Purse Prize, and my MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD

So who's the big winner?

Vanna (daughter Jane) and I put all the comments in the purse, and she drew one out!
Congratulations to...

Shanana at Three Men and a Little Lady!
She commented:

Fake Coach Couture?!? I'm THERE!I have to admit, I'm quite jealous of your 36
inch inseam. I am about 36" tall (TOTAL) and constantly have to have the podium
lowered for me when I get up to speak in sacrament meeting... Even when it's a
youth speaker that precedes me. BTW, I added you to my blog roll, since I seem
to have developed a habit of stalking your very entertaining musings. Hope you
don't mind.

No, I don't mind, Shana! As a matter of fact, in gratitude, I'm going to send you a purse!

It looks like Shana is a Mom and a Pediatric Dentist (very impressive, Shana, but we all know we only get the cream of the blogging crop here at Beeswax, so we aren't surprised that you are amazing. We are uppity that way) who lives in Santa Monica, CA. As I analyzed her profile, in a sort of stalky way, I noticed we both love The Office, So You think You Can Dance, chocolate, O Brother Where Art Thou, Death Cab for Cutie, Les Miserables, and Harry Potter. Might I also go so far as to suggest that we both probably like pizza and puppies, too? And rainbows? And I'm totally for world peace. What about you?

So now, the bag will make it's way to the left coast, to live on the arm of a woman who is 36 inches tall! Unless she is lying! Which she probably is! Because in her picture she looks bigger than that! Like at least 42 inches, which is big enough to get on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland!

I should ask her how she likes that ride, and then if she says "it's AWESOME!," then she'll totally feel the mode, cause I'll have tricked her into revealing that she is really over 42 inches tall, instead of a puny 36.

I'm a genius.
Unless she gets wise to me. And says "Indiana who?"

So, Shanana, please email me at kellybeeswax@gmail.com with your address, and I will ship this purse outta here! From China, to Canal Street, to Mesa, to your door!

Thanks to all who entered, and who told me how fabulous my new jeans are. They are fabulous! They are magic jeans. My head is swollen from all the compliments. Thank you, blogging friends.
I feel the need to respond to a few comments:

Brigham, I'm not sure this thing is really leather. I'm not sure it could have handled the wrenches.

Fake Jodi Foster, I am so excited to e-meet my famous stalk-lebrity! Please come back often.

To Hailey, who wants the rearside view of my jeans: such a picture might theoretically exist, but it will not make it into cyberspace. Unless someone is willing to match in dollars whatever Brangelina got for the first pics of the twins.

To Kitchen Ditcher, who went home to her blog and whined that she wasn't cool like me: Ask anybody. I'm not cool, either. It is just the jeans. I'm super nerdy, and I like it that way.

To Lisa, at Away From It All, who gave me my very first blog award! Lisa lives in Poland, people. And she has a cool blog, which you should go visit. So, what that means is that this is a
MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD.


Which is such a coup.

But then she linked to Sue, who said blog awards were less like awards than STDs, so I don't know exactly what to think of that? Except that it is sort of true. But still, I am grateful to receive such a MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD.

Canal Street COACH giveaway tomorrow! Enter NOW! (And also, a joke. That isn't funny. At all.)

Comment HERE to maybe win my fake COACH purse tomorrow!

Here's a joke.

What do you call five crickets in your bathroom sink?

BAIT.

Scorpion bait.

It isn't a very funny joke.

Told you so.

Kids and babysitters found him Saturday night. They chased him around the living room, shot him with nerf guns, attempted to drown him (unsuccesfully), poked at him with sticks, and then released him into storm drain.

Photo courtesy of Kendree the babysitter's cell phone.

Chinatown Special: COACH Bag Giveaway! (And me and the jeans go out on the town. And we eat six desserts, accidently.)

I know you all came here anxious for Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink Wednesday, but I just didn't feel like blogging about music and crickets today, and I just refuse be tied down to such conventions, even though this would only be the second week. I'm a free-bloggin'-spirit. I usually wear a bra, though. A free-bloggin'-spirit is like a hippie, only with a bra.

The jeans arrived on Friday, midday. I love them. I think they like me okay, too, but they might be happier if I didn't fill them up quite so much, with so many desserts and hamburgers. I might need to stop going to In-n-Out drive-thru 3 times a week. Why oh why are the burgers only 1.5 miles away? Is dangerous proximity. Some days, though, I just need to get myself a hamburger with grilled onions and light spread, and go home and sit on the couch and watch House Hunters on TIVO. That 1/2 hour is the most relaxing part of my day. Is like a mini spa vacation. If spas had pink spread. Which they don't.

Also, I might have gone to delicious new Italian place down over to the San Tan Mall two Fridays in a row. It is called Brio, but a better name might be DELICIOSO. Which might not be an Italian word at all, cause I only speak Spanish.

While I was there, I might have ordered 6 desserts. Yes, on both visits. Stop opening up your eyes all wide like that. Like you've never eaten six desserts before. Your contacts are going to dry up and fall out, if you don't blink. I know, cause when I'm lying on the floor after yoga class and listening to the relaxing porpoises-screeching-new-age-beach-music (like us free-bloggin'-spirits are wont to do), sometimes I forget to blink, and once my contact fell out. Which isn't relaxing at all.

*** IMPORTANT CORRECTION*** As I pondered the dessert, I began to think there might have only been five, plus some of Jake's cake, which really only equals 5.5 desserts. I can't believe I OVERestimated my dessert intake. Is crazy.

Anyway, there were five tiny cups (minuscule, really) filled with cheesecake, creme brulee, chocolate cake with caramel, something that tastes like flan but isn't (panacotta), and finally, I switched out the requisite tiramisu for

chocolate hazelnut creme brulee.

Which is the best one.

That's why I bolded it.

In case you were skimming this post to get to the free coach purse giveaway. Which is cool, but you shouldn't miss out on the chocolate hazelnut creme brulee just because I'm so verbose that I can turn a picture of me in my new jeans into a Master's thesis. I totally need an editor.

So anyhow, when you go to Brio and order your six desserts, don't forget to make the switch. Or if you are digging the booze soaked lady fingers (gross), switch out the panacotta (medium gross, but I still ate it). Tell your server you want the Beeswax Special. He'll know what you're talking about, and will wink at you conspiratorially.

No, he won't. I'm totally lying.

Anyhow, don't fret about me and my jeans. They go on for now, it's just that one more Friday at Brio, and they might have to go on sabbatical until I get a handle on the treat intake.

(I didn't even tell you about Saturday night at the Krispy Kreme. I think you already the picture on the dietary train wreck, though, right?)

I do have a plan, you know. The whole problem is easily solved by:

a: aversion electro-shock hypno-water-therapy
or

b: moving further out into the desert, away from the In-n-out

or

c: only ordering one dessert, not six, every week

or

d: going back on the "Kelly, you eat too d*** much" diet (the *** stand for a,n, & g), on which I lost nearly 13 pounds, by using tough love on myself and eating a measly 1300 calories a day

or

e: combination of all of the above.

Okay, maybe not "b". Moving is extreme behavior for hamburger avoidance. Should only be last resort.

Here's a picture of me in my new jeans at the apple store, which is right across the street from Brio. It was taken by my lovely sister-in-law Jane, with whom we double-dated, and who always remembers to take pictures. I sort of love that with my wonderful Cole Haan/Nike Air Mary Jane tall-tall shoes, I dominate all 35 inches of that inseam! I'm thinking of taking my old tall jeans to the tailor to get hacked, and leaving these alone for awhile. Seems a shame to cut them off, you know? I mean, I already have the shoes...

What's that? You would you like a better look at the shoes? My 35 inch inseam is obstructing your view? I got them at the Carlsbad Outlets while I was on vacation in California, for almost free (only mine are pewter). Like 40% off of already 75% off. And they are tall, but also very bouncy, thanks to Nike, so I might be able to dunk if I wanted to play basketball in these beautiful shoes. Which I do not. And since they wanted to give them away to me, I also got these hot mama Nike/Cole hybrids, which I enjoy;

Spouse thinks they look like working girl shoes.

If he is referring to the kind of girls who work in the Primary at Church with all the sweet, little children, then he is totally right! Cause that's where I will wear them. And maybe to give my talk on Sunday. They are going to have to raise the podium when I get up there with my stiletto-Nike-shocks-technology.

So, did you know my FIRST BLOGIVERSARY is coming up on Saturday? Well, the anniversary of when I commandeered the blog from Jake (the Spouse).

I've been around this big, wide blogosphere, people, and I know that propriety requires that I give something away in celebration.

And so, I shall! With gladness!

I've got a 50% chance of being 100% authentic (by which I mean, almost no chance of authenticity at all, but who knows?) Coach purse that I purchased, in frigid single digit temperatures, in Chinatown earlier this year. From genuine, authentic, New York Chinatowner folk. It is brand new with (likely fake) tags. I'm going to give it away on Saturday. If you win it, you will be the envy of all your lady-blogger friends who didn't win it, and the envy of all your real-life friends, who will see it on your arm and want their own Canal Street Special. If you are a man, then you should give it to a special lady in your life, and she will likely kiss you. On the lips. Unless she is your mother. Or your sister. Cause that's creepy. You should skip your relations, and give it to someone you've got your eye on, if you know what I mean, so you can get off the Mommy blogs and get some action. Sounds like you might need it.

Anyhow, I am going to choose a comment at random from this post on Saturday, August 30th, at 8:58 am. 8:58 am is one year to the minute from when I first hit PUBLISH, sending my words out into the world, for good or ill. It's all terribly romantic, isn't it? I'll bet Jane Austen would have been an excellent blogger; although, she would probably have given away ribbons, or a new bonnet for her blogiversary.

Oh, and though I would love to send the purse overseas, I am afraid that mailing such questionable merchandise to foreign climes might cause an international incident. I am not ready for an international incident. Of any sort at all. So, continental U.S only, please!

Okay, Canada, you, too. I'm such a softy for Canada.

Tell all your Canadian friends to come visit and leave comments! (Oh, and all your other friends, too.)

Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink! Wednesday

Sure, I know.

You're thinking this post sounds like a one-off. I mean, how many great albums are there that I used to love, but then totally forgot about for a decade? Am I really going to do this every Wednesday? Sounds tedious? You are yawning a little right now?

You underestimate me. I have an ipod that is totally bulging with 90s music, even though I mostly have to listen to Coldplay. I never listen to the radio (kids freak out, scream in high decibels over top of songs), so rarely is something ever reintroduced into my bean. My bean is like a cabin in Alaska. A cabin with the internet, but no radio. There is a whole world of music to rediscover.

Also, I often have crickets in my sink. Maybe you want to see them every week. I could even serialize it, like a cricket soap opera? Maybe they become so popular I install a web camera and you can see the crickets all day and night, if you want? If 'Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink Wednesday' turns out to be really popular (like 30 comments plus, but no pressure, gentle reader), maybe I'll make it a regular thing.

First off, look how many crickets are in my bathroom sink!

This is really going to freak out my sister, Jen, who thinks crickets are scarier than spiders. This is an irrational fear, because, hey Jen, spiders bite, and also, the spiders we have around here are huge and hairy. And they bite. And they are hairy. And huge. And they bite. Crickets just chirp, and hang around the sink, and jump in your hair when you turn on the water to wet down your toothbrush.

There were five crickets. That's a lot of crickets for one sink, right? I totally didn't stage this. None of those crickets are actors or stunt doubles. I went in to brush my teeth last night, and there they all were. There were also some on the floor and in the other sink. We are pretty much infested.

So, how about this album that I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great? Well, don't get over-excited. Remember, I didn't say that YOU had totally forgotten about it for ten years, or even that you ever liked it at all. You might think it is rubbish. Ancient rubbish. Like, partially composted stinky rubbish that I shouldn't have dug outta the landfill. Or, you might be some kind of youngster, barely legal, with boobs that are high and tight (I hate you, btw), and are all like, "I think my mom listened to that while she drove me to preschool and I was strapped into my car seat. But, I'm not really into oldies."

Who are you calling an oldie? Don't you know that I have Justin Timberlake's jeans on their way to me in the U.S. Mail? Well, you can just take me off your google reader, girlie.

No, wait, don't be so hasty. I'm sorry.

Is not your fault you have perky breasts.



So, anyhow, you should all go listen to August and Everything After by Counting Crows. It has aged well, like the finest Martinelli's Apple Cider. Or moldy cheese. I liked it, in 1993; but now, I think I've slowed down a bit, matured, maybe; and I appreciate it even more. My favorites songs are Round Here and Anna Begins. They are on the player over yonder.

Why was 1993 so long ago? Songs are bonifide oldies, as am I! Is horrendous news!

Stupid, high-breasted snippets, reminding me of my approaching dotage, and looming mortality.

Ah, well. I've enjoyed getting reacquainted with the Crows (Counting, not Black, although...I did enjoy me a little Hard to Handle of a Friday afternoon, back in 1992) so much, I'm ruminating on going to see them September 5 with Maroon 5 and Augustana. I should really go before bands join AARP.

What about you? Like(d) the Crows (either sort)? Have you recently rediscovered any treasures buried on your ipod or CD shelf?

Got any crickets? Other infestations?

Any irrational fears of any sort? Irrational fears are often entertaining.

Now, don't you all comment at once.

(Sound of crickets chirping.)

Taking my coin slot into my own hands

Okay, that title didn't come out quite right.

But you know how sometimes, it is just love at first sight?

No, this isn't about that new vampire book, Breaking Wind.

(Which, I am embarrassed to say, I have completed. But thanks for lending it to me, nice lady with the initials J.R.)

It's about how, sometimes, you meet someone new, and the magic is there at the very beginning, right? There is immediate chemistry? Well, from the very first moment I took the William Rast Daisy Super Flare in Gardenia Wash into my arms, and waltzed her into the dressing room, I could tell we were going to get on famously.

But as I slipped her up over my hips, buttoned her up, and twisted around to catch a glimpse of her on my backside, I thought, now this is denim of a different color! LOOK at my rear side! LOOK! LOOK, SELF! LOOK AT YOUR BACK END! Did you get a good gander? How does she push it all up that way, so I don't look like all my junk is just pancakes, the short stack, in the steamrollered trunk? I don't know, but she did. And then, she didn't gap in the back of the waist AT ALL, which has never happened ever before in my whole entire life, except when I took my coin slot into my own hands and TAILORED MY OWN JEANS. Which totally works, but it took me 7 hours with my sewing machine. Which is really a waste of time, because...

That's seven hours of living, gone; seven hours that I could have spent gazing lustily at my own butt in the mirror, in the lovely Daisy Jeans by my man William Rast (who, it turns out, is Justin Timberlake. It's his brand), or reading aloud to my children, or serving my fellow man. Or something.

All this is great, of course. But you want to know something EVEN BETTER? Justin Timberlake makes his jeans HUGE! Enormous! So ginormous that I need my Daisies 2 FULL SIZES SMALLER than my regular jeans. Just slipping on that size makes me feel slim and svelte like a frenchy supermodel. Because of this, Daisy and I are best friends forever now. Kindred spirits. (I think I imprinted on her a tiny bit.)

So, here I yam, sitting here in my new jeans, right-e-o?

NOPE.

Daisy is totally outta my league. She runs with a faster, jet-setty crowd. She is so, so pricey. Like, you'll need some Franklin twins just to get invited to her party. Even though I know we totally belong together, I could not take her home and sit on the couch and watch girly movies and spill popcorn on her, like I daydreamed about. I began to think of us as star-crossed BFFs, and it actually started to break my heart a little bit.

Until, I remembered about the wonderful world of online auctions.

So now, I'm cyber-stalking her on Ebay. Because, SHE WILL BE MINE.

I'm sounding sorta creepy, right? In addition to shallow, which cannot be avoided when you post about jean love. But now, I'm freakin' and creepin' you out a little? Sort of like vampire love and reproduction, maybe?

HMMM.

I don't care. I just wanted to tell you about fabulous pants; if that is wrong, well, then, you are wrong, to think it is wrong. And you can just take me off your Google Reader.

No, hold on, no need to be so hasty. Don't do that. I probably won't blog about jeans again for a good, long while.

Even though, if you are a girl like me, with a crazy, curvy-licious waist to hip ratio (seems medically impossible that I could ever have a heart attack), and a body shape that can only described by the phrase "extreme pear," then you know how it is. And you will probably bid against me on my William Rast Daisy Super Flares in Gardenia. I can't blame you. But I will win, ladies, because I am going to snipe the heck outta you.

So, happy bidding! May the flattest butt win!

Dudes' synchronized speedo diving, brainwashed Cuban baseball operatives, Trivial Pursuit, Mensa daydreams

Beeswax and Spouse (Jake), watching Olympics last night:

Spouse: ACK! Look at those guys. No man with any self respect gets up in front of the whole world in a speedo, with another guy in a matching speedo, and jumps, in unison. Is a public embarrassment.

Beeswax: Is not a public embarrassment. They are Olympic athletes! Those guys could go home with a gold medal, which is more than you've got.

Spouse: Okay, sure, but when they go home and their friends see the medal hanging on the bathroom doorknob, and are like "whadidya get your gold in, man?" That guy's going to say DIVING, not SYNCH DIVING. Or he's gonna say SWIMMING, not SYNCHRONIZED SWIMMING.

What? Men's synchro was just a SNL skit, right? Not real? Cause, I totally need to Tivo it, if it's real. It would probly look like a SNL skit:

I might actually like it. I pretty much LOVE men's gymnastics. The men's all-around final in Athens when Paul Hamm won the Gold was maybe the best, most exciting hour of sport I have even seen (from my couch) in my life. (Right up there with the time on Survivor All-Stars when Richard wrestled, bit and killed the nurse shark, then served it up for lunch to his hungry teammates. Okay, fine, that might not be a sport.) I was actually on my feet, weeping, at the end. I wasn't pregnant, either. When I'm pregnant, I cry over everything. My tears don't count for much. I might even cry over, say, something like this:

When I tell you the Paul Hamm Gold Medal Evening was the most exciting sporting event I've ever witnessed, well, you might have forgotten that I was in the 3rd row, right behind the vault (but in front of Jimmy Conners), when this occurred, in Los Angeles in 1984:

And that was pretty cool. I told you about it before, I think. Mary Lou sweated on me a little bit?

Spouse continued about the diving guys (are we still talking about them?): How can this continue to be an Olympic sport, when baseball is not, Beeswax? C'mon! It's DUDES in matching speedos.

Now, Jake is pretty obviously pretty ticked that Olympic Baseball got the ax. No more baseball after Beijing. As far as I can tell, though, Jake and Fidel Castro are the only ones really worked up about it. Fidel is really super, extra ticked off with the "rich and powerful masters of the Games" who voted it out. He and Jake are totally in accord on this one. Pretty soon one of them will start muttering something about Frenchies under his breath. Jake, more likely.

Somebody out there likes the divers, though. My Mom says she watches them all. Loves them. Is mesmerized by their marvelous synchonicity.

See, Jake loves baseball. His Grandpa George Binger was even on the U.S Exhibition Baseball Team for the World Exposition in London in 1938. Or something like that. Please correct if I am wrong. So, his family has been trying to support Baseball in the Olympics for 80 years now. I'm not sure exactly what sorta bee got in Fidel's bonnet. I think he just wants more potential opportunities to pound on the United States with baseball bats. He's not going to be able to hide any weapons on his athletes while they are wearing only this:

I mean, these poor guys are busy just keeping all the luggage on board. If you know what I mean.

Wink.

I should really never blog about sports. It makes me sound like an idiot. When Jake and I play Trivial Pursuit on the X-Box, I go around and get all my pie pieces but one, Sports and Leisure; then, I spend the rest of the time while Jake catches up hoping to get a Leisure question instead of Sporting one (cause I actually know more about mixed drinks than I do Sports, and as you know, I am a teetotaller, except, totally no tea, either. Except herbal). Then, when we are neck and neck, he gives me more sports questions for the final one at the end. They are never questions on Mary Lou Retton or Paul Hamm. Is totally unfair. Finally, Jake gives me a History question, and lets me win.

Then, I gloat a lot, cause I love to win Trivial Pursuit. It supports my secret theory that I am awesome and smart, and that Mensa is going to call me any day now, just begging me to join up. And I will turn them down, because in addition to being awesome and smart, I am also terribly humble, and joining brainiac societies sounds pretty uppity, dontcha know? But the point, of course, is they totally want me. So, there in my mind, I'm awesome, brilliant, humble, and popular with my mental cohort. Oh and gorgeous, cause on the day they called, I am having the best hair day. Only, then I think maybe I've gone too far. Cause Mensa members probably don't care about good hair days. They probably are just brainy, and not well-rounded like I am. Except that I don't know any sports trivia. But you don't need any sports trivia knowledge to be in Mensa. Everybody knows that.

I really shouldn't talk about Fidel, either. He might send his brainwashed operatives after me, Frank Sinatra-in-the-Manchurian-Candidate-style. Only, brainwashed in Spanish, not Korean, obviously.

Then Jake starts talking again (Is he asking me to play Trivial Pursuit? No?): Look, now those divers go shower together and sit in the hot tub in their speedos. It's embarrassing, I tell ya. What kind of Olympic sport gets hot tubs? Where are the waiters with the pina coladas?

Beeswax: MMMM. I want a hot tub and a Pina Colada.

Roughing it, Beeswax style. (i.e. watching satellite TV and eating junk food)

I took the kids up to the cabin in Payson on Wednesday, so we could eat s'mores cooked over the Viking range and watch BBC America all day and all night long. BBC America is awesome, and we don't have it at home.

Jake joined us Thursday night. He likes BBC America almost as much as I do.

Friday, we took the kids out in the Rhino.

We had planned to return home Friday night, but a wicked storm picked up just as we were packing up. The kids were so enamored of our instant stream in the backyard, we decided to stay.

Cash in the Attic was on BBC America, anyway. Can't miss that. Is the BEST, after Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, the show where the Hell's Kitchen chef yells at British folks for not making proper gravy and serving tinned tuna on lettuce. Which doesn't sound tasty, of course, but does it deserve THAT sort of language? I say nay, Gordon.

This one is for Gini. Sam's our only kid with Jake's recessive eyeballs. Purty, ain't they?

After two hours in the mud, kids were ready for a good scrubbing. Then, fed them all tinned tuna on lettuce with s'mores and gravy, and sent them off to bed, so Kelly and Jake could watch How Clean is Your House? (turns out, way cleaner than that guy's), Britain's Worst Teeth (only caught the end, but there were some very, very bad teeth). Also, Bargain Hunt, hosted by this dapper fellow, left over from the 70s:

As you see, it was pretty much Survivorman, up there in Payson this weekend. We Beeswaxes really know how to CAMP!

Sammy : fruit snacks :: dog : chocolate

What does this mean?

1. Dogs have better taste in treats than my son Sam.

2. If given the chance, Sam would eat fruit snacks until he either threw up or died.

Frog you, suckas.

Tommy's first day of school, ever, in his whole life, was yesterday. He learned about the color red. Here he is with his first tiny piece of shiz, er, crafty masterwork, that I will surely feel driven to save, in stacks and boxes, until it burns in the fires of the apocalypse:

So, in honor of his very first day in the hallowed halls of academia, I would like to share some of what we've been teaching him at home to prepare (to talk trash on the playground during recess):

A few days ago, we went to Meowson's Frozen Mustard for lunch. (That's what a barely-verbal Sam used to call Neilson's Frozen Custard, and now I've strong-armed everyone into calling it that. I fake a little no comprendo if a child of mine dares to call it by the correct name). As some take-out customers left the shop, Tommy yells after them:

"bye bye, suckas!"

I was horrified-slash-loving it. Mostly, just loving it. After all, it's hysterical. And now we know what my Mom was teaching Tommy while I took the older kids to the movies earlier in the day. I expect that he will always comes home from Grandma's house with a few new words. Grandma is a speech therapist, after all. But usually, they aren't so danged entertaining.

I will say, though, that Tommy is in a good place, linguistically. We can get him to parrot nearly anything we say, with only moderate comprehension, and poor 'consonent-R' blends.' (Except 'tr', at which he excels, which we have already discussed, at length). The Rs, on most occasions, are mostly inaudible.

Jake and I have had some good times lately, encouraging Tom to say shirt and frog repeatedly.

Or sometimes other variations on the same theme, including: baby shirt, bull shirt, or my favorite, frog you.

Hey, it might be poor parenting, and in poor taste, but what else are we to do for entertainment, with our Tivo nearly empty, except for SYTYCD and Burn Notice?

When we got home from Meowsons, I zipped Tom into his crib tent and whispered the usual "night, night." Then, instead of "love you, Tommy," I whispered (in my sweetest, lovey-dovey-baby-talk voice): "bye bye...suckas."

He gave me a little wave and a smile through the mesh netting before he responded, in kind:

"Momma. Night, night.

Bye, bye, suckas."

(Please feel free to leave me comments now about how I'm going straight to Hell.)

Will Swap Cookies for Breaking Dawn

So...Breaking Dawn came out nearly two days ago.

You guys should be done now, right?

That's why Relief Society was only half full today, I'm sure.

Who wants to lend it to me?

I'll make you treats.

Mesa ladies preferred. Shipping costs on that size book are gonna be hefty. Plus, who wants stale cookies?

(I know, I know, I bagged a little on The Host, and whined about the whininess of New Moon, but that doesn't mean I can't read them, does it?)