So, I don’t know what’s going on with my clothes and my closet lately. It’s like nothing I own matches, fits properly or is without washing machine pilling. I thought I was taking care of my clothes. I use Wool-lite and Downy Fabric Softener. I even hang my unmentionables on a drying rack inside the laundry room. Why do I always feel like I look like “Who did it and ran?”

Case in point: last Saturday, the Lovely Ladies of the Nu Chi Chapter of AKA at the College of William and Mary hosted an Alumni Tea. I went to support my sorors and really gave some thought about what it was that I wanted to wear. I knew that there would be photos taken at the tea — that’s what we do — and that I was going to go straight to the lab to study after the tea, so I was aiming for practical cuteness. The finished ensemble was a light blue tank under a navy blue long sleeve shirt, topped by a kelly green puffer vest. I had jeans, navy loafers with green and white trim and of course, my pearls. Sounds good, right? I thought so. I did the once over in the mirror; even the hair was cooperating. So why when I look at the photos do I think, What the hell happened between Norfolk and the ‘burg? How come I look like someone beat me up in the stairwell before even crossed the threshold to the tea? So frustrating– I think I should have left on the vest.

Now, I love the fall — I love the cool air, I love Halloween and Thanksgiving, I love cinnamon and nutmeg, pumpkins and of their pairings. I love sweaters and vests, boots and denim jackets. I love cowl neck sweaters and black tights under skirts,but every season, it’s like my closet has been eating itself and all of the sweaters and corduroys from last year have vanished, or worse! Sometimes I even find things that I have no clue who bought them or why. I mean, why do I have an XL red turtleneck sweater from Charter Club? Um, okay, I was packing pounds last fall, but I had just had C-dizzle. Still, that’s no excuse. What happened to my Merino V-Neck sweaters? Why do all of my jeans suddenly look like they’re all about to give up the ghost? Where are my calf high butter-cream boots? And why do my other pairs of boots look like they’ve been fighting with one another like Tyler Durden and his cronies? Why do my black, brown and greay sweaters looks like they’ve all got goosebumps, what with all those pills and pull? I feel like that guy at the end of the Three Amigos — “Wha’ de hayle ees happenin’ aroun’ here”?

I do take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only one with this issue. I’ve got a friend who, totally despite not needing them when she is at LEAST 5 months post partum, rocks her maternity jeans. If they were Seven For All Mankind or True Religion, well, I suppose I could understand, but they’re just regular ol’ maternity jeans. I was talking with another friend who likened her closet to the 5th dimension — clothes go in and all kinds of shit comes out. She didn’t elaborate, but I’d like to think she opens her closet and stuff like fashion trends from the 80’s (hello slouch socks and Z Cavaricci’s), a pot-bellied Vietnamese pig named Mr. Cobblepot, Jimmy Hoffa, and my pre-pregnancy body all come waltzing out.

*sigh* Since Halloween is all but here, at least I can put on what I got, no matter how pilled, pulled, faded or frump-tastic and call myself one of the Olsen Twins. I’ve already got a pair of oversized Jackie O glasses. Now, if I could just whittle myself down to about 80 pounds and get that flat, matted, ratty hair. . .

So, the Halloween season has got its bony grip on our street like whoa! And I am SO loving it. Halloween is one of my favorite times of year, though you probably wouldn’t think that of me since I don’t really go to many great lengths to celebrate.

Growing up, I dressed up just about every year, sometimes in homemade costumes like a court jester or a queen of hearts playing card, and sometimes a store bought costume. We lived on a busy street, so I usually had to travel to the next closest residential neighborhood to do my trick or treating, which wasn’t so bad. Since we lived on the busy street, we hardly got any trick or treaters, save some brave high school friends of my brother’s who considered themselves dressed up by swapping one another their G.L. Football jerseys and eyeblack, toting around ratty looking pillowcases.

In college, I dressed up at Princess Leia one year, but aside from that, I didn’t do much. Probably because there was school work to be done — yes, I am an overachiever, so what?! After college, I first lived in an apartment. I won’t say it was on the wrong side of the tracks, but there wasn’t much of the way of trick or treating going on. Once DH and I got married, it was more apartment living and I guess that just isn’t conducive to Halloween festivities. Post-apartment living found on another busy street, not once, but twice. The second time, the neighborhood was in transition (read: old folks moving out, but the young folks moving in don’t have kids), so nothing happened on yet another October 31st.

We did dress up together one year, when we went to a Halloween themed birthday party for a friend. I was a geisha and DH was Bruce Leroy — it was supposed to be a samurai costume, but something got lost in the translation and Bruce Leroy seemed more fitting. Anyway, the party was fun and I thought, “When we have kids (b/c this was pre-Mo), I am SO going to do it up on Halloween. I’m gonna have fake spiderwebs, skeletons coming out of the ground, weird music, tons of candy and of course, costumes!!”

Yeah, that didn’t happen. Our second house, on the second busy street, was the home that Mo came home to. By October of her first year, she was about 2 months old and Halloween wasn’t as big a priority as it once was. Still, I got her a pumpkin and decorated it, got her a matching hat to go with it, too. But once again, my quest for full on Halloween embodiment fell flat.

The following Halloween found us in an apartment, again cursed with the lack of seasonal festivities. I didn’t bother to get Mo a costume; I blacked her eye (with eyeliner! with eyeliner!), slapped a “P” on her onesie and made her a . . .wait for it. . ..black-eyed pea (no not Will.i.am or Fergie)! I loved it! She and my mother hated it. Next year, I told her, as much as I told myself, we’re going to do it differently. The following Halloween, Co was with us and she was just about a month old, lucky enough to get a pumpkin bib. Mo got a pumpkin shirt and a Happy Halloween playgroup to a pumpkin patch and farm. I was really slipping — this golden fleece of Happy Halloweendom was getting further and further away.

I blamed the apartment mostly. I mean, I just couldn’t get into it with the lack of square footage and the fact that our neighbors wouldn’t even spit on you if you were on fire, much less look at you. By the summer of ’08, we were gearing up for another move (you’d think we were in the Witness Protection Program with all this house hopping) and this time, in a house in a kid filled neighborhood. Paydirt!!

Fall has fallen and the wee ghosties are appearing in trees along the street. We got “Boo-ed” the other day, which was awesome! I promptly ran to Wal-Mart buying bags and bags of candy and see what else I could score. Clearly, I am asleep at the switch because Wal-Mart looked like zebra carcass after the lions had been at it for a while. I shouldn’t have been surprised — NPR reported that despite the economic downturn, Halloween sales are up this year from last year. Halloween is a multi-million dollar holiday.

In any event, the house isn’t decorated, nor is there a flag flying from the roof or a skeleton peeking up from the front yard, BUT Mo and Co both have their costumes, candy has been purchased in great quantities (and being consumed in even great quantities, because I have to make sure it’s palatable for the children!), neighbors have been “boo-ed” and a trip to the pumpkin patch is scheduled for the week-end. I even have “Thriller” on repeat on my iPod. Now, all that remains is a costume for me and I will consider this Halloween Season a considerable improvement over Halloweens past.

Victory is Mine!!

So DH took Mo and Co up to see his folks and they won’t be home until mid-Saturday. The cats are away and the mouse will play, right? I spent the better part of yesterday cleaning up the house, folding laundry, emptying the dishwasher, basically in full on Cinderella-mode so that I wouldn’t have to worry about that crap while they were gone. My plan was (is still, I guess) to just get my studying in and chill out. My head was alternating between movements allowed by snyovial joints and where and I should treat myself to lunch. Once the DH express had pulled away from the curb, I hit the books for a good 2 hours, and then, stupidly, stayed up to watch The Mummy Returns (for the 3rd time and no, it didn’t get any better, save for Oded Fehr as Ardeth Bay!). Still, I was in bed and probably asleep by 10:45. Up at 6:30 (that’s late for me) and puttered around until it was time to study.

So here I am, farting around, wasting precious minutes catching you all up on what’s going on — more like what’s not going on. Do I want to hike on over to the mall and try to boost the economy by spending money I really shouldn’t on stuff I don’t really need? I mean, those red leather flats at Ann Taylor Loft are really, really cute, but I can wait for the sale. Do I truck it on over to Wal–Martay and pick up some groceries and call that productive? Do I go visit the parentals for the afternoon and just be a kid again? Decisions, decisions.

If nothing else, I’ve decided I’m not doing anything I don’t really want to do. So if DH, Mo and Co come home on Saturday afternoon to find me vegged out in front of the TV watching Ardeth Bay fight the Army of Anubis (I DVRed the movie, so maybe I’ll give it one last chance), well, that’s my prerogative. Besides, time spent with me, myself and I really is time well spent.

Evidently, Mo feels that the powers that be (me and DH) are crushing her indomitable spirit these days. She’s been implying we’ve got our foot on her neck by asking that she wash her hands after she uses the toilet! Oh the humanity! I mean, it’s really bringing her down to become a member of the Clean Plate Club by having to eat all of her green beans and all of her rice. Dear, sweet little Mo is not one to be kept quiet. The other day, I asked her to stop fooling around and finish her lunch. Her reponse?

Yeah, she’s singing the chorus of We Shall Overcome. I don’t doubt the next time I ask her to pick up her toys when she’s done playing, I’ll be treated to a preschool rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (and by the way, Kathleen Battle is phenomenal in this clip, so please watch it).

First let me say that everyone is fine. That being said, there was a fire at our house yesterday. Oh, where to begin, where to begin? I guess at the beginning. . .

So yesterday afternoon, I was getting dinner ready. The menu called for ribs, salad, rolls, cabbage. It was promising to be a good dinner for us and our guests. DH calls and says, he’s been looking online about the best way to prepare barbecued ribs and found a site that calls for slow roasting the ribs on medium to low heat for two hours. That gave me exactly enough time to cook the ribs per these instructions. The directions also called for having a bowl of water on the grill over high heat to help with the moisture. I asked DH, “Can I use a metal bowl?” cause I know that plastic is not going to get it done. He says, “Sure,” and away we go.

Ribs on low to medium heat? Check. Metal bowl of water on medium to high heat? Grill cover closed? Check. The girls and I mosey on down the block to chit chat with the neighbors who are out in the yard yukking it up over wine and Cheez-Its. While the girls play and I shoot the breeze, the smell of the grill wafts over to us. Now, I don’t wear a watch, but in my head, I’m thinking, “I need to get back over there and check those ribs,” but I can’t seem to extricate myself tactfully from the conversation. Thankfully, one neighbor says, “Man, I can really smell those ribs. Smell like fire.” I take that cue, ask if I can leave the girls, and head on up to the house. I’m at the gate and see great red and orange tongues of fire shooting up from the grill and licking the WOODEN fence around the back yard. Two words people:

HOLY SHIT

I run into the yard (in wedge heels no less — yes, I was trying to look cute yesterday) and asses where the hoses are, how fast I can unravel it, how fast I can get into the house if I need to get some flour to throw on it (and I don’t know why I thought of that). The hose closest to the grill comes up about 3 feet short. My neighbors next door were outside and their son, H, is thrilled to the max about the backdraft going on right next door.

I have to digress here for a second. See, H is four years old and an amateur fireman. He has visited our local Engine 7 several times, has a siren impression so authentic, his own mother has pulled to the shoulder to let the engine pass when it’s been him the whole time. H even wears Ladder 343 boots — every day. After everything had settled down, H’s mom told me that H had come into the house trying to get her attention, absolutely tongue-tied about the fire, he was so excited.

Anyway, H’s dad, C, came to the rescue, throwing me their hose and pumping the water, effectively putting the fire out. Honestly, I can’t even remember if I turned the gas off before or after the fire was out — I’m thinking after because I still have my eyebrows. C came over the fence and helped me move the grill away from the back portion of the fence and then H came on over make sure the fire was really, really out by hosing down the wet wood.

Talk about a scare. I don’t know if it was the bowl, if it was the proximity to the fence or what, but had I dilly-ed around any longer, I shudder to think what would have happened. Sweet H was in his element, holding the hose and going over the wet spots, spouting off fireman lingo the whole time. I went back down the block to get the girls and gave a very clipped and edited version of the events to the neighbors. They didn’t know if I was kidding or not, seeing as my twin set was still pretty clean and I was really calm. Word spreads pretty quickly on our street and within minutes, the neighborhood kids were congregated in the back yard assessing the situation while H stood off to the sidelines giving the blow by blow of the whole thing. One little sweetheart asked me, “Did H really put out the fire?”. “He really did,” I replied. “Coooooool,” came the response.

By the time DH came home, there were about 12 or 15 kids in the yard. He was barely out of the car when they flew at him, talking about “You had a fire!! You had a fire!!”. Thanks kids.

Anyway, we had a fire, there’s a gaping hole in the back fence, but everyone is okay and that’s the most important thing. I’ve always known not to leave a grill unattended, but I really need to take my own advice. As for dinner, a run to the local pizzeria solved that problem. Funny enough, when DH reheated it for lunch today, he left it unattended.

Blackened pizza anyone?

I know, I know, I’ve dropped the ball on keeping folks informed with the goings-on here, but let me tell you, school for all of us is keeping us busy, busy, busy.

So far, I’ve had two quizzes and a test, AND I’ve got a lab practical on Monday. I’ve been studying like it’s my job. Actually, it is my job these days, who am I kidding? As for the girls, Mo has been, “manipulating geometric solids” (her words, seriously) and Co has been taking advantage of all the offerings her pre-school has to offer. I was told however, the poor dear fell asleep face first in the sandbox on Wednesday. The little dickens is having a time and half with three teeth trying to come in all at once. She’s got two on the bottom that have come on through and then an incisor making its way out. Fang, as I’ve dubbed her lately, is dealing with it best she can, gnawing on anything she gets her hands on, including Mo’s toes, my shirt or pantlegs, and the rails of her crib.

Anyway, this is all I can spare at the moment. I’m glad that I got this down at all. This afternoon, I was thinking about blogging and was like that chick in Seinfeld — “no I don’t have a square to spare, I can’t spare a square.” Ahh, if only time were like toilet paper; when you run out, you can just pick up another roll and keep on going.