Category: Uncategorized

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

(image)

Since I’ve been laid up with this ankle issue, I’ve created a mini command center at the kitchen table.  There are piles of paper, my computer, my phone, my briefcase, my camera bag, stacks of magazines that I can finally read, pages of the aforementioned magazines ripped out for recipes to save and so forth.  With all this time to just sit and organize all of my favorite things, I’ve also been able to make lists (and you know I love a list).  On the top of one of the many lists I have in rotation is “To Blog” and underneath that is “Tumblr?”.  I’ve been wanting to write; I’ve definitely got the time to do so now. I’ve also wanted to explore Tumblr a little more.

I think I’m in love.

For the remaining three people who live under a rock, Tumblr is micro-blogging. It’s like Blogger or WordPress got together with Insta.gram and Pinterest and *poof*!

Awesome-sauce.

There are times when I don’t know who read this blog, and so in the interest of keeping things PG (at the very least), I find myself doing some serious editing. I’m careful with my word choice, the images I put up, the topics I discuss. With the Tumblr, I’m not going to do that. If I want to put up a picture of a half naked male model, drop a few f-bombs, string together some texts or chats that have no cohesiveness other than that fact that I wrote them, so be it. I’m going to do it. That West End Hoe that’s driving me nuts in carpool? She’s going on blast on the Tumblr.  The off color things my kids say (hello, cotton balls?), that’s going up.  I’m looking at Blogger like my Ego and Tumblr like my Id.

And yes, for as much as I enjoy hearing people say that they’ve read my blog, that they like my writing, I think I’m going to keep this piece of the blogosphere close to the vest for a little while longer. I wouldn’t want everyone’s perceived notion of my immense perfectionism to combust in one fell-swoop and create a giant wormhole in the space time continuum.

I have to admit, I’m pretty disgusted with myself for the amount of time I’ve spent connected to the Internet over the past few days. I’ve been texting, twatting tweeting, blogging, updating my webpage, shopping on Etsy, skulking around on Facebook, Insta.gramming and Pinterest-ing.  I mean, what choice do I have, really?  My leg is wrapped up mummy-style from the knee down.  My leg is throbbing like it’s the baseline beat for a Maroon 5 song.  Ever since I tripped over that trash bag, my ability to do much beyond put in my contact lenses by myself has been severely limited.  I can’t exercise. I can’t cook. I can’t walk without crutches, which means, I can’t carry stuff from room to room as I go about my daily business.  I’m on pain pills, which means I can’t drive, which means no random trips to Target (they sent me a get well soon card) or trips to Loft to return clothes that looked better on me in the dressing room. I’ve passed carpool duties off to my dad and some very kind neighbors. My mom dusted off her Donna Reed skills and has been running the household with her own unique brand of efficiency and verve. I honestly think my dad is falling in love with her again, seeing her take care of Mo, Co, Vivi and me. It’s like they’re having a second chance to do the parenting thing with me.

Yesterday, I laid up in bed all day watching CSI and texting, giving my breakfast/lunch/dinner requests to my parents.  Vivi is keeping me company and we actually have the same nap schedule.  Sitting abed all day is hard and this is only day two.  My mother-in-law called me last night to check in and when I told her how I had spent the day, she said, “Oh! Oh! It must really be painful if you spent the day in bed!”  I guess my go-go-go lifestyle is another one of my defining features along with my hair.  If I had a dollar for every time someone has said, “Well, you really needed to slow down,” in response to hearing about my accident, I’d be able to treat myself to lunch at Chipotle (mmmm, chicken fajita bowl) and have enough left over for the on-line shopping I plan to do this afternoon.

My Amazon wish list is Ah-May-Zing right now.  I may have to upload it to Tumblr, sit back and admire my handiwork.  And if I do break-up with Blogger. . .well, I’ll be kind about it. Like ripping off a band-aid.

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IN: ON: September 14, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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From the Archives

Honeymoon
Madrid, Barcelona, Paris
September 10 -20, 2001
Barcelona
La Tour Eiffel, Paris
Eleven years ago.  My goodness, we were young and green!  DH, in his mysterious ways, culled together a honeymoon trip that was out of the pages of Fodor’s.  When I think back to our trip to Europe for those 10 days, it’s with mixed emotions — happiness, excitement, and a little anxiety.
Happiness, to be surely attributed to really starting our lives together as a married couple.  At that point, we’d been married a three months, but had delayed going away until we both had some time to really enjoy it.  Happiness for sure to be in Europe, traveling to places familiar and new with someone I loved.  While I’d already been to Barcelona and Paris, it was a first for DH and I was excited to show him what I remembered.  Las Ramblas, the Sagrada Familia and Casa Milia of Antonio Gaudi, and the Christopher Columbus Monument.  The Erotic Museum of Barcelona. We were on our honeymoon, afterall.
I was excited to break out my “frenglish”,  especially when we got caught in a nasty bout of cloudy and windy days and DH was without a jacket. Going to La Galleries Lafayette, just browsing and then buying (even if it was for DH). Visiting Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Winged Victory (always awe-inspiring), and the food! Oh, the food.  *le sigh*
The anxiety, though stems from what happened on the first full day of our trip. We left DC on September 10, 2001.  We arrived in Madrid, checked into our hotel,  explored a bit before jet lag gave us the one-two punch.
September 11th, 2001.  How we spent our morning is kind of hazy to me.  I’m sure we ate breakfast  or lunch and planned our day.  What I remember was walking around, window shopping. In one of the many squares that are laid out throughout the city, there was a giant video screen, similar to the one in Times Square.  Tons of people were crowded around it.  It must have been close to 1pm local time, but the crowds were thick.  On the video screen, GW Bush was talking, in Spanish.  DH and I figured it was some kind of news report and we kept walking.  It was siesta time for us, so we headed back to the hotel.
Once in our room, DH excused himself to the bathroom while I flipped through the TV stations as I dozed.  Everything was in Spanish, except for one channel that was showing airplanes flying through the sky, buildings on fire, sheets of paper fluttering to the ground like leaves off of autumn trees.  “What movie is this?” I thought.  So, I kept watching, thinking once I saw some actors, I’d figure it out.
DH came out of the bathroom, asked me what I was watching. “I don’t know,” I said as someone launched themselves from the top floor of a skyscraper.  “I thought it was a movie, but then the news ticker started running across the bottom.”
And in minutes, everything became painfully clear.  Hijackers. Airplanes. Twin Towers.  We were watching it live.  We were transfixed. We were watching when the second plane flew into the tower. News centers had no idea what was going on, the magnitude of it all, so nothing was edited.  Nothing.  The cameras showed those who managed to escape, staggering about, soot and grime covered, bleeding, crying.  The boom mikes picked up soft whumping sounds, which we later discovered were people falling from the sky.  
We watched.  We waited.  We thought, “What in the world are we doing here?!”
We went to the nearest Internet cafe we could find and started banging off emails to family and friends in New York, begging them to respond to let us know they were okay. We called our parents who reassured us that they were alright.  They said that we might not be able to even get home, so try to enjoy our trip as best we could.  It was probably safer where we were, they said.  We sat in the hotel lobby, striking up conversations with other English speaking travelers about what in the holy hell had just happened.
One couple, who had planned to leave Madrid that day anyway, was waiting to get an all clear sign from the airport.  They’d been gone from Beaumont, Texas two weeks on a golfing trip and were tired of living out of suitcases.  The husband said, they’d gotten to the airport, then got turned back to the hotel.  Then they’d gotten the call to come back to the airport. They went back, got on a plane, then got turned back. They’d gotten another call to the airport, got on the plane, got as far as Canadian airspace, and were turned back.  To Madrid.
I remember sitting on the yellow and ivory striped sofas of the lobby, listening to the soft whirring of the elevators, the gentle clicks of the keyboard as people were checked in and out.  I remember listening to the southern drawl of Mr. Beaumont, Texas and wondering when we’d hear from DH’s brother, who was living in the city.  We wondered about DH’s fraternity brother who worked not far from the towers, and my good friend who lived in Manhattan.  How could we possibly continue on a honeymoon? It seemed so foolish.  And yet, what choice did we have? Could we even get home? And once we did, then what?
We stayed.
We heard from Brandon, Billy, and Tanja.
We enjoyed the rest of Madrid, inhaling the history, the culture and the people. We went to bullfights, tapas restaurants and flamenco dancing performances.  We traveled to Barcelona, rubbing our fingers along the walls of Picasso’s house.  The aquarium, Las Ramblas, and Pans restaurant, which seemed to be the only place to get some lettuce in your sandwich.    We traveled to Paris. We dined on escargot, zoomed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and walked, walked, walked all over the city.
We readied ourselves to go home and when we did, witnessed the marked difference in airline security.  The new normal, as it come to be.
Every generation has a turning point that defines them.  The “where-were-you-when” scenario that connects one person to another.   Most assuredly, this is mine.  
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IN: ON: September 11, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Proper Prior Planning. . .

Because Mo and Co are two years and three weeks apart in age, I decided that we’d only have birthday parties on big number birthdays.  Otherwise, there’d be two parties over the span of two weeks. I know my girls; they aren’t going to have any of this “sharing a party” business.  So, Co turned five on Saturday and we had a party to celebrate. 

I’ve been planning this party since March, no joke. I knew that having a baby a few months before the party was going to be a challenge, so I did as much as I could ahead of time, once Co decided on a theme.   A mermaid themed party had lots of hits on Google, Pinterest and Etsy, so I started my due dilignece there.  Certainly, there was a lot from which to choose.  Some parties went all out on the theme:  mermaid tails for guests to wear, sand imported from the beach for guests to play in, and all manner of sushi, star-fish shaped sandwiches, rock candy and swedish fish floating in jell-o molds as table top decor, and netting strewn with seashells, casually and artfully draped around the house.  I’m no Martha Stewart, but I do try my hand at some crafts that are within the realm of my capabilities.  I kept it simple, but concentrated the craftiness on things that I thought would have big impact — invites, thank-yous, and the sweet treats.  The rest was pretty basic 5 year old birthday fodder — pizza, goldfish, juice boxes and games.  It’s a good thing, too, because the night before the party, I ended up in the ER.

Seriously.  Co and I share a birthday, so talk about kicking off another year in a big way. 

Earlier in the day, I had broken a glass pitcher while making some iced tea.  I didn’t wrap it up and dispose of it right away, like I should have.  Later on the in the evening, I was running around, per usual, and needed some kitchen counter space. I threw the pitcher in a plastic bag, dropped it in a second plastic bag, and then put it in the trash bag that had been leaning against the kitchen counter.  On my next circuit through the kitchen, I tripped over the trash bag, and my leg connected with the pitcher. It hurt like the devil and as I looked down to see what I’d done, I noticed that I was bleeding, a nice deep, dark red.  Not good.  Fast forward to everyone hopping to: my in-laws got the girls squared away (they’d been in the kitchen and saw the whole thing –> freak out), Craig got a tourniquet around my leg and carried me fireman style to the car.  ER, registration, wheel-chair, waiting. . .waiting. . .waiting. .until I’m finally seen.  I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice it to say, 
I’ve got some tendon damage, stitches, a soft cast, and crutches. I have to see an orthopedist in the coming week to figure out the next steps.  *sigh* It’s always something with me, isn’t it.  

And mind you, this is Friday night at 8pm. Co’s party was at 11am the next day.  The show must go on!  And go on it did!  We had a great time, friends and family pitched in and enjoyed the nosh, the games, and the treats.  So even though I get a hard time for being type A/anal/overachieving/etc., I’m certainly glad for those tendencies in this case.  Things went off seamlessly, the birthday girl was overjoyed, the family was involved, the friends were entertained, and I got to sit back with my feet up, literally.  Which is exactly what a girl likes to do on her birthday!

Here are some photos from the main event!
(all pictures courtesy of fête{ography})

Invites courtesy of ScrapStory on Etsy

The Big 5 y.o girl

Craft time
Game time: Pin the Tail on the Mermaid
Picking tails.
Water Games
Cupcakes courtesy of Frosted and Dipped.
Cake Time!
Happy Birthday, Co!

Favors: Mermaid Cookies courtesy of Frosted and Dipped.



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IN: ON: September 10, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Pronunciation

So, for Mo’s birthday, I took her to get her ears pierced.  I know that in the mommy-verse, there’s a raging debate about ear piercing, if and when it’s appropriate, is is mutilation and so on and forth.  I don’t really think about it like that. Truth be told, she wanted either an American Girl Doll for $100 + dollars or a Nintendo DS. I offered up ear piercing as a compromise and she bit.  Plus, it’s a lesson in responsibility; she has to clean her ears, twist the posts, all that jazz.  At seven, she’s old enough.  I was nine when I got my ears pierced. I was in my twenties when I got two more holes put in my right ear and one put in my cartilage. As for my foray into body piercing, I wasn’t putting my belly button on display, but I had no problem sticking out my tongue.

Anyway, Mo gets her ears pierced.  She gets a big bottle of ear disinfectant and cleaner and is advised to soak some cotton balls with the solution to clean her ears.  I open up the medicine cabinet and no cotton balls.  For a few days, we use q-tips, but I know that I’ve got to make it official and get the cotton balls.  The problem is, I keep forgetting.  Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the store, and by some miracle, I remember to throw them in the cart.  Actually, I was trolling the aisles because I left my list in the car, yet again, and happened to bump into an end-cap display of cotton balls.

I get home, whereupon Craig and I start unloading the bags.  Co dances her way into the kitchen looking for (what else?) a snack.  She spies the bag of cotton balls, picks it up and says, “What are these?”

(source)

Me: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and balls?

at which point, I am about to bust a gut to keep from laughing, but am immediately silenced by the death glare boring into my skull from Craig.

Me: No, dear. Cotton. Balls.

Co: That’s what I said! Cock. and. Balls.

Now Mo has come into the kitchen in search of a snack and picks up on the conversation.

Mo: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and Balls.

Me: COTTON. COTTON. 

Craig: Enough. Gimme the bag.

Ohhh, c’mon, that’s funny stuff.  Highly inappropriate, therefore highly entertaining.  So of course, I have to tell someone.

Good thing my big brother is on speed dial.

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IN: ON: September 5, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Just a Few Reasons Why My Husband is Amazing

He’s smart.

He’s kind.
He’s an exceptional father.
He’s an extraordinary husband.
He’s a knowledgeable on a variety of subjects and can discuss most current events with ease and thoughtfulness. 
He’s patient.
He’s supportive.
He’s motivating.
He’s encouraging.
He’s handy.
He’s a good kisser.
He single handedly deconstructed our closet, painted it, and installed a walk-in closet system.
By himself.
In a day and a half
Then he took all the 29 (yes, twenty nine) boxes, tape, bubble wrap, cast-off clothes, worn out shoes (including six pairs from me *gasp*) and other random debris to the dump.  AND THEN. . .
the man went grocery shopping. 
I mean, really.  
He’s simply amazing. 
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IN: ON: September 4, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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For My Grams

Martha L. Phillips Grant
June 25, 1921 – August 27, 2012

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
– Mary Elizabeth Frye
(source)

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IN: ON: August 28, 2012 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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