7 of 25: Merry Christmas from the Family

As my early Christmas present to you . . . please enjoy these awkward family photos.

Okay, pretty clearly the Little Kid got his mom's smiley gene.  Our eyes crinkle and our cheeks dimple.  The Spouse and the Big Kid are sort-of-smilers.  (And it's getting worse now that the Big Kid is a tween.)

Again, Mom and Little Kid are cooperating, and Dad is actually cooperating.  Big Kid - not so much.

This one isn't bad of Big Kid and might have been a favorite if Little Kid wasn't so intent on standing ramrod straight.  "Look at me!  I'm on a box!  I'm almost as tall as my mother . . . WHEN SHE'S SITTING DOWN!"

This sums up the boys pretty well.  Little Kid says, "Look at me!  No, seriously - LOOK AT ME, because I'm waggling my eyebrows at you in a comically adorable way."  Big Kid says, "Please don't look at me.  And, also, can we please go home now?"

We settled on this one.  Little Kid is doing his cheesy (but sincerely cheesy) thang, and Big Kid is sporting his patented "I am twelve and therefore way too cool to be into this" look.  In other words, it's an accurate depiction of our boys at this particular stage.

I'm a big fan of realism.

The photographer also attempted (somewhat foolishly) to get a shot of just the boys.  This one would have been cute if Big Kid's big melon (made bigger by the Justin Bieber 'do) wasn't casting a shadow on the Little Kid's face:

Midway through the shoot, the Little Kid decided to adopt the Big Kid's non-grin, meaning that we got a lot of images like this:

We went with this one:

Photog even managed to get a picture of the 'rents, and it ALMOST looks like we're happy. (Believe me, we weren't - photos were taken in the middle of a particularly bad "house week," lots of added stress, and then family photos on top of all of that. What's the phrase? Fake it 'til you make it? Well, it worked, because we're in a much better mental place, collectively, and now we have this memento of a darker time that we can laugh at, EVENTUALLY. Still a little too soon.)

We're on a roll, in terms of actually getting photographed together - also had our picture taken at the "65 Roses" wine and food event benefiting Cystic Fibrosis:

Yes, it looks like I'm knocking on his chest.  I have no idea what that was about.  Hiding a sloppy manicure?  Spouse's expression clearly says, "Let's get the red carpet thing over with, so that I can start eating and drinking and bidding on silent auction items that I don't actually need."

That's two - count 'em, TWO - photos of us posing as a couple, in a span of two months. This is unprecedented.  Hoping to continue the trend.

Merry Christmas from the family.

6 of 25: Gaming the System and Getting My Wrap On

The boys' wish lists this year are tres boring and consist primarily of LEGOs, LEGOs and more LEGOs.  However, I am pleased to announce that, over the last few days, I have made that boring LEGO-centric list my beyotch.  As soon as I saw the TV ad for Toys R Us's "buy one, get one 50% off" LEGO sale, I was online, with three tabs opened in my browser:  TRU, Target and The Wal-Mart.  Question number one:  which items were exclusives to one store or the other?  Question number two:  of the items that were not exclusives, who had the best price, and what ordering strategy would allow me to take advantage of all three store's loss leaders plus TRU's BOGO gimmick?   Took me forty five minutes, but I soon had four items locked and loaded with TRU (WITH free shipping, thank you very much) and three more items en route to my local Wal-Mart via "site to store."  Total spent on seven LEGO items (including two big-ticket sets):  $300.  Total saved:  close to $100, not counting Upromise savings.  (One of my goals this year is to do all of my online ordering via Upromise links, because I think that there's poetry in saving money for my kids' college education IN THE SAME TRANSACTION in which I spend money that could be going to their college education.  Thus far, between JC Penney (new barstools for the kitchen, identical to Pottery Barn's at half the price, with free shipping to boot), TRU and Shutterfly (EIGHT PERCENT contribution to the kids' 529 plans - killer!), I believe that I have squirreled away $15, and it's only the beginning of the shopping season.)

I am wrapping gifts this year using way-cool retro wrapping paper that I got at Tuesday Morning.  The kids are getting sock monkey wrapping paper, Spouse has a Santa motif and I have Christmas trees:

I created a little gift-wrap station for myself, utilizing the extra (rented) end table that doesn't fit in the living room:

Gift wrap station doubles as holiday linen storage - that's the happy-accident holiday tablecloth folded under the polka-dotted bowl o' gift tags.  And, yes, that's a polka-dotted BATH MAT under the tablecloth.  I bought two of them at The Wal-Mart because they were $4 each, they were festive, and I thought that they would make good camouflage for and/or help to protect rental furniture items.

Rolls of gift wrap are in a bucket that will eventually be a gift - but, for now, it's my gift wrap bucket, yo.

(Photo taken as the Thanksgiving decorations were being boxed up to be returned to storage - hence the "Harvest Queen" guarding the wrapping paper rolls.)

The Small One walked by several times as I was affixing gift tags to gift boxes, and.  He.  Did.  Not. Say.  A.  Word.  Barely even broke his stride.  Finally, I had to say something:

"PJ, aren't you curious about what I'm doing?"

"Nope, AND I haven't noticed that so far you have wrapped 8 gifts, and 5 have my name on them, and only 3 have my brother's name on them."

Wow.  Kid's got eyes in the back of his head.  Santa had better be careful.

5 of 25: I Elf the Apartment, Part 3

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you . . . the improvised tree.

So much for my concerns about the tree looking barren, huh?  By the time I added all of the not-quite-ornaments to the actual ornaments and worked in the mittens and paper snowflakes and paper chains, we were at capacity fairly quickly.  Except that, after the tree was initially pimped, I wasn't terribly pleased with the results of my pimping.  And then something happened while I was at work.

Specifically, MAX happened.

Remember how, a few weeks ago, PJ pulled a piece of furniture on top of himself because, back at the house, things are anchored to the walls, but they aren't anchored here?   Yeah, same deal with the tree.  We started tethering it to a plant hook in the dining room ceiling when Maine Coon #1 was still young and spry and enjoyed some recreational tree-climbing.  That served us in good stead when Maine Coon #2 - Max - came along.

Apparently, Max thought that the tree was tethered, because he climbed it like usual - and then, also apparently, he rode the sucker the heck over.

E-mail from the Spouse to my work desktop:

If a tree falls in an apartment because Max takes it for a ride, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

I did not see this e-mail until I was heading home for the evening.  Called Spouse from the car and asked him to level with me:  just how bad was it?  Because I wanted to be prepared.

He assured me that only a few ornaments were knocked off - roughly enough to fill one of his ball caps.

What he failed to tell me was that:  (1) the ornaments that were left on the tree had gotten displaced in transit; and (2) when he put the tree back (scooting it further back into a corner), he rotated it a half turn, so the bare spot that I left in back was now on display.

Oh, and the ornaments that had fallen off could fill one of his ball caps - and about ten more just like it.

Initially, I considered taking everything off and starting over.  It seemed like an easier proposition in the long run - and, also, I had decided that Spouse (rather annoyingly) rotated the tree to a better side (the thing isn't exactly symmetrical anymore, after years of Maine Coon abuse), so rather than push the bare spot to the back, I really needed to move now-obscured ornaments from one side of the tree to now-on-display space on the other side.

But I started puttering, and things started to take shape again, and - wouldn't you know it? - the tree actually looked BETTER after receiving the Max Treatment.  I guess the impact pushed things that were on the ends of the branches back to the interior, but however it happened the darned thing just looked more pulled together after being physically assaulted by a twenty-pound cat.

So there you go.

For your viewing pleasure:  a montage of ornaments and sort-of-ornaments from the improvised tree.  The soft sculpture ornaments were made by Parnell's grandmother and my mother.

Also for your viewing pleasure:  a photo of the dorgi dog, sprawled out next to the tree and getting in my way while I worked.  I think he was excited that, for a change, MAX was the one in trouble.

Really, I promise you, he was excited.  This is his excited face - when he is laying down.

Spouse was bound and determined to prevent Max from playing Tree Rodeo a second time, so he left the house just as I was putting dinner on the table, mumbling something about "sandbags" and "you can heat up some chili for me when I get back."  An hour later, he returned with THIS:

Nope, not a sand bag.  This is a Gold's Gym 20-pound adjustable conditioning vest.  We had discussed getting one for the Big Kid, for purposes of helping him get into shape for swimming season.  And now he owns one - except he cannot use it until after the holidays, because, until the end of December, said weight vest is wrapped around the base of our Christmas tree, camouflaged by a tree skirt.

Spouse is somewhat of a genius, wouldn't you agree?  It's a gift AND a holiday disaster prevention item.

I put a few of the family felt ornaments on a tinsel tree that I bought for the dining room table as a total impulse purchase.  I have always been enamored of tinsel trees, and every year I am mocked by six or seven of them (full-sized ones), clustered in the front window of a neighbor's house. Now I have my own, scaled-down version, and I [HEART] it.  It spoke to me when I saw it at the Montgomery Street Antique Mall, and the ridiculously reasonable price spoke to me even more.  I love the way that the light bounces off of it and makes it look like it's illuminated when it isn't.  It is totally getting a place of honor in the new kitchen next year.

Here's the tinsel tree in all of its glory:

And here's a close-up of some of the ornaments. I have a thing about crocheted snowflakes, and I supplement my supply of "true" (separately crocheted and starched) snowflakes with doilies that I repurpose as snowflakes. The tiny doily snowflakes on the tinsel tree are actually a crocheted doily runner (also from the antique mall) that I cut into individual rounds:

So now we are enjoying an embarrassment of riches in the tree department. Here's hoping that the novelty has worn off for a certain feline and that Max leaves them alone for the duration of the holidays.

4 of 25: I Elf the Apartment, Part 2

Apparently, I did something right - in this life, or perhaps a past one - because, when I broke the seal on the Rubbermaid-totes-o'-mystery, I discovered that:

• Everything in the totes color-coordinated with the random stuff that I had pulled together using craft supplies, and everything sort of went together thematically;
• A lot of stuff (for example, these giant tassels that I normally hang off of furntiture in our dining room) looked like Christmas ornaments if you squinted at them; and
• The two-gallon zipper bag that was on top of the totes-o'-mystery contained a tree skirt and the holiday tablecloth that I was bemoaning having left behind.

I separated out twenty or so items that could be pressed into service as ornaments, and then I went to town with the rest.  Here's the mantel:

Remember the harvest decor that I said I found a way to utilize?  Yup, wrapped 'em to look like presents.  Needed heavy things to anchor the boys' stockings and also some filler for the display shelf in the entry hall (photo to follow).  The stack of "gifts" under the Santa and reindeer conga line (top right below) are actually some books that I brought with me to the apartment and already finished reading.  The blue one, I believe, is "The Social Network."  Which is appropriate because, you know, Facebook is blue and all.

Present above the mantel . . . is the painting that was hanging above the mantel, wrapped to look like a present.  Once upon a time the painting was a present, and now it's a present again.  [Hums "Circle of Life" from Lion King.]

I could only figure out how to anchor two of the stockings from the mantel, so my stocking and the Spouse's are hanging off of the weird chair-shelf objet that I seem to drag from dining room to dining room.  Wine rack recently relocated to this wall to make room for the two new barstools that I bought for the house but decided that we should enjoy while we're in the apartment.  (There's a bar counter off of the kitchen that the stools service just perfectly - the kids now have their breakfast there.)

Here's a close-up of the chair-shelf-thingie.  Star on the top is our tree topper, which I did not feel like putting on the actual tree.  So now it's a chair-shelf-thingie topper.

My quilt scrap-and-stryofoam cone project is in the alcove in the entry hall, displayed (along with a only-sort-of-scary Mary Engelbreit Santa head and some Santa candlesticks) in front of gifts that - you guessed it - are wrapped Thanksgiving items.   (The square package is a turkey canvas that I painted that reads, "We Give Thanks for Unknown  Blessings Already on Their Way," and the rectangular package is "Pie Fixes Everything.")

I was also pleased to discover some Christmas photos lurking in frames (I have a habit of layering multiple photos in a frame and rotating through them as the seasons change, so, sure enough, when I looked in these, I found Christmas photos hanging out in back).

Gittings Santa, taken at Ridglea Country Club, what? - four years ago?  Yeah, based on my haircut and hair color, I think that's right.  (Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be a man and to look  SUBSTANTIALLY THE SAME IN ALL OF YOUR PHOTOS.  Looking at photos of me over the years is like looking at a montage of identity changes from "La Femme Nikita.")

Here is a photo of me and my frimily posing in Santa hats:

Yes, I know that we look like Realtors.  It's part of why we like this particular shot.  On account of the cheese factor.

Leaving out the tree for now, but photos to follow.  Initial plan was to buy a smaller tree, but here's the thing:  I'm a cheapskate, and I'm also an artificial tree snob.  I have to have a certain color, and it has to have a certain fullness, and the whole thing just needs to look REAL.  So, at the end of the day, I couldn't justify spending what it would take me to get happy about a new fake tree, and since I refused to skimp there was no option but to bring our real fake tree over from the house. Only problem is, it's a fairly substantial tree.  Not super-tall, but really, really full.

Armed with paper chains and snowflakes, two small boxes of heirloom ornaments, and a pile of random junk, I had my work cut out for me.

3 of 25: I Elf The Apartment, Part 1

So - full disclosure - I never truly accepted the possibility that we would still be displaced at Christmas.

Hence the fact that I brought all of the Halloween decorations with us to the apartment, and all of the Thanksgiving decorations, but only a handful of Christmas items.

The kids' Christmas clothes made the move, but logic behind that was that we would take holiday photos in November, just prior to returning to the house.

Yeah, November pictures didn't happen.  And we didn't return to the house after Thanksgiving, either.

On some level, I guess I thought that, if it became relevant, we would go up into the attic and retrieve what we needed.  But - small problem - the house is lacking a floor, so going up the ladder into the attic is a bit of a problem, unless you are a fan of climbing a ladder that is floating in space because it has no floor on which to rest.

We weren't completely out of luck.  I brought two slightly-bigger-than-shoebox-sized Rubbermaid totes with us that happened to be in one of the boys' closets.  Didn't look in the totes, but I knew that they were Christmas-ish.  Along with those came a two-gallon-sized storage bag that I thought held the family stockings.

Yeah, stockings weren't in there.  Fortunately, they were in a credenza in my office.  You read that right.  Here's the deal:  know those parents who, when they travel without their kids, take separate airplanes on the theory that, statistically, there's little chance of both of them crashing, so someone's bound to survive the trip?  Okay, so I do that with the Christmas ornaments.  The heirloom ones (things that the kids made and things that our mothers made) are in a credenza in my office, along with the stockings, on the theory that, if there's a fire, the fire suppression sprinklers will save them.  The rest of the ornaments are split in half, and half go up into the attic, and the other half go into the carriage house (again, on the theory that if one structure burns, perhaps the other one won't).

No, I haven't been diagnosed with OCD, but I do have my suspicions.  Thanks for asking.

That meant that I had access to two small (shoebox-sized) containers of ornaments (the truly meaningful ones) and, technically, I also had access to whatever was in the carriage house.  However, I wasn't too jazzed about digging through the carriage house, given that - until very recently, when progress finally started to be made on our home - hanging around the old homestead hasn't exactly given me the warm fuzzies.

So I gave myself a challenge:

Take the money that I would usually spend in any given year buying new Christmas decor, apply that to craft supplies and Elf the Apartment.  Decorations would consist of whatever I crafted and whatever was in the four totes and one two-gallon bag.

Hit a couple of craft stores and Tuesday Morning and purchased, among other items, ribbon, wrapping paper, scrapbook paper, a couple of fat quarters (you know, those squares of fabric scraps that you use for quilting), a ball of blue yarn, a styrofoam cone, some straight pins, a bunch of mittens from the dollar aisles at Joann and Target, some yarn-wrapped ornaments (also from the Target dollar aisle), a handful of tinsel snowflakes from Dollar Tree and a package of foam snowflakes from Wal-Mart.  Oh, and a couple of blank canvases.

I promise that it all makes sense when you see it.

And then I got to work transforming the apartment, which started out looking like this:

I utilized some of the fall-colored and -themed items, like this fabric-covered box and this turkey canvas, for my Christmas decor (I promise that that will make sense, too):

Then I got crafty.  My first project:  a tree, using scraps cut from the fat quarters, straight pins and the styrofoam cone.  Here is said tree at the halfway point:

And here is the finished product.

The Big Kid helped me for a couple of minutes, and then he announced that he wase bored and walked away, never to return.  I think he was frustrated by my insistence on controlling the overall pattern and ratio of blue-to-green-to-red-to-pink.

ADHD meets OCD.

Next I got to painting.  Plan was to recreate some canvases that I painted several years back (and that are packed who-knows-where), in colors that would match my selected colors.

They turned out really well.  So well, that I decided to make them my auction item for one of my Woman's Club groups, where they went over so well that I am now obligated to paint three more.

But I did keep this one:

After the painting party came the paper-snowflake-and-mitten-and-chain-making party.  The kids helped with that project.  The Little Kid enjoyed making snowflakes and cutting out traced hands, which he decorated to look like mittens.   In the meantime, the Big Kid assembled a bazillion feet of paper chains.  Clearly, he inherited my OCD tendencies, as he insisted on assembling the chains so that they would demonstrate a continuous pattern whether you looked at them from the side or from above.

I wasn't really sure what we were going to need in the way of decorations (on account of how I hadn't opened any of the four totes or the two-gallon bag year - that was also part of the challenge, to wait until the last minute to see what we were working with), so we just made stuff until we got tired of cutting, taping and gluing.

So how did we do?  Stay tuned for Part 2 of "I Elf the Apartment," which I may get around to typing later tonight - or not.

2 of 25: The Ubiquitous Holiday Card

So I bought the boys matching green-and-white gingham button-downs and had them monogrammed in red, intending to snap some pictures over the weekend for holiday cards. And then the following things happened:

• The rainy, cold weather moved in;
• I had to bring a truckload of commercial leasing work home with me;
• While plowing through said work, I opened Shutterfly in a window in my browser and finished putting together our annual family calendar between lease paragraphs;
• In perusing through our family photos, I made note of the statistically significant number of shots featuring our family near a body of water, our children being goofy, or our family near a body of water while our children are being goofy;
• In proceeding to the "Order" page, I made note of the many cute holiday photo cards available at a 30 percent discount now through December 4th; and
• I decided to just go with it.

I mean, really, nothing says our family more than this does:

Photo calendars for the grandparents: ordered. And, along with them, our holiday cards. Done, and done.

1 of 25: Mother of the Year

One day of December down, twenty four to go until Christmas (hence the "1 of 25" above).  And, boy, did I start out the month with a bang.

Wednesday night, the Small One placed into our hand a photocopied invitation to the "First Grade Second Six Weeks Awards Ceremony."  They started having these once-a-six-weeks programs when he was in kindergarten.  By my count, we have skipped seven in a row.  In case you couldn't tell from the immediately preceding sentence, I have a very ambivalent relationship with the once-a-six-weeks awards ceremony concept.  I feel roughly the same way about them that I do about "PARTICIPANT" ribbons.  Do we really need to pat our children on the back for showing up?  "Yay, you  made it through another six weeks of school."  Isn't that sort of expected?

Not that I have a better relationship with the end-of-year awards ceremony concept in its current incarnation.  Back in the day, if you were the best student in multiple subjects, you got multiple awards.  That's not the case now, in this time of the PARTICIPANT ribbon.  No, if the same kid is the best in, say, math AND in science, we pick one of those subjects out of a hat, give him that award, and give the other award to someone who came kinda close.  Okay, I'm on board with the general notion that no one benefits from getting a swelled head early in life.  Lots of cautionary tales of folks who peaked too early and all.  But let's not blow sunshine up the patoot of the kid who came in second but gets treated like he was first.  Kids being kids, he's probably all too aware that he didn't come in first (because no doubt my older child - I mean, the theoretical child who actually came in first - lorded it over him), so give it a different title. 

I would like to suggest the "You Were in the Ballpark Award."

I did not express these thoughts out loud when the Small One looked up at me with those soulful Antonio-Banderas-as-Puss-in-Boots eyes and asked, "Mommy, will you come to my awards ceremony?"  No, I said, "YES, I will come to your awards ceremony," because I am well aware that the Small One's parents are prone to yada-yada'ing over his academic career.  As in, his brother brought home straight A's yesterday, which was notable because he is on the fastest of fast tracks in his middle school magnet program, so it was a cause for celebration that shining atop the pile of A's was a high A in his ridiculously accelerated math class. 

The Small One also brought home straight A's, but this did not merit as much (initial) celebration.  Thanks to the Big Kid, we are used to seeing straight A's on elementary school report cards.  In fact, we saw them 36 times in a row during Big Kid's elementary career.  So the Small One making straight A's is sort of expected.

But that's not fair, is it?

So I told him that, YES, Mommy would be at his awards ceremony.  Then Thursday morning dawned, Spouse took the kids to school (offering chauffeur service to the Big Kid who didn't want to wait for the bus in the cold) and I started puttering around the apartment.  Said puttering included photographing our Christmas decorations for an upcoming series of blog posts (which I shall title "I Elfed the Apartment" or some variation thereof).

I was so busy photographing Christmas decorations that I kind of forgot about the awards ceremony.  I remembered it halfway through my shower.  And then I thought a four-letter expletive beginning with F.

For a minute, I thought about not even trying to make it.  But then I said, "No, Self, you MUST go to the entirely pointless fake awards ceremony.  You PROMISED."  And so it is that I left the apartment Thursday morning with wet hair, dressed only a little bit like a bag lady.  But - points in my favor - I left wearing makeup, deodorant, AND PERFUME, and both of my shoes matched, and I remembered my cell phone AND MY WEDDING RING.  I left the house at precisely the moment that the ceremony was supposed to start, and (thanks to my uncanny ability to navigate back roads) I pulled up at the school only 10 minutes late by my car clock (which means I was 8 minutes late in real time - clock is 2 minutes fast, and I have decided that I like it that way).

Fortunately, nothing ever runs on time in elementary school.  I ran into the auditorium just as the Small One's class was filing in.  I caught his teacher's attention, she caught his, and he looked up at me and simply beamed.

And I cried the first happy tears of the official Christmas season.  (Okay, I didn't actually cry, but my eyes got noticeably watery.)

I believe that my efforts merit me a "You Were in the Ballpark Award."  Don't you agree?  And I am actually happy that I attended, because - in addition to making my child's day - I discovered something of critical importance during the course of the awards ceremony:

Every child gets an award.

There are two types of awards:  Perfect Attendance and Excellent Conduct.  Some kids get both, but everyone gets at least one.

Do the math, people.  Attendance is a constant.  Either you were there every day, or you weren't.  So you either earn a Perfect Attendance award or you don't.  But if everyone gets at least one type of award -

THAT MEANS THAT EXCELLENT CONDUCT IS A VARIABLE.

I am now convinced that, if my "talks at inappropriate times" youngest son misses at least one day of school in each of the next four grading periods, he will "earn" himself four consecutive E's in conduct. 

By default.  Because if he doesn't get an E, then they won't have a certificate to hand to him during the fake awards ceremony.

This is not information that I had in my possession prior to actually attending a fake awards ceremony.  So, see, there is some upside to being a PARTICIPANT.

I'm not saying that I'm going to let my kid skip school.  But, with cold and flu season coming up and all - you know, I think a few absences are inevitable.

I shared my theory with Spouse when he showed up for the fake awards ceremony many minutes after I arrived.  (So many minutes, in fact, that I had had time to swing by the front office, log into the computer and claim my "Visitor" badge, which I demurely pointed out to Spouse when he arrived:  "BOOYAH!  I GOT HERE EARLY ENOUGH TO GET A VISITOR BADGE!  HOW DO YOU LIKE DEM APPLES?")

He was impressed with my powers of deduction.  And also with my badge.

I picked up more parenting points Thursday evening by accompanying both children to Movie Night at the elementary school, where we enjoyed a showing of "Cars 2" in our pajamas.  (Well, the Small One wore pajamas.  I wore my sort-of bag lady clothing from earlier in the day.)

All's well that ends well.

Kid Stuff: Slippery Vixen

The scene:  I am heading south to the apartment, and Spouse and the kids are heading north on the same road.  Spouse and I are on the phone, discussing who is likely to arrive first, who should park in the garage, etc.  Twice, he opined that he and the kids would arrive before me, given that I had to make my way through a typically nasty road construction-related traffic snafu.  I checked out what was ahead of me and reported that things didn't look that bad.

I was unaware that, from the perspective of one of the backseat passengers, the gauntlet had been thrown.

I got home first and pulled into the garage with Spouse hot on my heels (tires)?  Doors opened, Spouse literally (LITERALLY) fell out of the driver's side laughing his patoot off, and the seven year-old burst out of the backseat hollering:

"YOU SLIPPERY VIXEN!!!!  I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU BEAT US!"

Slippery vixen?

Spouse assured me that the phrase did not originate with Spouse but, rather, with the seven year-old - hence, the falling-out-laughing part.

I have been called a nimble minx before, but never a slippery vixen.

Postscript:  Yup, Google confirmed it.  It's a Phineas and Ferb reference.  God bless P and F for making us laugh even when we aren't in front of the TV tuned into their show.

The Event: The McGlincheys Move to Europe

Okay, we're not moving to Europe - but our kitchen is.  Or, more precisely, Europe is moving into our kitchen.  Bringing with it induction cooktops and convection ovens.

After many hours spent staring at things in home improvement showrooms, we have determined that we are not a double oven family. What we are is a “single oven with two microwaves, one of which also has true European convection and infrared broiling” family. When I started to think about it, I very rarely need two ovens, but there are tons of times when I wish I had two microwaves. And if one of those microwaves also bakes and broils . . . sold.


Item on the left: Jenn-Air oven with multi-mode convection and professional handle. It’s ridiculous how much I love that professional handle. They make the same model with a normal handle (like the one on the right) that would allow this item to blend in with the other items in close proximity – but I don’t care if the professional handle clashes, because everything about it is amazingly right.  It feels good in the hand, it's a substantial weight, the ratio of the weight of the handle to the weight of the door is exactly perfect.  Everything just balances, dammit.  So I'm getting my handle, overall aesthetics be damned.

Dad approves of the Jenn-Air (and a similar Kitchen-Aid model that I don’t like as much, BECAUSE IT DOESN’T HAVE THE PROFESSIONAL HANDLE), because it is capable of doing complex math calculations in its little oven head.  You program in the regular temperature and time and it converts to convection numbers.  I'm not entirely sure, but it's possible that it will even do your taxes for you.

The kids like the Jenn-Air because IT SINGS TO THEM. I am not making that up.  Opening the door powers up the onboard computer, and the computer plays a happy little chime to let you know that it's awake and ready to cook things for you.

Did I mention that it has a "Favorites" feature - not unlike Microsoft Explorer or Mozilla Firefox?  You can bookmark your favorite cooking times.

Yeah, I'm fairly sure that the thing also does taxes. 

The heating element is hidden (so nothing drips on the burners), and there is the most amazing insulation around the door. Seriously.

The Kitchen-Aid has the same insulation, and - as noted above - it also does the conversion thing.  But it does not chime, and IT DOES NOT HAVE THE PROFESSIONAL HANDLE (which is weird, because the professional handle is offered as part of an oven/range combo, but not in the wall oven).  I am afraid that I will end up with the Kitchen-Aid, because Spouse is on a streak of finding amazing deals on Kitchen-Aid appliances, and Spouse is in charge of purchasing.  (This is what Spouse does best.  His skills at finding stuff that fell off of trucks would put any mid-level Mafioso to shame.)  If I end up with the Kitchen-Aid, I will still be happy - notwithstanding its lack of chime, professional handle AND Favorites button, and did I mention its odd cobalt blue interior?

Okay, I really want the Jenn-Air.

Item on the right: bad-a** Miele microwave oven with true European convection and infrared broiling.  It does not sing, but if it did, it would sing "Deutschland Uber Alles."  Miele is just a bit smug about its products, in that smug German way (Miele's tag line:  "Immer Besser," which translates into "Ever Better"), but with good reason:  they totally rock. 

And I totally want this oven in my kitchen.

Regular oven is going on the bottom (but not too low). Miele microwave is going on top, and in between (at kid height) we plan to build in a traditional microwave (the kind where the door opens outward; the Miele model opens down, like a regular oven), so the kids can pop their popcorn, etc. The Miele is possibly too complicated for child use, although part of my reason for selecting this model is that you switch from micro to convection to broiler using dials, and the options surrounding the dials are spelled out in big, clear letters.  In other words, it's somewhat more idiot-proof than the convection microwaves with the panels, which scare me, because you could brush up against the wrong button and accidentally cause Armageddon if you have the wrong pan inside.  This one has dials.  (When I typed that, I did so using my best Nigel Tufnel voice in my head:  "This one goes to eleven.")

My kitchen is going to be amps on eleven.  If it ever gets finished.

Kid Stuff: Pumpkin Boy

PJ was "Pumpkin Boy" from the get-go.  Two weeks before his arrival, in a fit of boredom, I donned a tube top and sweatpants and my spouse painted my stomach to look like a jack o' lantern (using orange and black Halloween grease paint).  I literally bellied up to the bar (well, the kitchen countertop), and we cropped the tube top out of the photo, so all you see is a ginormous pumpkin belly.  That photograph is in his baby book, next to the ubiquitous "first photo" taken of him by the hospital photographer.  Given that it was Halloween, we thought it appropriate to dress him in orange coveralls and a matching pumpkin hat.  Not seen in the photo:  the long john-style trapdoor in the back, labeled (appropriately enough, for an infant) "Trick or Treat."  (Gallows humor; not many treats coming out of that end, to be sure.)

Fast forward seven years.  PJ LURRRRRVES pumpkin EVERYTHING.  Coincidence?  I say nay.  Starting in early October, the fridge was stocked with pumpkin-flavored milk, and we had a carton of Dreyer's pumpkin ice cream in the freezer.  When his actual birthday arrived, he eschewed all of the vanilla and chocolate cupcake varieties at J Rae's in favor of . . . pumpkin spice. 

And then it was Thanksgiving week, and a few days before the big day PJ noted the large can that had been placed at his eye level in the pantry:

"WHOA.  MOM.  You have PUMPKIN PIE IN A CAN?!?"

Um, no - yes, I see that there's a picture of pie on the can, but the contents of the can are the contents of a pumpkin pie.  There isn't an actual pie IN THE CAN.

Harumph.  PJ thought that this was false advertising.  He brightened when I assured him that Nana would be bringing a pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving.

Later that day, acting on a tip from a Facebook friend, I bought a carton of Blue Bell's Spiced Pumpkin Pecan ice cream.  We tend to avoid Blue Bell (yes, I know that them's fightin' words in Tejas), because Dreyer's has less fat and calories.  But Facebook Friend said that the Blue Bell pecan variant was the bomb diggity.  She wasn't lying.  I whipped up a batch of pumpkin spice cookies and surprised PJ with a "pumpkin-squared sammie."

Needless to say, I won major parental points.

We ran out of pumpkin spice cookies before we ran out of Blue Bell, so as of today we have moved on to soft-baked gingersnaps, which add a whole layer of flavor and dimension to PJ's new favorite dessert.

Gotta love Pumpkin Boy.

Kid Stuff: Another Day, Another Manifesto

The Unawriter continues to make appearances at Casa McGlinchey.

My mom babysat for us awhile back.  She came bearing six donuts - one for each child to consume after dinner, and two each for breakfast the following morning.

Apparently, while watching PJ do his homework, she commented on his sloppy handwriting and told him that she knew that he could do better.

He pitched a fit, and she responded by revoking his donut privileges.

PJ responded with the following:

Allow me to translate.  "OPEN, NANA.  I said I'm sorry.  Please let me have 3 donuts, pretty please.  I'm super sorry, Nana.  Check yes or no if you accept my apologies.  Yes or no."

We also got a note this afternoon, when we told the boys that they could not go out to ride bikes and play soccer unless they made a serious effort to summit Mount Toysandjunk (I think it was tall enough to qualify as a mountain) and return things to their appropriate boxes and bins.  A few minutes after being sent off to tackle this task, PJ returned to our room with a note that said:  "You said I can't play soccer unless I clean, but Connor said that I was annoying him and made me leave the room, SO NOW I CAN'T CLEAN WHICH MEANS THAT I CAN'T PLAY SOCCER."

You're probably wondering why he simply didn't just TELL US this information?  Yeah, good point.  His voice works and all (and how - he's a loud one).  But it's ever so much more dramatic to enter the room in "silent running" mode and shove a note in an adult's hand, and then wait expectantly (remaining close-lipped) while they read it, and stifle their urge to laugh out loud.

If notebook paper (his preferred canvas) is unavailable, a parking lot and chalk will do in a pinch.  Here is the Unawriter at work at a recent TCU tailgate:

We start out innocent enough:  "Frogs rule, yo."  Okay, so a little attitude there, but all in good fun.

Then we add some art:

I believe that says, "TCU Rocks."  And, yes, that's a horned frog - I think.  Our horned frogs look an awful lot like our stegosauri.

Then we ask one of the girls to create a chalk body outline for us.

Big Bro is enlisted to draw a second body outline.

And then the mayhem begins.  Aww, he's adding a heart:

And drawing an arrow through it.  See, that's a Colorado State player - and the TCU defense JUST DONE WENT AND SHOVED A STAKE THROUGH HIS CHEST, YO.

I try not to worry when he draws crime scenes.  He's a boy, after all, and a dramatic one at that.  It was less than a year ago when he announced his career aspiration to play a corpse on CSI Miami and then have lunch at the craft services table.  (Why CSI Miami?  Two words:  Spring Break.  Spring Breakers tend to be young, and he wants to get a jump on this acting thing by being cast as a dead guy sooner rather than later.  Also, Spring Breakers tend to get themselves in lots of trouble, making for MUCH DRAMA.  This whole topic arose when PJ happened to walk in on a CSI Miami episode where a drunk Spring Breaker had fallen off of a balcony and impaled himself on a giant post at pool level.  For a second, I naively thought that the open-mouthed expression on my then six year-old's face signaled horror rather than admiration.  I quickly went into damage control mode:  "Isn't that kid a great actor?  He has to sit there perfectly still and not blink or twitch, and he gets to wear that cool makeup and a prosthetic device that makes him look like he has a spike through his stomach.  Cool, huh?"  Cool, indeed.  The wheels were already turning.  Playing a dead guy:  pretty awesome.  Playing a truly messed-up dead guy dripping in gore:  amps on eleven.)

So I'd be lying if I told you that our installation at the TCU game was our first foray into the true crime genre.  A few weeks ago, PJ was bored, so he started drawing imaginary crime scenes, and - being PJ - he labeled everything.  In the left margin:  the weapon, labeled "rifle" or "pistol" as appropriate.  In the middle:  the victim, with X's for eyes.  To the right:  THE TIME OF DEATH.  SOOOOO many questions:  Does he do this at school?  Surely not, or we would have received a call home by now.  Did he have to assign the victims names of ACTUAL CLASSMATES?   I made inquiries and quickly determined that he bore no ill will towards the named students - they were just people he knew, and therefore knew how to draw.  I gently outlined for him the consequences of making a perceived terroristic threat in a public school and received a horrified assurance that he would not be drawing any more crime scenes - at least, not in class.

I asked my spouse if we should be concerned.  He gave me the look that says, "Oh, honey, sometimes it is so obvious that you did not grow up with a brother."  How did PJ know the difference between a rifle and a pistol?  Um, because he's a boy.  It's a boy's job to know the difference.  Give a boy a room full of innocuous, non-weapon-y toys, and he WILL find a way to turn one into a pretend firearm.  Or, in the case of my boys, give them a ream of notebook paper, some crayons and tape, and THEY WILL CREATE BROADSWORDS AND BOWIE KNIVES OUT OF PAPER.  No, I am not making this up.  The other day, I discovered a paper battle axe.  (Okay, maybe that one was an editorial comment from my spouse?)  During the same cleaning spree, I found what I initially thought was an abandoned Unawriter note but subsequently determined was an actual list of toys that could be used as weapons in a pinch.  The title of the list:  "THINGS TO USE FOR REEVENGE OR FITEING WITH MY BROTHER."

All of this reminds me of my Brownie Scout days.  The boy who lived diagonally across the street was in Cub Scouts.  He managed to sever his finger after slamming it in a car door, and his parents packed it in ice, drove their child and his finger to the hospital.  The finger was successfully reattached.  (This was all EXTREMELY cutting-edge stuff - remember that I was a Brownie Scout in the seventies.)  Our Brownie troop made him get well soon cards, featuring flowers and rainbows and unicorns.  His Cub Scout troop also made him get well cards - each and every one featuring a depiction of a bloody severed finger.

I recall being horrified - but I guess that's not surprising.  On account of the fact that I didn't grow up with a brother.

Kid Stuff: The Tallboy Fought PJ, and PJ Won

So we were going to go out to dinner on Wednesday night, and I was en route to the apartment to rendezvous with the rest of the fam when The Spouse called:

"Can you meet us at urgent care?"

"And to whom do I owe the pleasure?"

At this point, I identified the source of the wailing in The Spouse's backseat as The Little Kid.

"PJ may have broken his arm."

"Explain."

"He couldn't find the remote, so he was reaching up to change the channel remotely, and he pulled the TV and the tall chest over on top of him, and for a minute he was pinned to the bed."

Lovely.

So many thoughts at once: 

Damn The Event.  At home, dangerous furniture was secured to the wall.  At the apartment:  not our furniture, not our wall.

Spouse, I told you so.  I told you that if you didn't bring the kids' (smaller) TV over to the apartment on the first day, the movers were going to accidentally pack it up.  After they accidentally packed it up, I told you that putting the larger TV on top of the tall-and-narrow chest was a recipe for disaster.

What is it with my kids and broken arms?

Then I had a panic attack:  what if his neck or back was broken, but not all of the way through?  What if he moved a certain way, and the break competed itself, and his spinal cord was severed?  Seriously, this happened to my mother's cousin's wife:  she was run over by a car in her driveway while sunbathing (okay, I realize that that sounds totally ridiculous, but I do not think that my mother had a reason to lie, and I SWEAR this is how the story was recounted to me, several times), and initially she got up and was moving around like nothing was seriously wrong, but her husband took her to the hospital in an abundance of caution, and the doctor asked her if she could move her head from one side to the other, and she did, and she died.

Thus ends the tragic tale of my mother's cousin's wife.

I called The Spouse back:

"ABORT!  ABORT!  Take him to the ER!  He needs to be immobilized and strapped to a backboard!"

"He's fine.  With all of the flailing about, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth, anything that was going to snap would have snapped by now.  [The Spouse has heard the tragic tale of my mother's cousin's wife.]  I don't even think that his arm is broken."

We agreed to take him for an X-ray out of an abundance of caution.

Fast forward an hour.  After suffering through forty five choruses of, "Am I next?  How long is this going to take?" we were taken to the back.  Pretty much already knowing what the verdict was going to be, because, the longer we had to wait, the more forced his "Ow, my arms" were becoming, and the more times he slipped up and actually used said arm in a way wholly inconsistent with an actual broken arm. 

PJ to the nurse:

"Hi.  I'm PJ.  You might remember my brother?  You have X-rayed his arm before.  A couple of times.  But this is MY first time."

Doctor came in, examined him, took note of zero swelling, and then gave me a look over his head that clearly said, "And I'm looking at this kid why?"  I rolled my eyes and shrugged, hopefully conveying the "abundance of caution" message.

Doctor:  "PJ, can you take your shirt off for me so that I can look at your shoulder?"

Ah, the classic "let's see if the kid's faking" gambit. 

PJ:  "My arm's broken.  YOU take it off."

Wow, he's good.

Doctor:  "Can you just see if you can lift your arm over your head?"

PJ:  "Ow.  Ow.  OW."

Big Brother:  "He's faking.  HE'S FAKING, MOM.  I have broken my arm twice, and sprained it once, and I can tell that he's faking."

PJ:  "STOP IT!  MY ARM IS REALLY BROKEN!"

Big Brother:  "If you keep this up, it's your own funeral.  Because Mom will make you keep it in a sling, and she'll write a note for PE, and you won't get to go to recess, and you'll get really, really bored, and the only way to get out of wearing the sling will be to tell Mom that you lied."

Big Brother knows me pretty well by now.

X-ray technician arrives.

PJ:  "YAY.  My first X-ray.  I love X-rays."

Big Brother:  "How can you love them if you have never had one before?  And, also, X-rays are dangerous.  And expensive.  Mom and Dad may dock your allowance."

Dad asks Big Brother to kindly stop co-parenting.  Mom thinks that he is doing a pretty good job.

The X-ray reveals something odd where the shoulder inserts - something odd in the growth plate.  Of course in the growth plate.  It's always the growth plate.  Doctor wants to take a look at the other shoulder, for the sake of comparison.

Great.  TWO X-rays.

Right shoulder looks exactly like the left one.  Apparently, my child has oddly formed shoulders.  Um, good to know?  Child is given a placebo sling.  Child is irritated:  "I really do think it's broken."

"Well, we'll have the radiologist have a look at it in the morning, and if it's broken we'll call your mom.  If we don't call, then you can take the sling off once it stops hurting."

Placebo sling made it until lunch the next day.

When we got back to the apartment, we determined that, while tallboy didn't do much damage to child, child did some damage to the tallboy, requiring a wood glue repair to a drawer support. 

The TV fired right back up.  No damage whatsoever.

So, for those scoring at home, that's McGlincheys 2, McGlincheys' Television 1, Murderous Apartment 0.  (Remember that the first day in the Murderous Apartment, the big kid took a tumble down the steps - REQUIRING AN X-RAY.  I am starting to suspect that the Murderous Apartment is getting kickbacks from the urgent care.)

Two final notes, and I'll wrap up the tragic tale of my drama king seven year-old and the rented tallboy dresser:

(1)  Upon returning home, Big Brother, in a moment of uncharacteristic emotion, turned to me and said, "Mom, if PJ hadn't thrown a shoulder at the chest the way he did, he could have DIED."  As I was opening my mouth to explain that, as a parent, you have to shut your mind to "woulda, coulda" thoughts, or you go crazy, Big Brother continued:  "If he had died, do you think that we would give his toys to charity, or would we have a garage sale?  Do you think we would keep some of his toys as a reminder of him, and, if so, for how long?"

Yeah, I got nothin'.

(2)  From the Department of Ironies:  as noted above, PJ pulled over the tallboy and TV as he was attempting to change channels manually, because he could not find the remote.  Know what hit PJ first?  THE REMOTE - AS IT SLID OFF OF ITS PLACE ON THE TALLBOY, DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE BUTTON THAT PJ WAS REACHING FOR.  Clearly, he is his father's son.  My spouse can, and frequently does, look for something in the pantry for eons without finding it, at which point I will open the pantry door and the item in question will be on the front row, at my spouse's exact eye level.  My question ever time:  "You couldn't find THAT?"  His answer every time:  "Nope, because it didn't leap into my outstretched hands."

As it turns out, the remote did leap into PJ's outstretched hands.

Kind of funny.  Not funny ha-ha, funny ironic.

Okay, kind of funny ha-ha, too.  Because, as a parent, you have to laugh to keep from beating your head against a wall.

Thirty Days of Thanksgiving - Days 16 Through 20

Day 16:  Thankful for good friends who know that I still love them and am thinking about them even when I don't get around to actually calling or e-mailing them.  I have admittedly strayed off of the grid this fall, on account of The Event.  In a lot of ways, it's like life stopped for us in July, and we were transported to some alternate reality that is kind of like real life, but not.  I was reminded of this in a quite tangible way when I went to the house for the first time in a long time, and I actually took the time to look at my front yard for the first time in a long time.  In addition to noticing that my coleus were leggy and in need of pruning, I couldn't help but notice the red, white and blue pinwheels and patriotic garden flag - yard decor that I decided to leave out for the entire month of July.  And then, in the last week of July, life ground to a halt.  And the Fourth of July yard kitsch have been out on display ever since.  No back to school banner, no display of hay bales and pumpkins, and - next month - no Christmas lights.  Okay, straying off-topic - back to my tolerant and inexhaustably patient friends, who are probably reading this and thinking, "ENOUGH ABOUT  YOUR STUPID YARD ART, ALREADY."  But they don't say that out loud.  Out loud, and in e-mails, they say incredibly supportive things, and they indulge me when I go ON AND ON AND ON about how much the house situation sucks, and they (hopefully) understand that this, too, shall pass, and in a couple of months I will be back in the swing of things, and will actually make it to keno, and to happy hour, and - in fact - will be overjoyed to host keno, and happy hour, so that I can utilize my new groovy copper bar sink.

Until we get back to square, thanks for putting up with me.  You all know who you are.

Day 17:   Thankful for the fact that my children appear to be constructed entirely of steel, with a Teflon outer coating.  Story behind this one deserves its own post.  And so its own post it shall be given.

Day 18:  Thankful for the Crock Pot.  Back in August, I committed to bringing brisket taco meat to the tailgate for the last TCU home game of the year.  I distinctly remember the spouse taking me to task for committing to do anything when we were poised to have our lives disrupted, and I distinctly remember responding that I picked the last home game because surely we would be back in the house by then.

Ah, naivete.

Did I mention that the insurance company extended the lease on the apartment through January 12th?  Sigh.  That development gets its own post, too.

But back to being thankful for the Crock Pot - specifically, my mother's oversized identical twin Crock Pots, which I just used to cook twelve pounds of brisket.  Picked up the brisket and brisket fixin's on Thursday, on the way home from "Social Studies Night" at C's school (it was exciting as it sounds), then procured said Crock Pots, cut the brisket into manageable chunks and kept the meat in the fridge overnight.  On Friday I went to Encore's auction fundraiser, got home at 10 pm, and fired those puppies right up.  Around 4 am, I woke up thinking about the house (this happens all too often lately - I compose letters to the adjuster in my sleep), downshifted the Crock Pots from "high" to "low," and went back to sleep.  Meat was done by 7 am.  A little trimming, some shredding, and a bit more seasoning, and - bam! - good to go.

God bless the Crock Pot.

Day 19:  Day 18 didn't find me feeling terribly thankful, due to house issues and what seemed to be a rotten day all around, for me, various members of my family and a couple of clients.  Kind of wanted to skip Encore's auction, but so glad that I forced myself to indulge in some girl time.  Came home in a much healthier state of mind, so on Day 19 I had to give a shout-out to the ladies of Encore, and also to Lamar the awesome Cabinet Dude and our equally awesome plumber and electrician.  They show up on time, do their jobs right and bill appropriately.  Exhibit A of why cloning might not be a bad idea.

Day 20:    Thankful to be an Alpha Delta Pi.  Spent a gorgeous (if a little windy) Saturday tailgating with TCU ADPi friends, who are just as important to me as my UT sisters are.  As the day was winding down, I ran into another ADPi sister - pledge sister from Texas - who, in fact, used to own the home that my parents live in now.  Small world.  Being in a sorority does make life seem smaller, in a good way.  Less scary.  The first group I got involved with when I moved to Fort Worth was the local alumnae group.  Through that group, I became involved in Fort Worth Panhellenic, and through Panhellenic I:  became involved with a number of other nonprofit organizations; met my future next door neighbor, godmother to my youngest child and surrogate big sister (it's all the same person); and began friendships that I cemented after joining Junior Woman's Club and Junior League.  So, if you think about it, the fact that I have put down so many roots - big HONKIN' roots - in Fort Worth in a relatively short time frame is directly attributable to my sorority.  Of course, it goes much deeper than that:  sorority involvement taught me leadership and interpersonal skills that I use to this day.  It taught me how to be friends with other women.  Well, it started that process - I didn't get good at being friends with other women until I was much older.  I wasn't just an only child, I was an Army brat who moved nine times in six years.  Making friends:  part of my skill set from the get-go.  Keeping friends:  now, THAT was the difficult part.  ADPi provided me with my first experiences in having, and being, a "sister."  Sisters fight, they annoy each other, but they never write each other off.  They continue to see the good underneath the surface.

Again, a lesson that I use to this day.

Gotta go - time to write a check to the alumnae association capital campaign.

Thirty Days of Thanksgiving - Days 11 Through 15

Day 11:  Veteran's Day.  Thankful for all veterans, particularly those in my family tree.  I am the product of two military families:  my mom's older brother and two of her uncles were West Point grads, and my dad and two of his brothers were career Army officers.  That's how my parents met, actually.  Have I ever mentioned that?  My dad and my mom's brother served together.  I always labored under the assumption that my uncle introduced my parents, which quite honestly surprised me, as I had heard a lot of stories about him denying his friends access to her in their high school years.  You know, "don't even THINK about asking my sister out on a date" kind of stuff.  Turns out that he never outgrew the protective big brother role:  a mutual friend of my uncle and my dad arranged the set-up date, to my uncle's considerable consternation.  My dad was a FRIEND, and FRIENDS DON'T DATE YOUR SISTER.  But my clever dad found the loophole:  instead of dating her, he married her.  Seriously; he proposed to her on the second date.

It gets weirder, people:  my dad's brothers ended up working at the Pentagon with my mom's brother, and Dad's baby brother - Uncle Don - rode carpool from the Virginia suburbs into DC with my mom's brother, Uncle George.   Uncle George's wife had a friend who also needed a ride into the city, so she joined the carpool - and subsequently married Uncle Don and became my Aunt Carol.  Because the wives were good friends, their kids were good friends as well, so my cousin on one side of the family was the matron of honor in the wedding of my cousin on the other side of my family, et cetera.

But I digress.  This is about veterans.  Dad's great-great-great-etc. grandfather, Charnel Durham, was a Revolutionary War officer, so the military tradition goes back a ways in our family.  Dad served two tours in Vietnam, and now he is fighting his second battle with renal cancer as a result of Agent Orange exposure - a particularly poignant reminder of the sacrifices, some obvious and some not so obvious, that servicemen make for their country.

Happily, I had the opportunity to spend time on Veterans Day with my daddy (and my mom):  after attending a Veterans Day assembly at PJ's school, we had breakfast together at Central Market.  Great way to start a Friday!

Day 12:  Thankful for my Junior League friends and for the good work that League does for the community.  Spent part of Day 12 at the JL resale shop.  I actually enjoy volunteering there - I know that some folks think that it's a chore, but I worked retail for pocket money in college (summers and Christmas break), and it fits my personality.  I like to help people, I like to organize things, and I enjoy a good bargain.  In college, it was all about the employee discount.  At Double Exposure, it's all about being at the right place at the right time.  Among my major scores:  a never-worn navy blue blazer for the big kid ($4.80, which is the perfect price, given that he'll outgrow it in a nanosecond); a really great Talavera platter ($2.00); and a stoneware Hofbrauhaus mug to hold my pencils on my desk ($1.00).  I have always coveted my dad's vintage Hofbrauhaus mug, which he acquired when he was living in Germany.  Because he is sentimentally attached to it, he wouldn't let me have it, so I had to buy my own - except, when I finally made it to the 'Haus, they only had glass mugs in stock.  So, finally having a stoneware one is, like, mega-cool - and the dollar price tag makes it mega-cool to the nth degree.

My husband tolerates me working at the resale shop because "I got this Tory Burch top and these Prada flats for 90% off retail" is a heck of a lot more pleasing to the ears than "I got this Tory Burch top and these Prada flats for full price at Neiman Marcus."

Day 13:  Thankful for Reverend Lamar Smith at First Methodist.  Dr. Smith is a one-man welcome wagon.  It is his job to transition in new members and help them feel at home, and he does a bang-up job.   I speak from experience, as he was the one who welcomed us when we decided to officially join the congregation seven years ago (after "visiting" for two; wow, nine years at FUMC, is that possible?).

We used to be 11 am attendees, but, due to confirmation class schedule for the big kid and Sunday School schedule for the little kid, we now attend the 9:30 am service.  Both services wrap up with a "hymn of invitation," and before the hymn Dr. Smith encourages those who wish to join the church to come forward.  At 11 am, he almost always got a new member, or two, or three, but we have learned that, in general, newly minted FUMCers are not early risers:  at 9:30, new members seem to be few and far between, and I was amused to hear my spouse say, "You know, it really bums me out to see Dr. Smith down there and no one comes forward.  Because you can tell that he wants it - it's like he's WILLING IT - and I AM ROOTING FOR IT TO HAPPEN.  Because, I mean, IT'S DR. SMITH."   My thoughts exactly.  Now, it's become a weekly thing with us - at 10:20, we start chanting under our breath, "Come on, come on - anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?"

God bless Dr. Smith, and others like him, who help people settle in in their new church home.

Day 14:  Thankful for the Furry Five.  As I type this, Barkley is curled up in one of the dog's beds (which is sort of weird, because he's not a dog, but sort of explainable, because he is a Maine Coon, and Maine Coons think that they are dogs).   Gabby is on the windowsill, enjoying the awesomeness that is LIVING ON THE SECOND FLOOR.  Seriously, to think that she made it some fifteen years without knowing that there was such a THING as a second floor.  I don't think that she's going to take it well when we have to move back to our lowly single-story abode.

Max is stretched out on my side of the bed (and is taking up a good bit of it - he's a big boy, not just by cat standards, but by supersized Maine Coon standards), slumbering next to my spouse, who hit the hay early, as he is coming down with something indeterminate.  The dogs are - somewhere.  Probably in with the kids.  There is a changing of the guard that takes place at some point during the night, such that I wake up in the morning to find the older dog stretched out next to our bed, the two older cats in bed with us and the furry small fry bunking with the human small fry.  (Max, who has figured out how to make it up to the top bunk, sleeps with C, and Ace the Batdog, who can only get onto low-lying furniture, and then only with a running start, gets PJ by default.)

Yeah, it's a pain in the butt not having a yard right now (picking up poop with a little baggie was unfamiliar territory for us; at home, "poop happens" in the backyard and gets picked up with specialized poop tongs by a child as part of his weekly chores).  Yeah, I'm tired of having the dog bowl stand in an awkward location in the small apartment kitchen, because there's no non-awkward location for it:  I move it to one side of the stove, until I need to get into that cabinet, and then I kick it to the other side, and water sloshes all over my foot.  But it's okay, because we're all together, and we fought the insurance company hard to make that happen.  Totally worth the grief, on balance.

Day 15:  Thankful for the kids' teachers.  See my previous post about C's teacher temporarily restoring my fatih in humanity (and simultaneously making me want to drop-kick the humans who don't rise to his level).  Both boys have been blessed with good teachers this year - and, pretty much, every year.  Definitely cause for thanks.