I wish I had baby giraffe thighs

But I don't. I never did. 

So, when Tommy (2.5 years old) and I were in the shower yesterday (don't judge me, is the only way I can concurrently maintain my personal hygiene and be certain that he doesn't eat poison), and he pointed to my thigh and said:

Hey mama, you have a BIG leg!

I was okay with it. Totally copacetic.

Yup, that's right I replied, as I rinsed out my shampoo. 

But he wasn't finished. He decided to persever, as he often will.

Your leg is BIG, mama!

Um-hmmm, I mumble. I try to tune him out. It is hard.

So big! Your leg is VERY, VERY BIG!

(When he says 'big', his voice gets very deep and throaty. For emphasis.)

Yes, it is, Tommy. Is my leg big? Sometimes if  I turn it around into a question, he gets confused and quits.

He ignores my question, and points down to my calf. Mama, down there your leg is little! VERY little. But, up here, it is big. So, SO big. Mama, why your leg so big?

And so it went. Through conditioning, rinsing, exfoliation. 

Nobody deserves this sort of harassment.

Tommy, I said in my sweetest voice: Why don't you go find some poison and go play in the street? Mama needs to towel off her huge thighs. It might take awhile.

What is up with FEEDJIT?

I was looking at FEEDJIT just now. I can't figure it out.

It said that I am a #4 most locally relevant Mesa blogger (maybe just for this morning. I don't know.) They also had about 15 #4s. I was sorta in the middle of all the 4s. Then I looked and found that I am a #16 most popular Mesa Blogger! 

Which is way more popular than I was in high school.

Is sort of a coup.

(Yes, this is the sort of stuff I do when I ought to be cleaning my house.) 

What's up with FEEDJIT??

Don't make me get up: Confessions of a wussy

Thursday morning.

Beep-beep-beep-beep. Four staccato syllables.

Miss-is-ipp-i. 

Or, Con-sti-pa-tion. 

Or, Jan-u-ar-y. 

Or, El-e-va-tor.

Better than the alarm that shrieked like it wanted us to put on fireproof clothes and slide down a pole, or the one that squealed so high it was nearly-but-not-quite in a dogs-only frequency; and better even than the one I'd set to blast mariachi music. Like I was trying to punish myself for something. (I'm not sure for what. I'm not sure what sort of behavior deserves that sort of awful punishment. Too bad Obama decided to shut down Guantanamo Bay. He mighta coulda used my alarm clock over there.)

So even though the four-beep alarm always wakes me, it isn't quite annoying enough to encourage me to get out of bed. I usually end up pondering stuff. You can ponder, and still be immobile. Pondering's great that way. 

First, I think: Don't make me get up.

It comes, unbidden, every morning. Years and years worth of mornings. So that now, it is a mantra. (An unhelpful mantra.) I can't remember its genesis, but it was even before the time I had to get up at five for early morning Seminary, in the cold, dark house on the hill. Mom didn't (and doesn't) believe in 'fake heat.' Fake heat is the heater. And you couldn't turn it on, even when parts of you were turning blue. I think the coldest I've ever been is standing naked in my bathroom in that Andasol House, the house where I lived in high school, waiting for the water to heat up, so I could step into the shower. 

Did I mention this cold, dark house was in Los Angeles? Which shows you that my life hasn't been very cold. Or very dark. And that I'm pretty much a wussy. 

So I think: I'm very self-aware, for a wussy. I should write this stuff down. Is good, whiny stuff!

But then, I think: no one wants to read stuff written by a wussy. 

That's why I can't write the Great American Novel. I'm lazy, and nearly angst-less. There is nothing to write about. (Brr! Cold showers. 50 degrees, sometimes! WAAA!)

I open one eye and squint at the clock. I can't see the time. Am very blind.

I should get up. Even though it is still dark. It won't be, for long: Soon the sun will be so bright, it will burn your eyeballs. In January. I tire of this desert sun.

Yes, yes. I know. Only a wussy complains about sunny days. Is very unattractive.

Even I know that.

Yesterday was another 80 degree January day in the desert. It is beautiful. It is. Sometimes it is hard to remember to be greatful for it.

Then I think: Don't make me find clothes for the kids. 

I always find clothes for them, so they won't go to school looking like goobers.

They don't get all ironed up or anything; just, you know, decent. Presentable. I know that the Love and Logic book probably specifically forbids this, because I'm being a helicopter parent or a drill sergeant, or a poison fairy or some other horrible thing; and making sure their t-shirts match their pants will probably encourage them to be alcoholic womanizing adults, who steal money from my old-lady purse, but you know what? 

They'll look decent doing it. Toxic livers, V.D., or rap sheets, maybe, but not high-water pants!

My other option is homeschooling. The first rule of homeschooling would be nobody gets out of bed before eight o'clock. Or rubs any vocal folds together. But most homeschooling Moms are very organized and get all sorts of stuff done, usually at four o'clock in the morning, from what I hear. They are not wussies. And actually, sometimes their kids look pretty goobery. Is probably some kind of fantastic parenting technique, of which I am completely unaware (or pretending to be). So I'm not sure I really want to join that cohort. Or even, you know, if they want me. Well, probly they'd let me in. They do seem very inclusive.

So then I think: What was that?

Thunder.

Oh yeah. Today is supposed to be rainy. I love rain. 

Then, my husband stirs. And I remember how last night, I was watching Barefoot Contessa make a chocolate cake with butter cream frosting, which Contessa Ina called the best in the world. And I asked Jake, with my tongue partly in my cheek: "better than Chili's Molten Chocolate Cake, you think?" He just grunted, or raised an eyebrow, in that way a man does, which makes you think he knows you are alive. The glazy eyes, though, make you think he probably isn't listening, since you aren't really saying anything, anyhow.

And then, he went to return some movies, and he came home with chocolate cake from Chili's. And so we sat up in bed and ate it, and spilled chocolate and caramel on the clean, white sheets. 

Which sounds sort of sexy. 

And it was. 

But maybe not in the way you are thinking.

Because the sexiest part? The listening. Even behind those glazy eyes. Is tricky boy behavior.

And BTW, the cake? It WAS better than Ina's, cause hers ended up being full of coffee. Which  is ick.

So then I think: I sure have a good life, for a wuss. 

And then, I pray:

Thanks for my life. 

The husband. And all the listening. And chocolate cake.  

And the TIVO in my bedroom, on which I can watch Barefoot Contessa at all hours. Rain and thunder. Sun. School-teachers. 

The kids. And their clothes. And angst-less-ness. Great American Novels (even if they aren't mine). Self-awareness. Los Angeles. Fake heat. Nice alarm clocks. Warm beds. 

And pondering.

Please help me to get up.

And then, I did.

I got up.

Every time you go away...

You take a piece of meat with you.

That's how Ryan sings it.

(Remember my brother Ryan?)

So now, this song is stuck in my brain.

Thanks, Ryan.

So then, I looked it up on YouTube, and now I can't get that haircut outta my head, neither.

Apologies, people.

P.S. Speaking of haircuts...

I got one.

I told the lady: "extra long bob." 

My Mom said: "You got the Rachel."

Well, I like it. 

That Rachel must have been ahead of  her time.

Because if she wasn't, I'm just 14 years too late.

What do you think? Is the Rachel back?

(Now that I'm looking at it, it seems like Heathcliff, from yesterday's post, might have the Rachel, too. Only, he needs a good round brush. His roots need some volume.)

Don't look at my messy kitchen.

Wuthering Heights: Starring Dwight Schrute as Heathcliff

Last night I was watching watching Wuthering Heights on Masterpiece Theater, and it occurred to me that the Heathcliff/Cathy/Edgar Linton love triangle is eerily similar to the Dwight/Angela/Andy triangle (on The Office). 

Cathy and Heathcliff: can't deny what they feel. "You know I could as soon forget you, as my own existence." But she gets scared off when he gets gleeful over her sister-in-law's death.

Angela and Dwight: another passionate, secret love. She leaves when he kills her beloved cat, Sparkles.

Edgar Linton, with soon-to-be-wife Cathy. He's the whole package: Rich, educated, appropriate, good-lookin', and doting. Why does she agree to marry him, while she still has the hots for someone else? Is a bad idea, Cathy.

Andrew Bernard and his espoused, Angela. His unconditional love is unrequited! 

No really. 

Think about it. 

Pretend Heathcliff is a brooding beet farmer.

Now, imagine that Edgar is a Cornell graduate with the voice of an angel.

Okay, then.

So now, you can stop chewing your nails over what will happen next Thursday night. It seems fairly obvious:

 

Angela will marry Andy, regret it mightily, then croak. 

Dwight will end up digging up Angela's grave and fondling her decomposing remains. 

I can't wait. 

It is going to be SOOOO funny.

P.S. Remember that one time, when Ralph Fiennes was Heathcliff? 

I do.

Hubba.

Hubba.

Sometimes, what happens in Vegas comes home in Kelly's new camera

And on her rear end.

So, I went to Las Vegas on January first. 

Mostly cause I wanted to eat stuff there. 

Which I did.

Immediately upon arrival, we had some delicious paninis at 'Wichcraft. I wish we had this kind of fast food here at my house. 

(Dear 'Wichcraft, you can totally move in over where the Del Taco is now, over on Signal Butte. They are just taking up space, with their nasty grisly tacos.)

For dinner on New Year's day, we went to Emeril's. I had some tasty gumbo, a salad, and some shrimp bisque. All good.

Here we are at Carnegie Deli at the Mirage. Everyone (but me): Dan, Sarah, Jen, Andrew, Hillary, Ryan, Jake at Carnegie.

I split the Woody Allen with Jake, which is half pastrami, half corned beef. Never again, people. Who eats corned beef when they can have pastrami? Is a mystery of the universe. Either way, though, don't forget the mustard, pickles, and a side of sauerkraut. And the cheesecake with strawberries.

I took half my cheesecake to go, carried it around in my purse all day, and finished it later, outside the Hermes store in the Bellagio shops. 

(Dear Fred Leighton Jewelers in the Bellagio shops, you are fabulous and awesome. I wish you would come to my neighborhood, too. You can have the spot where Bed, Bath & Beyond is going out of business, kay?) 

That night, fuimos a comer at Mesa Grill (Bobby Flay's place), at Caesar's Palace. Again, I went for an assortment of appetizers. I'm not really into large plates of carne (with notable exception of pastrami. And In-n-Out burgers). Gala Apple salad with spicy Orange vinaigrette was caliente y bueno. Tiger shrimp with roasted garlic corn tamale, and the goat cheese queso fundido also muy delicioso. Yucatan Chicken tacos and Roasted pumpkin soup (with smoked chiles and pomegranate crema) son solamente medium bueno. Wild mushroom quesadilla with white bean hummus and white truffle oil was too strong and truffle-y. No me gusta mucho. 

Pero, es posible que the quesadilla was mejor de mi espanol.

Beeswax y su hermanita, Juanita (Jen).

Los Porter, Sarah y Dan

So after much deliberation and a couple of false starts (including a trip deep into the underbelly of Vegas, to attempt some Karoake at a nasty little Asian-themed spot called the Imperial Palace, where we saw Elvis, but couldn't get our picture with him because he was too busy talking to LADY Elvis), we decided to go see the Wynn hotel. (I believe that other than food, the best part of Vegas is wandering around fancy hotels. Bellagio and Venetian were my favorites. Jake like Wynn.)

Did you ever wonder what the GREAT AND SPACIOUS BUILDING looks like on the inside? Well, it looks like soul-less Disneyland versions of the canals of Venice, the palaces of Rome, or the pyramids of Egypt. With smoke and slot machines. And really, really good shopping. I bought some lipgloss at MAC in the Forum Shops at Caesar's.

Jen and Hillary

Ryan and Jake

Jake y su esposa, Beeswax. I'll stop with the Spanish now.

After some ice cream at the Wynn, we all hopped in a stretch limo where some things happened that need to stay in Vegas, like some dancing and some shaking it. 

We got back to the MGM just as the Neil Diamond concert was letting out. There were lots of oldish people, and more than a few Pride Jazzy scooters to evade as we fought our way against the flow of traffic through the casino.

I don't know if all the seniors made us look relatively young, or what, because then, something wonderful happened:

Hillary, Jen and I got carded.

I know. Is fabulous news.

Then, Andrew played a little craps. 

I learned that this is quite different from taking a little crap.

What's that in Andrew's breast pocket, you ask?

He kept it tucked in there the whole night. Was hilarious.

Thanks for the trip, Jake! 

Happy 35th birthday.

(P.S. I got that clip at Bendel's in New York. Cute, isn't it?)

The one where I figure out how to get pictures off my new camera

I got a new camera for Christmas.

A camera which is capable of many things. 

Things which are still a great mystery to me. 

But guess what! After I located FULL AUTO mode (took only about 25 minutes to find, amongst the many buttons and gizmo-doodads), I took some medium-good pictures. 

Well, good for me.  

Which mama likes. 

And then yesterday, Jake pulled the card outta the camera and plugged it into the Mac, and after that, iphoto just sucked them up. SLLLUURRP! And now, blogger can suck them right outta iphoto, lickety split(ish).

So now, I present you with...

Everything I remembered to take pictures of since Christmas!

Except Vegas. Cause the kids will be home in 14 minutes. 

And there just isn't time.

Christmas morn: big kids with new electric scooters

Little kids. Electric, too. But slower.

After Christmas, we went up to our cabin in Payson. We thought maybe our small desert-dwellers might like a trip to the snow.

 

We were wrong.

They lasted about 15 minutes, and then they began to wail. We stripped then down to their cold, damp undies, turn the heat on high, and drove down off the Mogollon Rim, back to the cabin.

 Where they did enjoy their trip to the jacuzzi tub.

Uncle Ryan got a cool arcade video game thingy for Christmas. Tom likes it.

We spent a marathon day at the park with my cousins, second cousins, and launched some rockets.

Uncle Rick stopped by to take Tom for a ride on his Harley.

And Grandma Verna Taylor turned 98 on January 9th!

And then my sister said "don't quote me on this, but..."

"this might be one of the best movies I have ever seen."

Bride Wars.

That's the movie. 

The one that's maybe the best she's ever seen.

And yeah. 

She did say not to quote her. 

But I couldn't help it. 

Because it seems pretty funny.

But it was a pretty good movie. Well, pretty entertaining.

You should go see it, ladies.

Cause it is a perfect girly movie.

(You know what I mean.)

Beeswax and sister Jen at the Wynn in Vegas.

So, I kept thinking, how does such a lovely confection of girly bliss get made? 

I imagine maybe some doughy, old bald white guys with sweaty pits, shiny faces, and short, wide ties were sitting around smoking cigars in a dark room with dented 1950s metal office furniture, and one of them said:

"Harold, hows about we make a movie for the ladies? Whaddaya think?"

And then Frank cuts in: "I know! Something with hot teenage vampires!"

"Too late. Done to death," muses Harold. "How about a wedding? Better yet, a couple-a weddings? And Vera Wang wedding dresses? The ladies love the wedding dresses."

"Yeah, and wedding cake. And flowers, and diamond rings. In little Tiffany boxes. Girls pretty much wet their pants over Tiffany boxes."

"And the Plaza? And the Palm Court at the Plaza? And best friends. Girls always want to KIT with their Best Friends Forever."

"Only, they fight. Girls also love a good cat fight. Almost as much as the boys do. Hey, boys?"

Cue lecherous laughter.

I won't go so far as to say it was a good as Notting Hill, which is a 10+, incorporating as it does Hugh Grant and London, which are two of my ATFs (all time favorites). Notting Hill is is pretty much the standard by which I judge this sorta film ('film' being used here in the loosest possible way). But still, I'll give Bride Wars an 8.5 on the Chick Flick Fun Scale. An 8.75, even.

P.S. Don't take boys along. They will not appreciate it. Is like when you try to get your husband to watch Masterpiece Theater with you, but then he talks in a nasally falsetto and pretends to be Jane Austen, whining about her love life. Or a ghostly Cathy, out on the moor, whining about her love life. Or Tess of the D'Urbervilles, whining about her love life. 

Is not funny. 

Is serious business.

Tess, part deux, begins in 120 minutes.

Lavonne gave me some Junior Mints at Church. (To eat instead of my pantcessories). I'm saving them for Tess-time.

Kelfari: because I can't call myself a real nerd if I don't have my own book blog, right?

I started a book blog. Because I can't help myself. I want you guys to come over there and tell me when you read something fantastic, okay? Because I need you to recommend stuff. I am tired of wasting my reading time (and my laundry time and my bathroom cleaning time, or for that matter, my blogging time) on cruddy books. I reviewed Gilead over there today, to start. 

Kelfari

P.S. Whilst meandering around ebay, looking for some bigger jeans (don't judge me), I came across this photo of the button. You know the one. (See previous post.) 

So if you squint real hard, or look at it through the corner of your eye while you hang upside down, it looks pretty tasty, right?

Also, my son's cub scout leader called me 'Junior Mint' when I phoned her yesterday. 

It's a secret. Don't tell anybody.

I am going to tell you a story. 

But you can't tell anyone else. 

Because it is a secret.

Okay?

Okay, then.

So, I got some Junior Mints in my stocking. On Christmas morn. From Santa.

I opened those Junior Mints straight away, and ate some for breakfast.

(Junior Mints are very tasty, as you know.)

Then, I put on my jeans. They were quite tight. 

Full of Christmas joy, maybe.

As I bent down to pick up my super cute green Christmas sweater, the button popped clean off my jeans. A cursory search for the button revealed nothing.

I decided to put in my contact lenses and look again.

But first, I would eat this one rogue Junior Mint, that had somehow fallen under the ironing board. 

I picked it up, and as I smacked my lips in anticipation, and brought that Junior Mint right up near my nose, I noticed some things:

First, that I am very seriously nearsighted, and that I should probly get some of that new-fangled laser surgery on my eyeballs.

And also, that thing I'd picked up? It wasn't a Junior Mint. It was my button. You know, the one from my tight pants.

And I'd nearly eaten it.

And then I thought, there is irony here. And some sort of lesson, I'm sure.

Some might call this my 'aha!' moment. An epiphany, maybe. Or perhaps even 'rock-bottom.'

But they would all be wrong.

The only thing I've learned is that the pants feel much more comfy without the offending button.

(Especially while I ate my way up the Vegas Strip, starting with 'Wichcraft and Emeril's at the MGM Grand, to Carnegie Deli at the Mirage, and finally Mesa Grill at Caesar's Palace. MMM. Vegas would be perfect if they got rid of all the pesky gambling, smokers, and other assorted nasty nastiness. More on that later, when I figure out how to get the pictures off my new camera. )

P.S. The button fell under my dresser and I thought it was another Junior Mint. 

So now, I think I should sue Justin Timberlake. 

His jeans are obviously a serious choking hazard.

Don't hate me because I'm going to Vegas without my kids tomorrow.

Happy New Year, people!

Am off on spur-of-moment trip to Vegas, like a fancy lady.

(If fancy ladies drive to Vegas in their minivans. And plan to go to Carnegie deli and make themselves sick on pastrami.)

Oh! And thanks in advance to all the babysitters. Without which none of these shenanigans would be possible.