Franklin and Booty

For his birthday, Cooper got a small aquarium for his bedroom and two fancy goldfish. I asked him about a week ago what he was going to name his fish?

"Franklin and Booty."

"Booty? Where'd that come from?"

{shrugs}

So the fish finally came home over the weekend and I asked him again (after all, he's just three, they change their minds a lot) what had he named his fishies?

"Franklin and Booty."

So Booty it is. I think Booty is the one with more orange. Strange child.

The winner of the Amy Butler skirt is.....

Angela! I used Random.org to pick a random number between one and ten, and it was six. Then I scrubbed my comments to delete the duplicates and my brother's pesky comment, counted back from ten, removed the one, divided by three and the winner was Angela!

Congratulations, Angela! I happen to know Angela so I can email her and we can start working on the details of her lovely Amy Butler skirt. Hopefully she'll be happy enough with it to post pictures on her own blog when she gets it? Maybe later in the spring? Early summer?

Thanks to everyone for entering this exciting contest. Maybe I'll be inspired to run more giveaways as my sewing hobby becomes an obsession again.

Comments again

I think I fixed it. I was trying Typepad's comments booster or whatever the H it is they call it, and it didn't work. Next time, I'll pay attention to the word BETA on any application. Sorry.

The birthday boy and his bad attitude

He wanted a necktie like his daddy and his cousins, who wore neckties to a funeral four months ago. So we took one of N's ties that was already destined for Goodwill and cut it down to size. Which has inspired me in the crafty quadrant of my brain and I now have a new idea for boys! Stay tuned, I hope they turn out cute.

Here's the three-year-old menace getting ready to go to his pizza party last night. Great attitude, huh? I dried the tears for the picture.

And his cheery happy baby brother, dressed as a tiny elf, who is always in a good mood.

My comments? They are missing.

Something has gone awry with my blog coding. I can't seem to find the box to leave comments, or open previous ones? So I apologize. I should not tweak my html code, ever. Step away from the computer, Heather.

How is this so easy for other people?

He is out of control

My son, the one who turns three tomorrow, I don't know what to do with him. He's simply out of control. Is this what three-year-olds are like? Cause this is nuts.

For the last ten days, he has been stuck like velcro to my side. If I step away from him, and yes I actually do mean take two steps away from him, he's frantically crying for me. He wants to be carried all the time and held all the time. He cries at the drop of a hat over things he used to be able to handle readily {like, for instance, when I walk from the family room into the kitchen}.

I am at my wit's end with this kid and I feel bad for feeling this way. I know he had a trauma at school with the fire alarm and firemen coming the day all of this started. We've talked about it quite a bit, reassured him that firemen are there to help us, they're not scary, they're good guys, blah blah blah.

He's still scared. If we're outside and he hears a siren, he starts getting upset. He is also almost constantly upset all day long about any given thing.

So if anyone knows an early childhood behavioral expert they can send to my house for a few days, that would be great. I need ideas! I need advice! I need a drink! Oh, wait, no. Not that last part. I really just need to find my patience again so I can help my son come back to himself.

So yeah, tomorrow is his third birthday. Where does time go? When did this child turn three? *sigh*

Sunday Confessional

Today I don't have a confession to make. You know why? Cause I'm not the one who needs to confess what they're doing these days. Nope, it's not me.

I could tell about how I used to write myself notes to excuse me from class and forge my mom's signature, but I'll save it for another Sunday.

Oh, wait, there is one more thing. I don't like granola. So there.

Astilboides, I do love you so ~

I love me some astilboides {ass-til-boyd-eeze}. You can be old-fashioned and call him rodgersia if you want to, or you can be street and call him umbrella plant.



I finally, after four years of searching high and low, found him for sale at my favorite garden shop, Sugar Creek Gardens. They've had it growing in and around their shop forever, but this is the first time I was able to buy it. So I snatched up two tiny plants that are just beginning to wake up and brought them home to live with me.

If you like hostas, and you like 'em big like Sum and Substance, check out astilboides. The leaves grow to be two feet in diameter. This is a plant with presence. It needs some attention to watering, but it makes a great shady umbrella for things like certain hostas that will burn in the rays. Kind of like my skin.

This is Sum and Substance hosta ~ don't you think they'd look pretty in the same area? I do.


I also have a few leftover coral bells that need homes, so they're going in with the astilboides in the new planting bed my husband built around our silver maple {cursed tree with its constant dropping of garbage!}. Can't wait to see them grow up!

Want a good giggle?

I have been on a conference call the past sixteen hours, or an hour, whatever. Thank God I just found one of the funniest blogs of all time for a person who finds grammar mistakes to be funny. It's called The Blog of Unnecessary Quotes and you must read them. Seriously, if you don't do it your brain will shrivel up into a tiny ball and you'll miss out on a bunch of belly laughs.

I have also fallen in love with another new blog I found. It's called the Heirloom Paperie, and its owner is a very talented designer of all things papery - cards, labels, prints, canvases, you name it.

The best part? She offers free downloads on Tuesdays! And on Fridays, she offers one of her super cool designs for $5. They're called Template Tuesdays and $5 Fridays.

I made the cutest sewing labels from one of her templates, and I might even send out Easter cards this year thanks to this blog. Check it out if you get some time today, you won't be disappointed.

I'm dreaming of white trim

My house has dark trim. The woodwork, the windows, the floors, they're all wood. Medium to dark stained wood. And I want white. White. Clean, bright, light, white.

I see pictures in magazines and catalogs of rooms with white windows and moldings, and I salivate. There is no way on God's green earth I could take a paintbrush to all of the doors and trim in this house. It would be wrong, I know that. It's just another reason I need to get out of this house.

The darkness, it falls down on my head sometimes. Apparently I'm pretty sensitive to my surroundings, because I think about it all the time.

So this is what I want. This is the type of environment I'd like to create in my own home. Maybe someday...

From HGTV's design gallery ~ designer Loretta Willis ~ love the box beam ceiling! Not so much the country decor, but you get the idea - creamy walls and white trim.

From the Wisteria website, I love love love the windows in this kitchen!


These last three pics are from the Pottery Barn website. I love the Marcel mini-sofa! And to be fair, my bathrooms are very light and bright, thanks to remodeling done by moi and my husband.







By the way, my dining room walls are orange [photo to come later today when I can find one]. I've loved the color for five years, but the other day I was sitting on the floor matching socks {don't ask why I do it in the dining room} when I looked up and thought GASP! These walls are way too hot! I need a new color in here, I can't live with this anymore. So if anyone has any suggestions on a wall color for my dining room, shoot them my way. I can use all the help I can get.

Today is Friday, which means Julia over at Hooked on Houses is wondering what you're hooked on? Check it out.

P.S. One edit - I actually LOVE black furniture and black cabinets. My king-sized bed is black. My sofas are black with ticking piping. Love, love, love black! But it needs white to balance it, not dark wood. Thanky.

Want to win a Barcelona skirt?

I finished my Barcelona skirt (made from Amy Butler's skirt pattern) and I am in love. This is one of the cutest things I've made for myself. Ever. In my lifetime. And that's a mighty long time as I've been sewing goin' on a quarter century now!

{Please disregard the fancy blowze and pearls as I went from working to sewing and trying on}

So in honor of the loveliness that is this skirt and Amy's fabrics, I am hereby offering one lucky blog reader her own semi-custom-made Barcelona skirt.

"How do I enter?" you ask. Simply leave a comment to this post {I'm going to attempt to use some official random number chooser if more than two people enter, which is highly unlikely} by midnight on Monday, March 30 {I am an idiot and said it was April Fool's earlier ~ just disregard that part} and you're entered to win! **Another edit ~ if you are an anonymous commenter, you'll have to at least sign your comment with your initials so I know who to announce as the winner. Thanks!

I'll consult with the lucky winner afterwards on sizing and fabric choices. As you can see, I have quite a stash of Amy's fabrics to choose from, as well as some others that would be super cute. Or I could make it with your own fabric.

So tell me what you think. Is it cute? Do you like it? Do you wear skirts? Maybe you'll be sporting one of these babies this spring, too.

Happy spring!

It's the candy, baby

Yeah, it's the candy. It's my candy baby, this belly I'm carrying around. I had my ah-hah moment while I was changing clothes. I'd been wracking my brain for two days, trying to figure out why I'd suddenly gained six pounds when nothing else in my life had changed. I wasn't eating different foods. I wasn't exercising less {I had probably even kicked it up a notch!}.

I had put on a little weight before I went to Florida, and it melted off down there. I carefully considered what it was about Florida that was different about here.

The candy. I didn't eat any cookies or candy or any other junk while we were in Florida, and my weight went back down to normal. Plus I didn't feel like crap all the time.

So the culprit is the Candy Renaissance we've been having in this house. It's bad for me. It's also bad for my son, who is GOING THROUGH A PHASE that includes driving his mom nuts, sass-talking, kicking his brother, and all-around unruliness.

Crap. That means I have to rid the house of candy. But I love it! I love the smell of it, I love the taste of it. I love the texture and I love the way it makes me feel. All fat and happy.

Here's a bit of useless trivia for you. Did you know the gut* houses the majority of your body's serotonin receptors? There's a chemical reason we eat to feel good. And sugary foods tend to stimulate that serotonin production more, so hence my candy addiction. I'm just trying to make myself feel good, that's all. The problem is, it has had the backlash effect of actually making me feel bad, especially when changing clothes. Or wearing clothes. Or not wearing clothes.

So poopy doop, I'm henceforth giving up my habit of eating candy. All day.

Pray for me.



* The gut is a medical term. Very serious stuff here. It is used to describe anything from the mouth to the bum. In this case, it's your large and small intestines in particular. I could tell you more gross gut stories, but I won't. Just do this for me ~ don't leave your toothbrush out on the counter next to your toilet. And close the toilet lid before you flush. Thanks.

Ha ha ta-tas

*sigh*

Remember when you were pregnant with your kids? If you're a woman with kids, that is. If you're a man that's just creepy. If you're a woman who hasn't had kids yet, read on for a very valuable tip.

I remember. I wasn't the...uhh...happiest pregnant person on the planet. I wasn't the worst, but it's possibly not my favorite state of being. Until I'm not pregnant, and then I look on it wistfully. I walk slowly by the maternity section at Target and think how cute everything looks.

When I was pregnant, I walked through the maternity section desperately trying to find something to wear that I didn't hate and that didn't make me look stupid.

Dressing my pregnant body was perhaps not made easier by the fact that I really liked to eat and I put on almost fifty pounds with each boy. Hey, they were bigger than average babies. So there's nine and a half pounds right there.

I was going through my old cedar chest this morning, making another pile to take to my beloved Scholar Shop. Mostly it held extra-large t-shirts from the summer after I had Cooper.

If I can make one suggestion to women doing their family planning, it's this ~ have your babies in the same season! I can't tell you how much extra stuff I have because mine were born in opposite seasons. I had maternity clothes for four seasons. I had post-partum (a/k/a fatty) clothes for summer and winter. I had infant clothes for four seasons, and my second son wasn't able to wear his brother's clothes until recently.

Then under all the big t-shirts, I found this beauty.

The one thing I really loved about pregnancy and the post-partum period? My gigantic boobs.

That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit it, I grew gigantic boobs! And I loved them. This bra was the last regular bra I wore before moving on to the adjustable mushy nursing bras. It's a 34DDD. *sigh* I loved that bra and the boobs that fit in it.

Today, I am a mere shadow of my pregnant self in the chestage department. Lately, I haven't been bothered with that area of my body. Maybe I'm growing up? Either that, or my disgust over the size of my belly has temporarily pushed my obsession over my small boobage aside.

Either way, they were nice while they lasted.

I've gone and gotten myself into a pickle

I could kick myself.

I've done it again. I've gone and gotten myself into a fine mess. Well, it's actually not a fine mess, it's more of a nuisance, but it's print-worthy nonetheless.

I've gone and screwed up my funds for this month. Drat!

I am someone who operates on one simple premise. My philosophy in life is WING IT. Seriously, it works for me. I know how to do lots of things, and the things I don't know how to do, I wing it. I also don't tend to sweat too many tiny details. You know, little things like balancing your checkbook or whatever it is the kids call it these days. I wouldn't know because I don't do it.

Then I get myself into pickles like this.

I got all excited during my online banking session a few weeks ago and scheduled a bunch of payments to go out at the same time. Many of them were early! I even overpaid a few bills! Yes, I was on a Bill Paying High.

Too bad I forgot about two gigantic CHECKS I had mailed out a week earlier. I always forget about checks because who writes checks anymore? Well, the older lady in line in front of me at Target. And me, two weeks ago, apparently.

So now I sit. Twiddling my fingers, waiting for payday. Because I've overpaid bills. I've overspent. And I'm broke. Not "can't eat or put gas in the car" broke. More like "don't go to Target until payday" broke.

BALLS!

Thank you for smoking

Actually, this post has nothing to do with smoking, I've just always liked the title to that movie with the dreamy Aaron Eckhart. And the movie was funny, too.

No, this post is to thank you all for being patient with me as my OCD ADD brain tries to find some acceptance with my new blog design. I'm just not happy with it, and I don't know why. So if you start to see wild shifts in design and such, just roll your eyes and say "there goes Heather, changing her blog again."

One of these days I'll be happy with it. Until I get tired of it and change it again.

Thank you.

The scale, she is not my friend

So far this week, Bradford Pear trees and the scale have made it to My List.

Do you know what this means?


No, it does not mean Heather needs a pedicure. Well, yes, it does mean that, but mostly it means that I have suddenly gained a ridiculous amount of weight.

Yesterday the 8 was a 1.

What on earth would have caused me to gain five pounds in a day? Yes, I can do math but when I first weighed myself I didn't have my shirt and pants on, so I'm giving a little leeway for them. When I first weighed myself and had small heart palpitations of shock, it read 156.5.

I took some cold medicine yesterday. You think that was it? Or maybe it was the sleeve (and a half) of Girl Scout cookies I ate when I got home? I did the calorie calculations, I didn't think it was going to be that much, I swear!

So now I'm going to post a weekly scale shot to keep myself honest. I just don't get it. I even exercised this weekend. I haven't been eating too terribly bad (if you don't count the cookies, which I don't). So depressing.

A book came to me in a dream

I woke up at 4:00 in the morning last night. On top of my exercise fatigue, I've been sick. The lovely Bradford Pear trees, they are not so lovely to me. I'm allergic, so every year when they bloom I get migraines and a massive allergic reaction. Like clockwork. Spending the entire weekend outside probably didn't help. I could go off on a rant about the overuse and mistreatment of Bradford Pears, but I won't.

When I woke up, my mouth was as dry as a desert, so I think I might have been snoring just a little. I had to get a drink of water, blow my nose, the works. And then I lay there trying to go back to sleep, when it hit me ~ a book idea. A story. Kind of like a dream, except not something weird that I would forget when I woke up and except that I was awake.

And sure enough, I remembered the details when I woke up! Ever since this morning, the story has been rattling around in my head, the details getting stronger and stronger.

So who knows? Maybe I'll put my English degree to good use. It seems like a lot of work, to tell a long story like that. Maybe I'll just write a short story instead. You know, like most of my blog posts.

Teenagers.

My body, she isn't eighteen anymore. Someone should tell her she can't work like she's eighteen again.

I tag-teamed Saturday's mulch expedition with another truckload on Sunday. By last night, I was sitting on the coach in a fatigue-induced stupor. My husband did more physical labor than I've seen him do in a few years. He decided to do a project involving cutting and laying 200 lb. slabs of stone for steps into our garage. So he was no better off than me by bedtime.

I was sitting there, staring at the TV but not comprehending anything, when a tiny voice next to me said "What are you eating, Daddy?" I looked down, confused. It was Cooper. I looked up at the clock. It was 9:00.

My husband and I both looked at each other and realized we had forgotten to put Cooper to bed. We were that tired.

Earlier in the evening, as the pain from the weekend was setting in, I called our local Jimmy John's. I figured I could have some sandwiches delivered, that way we'd all eat and I wouldn't have to cook. A win-win.

The kid who answered the phone sounded to be about sixteen years old. Here's our conversation, K is for Kid at Jimmy John's:

H: Hi, do you deliver?
K: Uhh... yeah.
H: OK, can I place an order for delivery?
K: What's your address?
H: {Gave him my address}
K: Uhhh...where is that?
H: It's over by X School. You know, if you take X street to Y street, it's right there.
K: Uhhh...hang on a second...{seventeen minutes pass by with me on hold ~ I almost forgot why I was holding}
K: I think that's out of our delivery zone.
H: Oh, ok.
K: That might be in the Brentwood zone.
H: Oh, is there a store in Brentwood?
K: What store?
H: A Jimmy John's? Is there one in Brentwood?
K: I don't know.
H: What?
K: Huh?

I hung up. I mean, I thanked him, and then I hung up.

I think he was a mouthbreather. There's a physiological phase all teenage boys go through where they become mouthbreathers. They stare at you with their mouths gaping open...breathing. When you ask them questions, their faces register shock and confusion, the neurons desperately firing to figure out what it is you're asking of them.

It's sad, really. That period of time in a boy's life. My own sons will go through it, of that I am sure. I just hope it's a short-lived phase.

I cut the rock star's hair

I didn't want to do it, but people were starting to ask if he was a girl.

This face looks so innocent. So sweet.

It certainly doesn't look like the face of a boy who hurried up and threw as many fishsticks to his dog as he could while his mom was walking towards him saying "don't give Binnie any more fishsticks, Griffie."


How is it they learn orneriness right away? He can't talk, but he can be ornery.

Anyhoo, I cut his hair. I think it looks ok? He looks like a tiny businessman now.

Sewing project

A cutie little girl I know has offered to be my guinea pig for dressmaking. She's a few weeks younger than Griffin, so I can make things and try them on him for size. That way, I live vicariously and I know it'll fit! I'll be sure to snap pictures of my boy Griffie sporting a snazzy dress.

Two little pinafore dresses are in the making. One with the gray Amy Butler print, white lining and aqua whipstitch piping {to bring out her eyes}, and one in the blue print with yellow lining and whipstitch piping. The blue print didn't photograph well, it's much prettier in person.

I can't wait to start!

My Sunday Confession

I should probably save this one for Easter Sunday. But I just thought of it, so I'm going to share it this week.

I really don't like Easter.

I know, this is somewhat like admitting you don't like Santa Clause or candy.

But I really don't. I don't like Easter Sunday, specifically.

It's all very understandable. My family is Lutheran. I grew up going to church every Sunday. On Palm Sunday, we would march into church in our fancy clothes, waving our palm branches and singing songs. Hooray! Christ has arrived in Jerusalem! He's brought the word of God with him!

The service always ended the same. The lights in the church were turned completely off. We all left in silence. You'd think this would traumatize me, but it didn't. This was somehow not as depressing as the following Sunday, Easter Sunday.

On Easter Sunday, my dad insisted we go to Sunrise Service. It started at 6:30 a.m. and we lived about 40 minutes away. You do the math.

Then we'd get to church and the lights were still off. We walked in and took seats in the dark. In silence. As the service got going, the lights slowly came back on and the songs started up again and by the end ~ hooray, Christ is risen! Yay! Let's go upstairs and eat our Easter Sunday breakfast in the celebration hall!

But I never quite got over the trauma. The coldness I can still feel in my bones every Easter Sunday. The fatigue from being yanked from my warm bed while it was still very dark black outside. The depressing start to the service. The smell of an old musty church that's heat and lights have not been on for a week.

Not to mention the fact that going to Sunrise Service meant the Easter Bunny didn't visit our house after we moved back from Geneva. My brothers probably could have cared less, but I kind of missed the egg hunts and candy baskets.

So to this day, if I can avoid going to church on Easter Sunday, I do that. I think God understands. It's not the message I don't care for. It's the memories.

P.S. I also dislike Lenten Roses. Don't tell the Master Gardener Club, they might kick me out.

STUNG

Alas, I did not spend the day on the couch with warm banana bread. It sounded like a great idea at the time, but then things changed.

The sun came out.

So I loaded the back of the pickup truck with mulch from the garden store and proceeded to break my back spreading it in the front beds. It looks so nice, I am so glad I didn't waste the day lounging around. Plus, it's something that the house needs in order to sell it {and in order for me to live here happily ever after}.

As my husband and baby napped, and my neighbor took Cooper to the park down the street with his kids, I pitchforked load after load of mulch into my wheelbarrow and spread it.

It was all going so well. And then I got close to my weeping cherry tree, which is in full bloom right now {JOY} and it was covered with little happy honey bees! So cute, buzzing around in their excitement about the first flowers of spring. It was so nice to see them, seeing as how bees are in a bad place right now and they're disappearing before our very eyes.

One of the sweet little endangered buggers hitched a ride on me back to the pickup truck. He must have hung out on my hair or my shoulder until he decided to climb into the back of my t-shirt. Just as I was making a sharp right turn to pitch my load into the wheelbarrow. This upset him. And he stung me.

There is now one less honeybee in the world. Boo-hoo {not being sarcastic if you can believe it}.

Good God, that hurts! I had no idea I had a bee in my shirt, I never heard or felt a buzz at all.

I will have so much more sympathy for people who get stung from now on. It's been since 'Nam that I've gone without a sting. I was beginning to think it was a myth.

It's no myth.

But on the bright side, my yard looks phenomenal, which makes my soul happy too! Happy Spring! Happy Day! Yay!

Comfort food saves the world

I am making banana bread. If you read my post from yesterday, you know that I just need to stay home this weekend and do homey things and make comfort food.

So I'm staying home today and baking banana bread. My internet friend Melissa gave me this recipe a couple of years ago, and it is so good I will never make another version of banana bread again.

Seriously, it is that good.

It's so good I think Presidents and leaders of countries should have it in their secret stash, so that when international crises occur (and you know they will), they can get on the Red Phone and say "quick, I need a fresh loaf of banana bread, hot out of the oven with butter!" And once the Enemy tasted the yummy goodness, all warm and soft and buttery, they would change their mind and not be the Enemy anymore.

So I'll share it with you, because I like you guys.

Melissa's Unbelievably Good Banana Bread Recipe {I picked the name}

1 stick butter, room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 cup mashed very ripe bananas
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 cups flour

Preheat oven to 350. Butter or spray a loaf pan.

With electric mixer {I actually use my hand blender thingy, I use it for all cooking}, add each ingredient in the order I listed them, mixing well.

Pour mix into pan, and bake for 75 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

You can add 1/2 cup of nuts if you like, but I don't like anything crunchy in foods that are not supposed to be crunchy.

Remove it from the oven, get it out of the pan when it's safe to do so, spread a bunch of butter on the first slice and sink into your couch for a long nap.

Oh look, a baby wolf!

My land, I've had quite the week. I felt like if this week were one day longer I might not survive it.

It was my first week back to work after vacation, which is always hard. It was also my first week working in a new specialty with accounts I've never met, and my manager rode with me. He's very nice, I like him, but this was not my best week.

By Thursday, I had accidentally driven off at two separate gas stations with the fuel hose still in my car. This is embarrassing, if you've never done it before. I paid for my gas with a credit card so it's not like I was trying to do a drive-off or anything, but it kinda looks like it.

Not to mention the dudes at the station that laughed at me.

Or the guys at the Jiffy Lube that freaked out when I stepped out of the car with it still in DRIVE and it started rolling forward! That was a good one.

By this morning, I was just praying to make it through the day.

I dressed myself quite nicely, if I do say so myself. The first day of Spring brought forth my lovely white ladycoat, a pretty silk blouse and my navy pants. I even wore a necklace! Yes, I was dolled up good.

My plan was to work in the morning by myself, pick up lunch and then take it to a new-to-me office where I was going to meet my manager and another rep (who happens to be close friends with my manager and has worked with that office for a while). Sounds easy enough.

I went to an appointment out West first thing. It ran a little late, so I dashed into McAlister's to pick up the food for our lunch at 10:45. I got back in the car and started the 45 minute drive to Illinois. That's when I listened to my voicemail.

I guess I'd gotten my wires crossed with the other rep. She had ordered food from the Olive Garden near the office. We were going to have double food. So I called her and she arranged for me to drop my lunch boxes off at a different office before I met them.

I was racing against the clock at this point.

I was also freakishly hungry. I could have chewed my arm off, I was that hungry.

So I figured the second office wouldn't mind if I showed up with nine lunches instead of ten, and I reached into the back seat to snatch a boxed lunch. It was a club sandwich. Yay! I would have eaten it if it was brussels sprouts, but whatever. I ate one of the halves, sucked down a Coke and put back half of the cookie in the box. The crazy life-altering hunger was finally gone, and I arrived at my lunch only 15 minutes late.

We had a lovely time, they're lovely people, good times were had by all. I ate a breadstick from Olive Garden.

Then it was time to leave. They all got up. I got up.

I thought "what was that?" as something dropped from the sleeve of my lovely ladycoat.

It was ham.

Everyone looked down and saw it.

Oh, well. It's Friday. I survived.

These boots weren't made for walking

Cooper decided to pull out the Worker Man boots the other night. They're really his winter snow boots, but who am I to argue with a two year old?

Seeing his big brother in neato boots, Griffin promptly went and found a pair of rainboots. Griffin is a touch vertically challenged. The boots came up over his nonexistent kneecaps, making walking very difficult.

A boot fell off, he fell down.

It was ugly.

He tried to put them back on.


He failed.

He gave up.


A good time was had by all.