"The trouble with armadillo races..."

...my Dad began, last night at Sunday dinner. We all started laughing, and so he asked, What? You've never been to an armadillo race? How old are you? 

Anyhow,  he continued, the trouble with armadillo races is that sure, somebody wins, and somebody loses, but EVERYBODY ends up with stinky hands.

(Apparently armadillos are very smelly, and even strong soap won't take off the stink. Also, I looked it up, and in Texas, you can hire armadillo racers to come to your party, like a clown or a magician!)

I've often thought that I should tell you about my sister's extensive and phenomenal collection of hair accessories...

But I didn't. I never did.

And then, Christina totally beat me to it. 

Warning: what you are about to see is REAL. And graphic. And, you might accidentally break the tenth commandment* a little bit.

And then, you'll be the only one on her way to Hell, cause Jen totally shares her hair bows with everybody, and has thus far been miraculously spared from scourge of lice in a miraculous, saint-style manner.

Except, not everybody** can really pull off some of these dazzlers like she can. For instance, I learned the hard way that they don't look super marvy with yoga pants*** . But she's got a copper metallic number that wouldn't look shabby next to some of Austria's crown jewels (I've been watching a lot of Rick Steves when I'm not busy puking), that I wore to a Broadway show (last year, when I was still medium-foxy, and not brought low and nigh unto death by this bun in my proverbial oven) with my Nanette Lepore flapper dress. I was smokin' hot****, but my neck was sore from holding that thing up all night!

Okay, ready? Buckle up, then click here!

* Thou shalt not covet

** i.e. me

**btw, even my yoga pants are too tight, and the Zofran quit helping at all. So I am feeling very sad and am thinking that I need to go to Wal-Mart and buy me some scrubs. They seem very loose and non-spandexy. But I don't want to puke in the aisle at Wal-Mart, for obvious reasons, plus my sister was horrified when I told her my plan, because she is more fashionable than anyone I know, and considered it a cry for help, and I think she might have called the mean people at What Not to Wear to schedule me some sort of intervention. Which I totally don't need this week. At least I know they can't have much footage of me looking like a bag lady in the grocery store, cause I don't ever leave my house. 

Feel the mode, Stacey and Clinton! (And Jen).

****I'm a six in New York, but a seven here in Scranton (er, Mesa)

Oh yeah. Come back and tell me which is your favorite!

Your blog makes me barf

I know. You clicked on the title because you think that here in the post body, I will take it all back. That I'll tell you, no way, I'm totally kidding! Your blog doesn't make me barf.

But the sad truth is, it does. When I read your blog, I want to vomit.

If it makes you feel any better, my blog makes me barf, too.

So does checking my email.

And reading. (Like computers,  all the words make me feel seasick.)

And smelling any sort of Asian food, sitting up, drinking water, watching Rick Steves eat pickled herring in Belgium, brushing my hair, or taking a nap. 

To be fair, I should also list things that do not (usually) make me chuck: lying in my bed without moving anything but my eyeballs and the index finger that changes channels on the TV remote, lemon sorbet, and vanilla mint chapstick.

In other news, thanks to our friends at Dr. Beck's office, who prescribed the zofran, I only fantasize about going into a Michael Jackson style induced coma like twice a day. And I almost never wish I were temporarily dead. Anymore.

And finally, remember when my pants fell off in Albertson's? And I pretended to be horrified by it? And then I went and got pants 4 sizes smaller? 

Let's just say that if I decided to go to Albertson's today and purchase raw chicken (seems super-duper unlikely, since I am dry heaving a bit, just thinking about it), that those pants aren't going anywhere. They are uncomfortably snug. (And I'm talking about the big pants. Those little ones only fit for like two weeks).

At least there's that. (We won't talk about how I can be simultaneously barfing and gaining weight. I'm sure there is some kind of scientific explanation that won't make me feel any better.)

Happy 8.5 weeks to me.

If you ask me in October, I will tell you I am super excited, and that it was all worth it.

I do love me some babies. 

Do you get sick? How sick? Please tell me about it. Cause it might be very wrong of me, but one thing that makes me feel better is hearing about other people who feel worse. But please don't tell me stuff like: Oh sure, once I was like, 6 months along, and I drove past this swamp that smelled like decomposing bodies, and it was totally touch and go there for like 30 seconds, but I ate some saltines, and I held it together! 

Which reminds me: no one is allowed to say anything about eating saltines. It will make me very angry.

The TeeVee is dumbing me up.

The weather people this worming were gushing about how it is going to be so much cooler today. Only 110! (Yesterday was 115.) But then, I think the news people are more frantic in general cause nobody watches them anymore, now that we watch TIVO. They are sort of desperate and scary. (Scary mostly cause of all the huge fake boobies aggressively wrestling their way out of tiny tops while they try to read the news. Is super professional.)

Sorry. But I have been watching all kinds of TV lately. TV during the day. Stuff not on TIVO. Even commercials. I'm not proud of it, but it can't be helped. It has prompted me to think: who watches The View? Is horrendous. Truly horrid. Like a circus side show. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those angry, ignorant ladies decided to eat fire or grow a beard. 

And what is up with this Wendy Williams Show? Is she kidding? Is she really a she? I can't tell.

And did you know Kathy Lee is back on TV? Yes, she totally is! Is unbelievable! She has some dog and pony show she does with another lady named Hoda, who looks like she got demoted from Good Morning America or similar, and is willing to be Kathy Lee's slave so she won't be sent back to wherever she came from in defeat, admitting her career has been flushed. Today they were dressed up in western gear and acting like clowns in San Antonio, drinking beers at like 7 am.

The commercials are horrifying. Have you seen the one for The Hartford insurance, that asks "What if you are in a car accident? Who is going to walk your dog?" Apparently, THEY will. They are taking MY insurance premiums  (if I had a policy with The Hartford, which I don't, and now never will have, on principle) to pay for dog walking. Not only that, they think enough people will find this idea so super fantastic, that they are paying lots of money to run ads about it. Seriously, people? We need dog-walking insurance now? I say nay!

Plus, last night I got super desperate, and decided to watch The Bachelorette finale, even though I hadn't seen the rest of the show. It was surprisingly easy to catch up. Lots of boys with lots of rings, probably looking for modeling careers more than love. What was up with the wedding dress? Why? And all the legs wrapped around all the boys? And all the making out with everybody? Yickety-yick. Yick.  I seriously cannot deal with all the extreme trampiness, stupidity, and completely scripted soap opera style pathos. Although, watching a girl get chased by good-looking men is infinitely preferable to seeing ladies slutting it up over some bleachy-toothed, lying loser (The Bachelor).

In the future, when someone writes a "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire" equivalent for America, I think Whoopi Goldberg, Kathy Lee Gifford, The Bachelorette, and dog-walking insurance will have their own footnotes. (In the chapter entitled "If the Puritans could see us now!")

I haven't started watching any Soaps yet. Maybe after I have seen everything on HGTV twice. But probly not.

Anyhow, I feel bloated and gassy with pop culture. And, you might have noticed, medium-angry. I started to feel like my brain was rotting, so I played sudoku on my iphone while I watched this morning. It didn't help. 

Plus, I tried moving up from VERY EASY to EASY puzzles, and it gave me a headache.

I think the TV is making me dumber. 

My Mom told me it would happen.

What have you seen lately that has left you more stupid?

What I got: a brand new iphone and a big 'ol crush on Rick Steves.

Well. Sunday was me birthiversary. 

Yep. Got birthed and hitched on the same day. 

Well, not the same day, exactly.

Two July 19ths. 23 years apart.

Jake got me an iphone for my birthday. Which is fun. I use it to play sudoku and try to best my 10-year-old son Ross' time on The Moron Test, since no one really calls me on it. I don't have a fantastic track record for actually carrying a phone on my person. Or hearing it ring from inside my purse.

Normally, you won't be able to ring me on my mobile. And don't bother leaving a message, cause I don't know how to retrieve them. I like texts, if I remember to check for them. But now that I have such fancy technology, which allows me to take videos of people picking their noses on the freeway, then send it to my blog, youtube, and email simultaneously, plus look at each person in my Ward's home from space (google maps on istake), I resolve to do better.

For our anniversary Jake got me ALL 80 EPISODES of Rick Steves' Europe. Jake says that he understands my attraction to Rick is purely physical, so he isn't threatened. Very much.

I know. Hubba. Look at him in that Members Only style jacket, leaning sexily on that column.

I have like all of Rick's books, so I think that means I am, in some not-so-circuitous fashion, helping to legalize marijuana, a cause dear to sweet little Ricky's heart.

I think I just have a thing for the bad boys.

(And geeks.)

Can't help it.

That's me and Jake at Versailles, with Rick's Paris 2007 guidebook under his arm. I loved that thing. When we got to the Louvre and found that we had left Rick back at the hotel, Jake went to the museum store, where he asked the American clerks if they carried any Rick. "Oh, you mean the bible?" they asked. But no luck. So Jake cabbed it WAY back down the Champs-Elysees, picked up Rick, and brought the Bible back to the Temple of Man, just for me.

What a nice boy, that Jake. I think I'll keep him around another 13 years, at least.

Do you think Rick has podcasts I can carry around with me on my iphone?

I'm gonna go and check that out.

You got an iphone?

You actually use your cell phone?

You like Rick Steves?

You hate Rick Steves?

You were there at my wedding?

You were there at my birth?

uninspired. and yogurt pants. and how to trick the UPS fella.

So, Jake moved my computer from the kitchen to the office. 

So that the kids' computer can be in the kitchen, and the kids can be permanently banned from the office, where they like to pretend they are an 80's hair band in a three-star hotel room. 

(They ransack it, almost daily.  Just spelling it out for you, in case my hair band metaphor wasn't super clear.)

Anyhow, so far I find the office rather uninspiring. Which could be why I haven't posted anything new in two weeks. But it could also be cause I've been gallivanting about Arizona (Payson, then Flagstaff).  And I'm trying to talk the family into a trip to Mt. Graham next week. My kids have never hiked ladybug saddle, which seems a shame. Plus, Phoenix is supposed to be 113 degrees this weekend, so why stay here? 

The office is not only uninspiring, but uncomfortable. Jake gave me the cruddy wooden chair, and he got the leather one.  At least I got a window seat.

I think they say that if you can't think of anything interesting to say, you should type lots of other stuff. 

Til you have to pee,

or you develop carpal tunnel,

or your backside goes numb cause your chair is horrible, hard, and spindly,

or you remember those generic twinkies you hid in your purse. Which is in another room.

(Don't ask.)

This morning, I asked the kids: So, who wants to go to Target and get some yoga pants?

(Also, don't ask why my current yoga pants have grease stains the shape of In-n-Out fries on them. Let's just pretend the old yoga pants are worn clean out from rigorous and zealous  yoga use, and have been stretched beyond their cottony-spandex limits by my constant and crazy bendiness.)

Tom replied: No, momma.  I do not want yogurt pants. 

Do you have a certain place you feel creative? 

Do you fervently believe that yoga pants are a 21st century version of the 1950s housecoat? Because they are awesome, and you can keep a rolled up yoga mat by the front door in case the UPS guy comes, and you can throw it under one arm before you answer the door? So he'll think you are very fit, and not slovenly?

I don't actually do this. I don't have a yoga mat. 

What do you wear around your casa?

Muu muus?

Hair in rollers with a kerchief?

Manolo Blahniks?

I'm pretty ticked at you cause you didn't tell me about this.

But also, I'm pretty thrilled.

THE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE IS A MOVIE! AND IT WILL BE OUT ON AUGUST 14TH!

Will it live up to the book? 

(Warning: book has serious potty mouth. I don't recommend it to people, normally, but I still LOVED it.)

Uh.

DUH.

Course not. 

I'm okay with that.

So, are you guys all going together? Without me? Is that why you haven't said anything?

Well, now you are stuck. I'm coming along. And you are going to buy me some Whoppers. 

Oh. 

And I forgive you.

If you also get me popcorn with lots of oily butter, and some of that fake cheese powder that grosses out everybody but me.

I prefer the white cheddar flavor, in case I am saving your seat while you are seasoning my popcorn.

And buying my cherry Icee.

Don't let this happen again.

Love, 

Beeswax

Jesus hit me.

Another tale from the Odyssey.

Not Homer's.

Mine.

(It has black leather seats and lots of cup holders and I used to judge women like me, but now I know that whoever invented the minivan should get a Nobel Prize for being smarty and awesome.)

Tom: Momma, my toe is ouch! Look at my BLOOOOOOD!

Me: I can't see it. I'm driving.

Lengthy pause while he examines his toe more closely.

Tom: Momma, do you think Jesus hit me?

Me: I doubt it.

WARNING: photos of my kids and good-lookin' husband, and a note to SCOTT WRIGLEY. It isn't my fault if you click here and get super bored.

You know I don't normally post lotsa photos and go on about how my kids are cuter than everyone else's (probly even yours), but that's not because I'm super humble and don't want to make you feel bad. It is just cause I'm pretty lazy about getting photos off my camera.

Sunday afternoon at Aviara. At the meadows, next to the golf course. (Carlsbad, California.)

Ross, Jane, Sam. Checking out a frog. They named it Freddy and visited him nearly daily.

Tom and Jake. Finally, Dad's found a kindred spirit. (I was going to say something about how they both really love their balls, but it didn't sound nice).

Kids with sticks.

Kid with ball.

Thinking about poking Freddy with a stick.

The hair is remarkable, no? And it smells good, too. Like sunshine, unicorns and rainbows. I like to kiss his forehead and rub my face in that yummy hair.

Outta focus, but still outta sight. Legs of a thoroughbred.

Returning from our foiled attempt to hike down to the Bataquitos Lagoon. The hotel is up on the hill.

P.S. Note to SCOTT WRIGLEY:

SCOTT WRIGLEY! I will totally give you credit for all the great spots you told us about in North County, but Jake said your blog is private, so I don't know to what I can hyperlink your name: SCOTT WRIGLEY.

will totally give you, SCOTT WRIGLEY, of MESA, ARIZONA, credit for sending us to Moonlight Beach and to Pipes (very delish, thanks SCOTT WRIGLEY, the famous accountant), but Emily in Japan told me to go to VG Donuts. If you told Jake about it, he did not pass on the info. It was a grave oversight on someone's part, btw.

And, dear SCOTT WRIGLEY, you can have credit for sending Jake to Macrumors, but if that is true, I might hold a grudge against you for a year or two.

As you can see, I'm still not quite myself...

Not yet well, but now I'm caught up on SYTYCD. 

I'm thinking about changing out of the dirty yoga pants.

Maybe.

Do you think I ought? Please cast your vote over in the sidebar.

Sordid doughnut transactions, and Easy Virtue. (Plus, I'm home and sick.)

I'm home. 

And I'm sick.

I would blame my sour stomach and aching heed (meant to spell it that-a-way) on doughnut withdrawal, (which seems very likely, considering the volume of those pasteles del diablo I've consumed in the last two weeks, but don't have any more of, cause I'm back in Arizona, where people don't sell delicious doughnuts of that sort), but I think my ailment has more to do with the time like 4 days ago when son Sam tossed HIS doughnuts on the flight deck of the USS Midway (Aircraft carrier parked in San Diego Harbor). Have caught some bad germ, I'm sure.

Doughnuts are good, though. 

I think I will write about them.

First of all: A special thanks to Acte Gratuit for her recommendation of VG Donuts in Cardiff.  

Last Friday night, my sister and I stopped by VGs on our way home from seeing Easy Virtue, to which we were lured with the promise of Colin Firth. 

I didn't want to drive all the way to La Jolla, but she taunted me: What kind of Bridget Jones fan do you call yourself, if you will not get off you rear to see Mr. Darcy on the big screen? But although Colin's acting was quite decent, I believe he took the job because they told him he would not have to brush his hair, teeth, could chain smoke and snarl at people the whole day long, then be off with Jessica Biel at the end. I hope I am not ruining it for anyone, but herlo!,  Noel Coward wrote the play in 1928.

 Oh! And Jessica Biel should never ever be allowed in a period film ever ever again. She was horrid. I cannot overstate her horridity. I even made up a new word to describe it, for the terrible occasion of her acting. I think Bridget would agree with me.

Anyhow, it was still okay, just cause we did see Colin in a period film,  which is something, and it ended just in time for us to pick up some donuts before the place closed at 10 pm. Only the surfer kid running the place was closing early, and didn't want us to come in on his freshly mopped floors, so he just brought us a bag out to the van, and said "pay me whatever." I had to wear my sunglasses throughout the transaction, because it was already our second trip there in 3 days, and I didn't want surfer boy recognizing/judging me. Anyhow, the whole transaction (late hour, deserted parking lot, glasses, under the table cash), made the whole thing feel a bit... sordid. Dangerous. Which, of course, just made the doughnuts taste that much better. 

So anyhow, thanks Emily. It is because of you that I will need to go on a month-long diet of raw veggies. 

When I am able to eat again. 

I think I will go lie down.

Trekkie vs. techie. Still reporting remotely from San Diego's North County, where there have been no celeb sightings

Jake is a techie. I am not. I'm not even sure if that's how you spell techie.

I like Star Trek. So I'm a Trekkie. Is different.

He loves his nearly 2-year-old iphone. He loves aps. He loves synching his iphone with things, and saying 'synch' and 'aps'.

Lately, he's been hanging about websites called things like macrumors, reading about the new iphone that would be coming out very soon.

I asked him to get off the internet, and take me to the new Star Trek movie, cause I heard they got a hot Spock.

He said no.

Yesterday morning, he went to the Apple store here in Carlsbad. I'm not sure what he did there. I was in Target, buying deodorant. You know you've been on vacation too long when you run out of deodorant. And shampoo, conditioner, hair spray, curly stuff for kids hair, and contact lense solution.

Yesterday afternoon, his iphone was drowned, under mysterious circumstances, in Dr. Pepper, while on the golf course here at Aviara.

He quickly pronounced it dead. Before it even stopped beeping.

He set the alarm on my cell phone for 6:30 a.m. (We haven't risen before 9 in two weeks).

He got to the Apple Store by 7 this morning, and waited in line for two hours with lots of other, California-style, techies.

He bought the new iphone, which just happened to come out TODAY. THIS MORNING. At 7 a.m.

He swears he didn't kill his old phone on purpose. Even sub-consciously.

He pleads not guilty.

But I think there is enough evidence to convict.

Do you agree?

(He's gonna be ticked when he reads this. I better quick eat the oreo banana milkshake he's getting me from Mr. Frostie in Pacific Beach before he reads this. Or he might take it back.)


p.s. Remember last year when I was here, and saw Tori Spelling? No such luck this time. Sister Jen says celeb watching season here in San Diego is July (best weather, no June gloom). Is like whale watching. You need to know their migratory patterns. Hunting out of season is utterly futile.

The post about the photo of me in my swimsuit. Only, without the photo.

Ok.

So I was going to post a photo of me lying on the beach here in Carlsbad (although it was really Moonlight Beach in Encinitas, cause why go anywhere else, when they can sell you Dove ice cream bars 30 feet from your beach chair?) whilst reading my book, and say something witty and trite about being much too busy to blog.

In the photo I am wearing my huge black straw hat that I like to think screams 'Old Hollywood', but Jake insists only bellers 'irretrievably ridiculous.' (He didn't say irretrievably.) Is a mystery, but when I wear it, people think I am someone named Great Aunt Ina from Hoboken. Anyhow, with it's radius like that of a patio table umbrella, it is very sun-safe. I like accessorize it with my sunblock no. 70, and when I am 70 but have the lovely, luminous skin of a 65-year-old, who's gonna be laughin' at this hat?

Jake.

That's right.

He'll still be laughing.

And maybe you? If you could see the photo?

But I am much too busy lying here on my back, recovering from the lovely but filling brunch we had up at the Four Seasons, to figure out how to get photos from my camera to Jake's laptop. Plus, my hands are pretty sticky from eating this delightful apple fritter from Donuts #2 in Encinitas. You know how it is.

Also, it occurs to me that if you saw the photo, you might be able to see the title of the book I am reading, and I can't tell you that. It is a secret.

Okay, I'll give you some hints:
1. it is not Absolom, Absalom,
and
2. I have already read it.

Although, I didn't know I'd already read it, because this isn't the sort of book I'll cop to on Shelfari, so I forgot about it, and spent 20 cents on it at the Friends-of-the-Cardiff-by-the-Sea-Library Book Nook. Jake says I need a secret Shelfari for just this sort of embarrassing chick lit problem.

P.S. Look at these little Cole Haan/Nike Air beauties. I picked them up for 60% off this morning at the outlet mall. I really like the outlet mall.

Do you have any books you like but do not wish to claim? Please leave their titles in the comments section, anonymously, if you please.

Sedona: skip the psychic crystal massage, eat some cactus fries and fudge.

I'm back.

What?

You didn't know I had gone?

Is okay.

I  won't take offense.  (If you leave me comment.)

I went to Sedona. With Jen and Hillary.

To get a psychic crystal massage, have a vortex experience, see what's new at Ye Olde UFO Store, and hit the Angel Wing Sale (that's what the banner said. But seems a cruel treatment of God's messengers. I think PETA should intervene.).

Fine. I didn't do any of that stuff. I was too busy in the fudge shop.

Is a different sort of vortex experience, am pretty sure.

To be clear: Am not talking about the Rocky Mountain Fudge. Is okay in an emergency, but is not a destination. Go to Sedona Fudge Company. Try the chocolate cream cheese fudge, the penuche, and the English toffee. Is better than rubbing power-infused rocks on oneself, but will also grant, is more caloric.

Also ate at the the Cowboy Club, at which I ordered an edible but not delicious pulled pork sandwich. I mostly ignored the sandwich, and focused on the basket of cactus fries. (Napolitas cactus, breaded and fried, with prickly pear dipping sauce.) Really, really good. I'm not lying to you.

The Desert Flour Bakery in Oak Creek isn't kidding around. Everything made on site. Cherry almond bear claws, rugalach in 4 flavors, chocolate cake with layers of chocolate and vanilla mousse. Get whatever you like. It's all good. (Don't ask me how I know this. I won't tell you.)

El Rincon mexican in the Tlaquepaque shopping center (gorgy mediterranean villa style filled with touristy crapola, pricey art and rugs, and more candy (store run by Helga, nice Euro-lady with the hairy pits to prove it). Think Seaport Village in San Diego, only way better. Still, you won't actually buy anything. You can leave your wallet at home. Unless you want Mexican food. Got myself a chicken chimi with green sauce, and was pleasantly surprised at its tastiness, because I had already been turned off by the cardboard chips and pace picante sauce salsa, the old dirty carpet and the smell that reminded me of Chuck E. Cheese. (Jen said I was nutsy). But sometimes the best Mexican is to be had in such establishments.  The sweet corn tamale was also a hit with our crowd.

In our food reconnaissance, we spied the Secret Garden Cafe, a girly breakfast/lunch place of the sort we like, and stopped there on the way out of town. We were not disappointed. A lovely patio table in the dappled 75 degree sun, a chicken salad sandwich, and a "Reubini": Pastrami, kraut, swiss, and Thousand Island on marbled rye, squished flat in the panini style. Man, do I love a good sandwich. I need to get my own panini maker. Maybe for my birthday next month. But I also want a ghd flat iron like Jen's. Is perfect, cause Jake likes to buy me technology gifts, and appliances are like technology. Sometimes Jake will sing to me:

Yes I love technology,

But not as much as you, you see 
But I still love technology 
Always and forever 

I know. Is so romantic. Don't be jealous. 

When we weren't busy chewing things in Sedona, we were getting cat calls from some man trying to drum up business for his little shop on Main Street. First he yelled "Hey, is there a beauty pageant in town?" To which I responded, "Yes, but we left our sashes back at the resort." And then later he threw out: "I seen some pretty girls in pictures, but none up close like this." This seemed pervy, so we didn't respond. But after that we wanted to saunter past, just to see what he would say next. We also got a "Where are you goddesses going?" from a hobo outside the convenience store. 

As if the food and sexual harassment weren't enough for a wonderful holiday, we went to Slide Rock, where Hillary pulled in next to some scary looking boys who were making peanut butter sandwiches with huge murder-weapon-style knives and listening to the Gin Blossoms (nice, but just Hey Jealousy, so is hard to know if they were serious fans). I was too busy to notice the potential danger cause I was busy in the back seat, trying to fix the bottom of my swimsuit, which I had somehow applied backwards. Is not comfortable, people. Here, we all slid 80 feet through Oak Creek on our bellies, whilst trying to keep our Bud Lites above water. Wait, no, that wasn't us. We stuck our toes in the frigid water while posing alluringly on the red boulders, siren-style (only without the singing), giggling evilly as Odysseus/Jason types (our fellow swimmers) crashed on the rocks before us. 

Then, we were off to Jerome, a mountain-perching mining town (1870's), now falling into a lovely, antiquated ruin of the type that makes for delightful bed and breakfasts (the picturesque style is generally considered very romantic), gift shops full of $40 t-shirts tie-dyed in red soil, and pricey art and crafts that I don't, you know, get. We would have stopped for a little bite on the patio at the Haunted Hamburger, but we were still in our damp swimsuits and it had begun to rain. Plus the Hell's Angels-looking bikers everywhere made us jumpy.

Anyhow, now I'm home in Mesa, and back at it.

You know.

Bribing kids to clean out their closets. 

Heading to Wal-Mart to get Ross new glasses (keeps losing them.)

Sharing the last piece of hoarded English Toffee with Jake for breakfast.

Happy Summer.

Roach face.

I woke up this morning at 3:48. As I turned my head to look at the clock, I saw a cockroach scurry out of my hair.

I KNOW. Is horrible.

Backlit by the hall light, he looked something like this, as he stared into my sleep-filled eyes:

I was pretty out of it, so instead of screaming, like a normal girl, I flicked the critter out into the darkness.

Then I realized: I just had a cockroach in my hair, and I flicked him, and now he's on the loose somewhere in my room! AHHHH!

Jake noticed all my flailing about, and asked what was up.

I explained. He thought I was having a nightmare about roaches. (Although, he didn't actually say that, and he might deny it now.)

I flipped on the lights to look for the nasty scavenger, who was probably rolling around in the neighbor's dog's fesces just before he climbed into my clean white sheets.

I couldn't find him.

I got back in bed. After I shook out all the bedclothes.

My nerves were taut. 

I heard a small noise.

Jake! I squealed. Did you hear that?

What? He sounded like he was trying to be patient with a crazy person.

I can HEAR the ROACH! I hissed, like I was afraid the roach would hear me talking about him.

I flipped the lights back on, and started checking under the furniture.

Why don't you sleep somewhere else? Jake cooed. Somewhere the bugs aren't, you know, so NOISY?

I ignored his patronizing tone. There! There he is! I exalted.

And he was. Right there. Just behind my headboard. And Jake squished the little fella's shiny red exoskeleton with the kitchen broom. His juicy insides squirted onto the wall.

I felt better after that, but still, I couldn't sleep, so I stayed up reading for two hours, until it was light enough to read without the flashlight. And during that time, I asked myself a hard question:

Why did I wake up when the roach climbed in my hair?

See, I am a heavy sleeper. A cockroach in my hair would not normally wake me.

So the roach? He must have been in my ear. Or on my face.

I totally had a roach on my face.

The end.

p.s. 

When I told my daughter, Jane, about the bug, she said: Mama! Go wash your face!

p.s. again

Jake, you are 100% fired as my exterminator.

The disciplines Episcopal and piscatorial. Plus, it it hot here in the desert.

Dear Desert-in-which-I live,

You are very hot today.

Love, 

Beeswax

I read 2.5 novels this weekend. Very Valentine by Adriana Trigiani (Was like, really? Is the best you can come up with for an ending?), Caravans (Michener, set in 1945 Afghanistan, published 1963, so interesting to read from a modern perspective), and .5 of Journey (1897 Klondike gold rush, and my favorite Michener). I read the Micheners so long ago they were honestly new again (I believe this makes me officially an old lady). 

Also watched Doubt, which I really enjoyed, and a delicious little treat Jake ordered for me (picked it out himself. Impressive, eh?) from the nice people at Netflix. In Lost in Austen, Amanda Price, a modern London girl with modern morals (read into this what you will) and Jane Austen fan, enters Lizzie Bennett's Longbourne through a door in her own bathroom, while Lizzie stays on in 2008 Hammersmith. Is silly, o'course, but the writing is pretty good. There are about 50 clips on Youtube, but here is a favorite:

(Amanda has engaged herself to Mr.Collins to save Jane from the same fate, and is drowning her sorrows in boozy punch. Wickham tells Caroline Bingley that Amanda's father is a fishmonger. Collins ain't thrilled.)

"The disciplines Episcopal...and piscatorial could never combine with propriety!" Hahahah!

But the best lines came after this clip. Darcy comes over and asks Amanda to leave the ball. She replies: "This is the ball at Netherfield! Elizabeth's not here! You're throwing me out, for kneeing Collins in the balls. This isn't quite how I imagined it."

She said balls. At the ball. Is hilarious.

Purse wInner! And only 7 hours late!

Okay, sorry for the wait. Last night got a little crazy. You know: Primary meeting, middle of the night teacher-gift-buying at the Wal-Mart, fell asleep with my contacts in sorta night. 

So between the random.org number generator, and me picking out illegal entries (including my own and husband Jake's), the winner of the lovely copper-colored Canal Street Prada is:

Heather Andrus! Who left many comments, but won with this one:

Oh! Does it count for two entries if we had Connell on a mix tape??? And a song called "You wear flowers" by Peter Breinholt which in my opinion was a "MMM". Definite Stake Dance songs were "Forever Young" by Alphaville, and "Joy and Pain" by Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock (I feel silly even typing that).

11:40 AM

Indeed, it counts, Heather! We (er, me) at None of Your Beeswax are also fans of Peter Breinholt and Alphaville, but we don't know this DJ E-Z Rock. We will google this fella asap.

So Heather, your profile is private! Since I can't go to your blog and snoop personal information about you to share with the world (the world in microcosm that is my blog), please feel free to leave us a comment and tell us about yourself, and where you will be taking that purse. Remember, you CAN take it out in the rain, because it is NOT fine I-talian leather. Is plastic, maybe? Better!

Also, send me your address to KellyBeeswax@gmail.com. Or, if you are local, I could drop it off (or, you know, meet you in a public, well lit area, like, um, inside the Krispy Kreme, where I'll be the girl in the elastic waisted pants holding the maple bar, if you aren't totally sure you want me to know where you live!)

Thanks to all who entered! Next time, maybe I'l give away some Chinatown True Religions (size 32 or 34?) that were too big for Jake! What? Not interested?

Bohemian Soiree is like smelly crock pot dinner and makes me cranky like a Disney baby.

Okay, so LAST CHANCE to enter for the purse. I'll draw a name this evening!

In the meantime, I'll tell you about a Bohemian Bliss Soiree & Vagabond Flea Market that I attended last Friday evening with mi hermanita, Jen. (Who will not blog.)

Domestic Bliss (downtown Mesa store) billed it as a party, including food (bohemian light fare) and libations, plus a tour of 2 renovated 1920s bungalows.

Admission was $30, or $15 if you dressed 'Bohemian.' 15 bones is a lot of money, so we gave some serious thought to our attire. We were pretty sure Bohemia was somewhere near Germany, but we didn't have any dirndls. (Okay, I do have that one dirndl, from when my Mom worked in that art shop in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, in like, 1969. But I didn't feel like ironing it.) But also, 'soiree' is obviously frenchy, so it seemed like going German seemed sorta off-track. And anyway, Jen said I should fer shur wear my Nanette Lepore sequined flapper dress. I can't remember why, but she was dead certain. She isn't normally wrong about fashion.

So we got decked out, (Jen wore a taffeta wrap dress, a headband that looked like a hat, complete with netting and plumage, and a necklace she purchased on Etsy, made of coral fabric  rosettes, and showed up at the soiree around 7:30. I was sweating mightily, and we had to walk three blocks, so my feet hurt. (Jen also told me I couldn't wear gladiator sandals with a sequined flapper dress, even if they are copper like the sequins.)

So the soiree was quite an event. And not just marketing genius, which it obviously was, since there I stood, dressed up like it was Halloween, and paying money to shop in somebody's hot backyard. There were little booths filling two yards, front and back, packed with stuff. Most of it was decor, for booth ambiance, and not for sale. It was, at first, exhilarating. There was perhaps 30 minutes of oooohing and eye-feasting that went on.

During this time, we realized we were fairly over-dressed. 'Bohemian' had meant more funky, less 'Roaring 20s Prom'. Oh well. Jen's  headgear and Etsy necklace were going over big. We were having some trouble getting around because people wanted to stop and chat her up about them.

After the 30 minute honeymoon period, our eyes started to cross. We were like babies after a whole day at Disney: overstimulated and hungry. I was a little cranky, too, cause I'd forgotten to eat anything (but an entire can of loaded baked potato Pringles) all day. We saw some people with food, heard snatches of conversation that included "Pita Jungle," which, as you ought to know, if you live here, is good news. But we couldn't SEE any food. All we saw was a tent full of booziness.

So we struggled on, because there was so much to see. We listened to the girl playing guitar and singing like an angel. I purchased some burp cloths for a baby gift, one made of sock monkey fabric. I mean, who can turn down sock monkeys? We found a peach bellini that we hoped was virgin, and went through the bungalows. Still no food.

After 2 hours, we drug ourselves into the front yard and starting hiking back to the car. I'd spent $10. I was starving and mentally exhausted.

Why are craft boutiques dolled up to look like bohemian soirees so taxing? Why don't I buy anything? At first, it was a mystery. But after some careful thought and soul-searching, I came up with this: 

Boutiques are like crock pot cooking. When you first stick everything in and turn it on at 10 am, it smells so good. You salivate and dream about eating its contents. By 2 pm, you are still hungry, but the smell is getting strong, and your stomach starts to turn. By 6 pm, you serve it to your family, but you can't force yourself to eat a bite, after sniffing it for 8 hours. You scarf some cookie dough ice cream and call it good.

So if you really want to spend money at any sort craft show/boutique/soiree, you need to do it in the first 30 minutes. After that, you will be craft-satiated, paralyzed, and will be capable of nothing, save imbibing peach bellinis and searching in vain for the Pita Jungle. Be warned.

Anyhow, I'd totally go again. Disney might make babies cranky, but they always want to go back, right? Domestic Bliss said they will do another event, maybe in October. See you there?

Flattered.

So just now I was having some lunch at Liberty Market (downtown Gilbert), when a nice employee approached our table and asked me:

Do you go to 24 Hour Fitness?

And I said:

No. I totally don't.

But, THANK YOU. 

(And then I thought about kissing him, you know, not on the mouth, maybe just on the hand or something, while I curtsied to him, but then decided against it.)

Yes, yes, I know what he meant. 

But also, he mistook me for someone who goes to a gym. 24 hours a day, even.

Best compliment ever.

The end.

So, what about you? Ever been buttered up perfectly?

Free COLDPLAY for everyone!

Get it here!

Live stuff from the Vida la Vida tour. (My concert review.)

Nine lovely tracks, including the best part of the whole show: The Hardest Part/Postcards From Far Away/Viva la Vida. (Tracks 5 and 6). 

If you listen carefully, you can hear me OOOOOHing in the background, maybe. 

Jane told Jake, who made me a CD, so I've been listening to it all day, while I drive around this 109 degree town in my toaster oven (van) of the black leather interior. 

Hurry. Who knows how long it will be free? (It will likely be 109 until October). (Unless it is 115.)

You are welcome, Kari and Natalie.

(See, ladies! Chris totally loves us! He gives us presents!)