May Frimily Brunch - "Ocho de Mayo"

Frimily brunch went on hiatus in April, as there wasn't room on the calendar for a brunch, what with Elizabeth and my birthday party, JWC golf tournament, Race for the Cure and after-brunch at Blue Mesa, etc. And it wasn't like we lacked for opportunities to get together; see the immediately preceding sentence.

May frimily brunch was a Mexican-themed potluck, and it was FAB. I made margaritas (yeah, I kind of phoned in the signature cocktail this month!) and gazpacho shooters. Robyn made a potato, chorizo and egg casserole and a chicken chilaquiles casserole. Ruth brought refried beans and attempted (very successfully) her first flan - a yummy chocolate number. The Pittmans brought a fruit salad, and Austin made "tableside guacamole" (we are thinking of renting him out for parties - it's breakfast and a show!). Elizabeth and Haleigh made an early AM Esperanzas run and showed up with pan de huevo and pineapple and pumpkin empanadas.

We then spent the next several hours feeding our faces - repeatedly. The leftovers ended up in our refrigerator, and more of Robyn's delish casseroles made it into our stomachs come dinner time. Anticipating another nosh (and finishing the pastries) Sunday morning - and then I may have to make arrangements to have myself rolled out of the house come Monday morning. Ay, chihuahua - but I mean that in a really good way.

There is nothing better than starting the weekend with good friends. Wish every Saturday was frimily brunch day! Photos added to the Frimily Brunch slide show (go to "older posts" to access). Yes, the Mexican blouse/dress concept was totally planned. We're all huge dorks.

My Unconscious Brain Attempts to Write Fiction

Was feeling “sinus-y” after dinner tonight and took a decongestant/Benadryl combo and then a catnap. This dream was the result. For those of you who want me to try my hand at fiction, be afraid – be very afraid.

In the dream, I drive out to visit my friend – um, we’ll call her Imogene (names are being changed to protect the innocent). Imogene lives in the sticks – in the dream, that is. In real life, Imogene would never move out to the sticks, because she knows that I have a West Side Bubble Complex thing going on and whine and complain mercilessly if I have to drive outside of a five-mile radius of my home. But in the dream, she lives waaaaaay out in the sticks – in a primeval pine forest, like something out of “The Fugitive.” So I drive out to visit her, and our other friend – we’ll call her Melba – arrives at the same time, and we walk in together. In the dream, Imogene has a creepy boyfriend. He’s like every abusive hick boyfriend you ever see in the movies – slumped in an easy chair, beer in hand, face illuminated by the glow of the television, which is the only light source in the room. We walk past him and into the bedroom, where we sit on the bed and talk with Imogene, which is kind of weird, but, whatever. At some point, abusive hick boyfriend (hereinafter, “AHB”) comes into the bedroom and announces, “Imogene, I’m home.” Not, “I’m ready to go to bed, so your friends needs to leave,” which would be rude, but not weird, and not that rude, because we are sitting on the bed. Instead, he says, “I’m home,” which is weird, because, well, duh – we just walked past you. So I announce that I’m going to leave, and AHB mumbles something about needing to drive down to the road as well. Instantly, the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. His manner is creepy and his motives are suspicious.

So, of course, I run from the room and through the house, and I jump into my car and drive off into the dark, with him in hot pursuit. Wait, what? Okay, a little tidbit about me (the real me, evidently not the “dream me”): I have a highly developed sense of self-preservation. Highly developed in the sense of, “once I thought someone was following me, so I drove to the police sub-station that was blocks and blocks out of my way and parked in front of it until the person drove away.” I have been known to go back into a store or set off my own car alarm if something makes me uncomfortable in the parking lot. And, one memorable day in my early twenties, when a domestic dispute from the parking lot outside of a Marshalls spilled into the store, I ran into the next section and dove under a clothing rack immediately upon hearing a man shouting and a woman screaming – with nary a thought of my mother shopping a few racks away from me. Hey, every man (or woman) for themselves, right? (That was the day that I came to the cold realization that, if the stuff ever goes down, you most likely will not see my name and the phrase “selfless act of heroism” in print together – but it is entirely likely that you will see my name and the phrase “appropriated a stranger as a human shield.”)

Nice anecdote to be sharing at a minute past midnight on Mother’s Day, huh? But I digress.

Clearly, “dream me” is not “real me,” because the dream me drives off into the primeval forest in what one immediately recognizes as the set-up for – well, just about every horror movie ever made. I don’t wait for Melba to walk out with me; I just go, and AHB is in hot pursuit. I can’t tell you what happened next, because my brain yada-yada’ed over the car chase itself (so, on second thought, maybe I do retain my highly developed sense of self-preservation when asleep, because clearly my unconscious mind did not want to upset me with scary details?). Next thing I know, the car chase is over, AHB is in police custody and – oh, I failed to mention an important detail. In the dream, my friend Imogene has a half African-American child, who looks exactly like the kid on the cover of Little Wayne’s “Tha Carter III” album – well, minus the tiny suit and the bling, but he has the big eyes and the nonplussed expression. And, somehow, this child ended up in the back seat of my car – or perhaps in the back seat of AHB’s car. Although AHB didn’t really strike me as a car guy – I’m guessing pick-up truck – but I can’t confirm, on account of the brain yada-yada. Anyway, the authorities are there, someone is holding scared Little Wayne Child, wrapped in a blanket, and I am standing there, shaken up, and talking to someone official as well as a guy who, apparently, is a close friend of AHB and is in the dream purely for the purpose of giving me insight into AHB’s mind. Close friend of AHB looks like Josh Todd, lead singer of Buckcherry – tattoos, longish hair, vaguely inmate-y, but sort of hot. I ask Josh Todd Dude if he thinks AHB intended to molest or otherwise harm me, and he says, “Oh yeah, totally.” I then ask Josh Todd Dude if he thinks AHB will come after me after he gets out of prison. “Yup.” Someone Official assures me that, given the myriad of charges (child endangerment, attempted vehicular homicide) against AHB, AHB won’t be eligible for parole for ten years or more.

But what happens after ten years? Dream Me is starting to panic. Is the witness protection program in my future? Can’t imagine cutting all ties, so I briefly consider suicide (because, um, yeah, that doesn’t involve cutting ties, right?). I also consider just showing up at prison and offering the guy a conjugal – why wait around for the other shoe to drop?

At this point, my brain processes that (1) this is getting pretty twisted and (2) Betty White is hosting SNL in an hour. So, I wake up, and then one of my other self-preservation tactics comes into play: I briefly go back to sleep, and I edit the dream. I have been doing this since I was a kid – I wake up from a scary dream (and I ought to point out that I’m not one of those people who has a lot of scary dreams; in fact, I rarely remember my dreams, period, and nightmares are a couple-of-times-per-year occurrence), catch a breath, my now conscious mind rationalizes through the problems in the dream, and I end up re-dreaming a more palatable ending. So, tonight, the editor in my brain came up with the following: AHB goes to prison, and using an assumed name I become his prison pen-pal. In that capacity, I send him care packages. LOTS of care packages, containing lots of sweets.

AHB dies from diabetes complications in the prison infirmary in year six of his sentence.

I blame the medication and the metric ton of Mexican food that I consumed at brunch which, clearly, had a hallucinogenic effect. But that’s for another post . . . .

Things That Bug - Part 1 in a Series

This post addresses two comments that I have received lately, paraphrased as follows:

1) "You need to put more slice-of-life humor on your blog. We love your slice-of-life humor!"

2) "Wow, you're an upbeat lady!"

Okay, that last one was Bill Murray's character addressing Andie MacDowell's character in Groundhog Day. But, seriously, I am occasionally accused of being too happy and/or well-adjusted. Admittedly, my typical response to ridiculous behavior is to laugh at it, and - occasionally - hold it up on a skewer and encourage others to ha-ha with me. Is that such a bad thing? But, to answer the million-dollar question, yes, I do let things bug me. I may process and react to them differently, but, trust me, I do get bugged. Rankled, even. Generally by little things. But then I end up being amused by them.

So . . . with no further ado, the first installment of "Things That Bug."

Item 1: People who tell me that they love my blog but don't actually "follow" it. You know who you are. It's not rocket surgery, people! Put your money where your mouth is and click the button. Tutorials available on request. Also - comment! Officially, for the record! Don't wait until we're at happy hour and sidle up, all drunk and borderline-disorderly, and slur, "You so crazy! I love the way you write! You should write for a living." Again, you know who you are.

Technically, I do write for a living. I write contracts, but it's writing. Musing via blog is what I do to clear my head. And I promise to do more of it if you will show me the "follow" and "comment" love.

Item 2: People who drop useless details about their travel itineraries as an indirect form of bragging. Hey, if you're going someplace cool, tell me straight out, and if you're going someplace really cool, feel free to kick it old-school, five year-old style: "I'm going to BAAAAAAAAAAAAA-LI and YOUUUUUUU are NOOOOOOOT - NYAH, NYAH, NYAH, NYAH, NYAH!" Hey, if I get the opportunity to go to Bali, I may drop a nyah-bomb or two of my own. So, totally willing to be happy for you, if you agree to be happy for me (theoretically - no trips to Bali on the horizon). Just don't be coy. Here's the Cosmo "do":

"I won't be at the meeting, because Fred got an all-expenses paid trip to St. Barths through work, and I'll be passed out on a beach with an umbrella drink clutched in my fingers come Tuesday afternoon!"

The Cosmo "don't":

"I won't be at the meeting, because I will be out of the country."

Relevant piece of information is that you won't be at the meeting, as you physically will be in another location. Details are fine if you want to share them, and if they are actual details. "Out of the country" doesn't tell me any more than "out of town," but what it does tell me is that you want to brag about your plans but are too socially inept or passive aggressive to brag straight-out. Spare me. Please.

Item #3: People who include too much detail in Evite responses. Same issue as above, sort of. Relevant piece of information is that you cannot attend. You do not need to prove to the people of Evite (most of whom don't know you from Adam) that you actually, factually are unavailable. No lie detector tests will be conducted. It's a freakin' Evite. And - as noted above - most of us don't know you. If Thelma invites you to a potluck, and it occurs to you that Thelma doesn't know about your upcoming bunion surgery, shoot her an e-mail - but incorporating that nugget into your Evite response is like sending a blast e-mail to a bunch of strangers about your gnarly toes. Trust me - we don't care about your gnarly toes. Unless your Evite response is unintentionally, off-the-hook hilarious, and then we will care about your gnarly toes, but by "we will care" I mean "we will forward your response to a myriad of people, rip it down to the studs and make fun of it mercilessly."

Unintentionally, off-the-hook Evite overdisclosures take several different forms:

1) The "Oh, I didn't realize that this wasn't a personal e-mail/verbal diarrhea" Evite response: "Dear Elsie, we can't make the chili cook-off, because there's a peewee football game that night. Our kids aren't playing in the game - actually, we don't have any kids - but you know how we like peewee football. GO, MUDHENS! Which reminds me that I still owe you money for that thing. How is your dad? Does he still have the gout? Tell him hello from Stan, who just got out of prison."

Tap . . . tap. Is this thing on?

You laugh, but this is an only slightly altered version of an actual Evite response that I saw a couple of years back.

2) The "unintentional slam" Evite response: "Dear Elsie, we can't make the chili cook-off, because there's a peewee football game that night. We don't particularly like peewee football, and you'll recall that Elmer's dog was killed in a riot at a peewee football game, causing Elmer to develop a serious case of PTSD, but we're going to the game anyway." Okay, that one is not an actual example, but you are familiar with the concept. Subtext is, we're REAAAALLY stretching for something to do OTHER than attend your event.

3) The "intentional slam" Evite response: "Dear Elsie, I won't be attending the chili cook-off. I hate chili." Um, thanks. "I won't be attending" would do.

4) The "I really can't attend your function" Evite response: "Dear Elsie, I can't make the chili cook-off, because I have friends coming into town Friday evening. If for some reason they don't show, I also received an invitation to a bridal shower Friday evening, which invitation I turned down because of the aforementioned 'friend visit,' but that invitation arrived before yours, and, also, it was on paper instead of via Evite, so if my friends don't show, I feel like I need to prioritize the bridal shower. Also, the bride donated a kidney to my grandmother, so I really do owe her. But only if my friends don't come into town."

This one usually devolves into an "unintentional slam."

I forgot to mention one other form of unintentionally hilarious Evite response, which goes something like this:

"Sorry we can't make it!"

Not funny, you say? Well, it is funny if . . . wait for it . . . it's entered under the "Yes" column.

That is all.

Fish or Cut (Faux) Bait

Had to share pics from the JWC Legacy reception. Funds donated to Legacy are used to preserve and beautify JWC's home, historic Margaret Meacham Hall. Sarah, our fearless Legacy chair, jokingly suggested "Say Sayonara to the Doors" as a reception theme, as the next item on the redo agenda is replacing the God-awful glass doors on the ground floor (accurately described by one member as "sixties department store doors") with beautiful historically accurate wooden ones. She may have been joking, but some of us took the concept literally, and then we all decided to run with it. Our only dilemma - the obvious menu choice (sushi) doesn't sit well with all. Hence the great faux sushi rolling party of 2010 . . . . Carrots took the place of salmon on top of the chicken salad "sandwich sushi":



Lesson learned - chives are not as pliable as you might think. You basically get one bite at the apple: either the darned thing lets you knot it, or it breaks in half. Robyn did most of the tying. And sighing. She sighed a lot. By the end, I think she was convinced that the chives were actually sentient beings and were conspiring against her.

Pimiento cheese "rolls" were much easier to make (and, apparently, pretty realistic, as we had to repeatedly reassure people that they were just garden variety tea sandwiches, funkily executed):



The "Hostess Sushi" came out super-cute and was super-easy to boot. We used slices of fruit roll-ups to secure Swedish fish candy to Rice Krispie treats, and more fruit leather was used to turn Twinkie slices into sushi rolls. (The "fish" in the middle? Gummi worm segments!) The Swiss cake roll slices are - well, Swiss cake roll slices. We didn't really do anything to those. (To paraphrase Helen Hunt in her role as a gingerbread house baker in the Saturday Night Live "Delicious Dish" skit about a food-themed NPR radio show - we made the Matchbox cars out of Matchbox cars. Hey - why mess with perfection?)



Another lesson learned - fruit roll-ups and humidity don't mix. The Twinkie sushi tried really, really hard to stick together when we were serving it (yeah, yeah - again with the anthropomorphizing of the food - but at times doesn't it feel like our food truly is plotting against us?) and felt - well, sort of clammy to me. But people enjoyed it, and I guess "clammy" equals "authentic" when you're talking about raw fish?

Sarah made her killer frushi (fruit sushi) with coconut sticky rice, pictured here:



"Young at heart" table decor-on-a-budget included: some of my collection of kokeshi dolls (carried home from Asia by my Army officer dad); paper lanterns decorated with this weird but really cool patterned tape that I found next to the colored duct tape at JoAnn (bought it for another use, had some left over); small quantity of chrysanthemum-patterned fabric; vase filled with water and those squishy neon tentacle balls that they sell at the dollar store (which I thought looked sort of puffer fish-ish); a wine bag and a silver gift bag turned upside down and decorated to look like office buildings (I labeled one for Woman's Club and one for JWC); Godzilla and a killer robot menacing said buildings (okay, we couldn't find Godzilla - we have one somewhere, but it's lost in my oldest child's room, so a remote-controlled dragon, missing most of his tail, had to substitute, and Bumblebee from Transformers is playing the part of killer robot); and a giant (to the scale of the buildings) scorpion. Because, you know, you'd expect to see a giant scorpion in a Japanese monster flick. And the Dollar Spot at Target did not have anything remotely close to Mothra - but they had scorpions. So . . . .




Not shown - a garland of Hello Kitty paper dolls and a bunch of origami shrimp that my origami-obsessed oldest child made for me. The reason they are not shown: I forgot them at home. I was doing good to get most of the stuff in the car that morning, and even then I managed to wedge Bumblebee on top of the dragon's remote control and something else on top of Bumblebee. Result: the entire drive from home to work and from work to JWC, the dragon was roaring and Bumblebee was telling the dragon, apropos of nothing, "I'm one bad 'bot." Funny for the first five seconds.

One More Tablescape

From Super Bowl Sunday . . . . Hey, that would have been a good theme for a brunch. Oh, well - next year.

A Poor Man's Sandra Lee

Yeah, yeah - long time, no blog. I've been busy. Busy finishing out my year as Junior Club prez, busy keeping up with my kids, reasonably busy at work (bad economy considered) - and busy planning parties. See, 2010 didn't start off with a bang - it started off with a dull thud. Actually, the dull thud was heard late in the evening on December 23rd, being the first night of my Christmas vacation, and that thud - sounding much like the sound of an avalanche [ooh, foreshadowing] - was followed by a second, and then a third. The last one finally lured me from my place on the bed, into the bathroom and around the corner into the walk-in closet - where I witnessed a scene of total destruction. Two-thirds of the wire shelving had pulled from the wall, and the contents were in a smoldering mound in the middle of the room. Okay, no smoldering was involved, but it was easy for my overactive imagination to add it in, given the size of the "debris pile."

And, yes, technically it's not a room, it's a closet, but it's an almost-room-sized closet, which is a BIG part of of why we purchased our house out of all of the houses we looked at in Arlington Heights. Like most homes built in our neighborhood in the 1920's, our place started out with one living area, one bathroom and teeny-tiny closets. The prior owner, however, had added a second living area (with an adjacent laundry room - forgot to mention that un-updated Arlington Heights houses also have washers and dryers in the kitchen) and a small master bath. When he showed us the second bathroom, he was somewhat apologetic about the size, and explained that he and his wife opted for a small bathroom in favor of . . . a large walk-in closet. Yeah, I stopped listening at that point. SOLD! As closets go, it was pretty much move-in ready - his-and-her storage towers, wire shelving all of the way around, with one area earmarked for guy clothes (how can you tell? The racks are mounted higher on the walls) and a much larger area earmarked for girl clothes. Mr. Closet and me got along quite well for nine years or so - and then he betrayed me.

As irony would have it, I had planned on spending the two days after Christmas reorganizing my closet; specifically, I was going to tackle the large pile of purses and shoes that were blocking my access to the closet's nether regions, forcing me to lunge and swipe wildly to retrieve clothes hanging on the upper back rack. Guess I swiped one time too many. All of that wild swiping - and hard jerking of hangers off of racks - had weakened the shelf brackets to the point that they snapped, first on the back wall, and then everything went "TIMBER" after that. So. Hmm. Spending the Christmas holidays rebuilding a closet - neither appropriate nor feasible. Thus, I went into the first week of January dressing myself from a pile on the floor. The plan was to get through New Year's and then replace the shelving, using more secure brackets.

And then my husband - well, my husband was my husband. Always seeing another option - and always doing his utmost best to make me consider those options. Buying a car, selecting a new camera, picking out carpet - it's all pretty much the same. I refer to it as the Parnell Eye Test: "Which one is better - this one [sound of the eye test machine clicking into place] . . . or this one?" There's always another possibility, and we must discuss it ad nauseam before moving on . . . to the NEXT possibility. Lately, it seems like he's been making an effort to fake me out - leading me to believe that, THIS ONE TIME, he'll let me go with my gut (as I am wont to do) and won't do the whole devil's advocate routine. The closet was no exception: he asked me if I wanted to do anything differently, and I told him no, I was fine with everything just the way it was. The day before the re-do was scheduled, he pulled out one of his patented, "Let me propose another option."

VERY long story short, he convinced me to give up a considerable amount of hanging space to make room for a totally kick-butt corner unit that holds all of my bags and accessories and a ton of folded clothes. Yeah, I admit it - this time he was right. But the reconstruction project ended up being considerably more complicated as a result, involving much stud-finding, drilling, bent drill bits, cursing, threats of divorce, yada, yada. In the midst of all of the madness (and I do mean madness), I ventured out to acquire certain specific closet organization items. And, per my usual - I dithered. Much like I'm doing in this post, huh? (I promise I'll get back to party-planning in a minute.) I stopped at the Import Store in downtown Fort Worth - home of many a cool decorator sample - and stumbled into a 50% off wholesale bonanza. Placemats! Tablecloths! Really cool serving pieces! Then I went to Super Target to procure Rubbermaid totes - for the clothes closet. Except I ended up using them to store the new table decor. Then I decided that it made more sense to organize the new decor along with the old decor. (That screech you hear is the temporary derailing of the clothes closet project. To his credit, my husband did not screech when he saw me dragging in multiple plastic totes - and new stuff to put in it. Rather, he just rolled his eyes.)

When I pulled out my existing table decor - turning a totally separate closet topsy-turvy in the process (yup, that's just how I roll) - one thing became apparent: I have a ridiculous amount of table decor. Much of it that never sees the light of day. And in that moment - in the midst of a week where I'd sent a good portion of my wardrobe off to resale - it also became apparent that I needed to use what I had, or get rid of it.

And so the concept of the frimily brunch was born. ("Frimily" is the term that friend Robyn uses to describe one's coterie of close friends - they are friends who have become family.) I love to entertain, I love my frimily, and obviously I love my clutter - why not invent an excuse to indulge all three loves? Brunch seemed like an obvious choice - easy to fix and easy to fit into everyone's busy schedules. So I pitched the idea, and the frimily approved. Official rules are as follows: food and decor must fit the "theme of the month," and food must be matched with a theme-appropriate "signature cocktail." Unofficial rules: at least one featured dish must be a Pillsbury Bake-Off recipe (it's not brunch unless something has refrigerated crescent roll dough or Grands biscuits as a crust), and the dogs' bandannas must also be coordinated with the theme. That's it. We get together, we eat and we drink. We laugh - a lot. Everyone is encouraged to bring their significant others, their children, and their children's friends. The children are encouraged to bring their Wii remotes - as are the adults.

January's brunch - in addition to featuring a tour of the new, improved closet - had a "Stock Show" theme and incorporated a jalapeno-egg dish, a really killer (Grands-based) Tex-Mex Breakfast Casserole, and cowboy coffee cake. To drink: spiked sweet tea. February's Valentine's menu tended to the sweet side, in keeping with the holiday. The biggest hit - Cupid's arrow fruit kabobs with watermelon "arrowheads" (cut with a heart-shaped cookie cutter) and strawberry-marshmallow Peep hearts on the ends to serve as the feathers. In March, I incorporated both spring holidays, using Peeps in an Easter-themed centerpiece and topping cinnamon rolls with jelly beans. St. Pat's selections included Corned Beef Breakfast Casserole, O'Brien Potato Salad and VERY green margaritas. (Hey - we're in Texas, not in Ireland. Margaritas go with everything.) March was particularly memorable due to the fact that we developed a leak under the kitchen sink on Friday night before a Saturday brunch. Our incredibly fabulous plumber was there with a new drain pipe first thing Monday morning - but on Saturday, we had to drag out the paper goods and styrofoam cups, and serving pieces were washed with a big ol' bucket under the drain trap. Fortunately, the frimily didn't mind stepping around the giant box of cleaning supplies rescued from under the sink. Guess that's what makes them frimily . . . .

Hot Dog (on a Cold Night)

Hi. My name is Ace the Batdog.


It's almost Valentine's Day, which is why I'm sporting this way cool Snoopy bandanna.

This is my big sister, Ruby Tuesday. She has a cool Valentine's Day bandanna, too.

I am a very good dog - well, when I'm not pooping in the house or stealing stuffed animals from beds. (Hey, they look like dog toys.) I love my people (especially the smaller ones), and they love me.

So, when my mommy got the urge to bake (which she does when we're under a "Winter Storm Warning" - whatever that is), she decided to make cookies in my likeness - and she made them out of gingerbread dough, because she knows two things about the small people in my house: (1) they LOVE gingerbread; and (2) they tend to drop stuff on the floor. She also knows something about me and my sister: we like to eat stuff that falls on the floor (hmm . . . maybe it's not a coincidence that I seem to gravitate to the smalls). Since chocolate can make Ruby and me sick, Mom calls gingerbread a "safe" cookie.


The shiny stuff is a grapefruit-powdered sugar glaze. Normally Mom uses lemon on gingerbread, but she's been on a grapefruit kick lately. She did make some chocolate chip cookies, too, but only a few, on account of how Daddy appropriated the bowl of dough before she could bake them. So the boys only got a few CC cookies out of the deal - made into sandwiches, with cream cheese frosting in the middle, and with the edges rolled in sprinkles:

This is my sister Ruby:

And this is me. My eyes are little balls of caramel; Mom didn't have any mini chocolate chips handy, and she thought that caramel suited me (because I inherited light brown eyes from my dachshund parent).

Want a piece of me? You should. Because I am delicious.

The Obligatory End-of-Year Recap

So the idea is that we put the obligatory holiday letter on the blog, you can read it at your leisure (or in installments – like a serial in the newspaper!). Additional 2009 photos are in the “year in pictures” section to the right (click on the slide show to enlarge it and view captions) and elsewhere on this site. Hope that you stay awhile and visit us often!

We’ll start with the youngest (human) member of the family (who, oddly, refers to people AS humans – as in, “The other humans at the party were Camden and Zachary”):

PARKER, Age 5

Pop culture counterpart: Barney Stinson from “How I Met Your Mother.” Parker has a – shall we say healthy? – sense of self-worth. (“Mom, know why I always beat you in the Uglydoll game? ‘Cause I’m awesome.”) He also loves the ladies and won’t leave the house until he is sure that he “looks handsome.” We still haven’t stopped laughing at the pick-up line that he unleashed on one of his little friends at the tender age of three: “Ella, your hair looks pretty today. By the way, I’m wearing underwear; I don’t wear Pull Ups anymore.”

His best girl (well, perhaps on par with preschool girlfriend Avery, “best friend who is a girl” Lauren Grace, and family friends “Baby Greenleigh” and “Baby Allison”), I am proud to say, is his mom. He frequently tells me that he loves me, that I am pretty, that he likes what I am wearing, etc., and of course I just melt. Both parents are treated with the same endearing morning ritual Monday through Friday – before going into preschool, we “high five, fist bump, ear honk [a couple of rapid tugs on the earlobe], kiss and give a BIG SQUEEZE.” (Pretty sure that Dad’s fingerprints are all over this ritual – the ear honk bears a certain Parnell signature – but I’m honored to be a participant nonetheless.)

Nickname: The King of Chicken (a title that he gave himself, in recognition of the fact that he would eat chicken at every meal, every day, day in and day out).

Favorite word: “Actually.”

Favorite things: Batman. Also Batman. And Batman. Honorable mention goes to other DC Comics superheroes* (but they all take a backseat to Batman) and Transformers. But we really, REALLY like Batman. Did I mention Batman?

(* For some reason that cannot be fully explained, we are DC snobs. Connor got offended when Parker received Marvel Comics action figures at his Justice League birthday party, and I was embarrassed to acknowledge that I had the same reaction.)

Hobbies: Does annoying his brother count? Or watching Justice League cartoons on a continuous loop? Like Connor, he swings a mean tennis racket, both in the real world and in the virtual “Wii Sports” world. (Actually, Parker’s quite adept at all of the Wii Sports games, and if you ever see him play Wii boxing, you’ll think twice about crossing him in a dark alley. He’s little, but he’s very, very scrappy – and pretty much a natural athlete. No doubt we have soccer games in our immediate future.) He loves to sing, and he is looking forward to joining the children’s choir at First Methodist next year.

Current employment: Preschooler at Baylor All Saints. He was a little confused when he turned five in October and did not immediately start kindergarten the next day! He is very much aware of the fact that Connor’s beloved kindergarten teacher, Ms. Sylvester, is postponing her retirement for a year just to have the privilege of teaching Parker. Mom is pretty shameless about throwing this in the child’s face: “You know, you’re really going to have to get out of the habit of [fill in the blank], because Ms. Sylvester won’t allow that in her classroom.” (Hey, whatever works, right?)

Future career: We probably have an actor on our hands. Big brother, with his distinct engineer’s bent, was all about designing layouts for Thomas the Tank Engine, but could not have cared one whit about the characters. Parker is happy to put the track in a circle (or do without track altogether), but all of the characters have distinct voices, and they all have back stories. Ask Parker to sing a children’s (or any) song for you, and you are likely to get several bonus verses – whatever springs spontaneously from his creative brain.

If the performing arts don’t pan out for him, he could make quite a career with the Webster’s Dictionary folks, having already added to the lexicon such gems as “graymote” (referring to the gray DVR remote), “to-morning” (contraction of “tomorrow morning”) and “random oranges” (you have to admit, mandarin oranges are sort of random).

CONNOR, Age 10

Pop culture counterpart: Sheldon Cooper from “The Big Bang Theory.” Same strict dietary requirements, same fashion sense and low maintenance grooming regimen, same obsession with science, and same relentlessly logical brain. A Sheldon quote from the second season: “I couldn’t become Green Lantern unless I was chosen by the Guardians of Oa, but given enough startup capital and an adequate research facility, I could be Batman.” Actual Connor quote (age 4): “Spiderman is a superhero because he was bitten by a radioactive spider. Superman is a superhero because he was born an alien. But Batman is a superhero because he is smart and good in business.” After Connor broke his arm in September, I sought to reassure him while we waited for his x-rays with a motherly (and entirely honest) “if it makes you feel any better, my right elbow is aching in sympathy for you.” Connor’s response: “Why would that make me feel better?”

Nickname: Well, I call him Mr. Spock – and it fits (see above).

One more Sheldon/Spock-ism for the road - while (appropriately?) watching a scene from “Star Trek Zero” where Captain Kirk is marooned on an ice planet by his own crew and then chased by two vicious ice beasts, Connor leaned over and whispered, “Why would they maroon him on a planet where his life would be at risk?”

“Well, the onboard computer warned him of the danger and told him to stay in the ship until the authorities came for him, but he was a hothead and blew the hatch.”

“Mom, it’s an ice planet. Anyone’s head would be hot in comparison to the outside air temperature.”

Favorite word: All of them. Apparently he thinks he has run out of English two-dollar words, as he has begun to work French into conversation, and he has asked his mother to teach him German.

Favorite things: LEGOs, Star Wars, LEGO Star Wars (and all of the other LEGO computer and video games – Indiana Jones, Batman, Rock Band), the Beatles, the Percy Jackson book series and anything related to Greek mythology.

Hobbies: Tennis and swim team at Ridglea Country Club (he will be adding diving to his repertoire next summer), Cub Scouts (Connor and Dad are quite the pinewood and space derby team – Connor brings the passion for engineering, Dad brings the natural competitiveness that comes with being one of four boys!), art, music, and Junior Worship Leaders at First United Methodist Church (“Junior Worship Leaders” being code for “choir for kids who think that they are too cool to be in choir”).

Current employment: Fourth grader. And, like most fourth graders, he tends to be, by turns, a little forgetful, occasionally distracted, and more than a little cocky. Result: he completed his history fair research well in advance of the deadline, but he didn’t commit any of it to paper (at least, not in a way that could be glued to a backboard) until the night before. We try very hard not to be helicopter parents, so we recognized a “teaching moment” when we saw one, placed him in front of the vast, empty backboard and said, “It’s all on you, bud.” Two days later, he came home and announced that he had won the school prize. A week after that, he came home with the Olympic-sized medal awarded to him for winning the district competition. Mom and Dad couldn’t decide whether to be happy or surly . . . .

A month later (what is it with fourth grade teachers and projects?), he waited until the last minute to put together his Invention Convention submission – and forgot that a backboard was involved with THAT project as well, remembering it two hours prior to bedtime the night before. (Note: The backboard was in dad’s car. Apparently, the backboard was QUITE forgettable.) Once again, we warned Connor of the likely consequences of his procrastination. And, once again, he came home with a prize, remarking to his eye-rolling mother, “You know, you keep telling me that I need to change my study habits – but so far, they seem to be generating pretty good results.”

Future career: He’s a born engineer, but if you ask he will tell you that he plans on being a cryptozoologist (translation: he wants to chase mythical creatures, and prove that the Loch Ness Monster is real). He also has a good head for business and is constantly creating business and marketing plans for . . . well, lots of things.

KATHRYN, Age 39 and holding

Pop culture counterpart: Wonder Woman. Or Elastigirl. See below.

Everything else: Work is great, all things considered, and I’m both amazed and pleased at how much work I have on my desk at present, given the state of the economy. However, on the assumption that things would be at least a little slower this year, I agreed to serve as president of the Junior Woman’s Club of Fort Worth (taking office 6/1/09) on the theory that there would never be a better time, so really I have been juggling three jobs – attorney at the office, “development director” at home with the kids, and JWC prez in the space in between. I haven’t regretted the decision, though – what a wonderful group of women, and what fun we have had thus far! I selected “Young at Heart” for this year’s clubwide theme, and my officers have taken that concept and run with it, putting a “Sandlot” spin on our softball tournament in October, throwing a high school homecoming bash (in a real gym!) in November, and hosting a Candy Land-themed holiday open house in December. Morale and membership are up, but I have to give most of the credit to the ladies around me – I just stay out of the way and offer support as needed! One of the perks of the job is that I get to throw a Christmas party for the 50 some-odd executive committee members, standing committee chairs, department presidents and Woman’s Club advisors – so on the evening of 12/17 we are bundling up, boarding a luxury coach (translation: bus with a bathroom!) and heading to Grapevine, Texas to view Christmas lights and attend “Ice” (indoor winter wonderland, complete with ice slides) at the Gaylord Texan Hotel. Did I mention that I have a budget for said event? Bonus!

PARNELL, Age . . . a year older than last year

Pop culture counterpart: The married guy/father on “The League” (that incredibly funny new show about fantasy football, which seems to be biographical).

Everything else: Parnell is still playing fantasy football with the same group of guys from law school. Football is big on his mind this holiday season, as both his Horned Frogs and his Longhorns are headed to BCS games. We have a classy and not-at-all-clashing orange-and-purple Christmas light scheme going on in the front yard as a result – and those of you who remember last year’s Christmas light-related fall “with” (not “off of”) the ladder, resulting in a broken arm and two broken ribs, will be pleased to learn that this year he stuck to the archway leading up to the porch, dispensed with the roof and let me spot for him. (Proof that an old dog can learn old tricks! By the way, when we took Connor to the aptly named Dr. Rapp to get his cast in September, long-suffering Dr. Rapp just took a look at us and sighed. Whereupon my ornery husband inquired about the availability of a “frequent faller family discount” . . . .)

Parnell continues to thrive as a solo practitioner and is building his client base at an impressive rate. Most important of all, he is truly happy being on his own, and can I tell you how wonderful it is to be married to someone who is happy in his own skin? He enjoys harrassing his office-dwelling, clock-punching wife with mid-afternoon Friday phone calls announcing that he is laying himself off (or “furloughing” himself) with the expectation that business will pick up and he will rehire himself on Monday. (Okay, perhaps not that funny in the larger context of a bad economy, but he’s earned the right to make some jokes, having fought his fair share of uphill battles to get to where he is today.) I THINK he enjoys his role as JWC “First Man” . . . most of the time, and I am tremendously fortunate that both my spouse and my kids value my JWC friends (and their husbands and children) as much as I do.

I am also fortunate that I married a great father, son and son-in-law who takes advantage of his flexible schedule to serve as a PTA officer (long after I quit that noise!) and assist his mom and my parents and grandmother with all manner of things.

THE BEASTS, Ages . . . various

Our newest Ani-Pal addition has not been assigned a permanent name (Rusty? Ace the Batdog? Cinco?), but he is adorable, and he took to the menagerie like a dream (and they to him). He is a dorgi – half long-haired dachshund, half corgi – and is the living embodiment of the phrase, “the tail wags the dog.” He is so happy to be with a family, and his tail is so large in proportion to his sausage body, that when he gets to wagging, his hips swing back and forth to the point that he crawfishes when he walks. A very funny visual! “Ace” (we’ll use it as a place holder) loves big sister Ruby (nine year-old Sheltie) and follows her to the front door, on constitutionals around the yard, etc. Ruby, for her part, seems pleased as punch to have a minion, and is always looking over her shoulder, making sure that he is following behind.

Max, the youngest (and biggest) of our black-and-white Maine Coon cats, is, like many Maine Coons, convinced that he is, in fact, a dog. Thus, when I get home and call for the dogs, I usually end up with Ace on my lap (I have to pick him up – legs are too short for jumping!), Ruby on one side and Max on the other. Much head- and chin-scratching ensues . . . .

The older cats (Barkley and Gabby, both 13 years old) tolerate the younger crowd. (Barkley did hiss – once – at the newest beast, whereupon Ace barked – once – and we all discovered that he has a surprisingly deep and commanding voice for a little guy. Barkley conceded the point, and harmony was restored.) All five animals are amazingly well-adjusted, loving to one another and exceedingly tolerant of our kids. Hopefully this delicate balance will not be disturbed if/when we finally pull the trigger on the addition to our house, which (I am told) will give us room for fish, a rodent and a bird. (Yeah, Dad threw in the bird request – some help he is! I think he promised the kids the fish and rodent with the expectation that their whining would force me into making a decision on construction plans. What he doesn’t realize is that I have always been fascinated by lizards – so, Parnell, I’ll see your fish, rodent and bird and raise you one gecko.)

Love to everyone, and blessings of peace to you this holiday season and throughout 2010!

Bat Hound

"Mom, Ruby needs a companion dog."

My flawlessly logical oldest child then laid out his case: Our nine year-old Sheltie is slowing down (a fact that was confirmed by our vet, who put her on a regimen of glucosamine and chondroitin - the same stuff they give less hairy middle-aged folk). While two of our three cats (the Maine Coons) are quite doglike - and bigger than a great many dogs - they just aren't that keen on a romp around the dog park, or having a fetch. And, busy humans that we are, we simply aren't doing enough to keep her occupied and active.

So the search for dog #2 began, with local city ordinances (our three cats put us at the city-mandated upper limit for feline ownership, but we were two shy of the canine maximum) and Petfinder on our side. First candidate: Hoku, a Sheltie mix hailing from the northern environs of Big D. Her Petfinder profile looked promising - complete fetch monster, loves kids and cats, etc. I contacted her host rescue group and completed their adoption package, which MIGHT have been a page or two lighter than the adoption package that you have to complete when you adopt a human child . . . but I kinda doubt it. After enduring what I call a "full cavity search on paper," I was instructed to wait for a phone call that I would receive within twenty four hours. I followed up with an e-mail, explaining that Hoku would be a companion animal to our existing dog and that it probably made sense to introduce Ruby and the kids to her before we proceeded, to see if things would gel. I also asked them to call me on my work phone. Person that I have to assume is an unpaid volunteer called a day later than specified, called Parnell instead of me, and asked when we were available for our home study. Parnell essentially read her my e-mail over the phone and, oh-so-politely, suggested that we bring dog and children to them, thus saving the rescue dog a stressful trip in the car and a visit to a strange home if nothing was going to come of the exercise. This idea . . . DID. NOT. COMPUTE. Stepford Volunteer abruptly veered in another direction and made the apropos-of-not much pronouncement, "If you adopt this dog, she will need a job." (One has to assume that she was reading off of some sort of breed standard applicable to herding dogs?) Parnell swallowed several obvious sarcastic responses and advised Stepford Volunteer that he is self-employed and has the ability (and, frequently, given that he helps his mother with business issues, the excuse) to visit the family ranch property during the day. Thus, if Hoku was a herder, she would have multiple Herefords at her disposal. Parnell: "Does she like to herd?" Stepford Volunteer: "I have no idea." Ooooohhhhhkaaaayyy.

Then Stepford Volunteer mentioned that Hoku was still in the middle of her heartworm eradication treatments and would not be available for some time. Ummmmm . . . . Petfinder profile clearly stated that she had had heartworms in the past but was now "heartworm-free." Present tense. We started to wonder what other artistic license had been taken with her profile. Was she actually a dog? While her adorably fuzzy face in the profile pic appeared doglike, it did bear a certain resemblance to a publicity still for Wicket the Ewok from "Return of the Jedi" (which I continue to maintain is the THIRD Star Wars movie, because those God-awful prequels don't count . . . but I digress).

Biggest problem was that, given pending heartworm treatments, Hoku would have to be kept absolutely calm during our introductory visit with her, as an increase in heart rate and body temperature could result in the heartworms squirming through the lining of her heart, resulting in death by embolism. Ummmm . . . hmm. So our options are to (1) meet the dog while she's sedated, thus getting no accurate read on her personality, or (2) kill her? Thanks, but we think we'll look elsewhere.

So, unbeknownst to me, Parnell - who now is in full-on "dog acquisition" mode (he gets this way about lots of things - flat-screen TV's, computers, mammals - he's a born comparison shopper) - starts visiting Animal Control, and bonds with our second candidate (and eventual winner - but, oh, it was a LONG way from candidate to winner). Only, he can't exactly explain to me what the second candidate IS. "He's, like, REALLY burnt orange and kind of corgi-ish? And he's sort of so ugly that he's cute." (Hey, I said he was a born comparison shopper; I didnt' say anything about his salesmanship skills.) Yes, I could have gone to the pound to personally inspect him, resolving all doubt as to what "he" was, but that would involve me going to the pound, and I don't do the pound. I have a very strong sense that if I went to the pound, I would go bat-you-know-what crazy and run around opening all of the cages shouting, "RUN! RUN TO FREEDOM!"

Instead, Parnell took both kids, one at a time, to meet Mystery Dog. Both kids took to Mystery Dog, and Parnell informed Animal Control that we wanted to adopt him. (I'm glossing over a good part here - he showed up early in the morning to fill out paperwork, based on Web site information that said "Office opens at 8 am, but no animals will be shown before noon." Since he had already been shown the animal, and liked - whatever - it was he saw, he figured it would be possible to fill out paperwork at 8 am. Wrong. "We don't let people fill out paperwork until noon . . . . but I suppose I can get it for you." After a fifteen-minute delay, Disgruntled Office Worker - who just might have been Stepford Volunteer from the other place, post-job change - disappeared into a back office, returned several minutes later, sat in her chair, and SWIVELED IT AND RETRIEVED THE ADOPTION PAPERWORK FROM A TRAY IMMEDIATELY BEHIND HER. Then she disappeared again, never to return. So Parnell took the paperwork to go . . . . Oh, and one other chestnut - when he asked if Mystery Dog got on well with cats, the person showing Mystery Dog to him said, "Let's find out," and essentially tossed Mystery Dog into the cat enclosure. I am not making this up. Fortunately, the experiment worked out well for all parties.)

AFTER three-fourths of the family got attached to Mystery Dog (who, by then, we had identified as a dorgi - half-dachshund, half-corgi), the Animal Control brain trust tested him for heartworm. Yup - positive. "Okay, you'll have to keep him absolutely calm for six weeks, or he'll die." Nice. A dog, two kids and three cats . . . . Plans for a slumber party involving multiple ten year-old boys . . . . Yeah, can you say, "Death sentence for poochie?" Parnell inquired as to the availability of a volunteer who could foster him during the six weeks; DENIED. (I hear that the ASPCA does provide this service, which is good information to have, but a day late and a dollar short in our case.) Helpful Worker then reminded Parnell of the thirty-day money-back guarantee on all animals: "You can take him to your vet, and if the vet says that he just needs heartworm pills, there's no problem. If he needs more than that, you can drop him back off and get a full refund." SERIOUSLY????? WHO DOES THAT????? So, needless to say, we decided to part ways with Mystery Dog, for his own good.

And then the crying jag (mine) started. I wept, on and off, for four days over a dog that I technically had never even met. In my fevered imagination, this dog had identified my sweet husband and precious children as his "forever family," only to be cruelly kicked (back) to the curb. It got to be comical - I would be going around my daily business and, suddenly, I would think of Mystery Dog and the waterworks would start.

So two weeks pass, I meet Parnell for lunch on his birthday, and - being congenitally blonde - I see the envelope marked "Adoption Papers" in his car and think nothing of it when he hastily flips it over before we head into the restaurant. Hey, I was thinking it was something he just received from a client (he's been known to do some family law occasionally), and he wanted to safeguard it from prying eyes. However, I did think it odd that immediately upon finishing our tacos at Yucatan he said, "Let's go." Huh? This from the man who accuses me of too infrequently including me in my lunch plans? He elaborated: "There's something that I want to show you in the car."

"Is it a dog? Because I don't recall you cracking the windows?"

We get to the car, he hands me an Animal Control bandanna, and I start freaking out . . . in a bad way. It's too soon, I'm still grieving (bizarrely and irrationally) for Mystery Dog, and then there's the whole "I'm never going to step across the threshold of the pound, EVER" thing working against us. So he hands me the "Adoption Papers" envelope - and, slowly, the pieces floating in my blonde brain start to click.

He to me: "I'm telling you this on my birthday, because it's my birthday, and you're not going to get really, REALLY mad at a fellow on his birthday, right? I'm somewhat insulated, on account of how it's my birthday."

Me to he: [Sobbing noises.]

He to me: "Okay, are those good tears?"

Me to he: [More sobbing noises, coupled with vigorous up and down head motions.]

Turns out that, at some point during day four of my "I think we just sent a dog to the death chamber" pity party, my dear, sweet spouse took a leap of faith, adopted Mystery Dog, and threw himself at the mercy of our dear, sweet vet . . . who agreed to give Mystery Dog the heartworm treatments AND board him for the duration.

So, for the last five weeks, we've had another dog. Who I still haven't met. Because various delays keep getting thrown into our path . . . . We were supposed to have him by Thanksgiving - but the vet decided to wait another week in an abundance of caution. We called to pick him up on Monday, and they told us to wait until Wednesday. Wednesday came, and they told us that they wanted to do one more test, and to schedule pickup for Thursday. Thursday came, and we were told to wait until 3 pm when Dr. Tierce would be in the office and, I guess, available to talk about follow-up treatment stuff.

Now it's 4:45 pm, and maybe, JUST MAYBE, we'll have our Mystery Dog shortly after 5. Kids have no idea. Oh, and Mystery Dog is now named Rusty, because Parnell choked when they asked him for a name at the vet and blurted out "Rusty," because he's rust-colored. One has to assume that they have been calling him Rusty for the last five weeks, so Rusty it shall be. We're big fans of the show, "Greek," on ABC Family, and we love the main character, Rusty "Spitter" Cartwright. We're also big fans of the National Lampoon Vacation franchise, so full name most likely will be Rusty "Spitter" Cartwright Griswold Batdog McGlinchey. (I have to throw in Batdog, because I'm advised that he has the most ginormous ears . . . . And, yes, I've seen cell phone pics, but he was moving his head around in all of them, so I can confirm that he has a body, a tail and a blur in the facial region.)

Photos to follow . . . hopefully.

And Now We Are Ten

Last year, when our oldest turned nine, I agreed to a “Night at the Museum” slumber party. It seemed like it would be a cake walk (small pun intended) compared to the eighth birthday “let’s invite the free world to Pump It Up” throwdown, which followed the seventh birthday “let’s invite the free world to Rollerland West” shindig. Some of our parent friends wanted to hang around for awhile and offered to assist in chauffeuring guests the scant five blocks that stand between our house and IMAX. Such a short drive, but such a loooooong one. It’s amazing how much armpit noisemaking, burping, etc. a nine year-old boy can fit into a two-minute car ride. Then there was the whole fight over who got to sit next to Birthday Child once we arrived at IMAX. The slumber party portion of the evening wasn’t much more fun. I made a mental note after the last guest departed that our slumber party days were over.

Then I lost the note. My father told me once that a goldfish’s power of mental retention is roughly one lap around its bowl. Thus, it passes the treasure chest, thinks, “Hey, a treasure chest,” swims another lap, says, “Hey, a treasure chest,” and on and on ad infinitum – like Tom Hanks in that “Mister Short-Term Memory” skit on Saturday Night Live. (“HEY! TONY RANDALL!”)

Apparently, one lap around my personal goldfish bowl translates into, roughly, 365 days. Every year, I leave my annual “mole biopsy party” swearing that I’ll die of skin cancer before I go back. A year later, I find myself thinking, “I really need to schedule a dermatologist appointment.” Ditto childbirth: after my first (unplanned) C section, I swore I wasn’t going through THAT again . . . but it wasn’t long before I was considering a second one.

So I agreed to a tenth birthday slumber party. And hilarious hijinks ensued. Here’s the blow-by-blow:

Week before party: Stuff bags of party favor LEGOs into treat bags. Count 200 more LEGOs, purchased from the “bulk bin” at the LEGO Store, into one of the tumblers in which they package bulk bin LEGOs at the LEGO Store. Notice that tumbler looks like a martini shaker, but with a LEGO button on the top. Chuckle. Wonder if design is meant to make parents chuckle – and buy more LEGOs. Stuff treat bags into pinata shaped like Darth Vader’s head. Worry that suddenly too-cool-for-school Birthday Child will object to fact that pinata is of the toddler “pull string” variety. World-weary Birthday Child informs me that they market it that way to big kids, “because you only want to tear the bottom out of the pinata – so you can wear it on your head.”



Day before party, 3:00 pm: Birthday Child sees me putting candy LEGOs and LEGO Star Wars figure key chains on turkey pull-apart cupcake cake, and asks, “Wait, is that for me?” Birthday Child begins crying and tells me that he thought cupcake cake was “a fake-out.” Remind him that we celebrated his eighth birthday “Aloha Scooby Doo” party with turkey pull-apart cupcake cakes embellished with icing leis. (Apparently, a turkey pull-apart cupcake cake is my go-to when Birthday Child – born on Thanksgiving Day – selects a party theme that is commercially unavailable.)

3:01 pm: Birthday Child answers: “Yeah, but Mom, we were EIGHT then.”

3:02 pm: Go all attorney on Birthday Child: “So, what you’re telling me is that you all are two years older but somehow LESS MATURE than you were when you were eight? Because no one made tacky comments about your cake when you were eight – so if you think that they’ll be tacky now, then you all must be regressing.”

3:03 pm: Birthday Child glares at me – but concedes the battle.

Morning before party, 9:45 am: Show Birthday Child place cards for party, pieced from scrapbook paper to look like LEGOs, with jokes like: “What did Obi Wan say when his apprentice had trouble mastering chopsticks? ‘Use the fork, Luke.’” Birthday Child rolls eyes, reminds me for umpteenth time that he is TEN. YEARS. OLD.

10:00 am – 4:00 pm: Pick up toys/put up laundry/carefully dust and arrange tchotchkes/vacuum/decorate for party.

4:00 pm: Discover gnatlike insects swarming in vicinity of kitchen sink. Spouse Googles gnat infestations. Google advises spouse that gnatlike insects most assuredly have been attracted by scent of aging fruit. Note that gnats seem to be everywhere in the kitchen except in the vicinity of the three, perfectly-in-their-prime oranges that are sitting on the counter. Remove oranges anyway. Google further advises that ammonia or bleach down the drain will take care of gnatlike insect problem. Confirm suspicion that do not own ammonia or bleach.

4:30 pm: Spouse decides to move Wii to living room and hook up Beatles Rock Band instruments . . . a scant two hours before the party. Carefully dusted and arranged tchotchkes are dumped in pile on sofa to allow for rewiring of TV/DVR/DVD player. Dust gets discharged everywhere.

4:50 pm: Leave for trip to Best Buy and grocery store to purchase LEGO Rock Band (which, Birthday Child advises, must be procured lest party be “TOTALLY RUINED”), a USB hub, ammonia and bleach.

5:00 pm: Fight with Best Buy manager, who assures me that we don’t need a USB hub. Call spouse, who reads blurb from back of Beatles Rock Band carton, advising us that we need a USB hub. Best Buy manager and spouse agree to leave things at a stalemate. Purchase USB hub and party-success-ensuring LEGO Rock Band software.

5:15 pm: Purchase (lemon-scented) ammonia and (linen-scented; who knew?) bleach. Dither over whether to purchase same or different scents. Decide to give self options.

5:30 pm: Stop at Central Market. Find self distracted by orange cherry tomatoes/new line of frozen pizzas/gruyere dessert cheeseballs/etc. Get head back in game and purchase more candy LEGOs. Also orange cherry tomatoes. And a cold coffee/tea beverage that looks like pure caffeine in a bottle.

5:50 pm: Arrive home to discover that several party guests have arrived an hour before published party start date. Not surprised to find spouse still hooking up Rock Band instruments.

5:55 pm: Discover that lemon-scented ammonia still smells 100% “ammonia-y.”

5:56 pm: Discover that gnatlike insects also have taken up occupation over bathroom drains. Abandon fruit theory in favor of hypothesis that plumber’s recent snaking of sewer line out to easement unclogged blockage, created superhighway for gnats. Apologize in my head to the unfairly maligned oranges. Spouse and I agree to plan of aggressive gnat genocide in interest of disrupting breeding cycle. Opt to pour (linen-scented; who knew?) bleach down bathroom drains. Birthday Child drifts by, sniffs and asks if maid came today. Because, evidently, we now associate “the smell of clean” with “not Mom.”

6:00 pm: Granddad arrives with Bruschetta pizzas that did not fit in our freezer and that grandparents graciously agreed to babysit and deliver. Carefully arrange pepperoni slices into grid on square pizzas to resemble oversized LEGOs.

6:10 pm: Spend a minute and a half talking to parent on front porch; discover that pizzas (which have only been in the oven for half of the published cook time) are burning.

6:11 pm: Dispatch spouse to Domino’s to pick up pizza.

6:15 pm: Guests begin playing LEGO Rock Band. Marvel at odds that ALL of Birthday Child’s friends would be tone deaf.

6:16 pm: Two hundredth “dude” is uttered by party guests. (Many “dudes” will follow.) Notice that Birthday Child is introducing newcomers to guests that they don’t know. Pat self on back for not raising total Philistine.

6:20 pm: Ask Little Brother to sign card for Birthday Child. Little Brother immediately opens card and holds up to ear, assuming that all cards are musical. (Same child always asks to see photo immediately after it is taken and is thrown for complete loop when someone explains to him that their camera is not digital.)

6:25 pm: Walk parent outside; hear loud crash. Boys learn the hard way that three people cannot bang on the drum set without things vibrating off of the armoire. Boys spend next five minutes picking up potpourri and returning it to bowl that was wedding present and is, evidently, indestructible.

6:35 pm: Start pouring drinks in anticipation of pizza arrival. Birthday Child comes into kitchen crying, announces that two guests have informed him that he must endure ten “birthday stomach punches” from each. Take guests to task. One mumbles, “I only punched him a little bit.”

6:40 pm: Serve pizza and drinks.

6:40 pm and ten seconds: Little Brother spills drink.

6:45 pm: Party guests compliment joke place cards. Birthday Child takes credit for joke place cards and follows with, “Wait until you see my cake. It’s awesome.”

6:50 pm: Lead guests in “Happy Birthday to You.” Guests add two verses, invoking monkeys, etc.

6:51 pm: Serve cake. Begin to empathize with flight attendants: “Coke, Sprite or Sunkist? Cheese or pepperoni? Yellow cupcake with chocolate icing, yellow cupcake with colored icing, or chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing?”

7:00 pm: Birthday Child opens his gifts . . . in five seconds. Haul includes LEGOs, a Star Wars: The Clone Wars encyclopedia, Air Hogs, many Nerf weapons, clothes and a card with $20. Birthday Child counts money, claims only $19 is accounted for, and asks gifter to explain himself. Missing dollar found in bottom of bag. Reconsider Philistine thing.

7:05 pm: One of clothing items is an Ed Hardy t-shirt. Spouse heard to mutter: “Great – a douchebag starter kit.”

7:06 pm: Accidentally refer to Ed Hardy as “John Hardy,” as in the jewelry designer. More muttering from spouse: “Yeah, that’s a Freudian slip I’d expect from you.”

7:10 pm: Spend ten minutes scrubbing icing out of the crevices of LEGO Star Wars figure key chains with a potato brush.

7:15 pm: Entire party relocates to Connor’s room to build giant LEGO Star Wars: The Clone Wars ship that Mom selected solely because it features Mace Windu and his bad-bohiney purple Light Saber.TM

7:35 pm: Rock Band resumes. Admire Birthday Child’s mediation skills. “Cameron hasn’t gotten to play, so he gets to pick an instrument first. Parker, Garrett gets to be band leader this time.” Re-reassess “not a Philistine” world view.

7:36 pm – 8:15 pm: Reason with Little Brother that Rock Band gets to stay at his house, so he should be generous in allowing guests to play. Find “Batman: The Brave and the Bold” online game to play one on one with Little Brother.

8:16 pm – 9:15 pm: Begin blogging as coping mechanism. Endure sixty five renditions of “Kung Fu Fighting,” “Ghostbusters” and David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.”

9:16 pm: Spouse drifts in from den, asks “How are you holding up?”

9:30 pm: Second wave of guests arrive, fresh from TCU game. Mom not so fresh.

9:45 pm: Stop blogging to videotape Little Brother’s inspired vocal performance of “We Are the Champions.”

10:00 pm: Threaten to send children of good friends back to good friends. Repeatedly.

10:05 pm: Little Brother evicted from Birthday Child’s bedroom. Nature of his transgression: repeated mooning. Consider dropping Little Brother off with good friends’ children as package deal.

10:15 pm: Finally convince guests to collect in one room for pinata thing, because one guest (yup, ONE, darn the luck!) isn’t spending the night, and his parents are en route. Birthday Child threatens to go through with the “pinata on the head” routine. Spouse explains that when he sees a pinata, his natural tendency is to whack it, really hard, with a big stick. Birthday Child rethinks “pinata on the head routine.”

10:20 pm: Dump LEGOs that did not fit into Darth Vader into pile on floor. Guests build LEGO vehicles for awhile.

10:30 pm: Brief respite from craziness ends. Previous rules about not swinging/throwing/destroying things/people/animals apparently totally forgotten.

10:35 pm: Start cleaning/doing dishes/collecting trash to take focus off of craziness. Manage to have a couple of good one-on-one discussions with guests about their new pets, favorite subjects at school, etc. Faith in humanity restored.

10:40 pm: One of conversation partners attempts to re-break Birthday Child’s oh-so-recent broken elbow. Faith in humanity back offline.

10:50 pm: Remember that we never played the “guess how many LEGOs” game. Realize that I never assigned a prize to the game. Decide to use game to raffle off first choice of sleeping arrangements. Guesses range from forty to four hundred. One of the guests (math whiz like Birthday Child, and one-third of Birthday Child’s team that won district history fair) looks at the tumbler and says “200.” Award him the prize, expecting him to call dibs on Birthday Child’s top bunk/Little Brother’s loft (Little Brother is, by now, passed out on couch in den, and plans are to leave him there, as far away from craziness as possible)/couch/leather recliner. Winner calls “floor.”

10:55 pm: Spouse finishes viewing “TIVO delayed” TCU game. Negotiate handoff of “parent in charge” duties.

11:00 pm: Off duty, but still mediating disputes/locating pillows and blankets/fetching beverages.

11:05 pm: Remind spouse of handoff.

11:30 pm: Guest who’s supposed to be going home still on the premises. Too-cool-for-school ten year-olds who Birthday Boy worried would diss a turkey pull-apart cupcake cake have moved on to playing with Little Brother’s Imaginext Batcave and Rescue Heroes.

11:45 pm: Noise level from living room is DEAFENING. Walk to den, ask spouse exactly how he interprets role of being “parent in charge.” Spouse promises to be more “diligent” and “hands on” and closes door to our bedroom, where I have sought refuge.

11:50 pm: Door ALMOST blocks out the sound of what could be swordfighting.

11:55 pm: Decide that eleventh birthday celebration will involve no more than two guests and will be held offsite. Make mental note not to discard mental note.

Fall Into Fun

Connor and Parker initially wanted to be Clone Troopers for Halloween. Like most boy costumes, the ones at Super Target were incomplete, so the sticker price was misleading: once you factored in the blaster and other add-on accessories, you're talking about a pretty expensive proposition, particularly when you are multiplying by two! While the boys were evaluating blaster options, I found this Area 51-ish "Alien Commander" costume (all accessories included for $13.99, less 10% because I had an all-day shopping pass) and made them a proposition: if Parker would agree to wear the astronaut flight suit that Santa brought him last year as his Halloween costume, and Connor agreed to the alien getup, I would spring for an alien costume for the dog (Ruby gets into the Halloween spirit!) AND I would buy them a Wii. (Okay, truth be told, the Wii was coming home with us anyway, because Mom and Dad really wanted to get Beatles Rock Band - plus I had the aforementioned 10% pass - but the boys didn't know that, and I why not exploit a teachable moment about budgeting and choices?)

Connor immediately saw this as the opportunity that it was, seized his brother by the shoulders and started shaking him and shouting, "TAKE THE DEAL! TAKE THE DEAL!" (For a minute I thought I had been transported into an episode of "Law and Order.") Parker balked, raising the objection that "Connor gets a new costume, and I don't." (Never mind that he'd never actually worn the astronaut costume in public - apparently, it was the principle of the thing.) I missed the full negotiation that followed, but I do believe that future consideration was offered. Long story short, they went with the astronaut and the alien, and it was kind of fun - Parker particularly enjoyed telling people that he was taking Connor "to President Obama" (because, you know, they always ask for an audience with the leader). Connor enjoyed having a costume that disguised the cast on his broken elbow.

And everyone is enjoying the Wii . . . . Win!

Beauty Blog

So one of my Junior Club departments had its fundraising auction, one of our members donated an obscene quantity of high-end makeup, and Ruth, Robyn and I formed a “makeup syndicate” and purchased it, dividing the spoils thereafter . . . . It’s a testament to our friendship that there was zero squabbling during the divvying – although it didn’t hurt that I have green eyes, Ruth’s are blue and Robyn’s are hazel, and we all tend to gravitate to different shades.

I’ve had a lot of fun playing with my new toys, and I’ve found some definite keepers that I’m adding to my daily repertoire:

Lancome eye shadow in “Vue”: A nice pink-y neutral with a bit of a plummy cast; nice against green eyes.
Philosophy “Bare Your Soul” (peach-pink) cream blush and “Honest” and “True” powder blushes: “Honest” is great for contouring, and “True” blends in nicely over the cream stuff.
MAC “Naked Honey” Lipglass in “Buzz”: Nude with a hint of pink. This may be my new default lip gloss.

Also, some of the avant garde stuff proved to be surprisingly wearable:

MAC “Star Flash” eye shadow in “Fashion Groupie” and “Rated R”: The former is purple, the latter is acid green, and – while I wouldn’t wear either one over the entire eyelid – both of these look pretty fabulous as a liner.
MAC “Veluxe Pearl” eye shadow in “Bright Future”: Wouldn’t have tried a yellow eye shadow on my own in a million years. Glad I did. Very yellow in the pot, but really gorgeous on the eye.
MAC Greasepaint Stick in “Black”: A dark black-purple kohl eyeliner. Maybe not something I will wear every day, but I will be rocking it. A lot.
Benefit “Almost Famous” lip gloss: Rosy bronze with amber bronze glitter. Watermelon-flavored, a little on the grainy side – like a watermelon, come to think of it. Color, shine and flavor make up for the grit.
MAC “Style Warrior” lipstick in “Purple Rite”: A wearable purple (particularly pretty with “Blackware” over it; see below). The “Style Warrior” collection has great packaging, too – bronze and gold exterior, zebra-striped interior.
MAC Style Black Glimmerglass “Blackware”: Gray/black-tinged gloss. Looks plum when you put it on. Seriously, I swear. Major shine. LOVE THIS PRODUCT!
MAC “Style Warrior” nail lacquer in “Mercenary”: Described as a “frosted blackened bronze,” and that’s an excellent description. I don’t do color on my fingers, and I can’t see myself ever wearing a true black polish on my toes, but this is pretty edgy without going over.

While I’m in review mode, here are my other current product obsessions:

Dermalogica Skin Hydrating Mask: Gel mask with bitter orange, hops, rosemary and horsetail. Can be used on the eye area. Recommended by an aesthetician at Perfect Touch Spa.
Kiehl’s Calendula Herbal Extract Toner: Alcohol-free. Contains allantoin, a compound found in comfrey root that is known to be a bacteria inhibitor.
Dermalogica Gentle Soothing Booster: When put under moisturizer, reduces irritation and redness while adding to skin’s hydration.
Lancome Primordiale Skin Recharge, Absolue Premium Bx and Absolue Night Premium Bx: Love these moisturizers. REALLY love the way that they smell!
Blue Q Boss Lady SPF 18 Honeysuckle Nectar Lip Balm: Delish. Put it on morning and night. Gift to me from Robyn, who presented it as a “just because” present along with a koozie emblazoned with “Stressed Ladies Unwinding Together” – and the accompanying acronym.
Lancome Cils Booster XL and Hypnose Black: Great lash conditioner and mascara combo. I get the same level of “Are those your real lashes?” comments with these two as I do with Diorshow.
Anything J. R. Watkins: Thanks to the same auction, I have added to my Watkins collection the lemon oil (so invigorating!) and the lavender hand and cuticle salve. Thumbs up to both. (Ooh, bad pun.)
Aveda Beautifying Composition Moisturizing Oil: Rosemary and bergamot – yum! I work this into the ends of my hair after blow-drying to lock in moisture, but you can also use it in the bathtub or massage it into your temples. I’m thinking of layering it over the lemon oil as a fragrance?
Van Cleef & Arpels “Feerie” Fragrance: Violets, blackcurrant, Italian mandarin, Bulgarian rose, Egyptian jasmine and iris butter. I have no idea how one gets butter from irises, but the result is spectacular. And the bottle is a work of art. I stalked this perfume for a year before I broke down and purchased it. Worth. Every. Penny.