything about girls, and some of them really are as bad as they seem. I use the term “girl” loosely, or maybe I am referring to loose girls, whatever.

Partying:

This one not so much anymore, but back in the day I could roll with the best of them. In my group of cronies I was always the “crazy one”. You know the type: the one always willing to take it too far for a little fun or a laugh. When we would go out on our “island hopping campaign” (made infamous from the Marines during WWII), or you could call it “bar hopping,” there was a good chance someone was going to get arrested, or the very least end up the night in a fight. Not that we were the mean bunch, but we were the bunch that was way too loud and way too drunk. I saw things that can never be unseen, I heard things that can never be unheard, I did things that can never be undone, and drank things that should never be drunk (I am looking at you Saki). Now these weren’t my high school days these were my Marine Corps days, which leads us into the third P.

Jeremy as hot Marine, 1998

Patriot:

This one I have a deep sense of pride and respect from. My mother and father taught me at a young age that this was part of our identity and our heritage. Both of my grandfathers were veterans, as were my father and uncle. I remember seeing my mother tear up a bit during the National Anthem and watching those Time Life videos of Vietnam and World War II with my father in quiet reflection. Then in a quiet voice he would remind me of why we were free. I joined the Corps as a junior in high school and spent the next year in the Delayed Entry Program. Less the 30 days after graduation, I left for MCRD in San Diego, California. The next several years of my life were a blurry whirlwind (see previous P).

Playing and Partying, those two deserved a second chance for an early twenty-something fresh out of the Marine Corps and back home. I won’t spend too much time on these two again as my wife reads this (this is her blog anyway). Over the next several years I learned a few important lessons in life. 1) Don’t do keg stands with change in your pockets. 2) Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear; beer before whiskey, mighty risky. 3) Mustard and mayo sandwich while driving will get you home, but not recommended. 4) The first thing that pops into your mind is not always the nicest. 5) You get more with honey than with lemons. 6) Treat women like you would want your sister to be treated. 7) Student loans and credit cards will have to be paid back! 8) Pride comes before the fall. 9) Prayer works. 10) “Love is never having to say you are sorry,” is the biggest load of crap ever (more like “love is always having to say you are sorry”). There are many more things I learned, but I will end with this: remember plausible deniability- when in doubt deny, deny, deny, it is easier to beg for forgiveness than plea for permission, and it is best to be thought of as an idiot than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Parenting:

This is the one that will never end. Your parents will never quit worrying about you. You will never quit worrying about your kids. You will never parent as good or as bad as you think you are doing. Your kids are not extensions of you. They are their own people who will make their own choices. The best we can hope for is to teach them and equip them with the best knowledge we have and hope they far exceed that knowledge. It is ok not to keep up with the Joneses. Money will never satisfy. Tombstones never read, “I wish I would have worked more.” Loose lips sink ships. Choose your words wisely, because what you say can never be unsaid. Never stop loving or laughing and always wear sunscreen (I couldn’t resist, it sounded like a graduation speech).

Jeremy and his youngest Bee, Easter 2011

Jeremy B. is a full time family man who, despite his past, has found true happiness in God and his family. He is a strong believer in learning from your mistakes and the power of forgiveness. Throughout his life, he has had shortcomings and made countless mistakes. He stays close to home because that is where his heart is, and he thinks he is smarter than he really is. Come back in 30 years and ask him about it then.

The Babysitters Club: Closet Hipsters?

2011-05-11T20:53:00.000-05:00

I recently ran across a huge box of books from yesteryear. Black Beauty, The Island of the Blue Dolphins, about 17 Nancy Drew books (Which, confession: I didn't know that Carolyn Keene wasn't a real person until about three years ago. True story.), and a two-foot-tall stack of Babysitters Club books.

Man, I loved the BSC. From The Truth About Stacy to Mary Anne and the Great Romance to the BSC Super Special #6: New York, New York.... I loved them all. I particularly identified with Mallory, the young one, the freckle-faced, curly-haired awkward one. Uh-huh.

So when I unearthed this buried treasure, I feasted my eyes and remembered a time when I would prop all of my animals and frou-frou pillows up around me, and spend hours with my friends. Ok, yes, I had real life friends too, but our adventures never compared to the Babysitters Club's, or to Nancy and Bess and George's, for that matter.

Anyway. When I came across this cover, I thought it rang a very contemporary bell:

Oh, that Claudia and her Crazy Aunt Peaches. So wacky. So zany. I always envied Claudia Kishi and her impeccable, unique style.

But look a little closer:

Hipsters.

On Defining Motherhood (spoiler: you really sort of can't)

2011-05-10T08:38:00.003-05:00

"Whenever career counselors try to parlay child-rearing experience into marketable job skills, what they typically come up with are administrative functions, like appointment making and record keeping... They completely overlook the far more specialized skill set moms acquire over the course of those years... By the time our kids head off to college, we are show business veterans, having produced, directed, and starred in such classics as "Christmas," "Halloween," "Birthday Party," and other holiday extravaganzas for eighteen consecutive years, at breathless tempo. Motherhood isn't a desk job. It's vaudeville."

Those words are borrowed today from my friend Kyran Pittman's new memoir, Planting Dandelions: Field Notes from a Semi-Domesticated Life.

So often, motherhood is relegated to cutesy, tongue-in-cheek job titles (I've been guilty of doing this, too): Chauffeur, Booty-wiper, Executive Chef, Giver-of-Kisses, Chief Operating Officer. (Ok, I've never called myself a COO. In this house, coo means something totally different.)
Alternately, some women swoon over motherhood as if it were on par with the Second Coming of the Messiah. They idealize motherhood, they romanticize it, they swell it up to Hindenburg proportions, and we all know what happened there.
Or worse, motherhood is just that thing that happens to you after a guy's pee-pee has come in contact with your coo-coo.

This is very close to the tattoo I got after The Boy was born.
It's a Celtic symbol of motherhood.

There is no way to pin down What Motherhood Means. If there were, we'd all be doing it right by now, and it would be a heck of a lot easier to do. It's been said (over and over and over) that life doesn't come with operating instructions. Except, it does. There are, literally, bajillions of blogs, books, videos, seminars, and mothers-in-law that are eager to tell you exactly how to do motherhood, and equally as eager to tell you how you're doing it wrong.

For me and for so many incredible, and incredibly lost, mothers I know, we learn as we go. We read our own mother's worn copy of Dr. Sears' baby book to home-diagnose colic. We read Annie Lamott's Operating Instructions, so that we know we aren't the first or only mothers who have come thisclose to falling over the edge- or jumping off of it. We consult pastors, girlfriends, pediatricians, bartenders, and even our husbands, to find exactly what mix of child-rearing philosophies we want to claim as our own.

And then... we make like Nike and just do it.

When it comes down to it, each of us blaze our own paths through the wilds of motherhood. We mark the trail so we know what to look for when the second kid comes along. We may never fully pave the path through the woods- because there is always beauty in the wildness. There might be some back-tracking, there may be some scary bears that leap out of their caves, and sometimes we just have to stop blazing and set up camp for a few months. Or years.
Eventually we come out on the other side, or come to a lovely, sun-lit clearing, and we admire the view.

*You owe it to yourself, this week after Mother's Day to buy Kyran's book. Planting Dandelions is a searingly honest look at motherhood through a magnifying glass, trained on one woman's patch of earth. It's beautiful, and beautifully written. I highlighted just about every other sentence to remember, to come back to when I feel like I'm completely turned around. Go on. It sure beats that Starbucks giftcard you got on Sunday, and it'll last longer, too.

In-Depth Interview with a Potty Trainee

2011-05-09T09:23:00.000-05:00

We had some big stuff happen last week. So big, in fact, that we had to call Daddy at work to tell him about it. So big, in fact, that we had to record it.
But first, I want you to meet Poodence.

The Baby *adores* Prudence. Prudence makes smart choices, like putting her peepee in the potty, instead of going on the kitchen floor. Prudence would be a good influence on The Baby, if The Baby was prone to being influenced. But she's not.

So anyway, that's Prudence. And this is The Baby, after she made a very good choice (read: I caught her on time and stuck her on the toilet).

She was excited. She demonstrated.

If only the bright glow of proud pottying would last more than half an hour...

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Wordless Wednesday: Carnivore

2011-05-04T10:03:00.000-05:00

Do not get between a Boy and his turkey leg.

He'll give you the crazy eye.

And he'll snarl.

Brunch Bunch: Creative Nutrition

2011-04-28T13:31:00.000-05:00

(Ok, fine. I'm using the term "nutrition" very very loosely in this post. Whatev.)

We usually go grocery shopping just once a week. And when I say "we," I mean "Jeremy and the kids." I've kind of been banned from buying food, because I tend to buy Ranch flavored rice cakes, and organic dried banana chips and too much cream cheese.... the list really does go on.

But when the groceries run out before the paycheck comes in, it's time to get creative.

The Bees, like all other kids, have varying tastes and appetites. We don't really abide by much picky-ness around here, but we know which foods each kid genuinely doesn't like. We also know when one of them is just trying to get out of eating Brussels sprouts.

Their hunger levels fluctuate wildly from week to week, day to day, sometimes even hour by hour.... add to that the fact that we are a "routine" family, not a "schedule" family- meaning we do the same things each day, but not necessarily at the same hour. It all adds up to mass confusion when it comes 'round to feeding time.

Some weeks they don't eat anything other than apples and cereal and milk. (Or, in The Boy's case, V8 juice. Which... ew.) Other weeks they are like the time-lapsed videos of jungle ants devouring animal carcasses and everything else in their path. Only less grody.

This has been an eating week. And, always inconveniently, a bill-paying week. Which means we're down to cans of refried beans and just-add-milk muffin mixes, neither of which go over particularly well, and certainly not together.

So today, on this day-before-payday day, we got creative with ~~breakfast~~ brunch (because really, I can't very well call our 10:00 am meal breakfast, can I?).

We dug the last precious few waffles out of the freezer, we lined all of our condiments on the kitchen counter.

We did a little math: (8 condiment jars) minus (ketchup + mustard + pimento cheese + soy sauce) equals (butter/syrup/chocolate sauce/whipped cream). There's always time for learning!

We came up with lots of combinations for waffle toppings:

The Girl chose syrup, whipped cream, and a Cutie.

The Boy went with butter, syrup, and chocolate sauce.
I picked peanut butter, syrup, and chocolate sauce. Just call me The King, y'all.
The Baby made a mess of everything.

The Boy's brunch, round two

I feel like so often during chow time I'm hollering at the Bees to "Sit down, eat your food, get the fork out of your hair, sit down, scoot the drink back so it doesn't spill, sit down, don't lick the table, eat your food, SIT! YOUR! BOTTOM! DOWN!"

Occasionally, we all relish in a slow and easy, messy, sugar loaded, really fun meal together.
We can do baby carrots and spinach salad and grilled chicken tomorrow.

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Standing Tall: Hairspray at The Rep

2011-04-22T14:00:00.001-05:00

With so many brazen "must see!" and "can't miss!" declarations running rampant about everything from toothpaste to the new airlines these days, I hesitate to say the same. About anything.

However.

If you are local, you MUST SEE, you absolutely CAN'T MISS, Hairspray at The Rep.

I'm serious.

I took my 4-and-three-quarter-years old daughter and my beautiful momma to see Hairspray on opening weekend.

It was fantastic. I saw Evita last fall at The Rep, and thought it couldn't be topped. But it was topped. By some swingin' tunes and really, really high hair.

Lillian Castillo plays Tracy Turnblad with such heart and enthusiasm, you're rooting for her the minute she dances onto the stage. Tommaso Antico gives Link Larkin a hunky, lovable quality. Seaweed is a charmer, Edna is amazing, and Motormouth... well, she owned the stage.

Katie Emerson blew me away. Again. Last fall, she brought me to tears during her only solo in Evita- as the nameless Mistress. She gives Penny-Lou Pingleton a comedic earnestness that can't be easy to pull off. She is hilarious and heartfelt.

The best part? The Girl didn't move a muscle the entire time. She was enraptured. Occasionally she would lean over to me, or elbow me, and I'd see the biggest grin on her sweet little face. She loved it. She and I both went around singing, "Good morning, Baltimore!..." for days after the show.

And, for as much as I like watching that cute Zac Efron in the movie version, there is something about watching the show live that makes you... feel it.

Hairspray from Arkansas Repertory Theatre on Vimeo.

The cast was so animated, so ebullient, so incredibly on it, that the audience could not help but to join in the joy.

There are only two more weeks of the show. The run ends May 8th. You still have plenty of time to buy tickets. Early Mother's Day? End of School Celebration? Because It's Tuesday? You don't really need a reason. Buy the tickets. You will be so pleased, and I will say "I told you so."

Hey, Mama. Welcome to the 60's.

*The Rep gave me 3 tickets to see Hairspray. They also allowed me to give away 2 tickets here on the blog. The rave reviews here are totally my own.

Mom 2.0 Summit: Sisterhood of the Traveling Card Case

2011-04-14T08:12:00.002-05:00

So, I have this ridiculously awesome friend, Audreya. She is very pretty, a great writer, and she's one of the most naturally funny people I've ever known. Her funny is all organic; pesticide-free, even.
I make fun of her for living outside the city limits, in what is now apparently the Earthquake Capital of the Universe (by my humble estimation). But she can't really help it.

Yesterday morning she sent me a text and was all, "Dude. I sent you a present. Why haven't you thanked me for it yet?" Ok, that's not exactly what she said. After a few "Who? Whaaa?" texts from me, she basically said, "Go check your front stoop." Only, she didn't say stoop because she knows where I live and she knows I don't have a stoop. But, I've always kind of wanted a stoop. Anyway.
I go check, and like magic, there on my stoop is the lightest-weight package I've ever recieved from Amazon.

Have I mentioned that two of my favorite things on. this. planet. are getting presents and getting cool stuff in the mail? Both things happened yesterday!

It was this:

It seems Audreya was simply appalled that I'd be whipping out a baggie during the conference, like I might pass out some baby carrots and sippy cups, too. Ok, she didn't say that, either. She actually said, "There are few areas of life where I must put my foot down. Carrying a Ziploc bag to any semi-professional-ish event is one of them. Also, it was cute and twitteresque."

This is Audreya's serious face. She's giving Michelangelo a good what-for.

The case is, in fact, twitteresque. And purple. And perfect.

I knew immediately what I'd do with it. Aside from, you know, carrying cards.

It's going to be my Flat Stanley. But instead of teaching about literacy and international community, I'm just going to take pictures of it in cool/interesting/wacky settings on my trip to New Orleans!

It'll be the most fun a business card holder has ever had. Except for maybe Paris Hilton's business card holder. I bet that one's seen some things.

Husband Hump Day: On Stay-At-Home Moms Staying At Home

2011-04-13T10:56:00.001-05:00

*Somehow, I managed to sweet-talk my husband into guest posting for me. Fingers crossed, every first Wednesday of the month will feature a new post from JB. Stay tuned, because there is no telling with what he'll come up.
And yes, I do realize this isn't the first Wednesday of the month. I was just... forget it. I have no excuse.*

I am about to give you a totally biased opinion, with no actual facts or statistics to back up my writing, just some observations that I have experienced in my short 32 years of life. Any views or opinions presented in this bloggy thing are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of the people who might care. My “findings” are expressly required not to make defamatory statements and not to infringe or authorize any infringement of copyright or any other legal thingies. Any such communication is contrary to popular belief (it just seemed to fit). I will not accept any liability (unless it is good) in respect of such blah, blah, blah, for any damages or other liability (especially if it is bad) arising. Amen.

Now that the business part is complete (my future lawyers made me do it), onto the goods.

I love the fact that we as a family seem to be the minority in today’s society. In that aspect, I have always been in the minority. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and ruled the house better than any Fortune 500 company CEO. She cooked, cleaned, taught, nurtured, loved, encouraged, disciplined, loved some more, scheduled, dropped off, picked up… well, you get the idea. While in “society” women were fighting the good fight for equality, she stayed home and raised God-fearing children. I remember her telling my dad how people treated her when she said she stayed at home. They were not nice and acted like she was some poor, barefoot pregnant woman who had no education and was holding back the “movement.” But to me, she was everything. I am an admitted momma’s boy. Her staying home was the only thing I ever knew.

Jeremy's parents, a.k.a. The Best In-Laws Ever

The first 10 years of my life were spent in Tulsa away from all extended family. My mom raised 3 children by herself with a husband who was a salesman and a US Naval reservist. I am sure he was gone some of the time but I remember I started to get excited around dinner time, because I knew he was coming home. Which when I think about it, it is a strong character builder for stay-at-home moms- they are never the recipient of the overwhelming anticipation of walking through the door to wild-eyed and excited children. They have to deal with them all day with hardly any thanks. Because of her sacrifice (which at times was great), and the support of her husband (my awesome dad) I think she molded my views and opinions of everything.

As the years (and many tears on her part) passed, I grew older. I dated all types of girls- those with views totally opposite of my mother’s and those that resembled hers. In college I dated some women who were very headstrong and determined to “go places”. Trust me, no man was going to keep them in the kitchen, which by the way, is not what all men want to do. I was all for them following their dreams and aspirations, it was just not the direction I was going. I am a family man who wanted a family woman.

When I met my future wife, she was a working single mother to a wonderful baby boy. We got “hitched” quite quickly (when you know, you know)! Before I met her, I was working my way through life (some people say “college,” but I would phrase it as “partying”). We sat down to discuss our new life. She got a job while I worked and watched the boy (hers was a night shift gig). I loved being able to spend time with him. When we got pregnant again I asked her if she wanted to keep working, or would she like to stay home and raise our children (see I am not a chauvinist). She liked the idea of staying home, and I sure did too! So as a new family with two children, eventually to be three, and only one income, things were tight. People asked me how we did it and I would say, “we just do it” (Sorry Nike, its catchy). I don’t like to work, not that I am lazy, I just look at a job as a means to live. My real passion is my family, all of them. What will I do when the kids are all grown? Why, spend time with my best friend, of course.

BFFs

With the internet and social media thingies (I am still clueless), Savannah is able to do what she is passionate about and earn some extra income. She also works a little outside the house; it gives her a break and gives me some good quality time just me and my babies. If the time ever comes that she makes more than I do (which would be awesome), then I have no problem staying home. But be warned, I run a tight ship!

Bio: Jeremy Butler is a working-because-I-have-to father of 3 totally different, brilliant children who like that their daddy would move heaven and earth for them, and that he is loud. He is an accomplished washer player (no really, he is), he grills, cooks, cleans, drinks beer (ok, he would like to anyways) and enjoys taking his BFF to someplace bluesy and rhymes with ‘emphis! He is forever indebted to his mother, a shining example of a real hardworking woman.

And he finally wrote his own bio.

Mom 2.0 Summit: A packing list. Sort of.

2011-04-11T11:37:00.000-05:00

In three days, Jeremy and I are leaving for New Orleans. We're going alone, just the two of us. I am inordinately excited about spending a total of 18 uninterrupted hours with him in the car. He's my favorite person ever, and I do so love a captive audience.
I’m going to a blogging conference called Mom 2.0 Summit. Jeremy is ~~my chauffer~~ coming along for the fun. I have watched the internets light up for two years now, each time Mom 2.0 rolls around. This year, I’ll see it live and in person. So many bloggers that I love will be there, and I am looking forward to meeting new bloggy friends.

I’ve been mentally packing for weeks, though, in typical me fashion, I probably won’t pack until Wednesday night. You know, 8 hours before we leave.

Here’s a list I’ve been sorting through, rearranging, adding and subtracting from in my head.

What I’m taking to Mom 2.0 Summit:

• My sweet little netbook. In anticipation of all the tweeting, writing, blogging and photoediting I’d be doing in the next year, my ridiculously awesome hubby got me a Toshiba netbook this past Christmas.

• My beloved Canon, a full battery, and an empty CF card. I’ve seen the pictures that come out of some of those after-conference parties. I think I’ll be safer behind the lens, than in front. Plus, we’re going to NEW ORLEANS. Gorgeous town full of gorgeous food, buildings and people.

• My new BlackBerry. For instant tweeting, texting Jeremy about how much fun I’m having, finding other conferees, and taking notes on the fly.

(Sidenote... What I'm Not Taking: reading material. Because I’m pretty sure I won’t have time to pick up as much as a cereal box to read the back of. I’m reading some really good books right now (I have a terrible habit of switching books mid-chapter, therefore confusing the snot outta myself), but I’m not taking any of them. I can't read in the car, either, because I get carsickness like The Baby gets naked. Which means: easily and all the time. And on the off-chance that Jeremy and I run out of things to say to each other on the drive down there, I downloaded Tina Fey’s new book, Bossypants, in awesome audio form, and can listen to that for a bit.)

• My beat-up old BlackBerry. In case both my computer and my phone die, I’ll still have access to note-taking.

• My trusty iGo charger. Because I have a tendency to run down phone batteries when I’m out in public.

• My $1 Target bin Where the Wild Things Are notebook. In case I have to actually use a… what’s that thing called again?... a pen.

• My ~~business~~ ~~calling~~ ~~blog~~ pretty cards. Custom XM made them for me in a snap last fall, and they’ve served me well thus far. I’m gonna hand out a bazillion of them. Which reminds me…

• My Ziploc bag. To put other pretty cards in. Otherwise I’d stuff them all in my bag and I’d lose half of them. So. Ziploc bag.

• My rockstar fleur-de-lis t-shirt that I convinced my stepmother to buy for me when she dragged me into a bona fide Country & Western store. Because fleur-de-lis = NOLA (Also, I have a long-standing and deep-rooted love of fleur-de-lis. That's another story.)

• My deodorant. Because? Nervous nerves + walking around New Orleans in April = smelly me.

• My ever-expanding Mom 2.0 Twitter list o’ fantasticness.

• My new favorite prep-post, from Amy Turn Sharp.

• My learning face. It’s hard to say whether I’m looking forward more to meeting new friends or hearing new ideas. In the great scope of blogtasticness, I’m a baby. I have so much to learn, and some of the brightest, funniest minds in the blogosphere will be there. Sitting on a stage, telling me how to Do. It. Right.

• My brave face. I’m actually sort of terrified to be walking into a room full of 400 people, knowing exactly one soul. (Hi, Kyran!)
But I’m so excited. I am so, so excited. I’ve “met” several fabulous women via the twitters, or a facebook group, or through their awesome blogs and etsy shops. I am thrilled to make real-life connections, even if it means I have physically remove myself from my comfort zone and superglue a smile on my face and shove my hand out and force myself to say, “Hi! I’m Savannah B!”

• My life list. Totally crossing off #55.

I can’t wait. I can’t wait. I can’t wait.

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And the Highest Hair Award goes to....

2011-04-08T12:34:00.000-05:00

Congrats to Shanna S. from Conway, winner of the pair of tickets to see Hairspray at The Rep after the Mom & Me Matinee!

I'm so excited about the Mom & Me event. Little Rock Family magazine is sponsoring the whole shindig. Chick-Fil-A will be providing lunch, Covered in Cake is making a special Hairspray-themed cake, and, best of all, I'll get to do something fun with my mom and my oldest daughter.

Tickets are still available right here if you'd like to go, too! They start at $40, and are half-price for students.

Welcome to the 60's, Mama!

Important Hairspray Giveaway Announcement!

2011-04-04T08:05:00.008-05:00

So, I told you I'd announce the Hairspray Mom & Me Matinee winner today, right?

Well. I lied.

Well, I didn't so much lie, as I didn't have all the details at the time.
And these details are so much more fun!

Instead of announcing the winner here on the blog today, my friend (and favorite person and fellow giveaway-er) Sarabeth and I will be revealing the lucky gal(s) LIVE ON THE TEEVEE!!

The Rep is sending us to Today's THV (local channel 11) this Thursday morning at ~~the unholy hour of~~ 6:00 am. to talk about Hairspray, the Mom & Me lunch and shop, and to surprise the winner(s) by announcing it LIVE ON THE TEEVEE!! (Did I already say that part?)
Live!
On the teevee!

So sit tight, stay tuned, and get up early to see if you're the winner!
Don't even think about using that DVR. If I'm going on ~~national~~ television in front of ~~millions~~ lots of people I'll see in real life someday, you definitely want to tune in for real-time updates.

And.... I'll leave the comments open until Wednesday night, if you promise to watch me.
Live. On the teevee.

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Wordless Wednesday: #DestructoTot Strikes Again. And again. And again.

2011-03-30T13:12:00.000-05:00

Sugar.

Froot Loops.

$25 Dior mascara.

Only the Good Dye Young

2011-03-29T11:53:00.000-05:00

I have had 17 gray hairs in the last two years. I counted each one as I pulled it out of my head. At first I was naming them. The Baby. The Girl. The Boy. The Dog. The Husband. The Laundry. Then I lost count, and started over.

Not even RiRi can pull off the Betty White look.

I had friends in high school whose moms were totally on board with their bleached blonde highlights, or jet black dye jobs. These were The Pretty Friends. The ones whose eyeliner never smudged, whose braces came off before mine, and whose hair never kinked up in the stifling Arkansas humidity. Ten years later, they're still gorgeous. I hate them a little bit.

My mom colored her hair for years, but warned me against it. "If you ever start, you won't be able to stop." (Interestingly, this bit wisdom is exactly what one of my closest -and now heart-breakingly deceased- guy friends told me about pre-marial sex.)

There was one disastrous occasion when the mother of my Beauty Pagaent Friend firmly placed a cap on my head and started pulling "just a few pieces. To frame your face. To highlight it a bit. And... hand me those tweezers. Your eyebrows are ridiculous." Thus began my first lesson in plucking and coloring.

I stuck with the tweezing (mostly... though now I let my hairdresser do the waxing for me), but not so much the highlights. Turns out my light brown hair didn't take well to that color- and orange didn't look as good on me as it does on Kathy Griffin.

Lately I'm thinking of reversing my position on aging gracefully. My long-held anti-upkeep regimen is starting to show. The Girl poked at my scalp a few weeks ago and asked why one of my hairs was shiny. Shiny and silver.

I recently read a precious YA book, Anna and the French Kiss whose author and main character both have unique do's. Stephanie Perkins has cute, curly hair that is sometimes green, sometimes blue. Her titular Anna has brown hair with a manufactured shock of white.
After I finished the French Kiss, I had a brilliant idea: Purple highlights.

Not this drastic, from fashionmefabulous.com,
but, um, nice flowers there, gal.

I've been toying with the idea of putting purple highlights in the underside my hair for months now. I have a friend who, after years of jobs that required a strict wardrobe and appearance, became a momma and highlighted her blonde hair with a shocking pink- and loved it. I am not so bold, but I think some color would be fun. I just haven't worked up the guts yet.

See? Subtle. From gasolinealleysalon.com, wherever that is.

Anything would be better than more gray-hair counting.

Also hair related: My fantastic giveaway with The Rep!! Two tickets to the Mom & Me matinee of Hairspray are still up for grabs. My sweet friends Alison and Sarabeth are giving away tickets, too!

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Mom & Me Giveaway- see Hairspray at the Rep!

2011-03-24T11:35:00.000-05:00

I am so excited for this, I can't even think of a proper introduction.... so.... here it is!

My friends at the Arkansas Repertory Theatre asked me to give away two tickets to the Mom & Me event and matinee of Hairspray on Saturday, April 9!

There will be a Lunch & Shop before the show (from noon to 2:00) featuring jewelry by Rae Ann Creations, handbags, candles, salon services by Staci Roberts, custom picture frames and more by The Sassy Polka Dot (remember the gorgeous canvas she made me?), and a special Hairspray cake by Covered in Cake!

Then the fun begins onstage as Tracy Turnblad and Link Larkin and the rest of the Hairspray cast raise the curtains at 2:00 pm.

Tickets start at $40, but you can win two right here! This will be such a fun time for mothers and daughters (or sisters! or BFFs! or cousins! or next door neighbors!) of all ages.

There are several (fun!) ways to win:

Leave a comment on this post describing your worst haircut.
Like chasing my Bees on Facebook, and leave an additional comment saying that you did.
Like The Rep on Facebook and leave another comment.
Check out The Rep's 2011-2012 season and leave yet another comment about which show you're most looking forward to (To Kill a Mockingbird! The Wiz! Second City!) seeing.
Saving the best option for last: Send a picture of your own hairspray fiasco or swingin' 60's outfit to SavannahB@chasingmyBees.com and I'll ~~publicly shame you~~ give your props for your bravery!

Send me your pictures and leave your comments by next Friday, April 1st.
I'll post the pics and announce the winner on Monday, April 4th!

from Arkansas Repertory Theatre's flickr stream

Disclosure: The folks and the productions at the Rep are beyond awesome. In exchange for asking me to do this giveaway, the Rep is giving me 3 tickets to see Hairspray, so I can take my mom and my Ladybug. Just don't tell my mom about it, because it's a surprise. The Rep did not ask me to tell you how awesome they are, or to include so dadgum many exclamation points in one blog post. All opinions (and punctuation) are solely my own.
Seriously, don't tell my mom.

Wordless Wednesday: Self Portrait

2011-03-23T10:31:00.000-05:00

Portrait of the Artist

Medium: chalk
Canvas: driveway

by The Boy Bee

Open Highways Readers: Groovy 60's Kid Books

2011-03-18T12:00:00.001-05:00

I have had the good fortune of stumbling upon not one but two library book sales lately. A few weeks ago, Sarabeth, Sarah, Kerri and I, along with my five children (yes, five- two Bees, two nephews, and a cousin-niece) ventured into the wilds of the CALS Main Branch's basement.

I would have paid good money to be down there alone, or to be down there with those gals and no children. As it was, I let each kid pick out five (5!) books of their own (because I am the coolest mother/aunt ever), I collected several kid books and, I think, only one grown-up book.

Then on Wednesday of this week, I went to my local library to pick up some books they were holding for me. I was delighted, thrilled even, to find another book sale going on.

I think it's an addiction, this habit I have of collecting books. But it's better than crack, right?

As I finally got around to putting all of the books in their new homes, I noticed that two of them- from separate library sales- were from the same 1960's reader series: Open Highways, a diagnostic and developmental reading program.

Their cover art (and loads of art inside) was so fantistically fantastic, I thought about framing the entire book and hanging it on my wall. And then I remembered I own a dusty old scanner. So.

circa 1967

So cool, huh? Also, a good motto for life. Ready to Roll. I think my friend, That Cover Girl, would approve.

And this second one is my favorite: 1) for its inherent awesomeness and 2) because nobody really says "splendid" anymore, and 3) because it was formerly owned by one Chuckie McCauley. And I like that.

circa 1968

Also a good motto for life... or... a good metaphor for life. Either way.

I think I will do some light color correcting, and print them out and frame them.

Not a bad ROI, considering they were a nickel a piece.

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I have a crush on Tumblr

2011-03-15T14:29:00.002-05:00

When I first heard about Tumblr (later than everyone else had, because that's how I do), I was hesitant. In fact, I was all, "No way, not another microblogging site/thing I have to remember the password to." But thanks to a little coaching from Kat, I fell in love. Blame her.

I am totally smitten by Tumblr because I see so many lovely things there, and I don't have to do anything at all! Yes, it's a self-gratifying, lazy kind of love.

It's a lot like Twitter in that you follow the tumbls, or tumblrs, or, tumblogs or whatever, of people you want to follow. There is no barrage of status updates from your Aunt Mildred and that One Guy From Highschool. There is no, "RT MY TUMB, PLZ."

Occasionally, there are lots of words grouped together (like the excellent, if sometimes foul-mouthed, Kelli Hates. Which I love.) but mostly, in my stream, there are pretty pictures of random things, and lovely quotes. It is a source of etsy.com inspiration. It has tons of cool vintagey things, with which I am currently obsessed. It has lots and lots of photos of books, and of people reading books, that I particularly love. It has photos of handmade felt octopi, for crying out loud.

This is why I love Tumblr- I don't have to create anything. I don't have to sit down and come up with something, I don't have to wonder if I might offend someone, or worse, leave someone not laughing. I just get to click the handy "reblog" button, add it to my automatic queue, and say, "Ahhh."

Some of my recent tumbles (I'm sorry, Tumblr. I had to stick that "e" in there just once.) include:

this.

and this.

and THIS.

which is actually a picture of my uncle and one of my cousins,

and is one of my most favorite photos in the whole world.

I, ever so aptly, titled my tumbl, .the.things.i.love.
Its, ever so apt, tagline is this: a small but varied collection of things that catch my eye or tug at my heart

Go see. It might just tug at your heart, too!

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Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Ranking Pain

2011-03-13T20:23:00.000-05:00

My frriend Fadra has this great little meme: Stream of Consciousness Sunday. Set a timer for 5 minutes, and write. Publish. Don't edit, don't even spellcheck. Let it flow. I've been meaning to do it for the last few weeks, and I kept forgetting. Of course, the weekend I remember, I am afflicted.

I can only see out of one eye, currently. Early early last Thursday morning I went to check on The crying Baby. I usually use my trusty BlackBerry as a flashlight, but in the 4:15 am haze, I forgot to grab it. When I opened the door to B3's room, she was standing there, wailing. At the exact moment I bent over to pick her up, she raised her hands to "holdju," and then.... Fingernail... Eyeball... Meet, not so very, cute.

After Jeremy went to work and the rest of the house woke (back)up, I realized it was more than a bump. I called my mother-in-law in desperation, and she took me to Our Family Doctor. He did some awful diagnostics and pronounced: Corneal Abrasion. Antibiotics. Check tomorrow.

I'll leave out the bit about writhing around in pain all night, and jump to the re-check Friday morn. More awful liquids in my eye and a weird blue light and: Still not healing. Go to eye doc.

God bless the eye doc. I'll also leave out the bit where he said I had torn eyeball skin holding on like a hangnail. And I'll leave out the bit where he did a little in-house surgery to remove the offending eyeball skin. I'll leave out the bit about the bandage lens and all because EW OMG EW GROSS YUCK EYEBALLS.

I will say this: God bless the eye doc. He's my new BFF. Him, Vigamox, and Tylenol #3.

I have spent the entire weekend in bed, in various stages of unrest. Sleeping fitfully, dozing almost-comfortably, wide awake in misery.

It sucks being down by one eyeball. As it is, this is the very first time since Thursday morning I've turned on my darling netbook, and still, I'm only half-hoping this will actually post, as I'm not sure if I'm actually blogging, or writing one very long appointment in my calendar.

Just now, Jeremy asked how I was doing.

"Giving myself a headache."

"Well, stop! I don't want to hear your whining later!"

Which, is kind of a moot point ("It's a moo point!" Oh, Joey Tribiani, I miss you), since he hears my whining on a regular basis anyway.

My husband has been a champ this weekend. He has done every bit of laundry, cooking, bathing, soothing, spanking, reading, entertaining, chauffering and nursing. Every. Single. Bit. Because he is remarkable, that's why.

But I've been thinking about this extraordinary pain in my left eyeball, and how slowly it is healing. I can only compare it to other pains I've had, physical ones, not psychological, because there is a 5 minute time limit here. And I can't compare it to real, awful, lifechanging and devestating pains, either. I've just been comparing it to what i've experienced. And here's how it goes:

Worst, Systemic, Shoot-Me-Now-Please Pain: Mastitis at not even 2 weeks postpartum, 2008

Longest, Wiggling-and-Drugs-Won't-Help Pain: Kidney Stones, at 6 months pregnant in 2004, and at 38 weeks pregnant, 2008 (2008 was not my finest year. Except, yay, The Baby was born!)

Sharpest, Shards-of-Glass-Shredding-Delicate-TissuePain: This.

It's excrutiating. No kidding, Shards. Of. Glass, this feels like.

But, every day is a little better than the previous one, and I get to amuse The Baby by making pirate noises. While wearing my eye patch.

It's an unbalanced mix of ARRGG and GAAAAAH. Just like the rest of my life.

Need a MOMcation?

2011-03-11T08:00:00.003-06:00

ou just read that word, MOMcation, and said, "Ahhhh, yes!" didn't you?
Moms (and moms-to-be!) in Central Arkansas have a unique opportunity for a weekend getaway this spring. My friend Fawn is organizing another MOMcation this year, taking place April 29-May 1 at Heifer Ranch. (And we've already established how much I love Heifer International, right?)

I am so excited for a ~~lazy~~ exhilarating weekend of ~~kid-lessness~~ intellectual stimulation among new friends. I admit, this is a step outside of my comfort level. I won't know most of the other moms there, and I'm not the best with small talk. But there are so many cool things going on during the MOMcation, that I could hardly stand not to go.

A small-but-lovely list of some MOMcation Activities:
Book Discussion: We'll discuss Amy Wilson's book, When Did I Get Like This? I follow Amy on the twitters and I can't wait to read this book.
Cooking Workshop: Because, bless my own heart, Lord knows I need one.
Ask the Pediatrician: A sit-down, don't-be-afraid-to-ask time with Dr. Carrie Brown, who is a UAMS faculty member at Arkansas Children’s Hospital and writes for Parents.com.
Lots of Other Cool Stuff: a magazine and clothing swap, a book exchange, a coupon trade, hayrides (right?!), hikes, campfires and best of all.... girl time.

Plus! Plus! Somebody will win a Keratin Smoothing hair treatment!! I am dying for this right now, but don't have the $350 it costs just lying around waiting to be spent.

I am really excited about the MOMcation, can you tell? I think it would be a great weekend for you and your BFF, or you alone, or you and your three favorites cousins, or.... well... you get it.

Registration for the MOMcation is $180, and closes April 3rd. That covers all of the weekend's meals, lodging at the Heifer Ranch and activities. (A good deal, huh?)

There is a Saturday-only option available, too, for $80. If you can't swing the dollars or the time for the entire weekend, you should join us for Saturday's activities. A mini-MOMcation! You can register for the Saturday option online at http://www.momcation.org/ starting March 21st.

So. You should go. It'll be fun. C'mon.
Oh! Plus! Fawn and the team sent out an email this week that said

"We've got a few more surprises up our sleeves. A little hint -some of our surprises involve pampering! (Not the diaper kind.)"

So! You should go! It'll be fun!

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First Year Homeschool Burnout?

2011-03-10T08:00:00.006-06:00

Seriously, kid?

The best part of the school day is when you're off?

You could do with a little less ennui there.
Sitting at your desk... alone. With the chandelier hanging precariously above your head. Heavy with the weight of that solitary word..... class.

Ugh.

I didn't even make you fill in your name and the date.
I am not the oppressor, kid.

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Sweetness in a Storm

2011-03-09T11:29:00.000-06:00

Last night, we had a (characteristically loud) March thunderstorm. I love a good rainfall. I love the rumbling thunder. It makes for good sleeping weather. When The Boy was tiny, I mean barely-standing-on-his-own-two-feet tiny, he would pull himself up to the storm door on our porch and just watch.

We haven't had too many gully-washers in the last few months. This calm weather has coincided with The Baby's burgeoning verbal skills and, before now, she's never been able to say how she feels about the thunder.

But, oh, she said it last night.

The line of storms came through right at bedtime, which was super convenient. Between Jeremy and I, we put the girls back in their beds at least eleven times. While The Boy was snoring away in his bed, The Girl was howling in terror from hers, which would only key up The Baby even more.

I tried every Good Mother trick I could conjure. I sang soothing songs while I brushed her hair. I whispered to her that she was safe and warm and the thunder was just a noise high up in the sky. We prayed together, and I managed not to laugh when she demanded,"God, go away the funder now!" I told her that the thunder was just saying goodnight.
"Boom, boom, goodnight, Bunny. Boom boom, sweet dreams, Bunny. Boom boom, I love you, Bunny."
And every time I thought my Superior Mothering Tactics were working, that she was finally still and quiet enough for me to kiss goodnight, she'd start wailing again.

Eventually, my patience and my skill set ran out. As did Jeremy's. Around 11:15, after a total of ten quiet minutes alone, The Baby marched into our room carrying her Things- two pacies, a Lovey, a bunny, and a blanket. "I need a holding." This is what my Baby does- she wears us down to nothingness, then attacks us with her cute. She has the sweetest face and the best snuggles. She is the indulged baby-of-three. She stood at the peak of our mountain of rules ("NO SLEEPING IN OUR BED"), triumphant.

As I held her little balled up two-year-old fist in my hand, as she patted my face, as I rubbed feet with my husband from the other side of the bed, I thought of storms and of sweetness.

Almost always, the two are intertwined.
Something scary immediately precedes something wonderful.
The dark things are so often chased away by light.
In the middle of a storm, there is a sweetness in safety.

And then, after hours of anguish, The Baby slept. Sweetly in the storm.

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Husband Hump Day: Telling MyChapter

2011-03-02T08:03:00.003-06:00

Somehow, I managed to sweet-talk my husband into guest posting for me. Fingers crossed, every first Wednesday of the month will feature a new post from JB. Stay tuned, because there is no telling what he'll come up with.
...................................................................

This is MyChapter…

When Savannah and I first got married, we did not have a computer. Two years later, we finally got our first home computer, and shortly after that, she was telling me about something called Xanga. I had no idea what she meant. She explained to me about blogging; it was a way of keeping up with my family. So I let her set me up an account. She asked for me to pick a username and the first thing that came to my mind was my dad. I said, “Make it MyChapter.” She looked a little puzzled and asked, “Why my chapter?”

Let me give a little background on my dad.
He went to be with the Lord just over 2 years ago and I miss him dearly. He was my go-to guy about everything. There wasn’t a problem he hadn’t had or could not figure out. He was your typically-goofy dad, at least to a pre-teen boy, (it would be years before I really appreciated the wisdom my father possessed). He was a dark red-headed, left-handed pitcher, ex-catholic, former US Naval pilot, a photography teacher and picture taker extraordinaire, an avid backpacker, a strong Christian, a loving husband, a full-of-life type A-personality, an all-around funny man, and most importantly, he was my Dad. That just barely scratches the surface of who my father was, but it’s a start.
I remember when he would come home from work and I would be at the dinner table doing homework. My mom would be cooking dinner and he would come over, give her a kiss on the cheek, and pat her bottom. It would totally gross me out and I would say, “Eww. Come on Dad, do that somewhere else.” He would say, “What? Your mother likes it.” She would retort with something about how she was sure “all” the women like it, (sarcastically but sweetly, saying, “Your Father thinks he is a bigger flirt than he really is.” That would just fuel his fire and he would start to dance (I use “dance” loosely since it usually looked like he was convulsing and would occasionally throw a leg spastically in the air).
Then he would tell me (as he did frequently) the same thing he claimed to have told all the girls he used to date (which, by the way, he went to an all-boy catholic school). He would say, “When you write a book about your life, leave my chapter out!” Then he would crack himself up and I would laugh too, and my mom would say with a big ole grin on her face, “Stop it, you are just encouraging him.” He was implying that he was such a big part of these girls lives that they would want to write a book about him, but he was just too cool to be included.

After explaining that to Savannah she said, “So, why do you want that for a username leave my chapter out!
Then I broke out in a dance…

Jeremy B is a husband to the luckiest woman in the world, a father to the smartest son and loveliest daughters in the world, and ason to parents who tried 3 times until they reached perfection (but don’t tell that to his older sisters). He strives to be like his role model, his dad (but can dance much better). Jeremy finally wrote his own bio. You can find him not tweeting at @mychapter.

Indescribably Undomestic: A flashback

2011-03-01T10:28:00.001-06:00

Ten years ago, my best friend and I moved into the dorm and settled into life inside a 12x12 room. We had two dressers, two desks, and a set of bunk beds. We also had the luxury of our very! own! sink! With a mirror and everything. We also had a mini-fridge/min-microwave combo, which were used solely to house bottled water, ~~a bottle of rum~~ a jug of milk, and to cook mini-corndogs. We were all about the mini.

When our mothers took us shopping to stock the dorm, my BFF and I chose cute, cheap melamine plates from the Wal-Mart store. (They matched our comforters! Which matched the picture frames! And the desk organizers! There were a LOT of exclamation points during our freshman year of college.) We could cook a little something for ourselves with our very! own! microwave! and then rinse off the dishes in the dish-soap and face-soap lined sink.

That's the BFF on the left, and me on the right;
Ten years, three kids, and 45 pounds ago.
She is still gorgeous.

Well. She rinsed the dishes. I just sort of let them sit there for a while. Until they looked like they were about to start growing something. Once, I loaded the dirty dishes and cups into a laundry basket and drove them over to our friends' actual house... where there was an actual dishwasher. My lazy knew no bounds.

One day, after a solid week (or more?) of my filling the sink with plates topped by hardening mac and cheese and moldering pizza crusts, my best friend/exasperated roommate threw! the plates! away!

Except, I didn't notice until after Spring Break.

And, except, now that I think about it, the plates weren't in the sink. I had stashed them in the cabinet below the sink. Probably when ~~a boy~~ a study partner came over to ~~make-out~~ study.

If only our dirty sink was overlooking a sunny oasis.
And had a fishbowl.Then I would have cleaned.
via ApartmentTherapy.com

Man. My younger self was gross. Good thing I'm a real! live! grown-up! who cooks and cleans up after herself now.

{insert husband's laughter here}

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February 30, 2011

2011-02-26T10:53:00.000-06:00

Two nights a week, I moonlight as a waitress at a local diner. It pays for gas and groceries and diapers. After 5 years without me having any outside job at all, it has been a huge change for our family. It's my pretend job.

I'm Not Really a Waitress.
My signature color.

It's hard to be at the end of my twenties, when the vast majority of the girls I work with are just starting out in theirs, or haven't even gotten there yet. I've never blogged about my (vapid, vacant) coworkers because, well, if you can't say anything nice.....

They are of a different generation than mine, even if the oldest ones are just seven years younger than I am. The older ones were in 5th grade on 9/11. They were in diapers when Kurt Cobain died. They've never carried a Zach Morris Special. Crap, they probably don't know who Zach Morris is.

Occasionally I like to play with them. I use big words and they give me blank stares. I try very hard not to be condescending, but sometimes it's just. too. easy.

There is a giant bulletin board at work where important notices are posted. A large, and largely ignored, sign proclaims, "NO CELL PHONES IN THE BUILDING." There are a few half-hearted motivational quotes. If a waitress needs to have someone else pick up a shift, she posts a note with the date and time, ususally accompanied by a "pretty pretty pleez!"

This past Tuesday, I wrote an anonymous note:

I need off Feb. 30

4pm-close please!!

x____________

I was nearly giddy with the possibilities. Maybe I am meaner than I thought.

Friday night, I walked in and checked the board. Sure enough, someone had signed up to cover for me.

And left a note asking what day of the week it was.

I pulled the one coworker closest to me in age and IQ over to the board and pointed. "You put that up there?" she asked. Well, duh. We laughed and then went about our business.

Later in the evening I heard some coworkers arguing over the note.

"Is this a leap year?" one wondered.
"It has to be," another pointed out, "there are only 30 days in February on a leap year."

Before it got too far gone, I wrote IT'S A JOKE on the note and waited for them to discover it. When the manager (a mostly-grouchy-sometimes-fun old lady) saw it, she asked who did it.

"It had to be Savannah. She's one of the smartest ones here."

One of?

SGA gets CRAFTY!

2011-02-23T10:08:00.000-06:00

I told myself I wouldn't cross-promote my beloved Southern Girl Academy too much here, but I can't help myself today.

My friend (and one of the three women I currently want to be when I grow up) Jerusalem Greer is posting today at SGA. About crafting. And the girl knows of which she speaks. She's been featured in magazine and blogs all over, and she has her own etsy.com store full of her wonderful craftish things!

Head on over to SGA to learn how to make an EMERGENCY CRAFT KIT! Because it's brilliant, beautiful and resourceful.

Just like every good Southern Girl.

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Where you go, iGo

2011-02-22T13:29:00.001-06:00

I don't to a whole lot of product reviews here, but I had to do this one, because I love the thing so, so much.

This, my friends, is an iGo Charge Anywhere.

And I'm a little bit in love with it.

A few months before my friend Kerri herded me off to October's Bloggy Boot Camp, I saw several tweets about the iGo company. People were wild about their products. I didn't really get what all the unadulterated joy was about.

Until I met Heather.

In the middle of a session at Bloggy Boot Camp Austin, I sent a tweet out- wondering whether to drain my BlackBerry's battery or my laptop's. There were no electric outlets available, and I was running dangerously low on both.

iGo.com was being represented at BBC by a cute girl in a yellow cardigan, who was offering to charge

my BlackBerry right up. In fact, she @replied to me saying something like, "iGo can help! Find me, I'm in the yellow cardigan." By the time I tracked her down, I was losing hope and my BlackBerry was fading fast. She gave me a big grin, rummaged through a box, and pulled out the Charge Anywhere. Heather asked what kind of device I needed to charge (the BB has a standard USB plug-in), then found a tip to match. See, each iGo charger tip is designed to provide the exact amount of power to a specific device. And they power everything from cell phones to mp3 players to GPS devices to laptops! Awesome.

It was like magic, y'all. This little black box, unattached to any outlet, was charging my BlackBerry. Magic. I'll admit, I'm easily awed. But the iGo blew me away.

Heather sent me back to my table with a smile and an "I'll see you later!" I sat through the rest of the conference, marveling at the wonders of technology. With a fully powered BlackBerry.

And then I stole the iGo. On accident. I never saw Heather again, and after a nap in the hotel room, cramming my head full of SEO and best practice knowledge, and one semi-wild night out in Austin... I got home with the charger in my bag.

I. felt. awful.

Months of self-inflicted torture went by (as I kept using the charger and was simultaneously wracked with guilt) until I had an epiphany.

Duh.

I got in contact with iGo via their (extremely polite and helpful) twitter account- @iGo. They directed me back to cute-Heather-with-the-yellow-cardigan and I explained my mistake, all while apologizing profusely. And offering to write a post, and tweet about the (awesome) iGo charger.

She was gracious and said for me to go ahead!

And she gave me a discount code for their site, iGo.com, just for you beautiful bloggers! How cool is that?

Just enter iGoblogger at the website for 20% off your purchase! And there's free shipping for orders over $35!

The best part about the iGo products (aside from the aforementioned MAGIC) is that the iGo Green Technology (lithium ion batteries and other stuff I don't really get) reduces standby power by up to 85%, conserving resources and saving money. Did I say "awesome" already? This little baby has become my standard charger of choice. I plug it in at home, it self-charges (while charging my phone, if necessary) and then I just take it with me everywhere! It has never once failed to bring my on-its-deathbed BlackBerry back to life, 100%.

Since Jeremy got me a netbook for Christmas, I've been on it more than the laptop. It has a great battery life, but I'm already considering buying iGo's Universal Laptop Battery to add 4 hours of battery time to my sweet little netbook for when I'm away from the wall charger all day. At, like, a blogging conference or two.

Awesome.

Disclosure: If it wasn't abundantly clear, iGo lent me a charger and I jacked it. They didn't pay me to post a positive review, but they also didn't charge me with theft, either. We're all winners here, I think.

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