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.

Yes, that IS my name spelled wrong on my Christmas card. And no, I haven't sent them, yet.

But yes, I'm gonna. 

Is too late to fix them!

Stop asking so many questions.

Merry Christmas night to you!

Guess who was the bathroom trailer attendant in the Temple parking lot last night?

Yep. And Jake, too. And we also got a turn making sure nobody snatched the baby Jesus from the life-sized nativity. He's been pilfered before. Three times, according to Mr. Security.

And last week a lady in a trench coat jumped into the creche and opened her coat to pose for nudie pics with the babe in the straw.

People are weird.

The High Council voted to take 'host' duty at the Temple instead of a having a meeting this week. It was pretty fun, if a bit cold. There were cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate and lots of lights.

Really good cinnamon rolls.

In other news:

Is anyone else waking up at night in a cold sweat because she forgot to pick up assembled toys at Toys r Us?

Yeah, me neither.

So I guess it's just my Mom.

She waited til morn, and called me to see if I actually had forgotten.

I had.

I keep forgetting stuff.

I'm not organized enough for Christmas.

Please don't make me go to Wal-Mart this morning.

Why I'm eating raisins

Ack. Giant tin of Almond Roca is all gone. 

Have gained 3.2 pounds since Roca entered the house. Is not only reason for weight gain, but just symbol representing many bad but delicious choices I have made this holiday season. My favorite jeans are very tight, and so I was forced to wear alternate, larger jeans, with rhinestones on pockets, to party on Saturday night.

And now that Roca is gone, am now forced to eat raisins.

Is sad state of affairs.

Maybe will make cinnamon rolls (not with the raisins. Ick.) and hot chocolate, to avoid bah-humbugs produced by raisin-eating.

Rhinestone jeans really are quite festive, anyhow.

Right?

The Christmas letter my sister says I can't send to anyone, especially not Jake's Grandma, because it is foul

Dear friends and family,

So...uh...Merry Christmas!

Er...Happy Hannukah! 

(I like that I can spell Chanukuh however I like and it is totally kosher).

Hmmm...Feliz ano nuevo! 

I really need to find the tilde key, because I think without it, I may have just wished you a happy anus.

Hold up.

I can't write anus in a Christmas letter. I'm sending this to my grandma. And Jake's grandma, too. Who didn't know me as a child, and might think I'm a hussy, with all this potty talk.

Okay, let's see. What's up with the Beeswaxes?

Let's do this thing in reverse weight order.

Tommy is 2.5 years old. He enjoys telling me "NO!," eating entire jars of applesauce (which makes for a not-so-feliz ano), and pulling Jane's hair to make her scream.

We are all surprised and thrilled that Sam, 5, hasn't gotten kicked out of Kindergarten. Yet. Is a miracle, people.

Jane, 7, ate oysters at the Chinese Super Buffet one time. She's a foodie like her Mom, but with her Dad's backside. Sometimes, life isn't fair (for the Mom). Jane is pretty much a genius at riling boys up and then telling on them so they get grounded from the Wii. I'm not sure how this skill will serve her in adulthood.

Ross, 9, wants to read the Twilight books because he ran out of Harry Potters, Nancy Drews, Eragons, and cereal boxes. I told him no way, jose. Go watch Weird Al videos on YouTube like a good boy, and stop bugging me about books.

Jake is busy fixing other people's garbage disposals.

Kelly's cousin Melanie gave her the biggest tin of Almond Roca east of the San Andreas Fault, because, Melanie said, Kelly's jeans look too good. 

Kelly has been hard at it, eating the Roca practically full time, but is only about halfway through the tin, mostly because Jake tried to intervene and hide it in his underwear drawer. He was very crafty, and didn't expect that I would be doing any laundry. He was right.

Kelly is now ticked with both Jake and Melanie.

Yes, that one of the jeans is the only photo I'm enclosing in this foul letter.

Love and kisses,

Los Beeswax

(My real pictures came today. So now, I have to go write a real letter.

It isn't going to be nearly as fun as this'un.)

Oh, no, you didn't (wear that shirt to the Twilight movie)!

Oh, yes I did.

Jen got it last Christmas at a white elephant exchange, and gave it to me. I've been saving it for the perfect occasion.

It says: My heart belongs to my husband, but my neck belongs to Edward.

Somebody made it on her computer as a joke, and the letters were peeling up, and I am 35 years old, and I WORE IT OUT IN PUBLIC.

I went to see Twilight last night. I know I'm a little late. I'd heard it was pretty awful, so I wasn't expecting much. I have read all the books, but if you know me at all, you know I am not at all picky about my literary intake. I'm not proud if this, I'm just telling you so you know that when I read like 2000 pages of syrupy romantic teen vampire cheese, it doesn't mean I am fully invested.  I consume all kinds of literature, willy-nilly. (For instance, I am right now concurrently reading Gilead by Marrilyne Robinson, which won a Pulitzer Prize, and Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, by Louise Rennison, which has not. Yet. 

Okay, fine. I'm lying. I'm actually reading the 4th book in the snogging series, who's target audience is fast 12-year-old girls.)

So, anyhow, what I want to know is: what's not to like about the Twilight movie? 

Sure, we could talk about cheesy dialogue, or shoddy camera work, or how that Jasper character didn't talk or move his face, and looked like he was wearing a rubber Josh Groban mask. Honestly, though, I didn't care. I can see good acting anytime, but where else can I see the stink-eye elevated to an art form? (Edward is a natural talent). Because, this movie had me from the first moment the Cullens entered the Forks High cafeteria. I was laughing hysterically while Edward sat next to Bella in Biology, sniffing about like he smells the worst fart ever, and throwing up a little in his mouth. Looking back, I'm not sure I OUGHT to have been laughing, perhaps it was meant to be a serious moment, but the terrific campiness was what took this movie from a 7 on the fabulous teen movie entertainment scale to a 10. Okay, maybe 9.5. But still, I ask you again: 

what's not to like?

I actually want to know! So, if you aren't tired of talking about it, please discuss. And if you so desire, please rate it on the fabulous teen entertainment scale.

New York travelogue, long style. I am incapable of Cliff's Notes, people.

Yesterday I was acting crabby cause the kids wouldn't do anything I asked, like bathe or practice the piano, and Jake said "you look like you need a vacation." 

To which I snapped back: "I just had a vacation." 

"Oh," he replied, "but I don't think running about New York for 5 days in high heels and frigid temperatures is an actual vacation. A trip, yes. But not a vacation."

Which is totally true! Because I am still recovering from my vacation! Not that I would ever trade my trip to NYC for 5 days on the beach, because I like trips way better than vacations, but trips do take it outta ya. You know? 

Such a sage, brilliant man, that Jake Beeswax. And also, so good at finding things. And fixing things. Although, I DID take apart the broken roller ball apparatus on my Blackberry, scrubbed all the many, many microscopic parts with dish soap and a toothbrush, and put it back together all by myself this weekend with directions I found on the interweb. So I'm not a completely helpless female.

So, NEW YORK. We left the hotel by 9 am most mornings (7 am our time), came back to change before dinner, and didn't come in for the night before midnight. Which is the best way to do it, of course. Who sits around in their New York Hotel rooms, even at the Plaza? Nobody, that's who. Nobody smart, anyhow.

Don't be mad, okay? Because, I totally forgot to take a picture. I brought my camera, but left the battery at home on the charger. My Mom took like two, though, with her iphone. I'll try to get her to send those over.

I'll just start at the beginning. We checked into the Plaza and started to get ready for dinner and Billy Elliott, when Jen informed us that she had brought fancy, fancy dresses for all our evening escapades, and that night would be the fanciest of all, so we should try to keep up. (Okay, she did not tell us to keep up, she knew this would be impossible.) But luckily, I had packed my Nanette Lepore black-with-the-copper-sequins flapper dress for just such an emergency. And coincidentally, Jen had brought the biggest hair accessory ever made, to go with it. So we dressed as if we were going to the Oscars, and headed further down into midtown, to DB Bistro Moderne (French American 55 W. 44^th St (between 5^th and 6^th Ave) 212-391-2400) where we ate hamburgers.

Okay, not just hamburgers. Like, the fanciest hamburger ever: sirloin filled with braised short ribs, black truffle and foie gras. All the food was great. You should go there. Then, we had extra time before the show, and plus I couldn't walk because I was wearing the worst shoes EVER, so we stopped to eat pie. It seemed reasonable at the time, people.

By this time, as you can imagine,  we were quite full. Luckily, flapper dresses are quite loose-fitting.

Billy Elliot (Imperial Theatre 249 W 45^th St. Between Broadway and 8^th Ave) is brand new from the West End. I'd never seen the movie, but heard it was cute. Tickets were quite dear, so our seats weren't fabulous. Couldn't bring myself to pay scalper prices.

First, the bad. I cannot recommend this show to anyone, for two reasons:

1. Small, tiny children, cussing up a storm. (I am not being super prudy. F bomb dropped by 9 year old almost before curtain all the way up).

2. Small, tiny children, cast in the role of small, tiny gay children. (Okay, just the one.)

Lastly, the good. The music was very good, the choreography fantastic, and the child stars incredibly, horribly, unbelievably talented. With just a few changes, this could have been a family show. But it wasn't. I repeat. It was not. So sad.

Came back to hotel where the third toe on my right foot was entirely bruised because of bad shoes. It was totally worth it. Sometimes it becomes very clear why women are a mystery to men. Am a mystery to myself, occasionally, wearing such stupid shoes, and enjoying it.

The next morning, we hurried downstairs to the Palm Court for breakfast. 

I immediately spied some scones, nearly hidden under some chocolate croissants at the continental breakfast table. We procured them. They were deemed fabulous. We each got three, with some berries. Except Mom, who was still under the delusion that she would eat only healthy foods on this trip (silly, silly Mom), and got nasty oatmeal, but then shared my scones. We ate scones for breakfast every day, which were even better when we thought to ask for clotted cream with which to slather them.

We headed out for some serious shopping, 5th Avenue style. First we stopped in the diamond district (47^th St between 5^th Ave and Ave of Americas [6^th Ave]) because, well, Jen had some loose stones she needed to get tightened up.  (That was our rationale, just go with it.) We pressed our foreheads up against the windows for a great long while, then went to go see our friends at H. H. Jewelry. They are our diamond BFFs, and fixed Jen's ring asap. We tried on lots of enormous stones, then went to some sort of brasserie in Rockefeller Center for lunch. Had some mushroom soup, croque madame, panini, artichoke salad. So good, we will probly put it on the permanent food itinerary. If we can remember the name of it.

Then we headed over to Saks Fifth Avenue, which was packed full of people, scrambling over each other to snatch up 40% off handbags. There were no handbags left on the shelves, except for one. I reached for it, and was able to catch a glimpse of the price tag- $2,500, but of course, 40% off! what a deal!- before a lady yanked it from my loose, untrained-in-handbag-shopping grip, saying, sorry, that's mine, and slid it onto her arm with 6 others. I'm not lying to you, people. There were ladies in actual fur coats (I touched one, surreptitiously) yelling at each other about 3grr purses. It was fantastic, really. It really didn't feel like there was a recession going on over to the Saks.

But Jen was starting to panic, because of the crowds, so we quickly went upstairs and bought matching jeans with rhinestones on the butt. Which also seemed like a good idea, at the time. On the way back down, the elevator opened on the shoe floor, where boxes and tissue were literally flying through the air, people were yelling for sizes, and one look at Jen's stricken face told us it was time to get outta Saks, 40% off or no.

A quick trip to Bloomingdale's, and a few other quick stops, and we were back at the room to change for the show: August: Osage County.

So, here is another show I cannot recommend to you, even though I really, really want to. It was three and a half hours long, with two intermissions, but would have been only two hours long, without all the profanity. But yes, even so, we stayed. I would have sat longer, had they kept acting. It was one of the best plays I have ever seen. Mom loved it. Jen loved it. Jen said it restored her faith in serious theater. It doesn't give you everything, like a musical. It expects something of you, as an audience. Like, it expects that you know some t.s. eliot:

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

And at the end, you are such an emotional wreck, it takes you some time to recover, and get on your feet, and give them a standing ovation. 

(But you also feel like washing out their mouths with soap.)

But guess what? Afterward, there were no cabs to be found, because it was Friday night in the theater district, and it was COLD. So we walked almost all the way to Carnegie Deli (854 7^th Ave at 55^th St [kitchen hosing begins at 2:30 a.m., so best to be out before then, or you could get dampened by errant hoses]), where I got giant piles of pastrami with a side of sauerkraut, pickles and mustard, and then did not listen to Jen and my Mom's warnings not to eat so much or I would get very sick, and finished it up with cheesecake with strawberries. I totally dominated that meal, and didn't feel even so much as a single quease.

So sorry, I thought I could make this travelogue compendious, but it turns out I can't make anything short; is just not a skill I have. So I will have to post the final New York installment later in the week. 

Tune in next time for more food, three more shows, more shopping, eating, the Tenement Museum, an (unsuccessful) attempt to go to Church, and snacks! I'll bet you are on the edge of your seats! If so, you should get up. Your bum will get sore.

Coldplay Phoenix Concert Review by the Minivan Mama

You know, most of my best concert experiences have not in been in big, giant arenas. I mean, the big shows are big deal, so you invite all your friends and do your hair up real big for the occasion, and you might even buy your favorite missionary a $35 Depeche Mode t-shirt and send it to the Philippines to rub it in that he didn't get to come along (not realizing until you were actually married to said missionary and folding his laundry that three other lady-admirers attended the same show and sent him identical shirts). 

Me, in Jake's shirt before I sent it halfway round the world. 1993?

Or maybe you drive all the way to Vegas, to see R.E.M. through binoculars, and then ride all the way home to Provo in the trunk of your OWN car, because no one wants to sit three across the back seat of your Acura Integra next to a guy named Balls. Including you. Thanks for driving, Jeff. (Brown. No thanks to you, Balls. Because, I think your real name was Jeff, too.) And thanks to Traci Fong and Kelly Robbins, who refused to get into the car until Balls was sitting shotgun. It was like a Chinese Fire Drill/Musical Chairs game, wherein I was clearly the loser.

Or maybe you went to see Ringo Starr, James Taylor, and Jimmy Buffett in Tucson, on the same night everybody under 40 in the state of Arizona went to see U2 at Sun Devil Stadium.

Nobody ever accused you of being extra cool.

But last Wednesday night, a mere 18 hours before our fabulous turkey supper, you were treated to the best big-concert experience of of not-so-young, not-terribly-cool life.

(And, remember, by YOU, I mean, ME. But also, maybe YOU. In case you were there, too. But really, this third person thing is getting tiring, so from now on, YOU just means, YOU. Not ME.)

I'm talking about COLDPLAY.

When I googled a bit to find the setlist, I kept finding things that said "Coldplay: The band you love to hate."

Which I don't get. Because I just love to love them. But then I think I figured it all out. See, everybody knows that they are awesome, and so they love them. But then, lame-o's like me show up to the concert in blue Honda Minivans with vanity plates. And when my former college roommate, Kari, and I sit squaw (I don't have to be PC, do I? It's my blog) in the second-row black leather bucket seats, and I say, hey Jake, the child locks are on, will you get my door? He just hits that button in the front and-wallah!- the door opens! Which, looking back, doesn't seem very rock'n'roll. Any actual cool people in the parking lot who saw that might think, I hope those mini-vanners are headed to Elmo on Ice featuring the Wiggles. And then they see me, stepping out with my big hair, 4-inch heels, and William Rast jeans, and think, Coldplay is clearly losing their edge, if that gal is here. Although, I will grudgingly admit that she is medium-foxy.

See, I'm just not edgy. And neither are most of the thirty-something soccer moms that totally dig Chris Martin (in a totally platonic, wish-we-could-set-up-a-playdate-with-Gwyneth-Apple-and-Moses-but-also-wouldn't-mind-seeing-his-blonde-fro-up-close kinda way). So I think maybe they'd like us to keep on buying the albums, but just keep quiet about it, and not write long, rambling concert reviews that include stuff about minivans with automatic doors.

Whoopsy-daisy.

So anyhow, the concert was GOOD. Really top-notch. Here's the setlist:

1. Life in Technicolor

2. Violet Hill

3. Clocks

4. In My Place

5. speed of sound

6. Cemeteries Of London

7. Chinese Sleep Chant

8. 42

9. Fix You

10. Strawberry Swing

11. God Put A Smile Upon Your Face 

12. Talk

13. The Hardest Part

14. Postcards From Far Away 

15. Viva La Vida

16. Lost

17. The Scientist

18. Death Will Never Conquer

19. Viva La Vida (remix interlude)

First Encore

20. Politik

21. Lovers In Japan

22. Death And All His Friends

Second Encore

23. Yellow

I would like to focus on my favorite parts: numbers 6, 11-15, and 23. Cemeteries of London just sounded GREAT. Better than the album. Then later, they went out into the audience a bit and got into a tight little pack, where they played these fast, short techno-ish versions of God Put a Smile... and Talk, and then Chris played The Hardest Part, and then this pretty little piano thing-y called Postcards from Far Away, which is on the new Prospekt's March EP, which you should get because it is good, and then, when he hits the last, heartbreakingly beautiful note and you think, this can't get any better, BOOM, they go straight into Viva La Vida. Wowie. This minivan mama can die happy, now.

The encore, Yellow, was also fab. It is just a GOOD song, people.

I would also like to say that I have new respect for the multi-talented drummer, who drums so fast that when you watch him you get a little seasick, and who can play the Church bell, some sort of mandolin and a tambourine, and also sing fairly well, although in the style of Kermit thee Frog. But I shan't look up his name to tell it to you, because his hair is not blonde and curly. It is baldy. To each his own, eh, ladies?

Anyhow, they say they are coming back next year! So, who wants to come along? Kari already said she's in. But don't tell her relatives, because they will be ticked if she skips town for any more major holidays.

Check out this video for LOST! It is all concert footage. Thanks, Kari!

Want more Kelly blogging about Coldplay? You are in luck!

Why I dig blonde afros

Why Coldplay was driving me bonks