The Fourth Frog Blog

Rotten deal

2012-01-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

Like most everyone, I love a good deal. (Everyone, that is, except Mike's grandmother who thinks if something is on sale there must be a problem with it.) I keep my eyes on the daily deal offers like Eversave and Groupon.

Last summer, I bought a Groupon to a restaurant near my office. $10 for $20 worth of food to South of Chicago Pizza and Beef. And then I promptly forgot about it. Lucky for me, I remembered the deal last week. I printed out the certificate and made note to use it before the January 24, 2012 expiration date.

Life being what it is, the morning of January 24th arrived and I still had not used my offer. So I planned to go to South of Chicago for lunch with some co-workers. When we arrived, the smell was heavenly. Fresh bread and melty cheese. Little did I know something was going to stink real soon.

Before I could even look at the menu, the cashier saw the Groupon voucher in my hand and said, "You can't use your Groupon. It's expired."

"No, the expiration date is January 24. That's today, so I have until the end of today to use it."

"No. It's Groupon's rules. It's expired and you can't use it." Then I looked beyond her shoulder to see a white board with the same SOL message.

"Well," I said, "Then we're leaving." And my two co-workers and I went down the street to Tortas Mexican sandwich shop, where we had a delicious lunch (I recommend the #4 - Luis Miguel), although the service was a little inconsistent.

When I got back to the office, I lodged a complaint with Groupon, took a poll of my Facebook friends regarding expiration dates (all 19 people who commented agreed with me), and left a message on the South of Chicago Facebook page:

"Really disappointed that you did not honor my Groupon Indianapolis today. The expiration says January 24, 2012. I should have had until close of business today to use it. And I was not the only customer turned away. The ill will and bad experience that I will be sure to share with others will cost more than the $10 you would have eaten had you honored my Groupon."

I was going to blog about the experience, but opted to go to bed early. Plus, by then I had simmered down a little bit.

It wasn't until the middle of the night last night when I was awake (as usual) that I read South of Chicago's replies to my FB message. The first reply said,

"You can use your coupon for face value up until July 22."

Funny, that gal at the counter didn't mention that. Just nope. Sorry. If she had offered that, I might have been willing to accept it and place an order using my so-called-expired certificate for $10 off. That might have taken the edge off some of my frustration.

Then I read the second reply and got angry all over again. I'll let you see it for yourself:

Seriously? One of the benefits of being engaged in social media as a business is so you can communicate with your customers, resolve difficulties and let others see how you take care of those who try to support your business. I think South of Chicago Pizza and Beef missed that in Social Media 101.

There was no "I'm sorry for your experience" or "There was some confusion" or even "Please call us at xxx-xxxx so we can work on making this better." Just a childish mocking of me -- who you can be assured will never be a customer.

On a positive note, I also received feedback from Groupon, which said:

I'm really sorry for the trouble with this! You were correct in your understanding of how the expiration works. I'll talk to the business to see if we can get that cleared up for them. I've just canceled this order and issued $10 Groupon credit to your account. The credit is available in your account immediately and does not expire.

At least someone knows a little something about how to treat customers.

An uncomfortable position to be in

2012-01-22T20:21:00.000-05:00

It's been an unusual year to be an Indianapolis Colts fan. On one hand, our team was abysmal. Our quarterback sat on the sidelines all season. Our record (2-14) looked more like the score of a first grade basketball game. The Colts owner made a game of sending cryptic messages via Twitter, almost just to amuse himself to watch everyone wondering what he meant. And after the season was over, the coaching infrastructure exploded (which actually might be a good thing). But despite all of that, there was a silver lining to the 2011-2012 football season: We are to be at the center of the world stage that is the Super Bowl.

All of the city is abuzz with Super Bowl XLVI (that's 46 for you not up on your Roman numerals) fever. People from hospitality workers to restaurant staff to government officials to ordinary citizens are psyched and ready to share that well-known "Hoosier Hospitality." Volunteers wearing hand-knit blue and white scarves will be out in force to make sure our guests leave here with the feeling that Indianapolis is a city that is worth visiting again.

There's just one (very big) piece of broccoli stuck in our proverbial service with a smile. The Patriots are coming to town. If you're an Indianapolis Colts fan, it's a given that you hate the Patsies. You hate Bill Bellicheat and his whiny quarterback. The name Pa------ (I can't bring myself to type it out again) makes your blood boil at first mention. And their fans? About a 110% on the obnoxious meter. I'd venture to bet there is no team more hated by Indianapolis Colts fans than those Minutemen who will be coming to our house on February 5.

The thought of them playing in the Super Bowl in our stadium is bad enough. But the thought of them winning the Super Bowl here? Well, I just might have to start a Facebook petition to raze Lucas Oil Stadium and start all over. It would be like Voldemort throwing a party at Hogwarts while Harry Potter was forced to serve drinks and clear tables.

But this is Indiana where "Hoosier Hospitality" is more than a tourism slogan. I know that we can put our wands and our cursed charms away and greet our guests with cheerfulness and a desire to put on a spectacular week-long show. When those New England fans and their team return home (hopefully sans the Vince Lombardi trophy), I hope they'll go back impressed with the spectacle this "flyover city" put together. I hope they will talk about the friendly people, the world class service, and the stellar party Indianapolis threw for the occasion.

Even if we do still hate them and the team which shall not be named.

This one is for all the kids (Mine and yours.)

2012-01-19T21:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote a letter to my daughter Annie (and her friends and all other teenagers). The letter was in response to the suicide of a beautiful, talented, well-loved 16-year-old girl. The message was "Have someone." If you haven't read it yet, please do so here.

Today my mind has been filled with aching for this child who felt such deep despair that she made a tragic decision. I've prayed for her parents and siblings who must be wondering "why?" I've imagined her friends, gathered and wondering what they missed, what more they could have done.

I don't presume to have any answers. But I do have another message for you, Annie. And for Charlie and Robbie and all of us.

Be someone.

Be someone who is willing to walk across the cafeteria or the playground to talk to the person who is always standing alone, no matter what others might say.

Be someone who steps outside of your circle to partner up with someone you don't know very well for the science project or the sit-up challenge in gym class.

Be someone who smiles and holds the door open and says "I like your hair" or "You are a good artist" or "How was your weekend?"

Be someone who really listens -- puts down the cell phone, the video game remote, the laptop and listens with your ears, your eyes and your heart.

Be someone who hears what others are saying...and what they are not.

Be someone who refuses to laugh at another person's expense.

Be someone who isn't defined by a group or a label like "hipster," "jock," or "nerd." Instead be someone who has friends in all those groups and who can bring people together.

Be someone who is honest, who doesn't sugarcoat your own life. Be real so other people can see that we're all in this human-ness together, that we all struggle.

Be someone who lets others know that they matter.

Be someone who isn't afraid to break a friend's confidence and go to an adult if you think they are in danger.

I know it sounds like a tall order. But I know you can do it.

I believe in you.

Love,
Mom

A letter to my daughter (and yours)

2012-01-18T23:31:00.001-05:00

Dear Annie,

Today I learned of the death of a young girl from Indianapolis. She was 16 years old -- just a year older than you. Like you, she was into theater. Her friends described her bright smile, the way she brought life to a room just by walking into it. That reminds me of you. By all accounts, she was well loved.

Yet, yesterday this bright, sparkling girl took her own life.

I didn't know her, but her news of her passing took my breath away. It hit too close to home for this mom of a theater-loving, smiling, laughing, well-loved teenage daughter.

And so tonight, I'm sitting here writing this letter to you -- and to your friends and to any other teenager who happens across this post. What I want to say is this:

Have someone.

Have someone, an adult, in your life that you can talk to. Of course you can talk to me or Dad. But I was a teenager once. I know that sometimes your parents are the last people you want to talk to. And that's ok. We don't have to know everything. We might want to, but we don't have to.

But have someone who you trust to tell those things to. Have someone who you can confide in; who will keep your confidence and who will also know how to take care of your heart; who will know when to just listen, when to step in and do something more.

And to your friends who might be reading this, if you need someone to be that person in your life, I am here.

I feel like I should go on here to say how much you are loved, how much joy and pride you bring to my life. Those things are true and I hope you already know that.

But I think I just really want to say have someone, because no one could replace you in my life.

Love,
Mom

In honor of Maggie
and in support of To Write Love on Her Arms

Biggest Loser: Home run for Cassandra

2012-01-18T01:28:00.001-05:00

Tonight on The Biggest Loser, it was Cassandra's night to shine.

The 25-year-old from Michigan stepped up during a Chinese food challenge and ate 2 fortune cookies to earn a 2-pound advantage at the scale and the right to create black team-red team faceoff pairings on the scale. (She was the only one from either team who ate anything.)

But it wasn't just chowing down on 60 calories worth of cookies that made her night. She put herself up against Conda for the weign-in faceoff. During workouts in the gym, Dolvett set the two head to head in a squat thrust competition. Cassandra took her first victory then.

Conda alleged that Cassandra cheated and refused to give her props for the victory, though she did pony up the Subway sandwich that the two had promised to the winner. So during the last chance workout, Dolvett set the two up for a rematch, doing a ladders exercise. Cassandra won that handily. Even that wasn't enough to shut up Conda.

The final match-up between the two came on the scale. Conda posted a measly 3-pound weight loss. Apparently flapping your gums doesn't burn many calories. Cassandra buried Conda's 3 pounds with an 8-pound loss of her own.

Yes! Time to shut your pie hole, Conda!

Although she repeatedly beat Conda this week, Cassandra wasn't arrogant about it. She just worked hard and let her actions do the talking. So far, she is the biggest loser in the house, having lost over 11% of her total body weight. Tonight she emerged as one of my favorite contestants.

In other Biggest Loser news --

Joe from the Black Team made history when he became the first contestant to flat out quit. He didn't ask to be sent home in the elimination (the red team went to the elimination room). He just packed up and left because he missed his family. It will be interesting to see how he does at home.

Lauren was the person eliminated from the red team. It was a surprise to her and to me. Most of the people who voted for her to leave cited her drive and her status as single with no kids as factors that would lead to her success at home. So far, she's proving them right because in the transformation moment, she'd lost 53 pounds and looked great. I do worry about how her mom, Gail, will do being on the ranch by herself. Only time will tell.

Cassandra's grandma, Nancy, was close to elimination tonight. I'm glad she was spared so Cassandra had a terrific week overall.

Dudes

2012-01-16T23:56:00.000-05:00

I was feeling a little (self-imposed) pressure to blog tonight since it's been a few days, but came up empty in the idea department. So I turned to that never-ending font of ideas -- Facebook -- and asked for some. The first (and only) response I got came from my friend BgKahuna who suggested that I blog about "dudes."

BK is under the almost true, yet still false assumption that he is the only man who reads my blog. But my husband and my dad read it. And a few others who shall remain nameless in case being associated with the 4th Frog Blog jeopardizes their man cards.

Anyway, for some reason, I decided to take the suggestion and go with it, even though BK's suggestion was made while he was hopped up on morphine in the ER.

Which brings me to the first point I'd like to make about dudes. For all the thousands of pounds they can bench press and all the hits they can take in football, what is it about a little nasal congestion and a cough that renders them useless to society for a period of 2-4 days?

Of course, my main frame of reference here is Mike. As soon as he starts to whimper that he thinks he's getting a cold, I cut that crap off at the pass. "You're fine" and I move out of the room. That's not to say he's never been really sick. He has. But when he's really sick, he doesn't whine and complain. He just lays there, which is so much easier to deal with.

Also, I think someone needs to research the selective gender-based dementia that is so common among the male species. Doesn't anyone out there in the academic world wonder how it is that men (and even boys) can remember how many yards Eli Manning threw four games ago and what Jose Conseco's batting average is, but they can't remember to take out the trash or get milk on their way home from work?

And do the words "put it down" or "wipe it off" not have any meaning to those who stand to go pee?

Now, in all fairness, the world needs dudes. And not just the world, but I need them.

Who else would fix the printer and figure out why the internet is not working? Who would unclog the toilets (especially when it's clogged with man poop) and get the heavy boxes of Christmas decorations off the top shelf?

Dudes are handy to have around for boys who want to talk to someone who knows something -- and actually cares -- about video games and for grilling stuff. And, as I'm sure we'll find out soon, they are much more intimidating to young men who come to court our daughters. Then there's that whole proliferation of the species business, too.

So there you go, BgKahuna. The 4th Frog Treatise on Dudes. Thanks for the idea. (Of course, the man has the idea, but it's the woman who does all the work to make it happen...)

What is wrong with us?

2012-01-12T00:49:00.000-05:00

Every year I get a page-a-day calendar. One of those little desktop jobs that you tear off a page each day (hence the name. In years past, I've had calendars whose themes were The Office (funny quotes), the Biggest Loser (weight loss inspiration) and Scrabble (make your best word). I haven't gotten my calendar yet this year. So the other day I was ~~wasting~~ spending time nosing around Amazon.com to see what calendars are out there.

What I found just really made me wonder about what is wrong with us. Us being the collective "we, the people." I found calendars and book titles that included the following:

Insult a Day
Getting in Touch with Your Inner Bitch
Life is Crap
The Daily Bitch
F My Life

I'm no Pollyanna. I know that life is not perfect and I offer my fair share of complaints. (For reference, back up two posts to "Spontaneous Verbal Combustion.") But why would I spend good money putting those negative messages in front of myself day after day? In a line of thinking along "you are what you eat," I think to a certain extent I am -- or I become -- what I surround myself with.

I'm not suggesting that we have to bury our heads or turn away from everything negative. We need to be aware of the way our world works so we can make choices to keep us clear of trouble or to help change things that need to be changed. But I think we also need to spread joy and laughter and learning and other worthwhile pursuits. Maybe that is Pollyanna-ish. So be it.

I'm not likely to choose a daily calendar of puppies or kittens. But you can bet I won't be choosing "F My Life," either. Instead, I'm thinking of this:

Biggest Loser: Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down

2012-01-11T00:50:00.001-05:00

Tonight was Week 2 on The Biggest Loser. I thought there were some highs and some lows. Let's call them Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down.

Thumbs Up:

Dolvett. Just because he is.
"The girls may have Bob and Dolvett. But I've got a hot nutritionist. I'll listen to whatever you tell me." - Jeremy upon being introduced to the nutritionist
The outdoor patio area being called "the prison yard." Did I hear that right? That's awesome.
Roy and Christine. Just seeing Santa and Mrs. Claus makes me smile.
No one threw up on camera today.
Mafia Mike went home. I think had he stayed there would just be continuous friction.
Mafia Mike does look a lot like Alec Baldwin.
Minimal (any?) product placements
The fast-forwarding of some of the weigh in

Thumbs Down:

Kimmy and Kim's wild assumption that their team could lose 94 pounds in week 2.
Dr. H. said Joe has an "advanced case of sleep apnea," waking more than 70 times an hour. In my recent sleep study, I was waking 79 times per hour. Doesn't exactly make me feel like I'm in good company.
Bob getting mad at Dolvett in the gym. This is not about you, Bob. Keep your focus on the people you're trying to help.
A small tray of sushi has as many carbs as 5 slices of white bread and 300 calories? Waaaaahhh!
Conda is still on the ranch. She conjures up memories of Vicki. (I wonder if there's a Heba hiding in the ranks.)
Facial hair. Seriously? It's only week 2 and it's already getting out of control.
Alison stirring the pot to encourage the arguing in the elimination room.
Bob's leggings under the shorts look. Show off the legs, Bob.

Do you have anything to add?

Warning: Spontaneous verbal combustion ahead

2012-01-08T22:18:00.000-05:00

Otherwise known as a rant. This is really directed at no one, except myself.

I am 41 years old. Likely, at least half of my life is over. So why do I still have so much to figure out? I'm not talking about figuring out the solution to Pi or if Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I'm not even talking about how to get Sharpie marker off my dining room table.

Why can't I figure out a workable and stickable chore schedule for my kids so that the house is not always a mess? Why can't I figure out an organized solution to menu planning and couponing? Why am I still using the "stack it on the counter and deal with it later" method of dealing with the mail?

I look around at other people and try to see how they do it. That just ends up in frustration and I find myself moving further and further from contentment. For the first time in a very long time, both Mike and I have a paycheck. So what do I think would be great?

To quit my job -- (which, Boss, I have no intention of doing, just a delusional fantasy) -- and stay home to do things like laundry on a set schedule and make dinner most nights of the week and use coupons before they expire and volunteer in the classroom. To have cookies and milk or carrots and dip on the table for an after school snack for the kids to munch on as I sit there and help them with their homework. To know what the basketball practice schedule is before the carpool people send a text message asking if I want to drive there or pick up.

Then there are those people who seem spiritually content. Who don't think at 4pm, "oh crap, I haven't prayed yet today." Those people who have figured out ways to live outside of their own bubbles -- who are actually living and breathing V-words...volunteers. They are out there making the world a better place while I'm making PB&J for dinner because I didn't get to the grocery so there is something real to cook.

Which leads me to what am I teaching my children? I want them to loving, caring, giving people -- and I think that they are. But I want giving of self to come naturally to them, yet I'm not modeling that for them. How do I expect them to learn? Am I doing them a lifelong disservice by not caring if their bedrooms are clean? Should I be more demanding when it comes to insisting that they eat more fruits and vegetables? Am I a bad mom if I'm not vigilant about red dye and high fructose corn syrup?

And those couples who go on romantic vacations or even weekly coffee dates? Who have more to talk about than who is picking up which kid when and where? Don't even talk to me about that.

Obviously, I have plenty to learn from those people who wake up in the morning and go to sleep each night counting their blessings. I have lots of them. And I am thankful for them. But, apparently, I am a "glass is half empty and someone is probably gonna come along and knock it over any minute" kind of girl.

I'm not going to fling myself off a bridge or drink my anxieties away (although a little self-medicating with Little Debbie Swiss Rolls sounds good right about now). Sometimes it just feels good to say things out loud. Know what I mean?

Biggest Loser: It's back (and so am I)

2012-01-04T00:39:00.000-05:00

The 13th season of The Biggest Loser started on NBC tonight and for the first time in at least 2 (maybe more) seasons, I'm watching. I'm not sure what made me tune in tonight. It could be that I'm feeling -- and looking -- positively portly. It could be that there was nothing better on, in which case, what's the point of cable TV? It could be that mighty fine trainer with the unusual name, Dolvett.

I didn't watch it while doing deep knee bends or jumping rope (have you read my latest Fit City post?). But I also didn't watch it while eating ice cream or Nutella on toast.

Some of the thoughts I had while watching:

If Bob Harper ever leaves this show, the fat lady will have sung.
It's just plain mean and wrong to invite people to the ranch and then send them home before they ever get to set foot inside the gym.
Is the world ready to handle a skinny Santa (who happens to be from Indiana!)? The next thing you know, Cookie Monster will be eating carrots.
I just might have to dust off Denzel and change his name to Dolvett. That guy is buff.
Other than Planet Fitness, the product placements were kept to a minimum. That was nice.
As someone who increasingly views herself as "older," I was glad Gail didn't fall on the age sword and bow out to someone just because they are younger.
I was really peeved with Ben for asking to be sent home. But maybe in that one week on the ranch, he experienced what my friend Annie refers to as that moment.

The jury is still out whether I'll become a die-hard fan again, but I definitely will tune in again next week.

More numbers

2012-01-02T22:53:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote about 2012 just being a number. And I'm sticking by that.

But today, there are more numbers. Numbers that are more significant to me than a simple change on the calendar.

The first number I encountered was my waking blood sugar level. It's been a long time since I've tested my blood sugar. But lately, I've been noticing some small signs that have let me know that my blood sugar is not well-controlled. That's no big surprise given all the pre-holiday, holiday, and post-holiday eating I've been doing.

This morning when I woke up, I went with the whole knowledge is power idea and pricked my finger for a little diagnostic medicine before breakfast. 165. Not terrible. My doctor likes to see it below 100 first thing in the morning. But not great either. Good to know either way. I tested it a few other times during the day and got similar not bad/not great results.

Then tonight, I got a call from the doctor at the sleep clinic. I have sleep apnea. Well, yes. I knew that based on the fact that they put me on CPAP two hours into my sleep study last week. He explained to me that people with mild sleep apnea wake, momentarily, 5 to 15 times per hour. Those with moderate sleep apnea have the same wakings 15 to 30 times per hour. Anything above that is considered severe.

Being the chronic overachiever that I am, I scored an impressive 79 arousals per hour. Quite frankly, I'm pretty darn impressed I've been able to get done anything during the day considering I'm probably actually only getting a fraction of the sleep I thought I was getting. All kidding aside, there are plenty of reasons beyond fatigue to treat sleep apnea.

And so, I'll be making some health and lifestyle changes. I'm not setting big goal. I'm just committed to taking a more active role in my own health. To check my blood sugar daily. To use a CPAP machine nightly. Not because the calendar now reads 2012. But because I'd like to live to see the calendar read 2013, 2014, 2015 and beyond.

It's just a number

2012-01-02T03:40:00.000-05:00

I could be talking about age. Or weight. But today, I'm talking about the year. 2012 is just a number. Just one more than 2011. I refuse to believe it's anything more than that.

Because if I heap a load of importance on the transition of one year into another, then I start getting overwhelmed with self-imposed "I should's," "I need to's" and "I must's." If the turning of the calendar is of real significance, then I start fretting about what I did or didn't do in 2011. I start becoming uneasy with what this new year might have in store for me.

I'm not sticking my head in the sand. Two days ago, I needed to stop eating so much and start exercising more. Two weeks ago, home organization was not one of my better qualities. Two months ago, I was challenged to look outside myself and towards others more often. And today, I still do.

But I'm not looking to make a major statement about goals and deadlines and resolutions just because I'll be writing a different date on my checks.

Call it denial. Call it stubbornness. I'll just call it a number and move ahead one day at a time.

A New Year's Eve classic tale

2011-12-31T20:58:00.000-05:00

Some occasions just beg for the telling of the same story over and over again. In our house, New Year's Eve is one of them. Amazingly, I've never told this one here so tonight I thought I'd share.

We have a grocery store near our house that used to have a lobster tank. Every time we went to the store with Robbie there was a certain routine we had to follow. First, a stop at the bakery for the free cookie. Then off to the seafood/meat department to see the lobsters.

Our crustaceanic visit was never long. Just a minute or two to see which lobster was moving that day (not always guaranteed) or which was the biggest. But there was no setting foot into that store without making an appearance at the lobster tank.

So one year when Robbie was about three years old, New Year's Eve rolled around and Mike and I were trying to think of festive ways to celebrate the occasion at home. We decided it would be fun to have lobster for dinner (and fish sticks for the kids). We couldn't wait to tell Robbie that we were going to pick out a lobster.

The morning of New Year's Eve, we told Robbie we were going to the store to pick out a lobster and asked if he wanted to help. Well, of course he did! So we went to the store, made the obligatory stop at the bakery, and headed to the lobster tank.

We picked out our lobster and asked the guy behind the tank to cook it for us so we could pick it up at dinner time. For the record, that's the only way I'd ever serve lobster in my house -- pre-cooked.

Later that evening, Mike went back to the store to pick up the lobster and bring it home. We put it on a white platter, where it's now-bright red shell stood out. Robbie was so excited. He picked it up and looked at it up close before putting the lobster back on the platter.

About 10 minutes of final dinner prep went by and we sat down to eat. Mike was the first to start in on the lobster, taking a large claw in his grasp and ripping it off the rest of the body.

This was the point at which the screaming of bloody murder started. It wasn't the lobster, who was sufficiently dead and cooked. Instead, the screaming came from Robbie. We tried to assure him it was ok as I took my turn to messily remove another claw, which led to more tortured screaming.

Eventually, Robbie became so inconsolable that I had to take him to his bedroom. It wasn't until the kitchen was quiet again that we figured out what had upset Robbie so badly. Poor kid thought we were bringing home a lobster to be a pet. And then we proceeded to tear it from limb to limb!

And the story has become a New Year's Eve classic, told every year at least once, sometimes more often. Oh, and we've never brought another lobster home again.

Adventures in sleep

2011-12-30T05:41:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday night I had a sleep study. I've done plenty of studying in near states of sleep, but sleep was actually the point of this endeavor.

I'm not a stranger to the world of sleep study. I had one about 5 years ago, which resulted in me becoming the owner of a space-age looking CPAP machine. But I'd gotten away from using the machine after I lost a good amount of weight. Since I've found all that weight again, I found myself doing the wakefulness and near-choking that comes with sleep apnea. My fatigue had gotten so bad that I actually pulled the machine out to use again.

That would have been a great idea, except now the machine makes a really loud and annoying noise. Mike actually said he'd rather hear my snoring. So I called the sleep clinic to find out how to fix it or get a new one. Of course, they couldn't talk to me without a referral from my doctor. So I called my doc who said that since my study was so long ago, she wanted me to have another one. It was like one of those books -- "If You Give a Girl a CPAP Machine..."

So, all that resulted in me checking in to the sleep clinic at 8pm on Wednesday night. I packed light -- jammies, toothbrush and two books to read. I used the jammies and the toothbrush, but the books stayed in the bag once I found The Holiday (Jack Black's best role ever!) on the Lifetime Channel. My mother would have been appalled, though, that my pajama shirt had two small holes in it. I think wearing jammies with holes in them to a sleep study is somewhat akin to having dirty underwear on when you get into a car accident.

For you mommies or wives or women in general who need a little getaway, may I recommend a sleep study. I mean check out this room built for relaxation:

Ok. So there is no jacuzzi tub or in-room massage (both of which I'm going to recommend on my satisfaction survey). But there is a clean room with no dirty laundry on the floor, a television that only turns to Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network if you want it to, and absolutely no way for an 8-year-old to climb into your bed during the night.

And there is a Sleep Number bed. Is that brilliant marketing or what? Here you have a captive audience of people who are clamoring for a good night's sleep, so why not give them a bed that's custom comfort? The most firm setting is 100. One of my FB friends suggested that I try a level 5 just for kicks. As she said, it's like trying to climb out of a deflated raft. It turns out that my sleep number is somewhere around 55.

About an hour after I got settled in, Sheila came in to get me hooked up. Talk about being wired for sleep! I think I had a dozen or so wires pasted to various parts of my body.

Then there were the chest straps to measure my breaths, the microphone on my throat to record my snoring (as if I snore!), and the wires going up my nose. I snapped a few pics of myself pre-nasal wires. It's a lovely look, I know.

Once my movie was over, I was ready to sleep. After a few tests of the equipment -- Sheila called them in over the intercom -- it was snoozeville. I fell asleep pretty easily (I always do), but woke and tossed and turned several times over the next two hours.

At about 1:30am, Sheila came in to hook me up to the CPAP machine, which they do for people with "severe apnea episodes." No big surprise there. She set me up with a this mask that just plugged right into my nostrils. Not too bad. But then she asked if I was a mouth-breather. Well, duh, aren't all people who snore? So that earned me a chin strap to keep my mouth closed and another back of the head velcro something or other. I was really sleepy, but I distinctly remember thinking "Being fat is so not worth all of this."

Once the CPAP was set up, I fell back to sleep within a few minutes. And then I SLEPT. No waking. No coughing. No tossing. No turning.

When Kevin, the night supervisor, came in to wake me, I felt good! I would have felt better if it was 8am instead of 6:30am -- seriously, for what that night's sleep probably cost me (or at least my insurance company), I should have gotten to stay 'til 11am with a room service breakfast). But still, I felt remarkably rested. As he was removing all my electrodes, he stepped back and said "Oh! I forgot you have blue hair." We both got a chuckle out of that and I told him how the blue hair came about. He said "When I saw your blue hair when you came in, I thought to myself 'I bet that lady's fun.'" Love it!

I asked how often I was waking per hour. I got the coy "You had several wakeful arousals, but your doctor will get the specific results in the next week." I hate that. It's my information for crying out loud. I know for sure that cozying up with a CPAP machine is in my future.

Whatcha reading?

2011-12-28T06:03:00.000-05:00

I like to read for fun, but I don't read often. Usually, I read one or two books over Christmas break, a handful of books during the summer, and maybe another book or two at other times of the year. I think the last book I read was The Help, which I read before the movie came out last summer.

Such an on-again-off-again romance with reading often leaves me unsure of what books are worth my time to read. I used to read all the John Grisham novels, until they got so formulaic. I like Elizabeth Berg, but have read most of her stuff. I read the entire Harry Potter series, but have no desire to read The Hunger Games, which seems to be a popular series these days.

So yesterday, I posted this on Facebook:

I'm kind of itchy to read something. I generally like historical fiction, chick lit, even young adult reads. Nothing heavy or depressing. Any suggestions?

Let me tell you, if you want a lot of chatter on your Facebook page, ask people what you should read. I got 39 responses, including some farcical suggestion from Mike that I read some dumb star Wars book. Mike's comment aside, I hated to lose such good suggestions or to keep them to myself.

So here you go: what to read if you don't know what to read:

Jen Lancaster memoirs
Highlander by Diana Gabaldon
Beverly Lewis Amish series
Jennifer Weiner, Sophie Kinsella, Emily Giffin
Real Vampires Hate Their Thighs by Gerry Bartlett
Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster
Marian Keys, Jane Greene, Elin Hildebrand, Kristin Hannah
Bossypants by Tina Fey (honestly, I've started it and am not loving it)
Left Neglected by Lisa Genova
The Virgin Cure by Amy McKay
Killing Lincoln
James Patterson
War Horse
Becoming Marie Antoinette
Sarah's Key (which I've read and loved!)
The Help (again, read it, loved it)
Secret Daughter
The Secret Life of Bees (I've read it, but just might read it again)
Me and Emma
The Kite Runner
Sharon Kay Penman - Here Be Dragons, Falls the Shadow, The Reckoning
When Christ and His Saints Slept trilogy
The Mary Russell series by Laurie R. King
Tana French
Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by
Laura Hillenbrand
The Aquanet Diaries by Jennifer Nivens
The Brides quartet by Nora Roberts
Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert
The Next Always by Nora Roberts
Water for Elephants (one of my favorites)
Blaize Clements -- apparently good for people who like cats and mysteries, an odd combination
Catherine Coulter
The Legacy by Stephen Frey -- someone has a video of the JFK assassination from the other side of the grassy knoll and tons of people want to get it
The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson
Hangman's Daughter
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
11/23/63 by Stephen King
Philippa Gregory
Jean Plaidy
The Story of Beautiful Girl
New Found Land -- about the Lewis & Clark expedition

I'm going to ~~highjack~~ borrow Annie's Nook and download a few books. I think I'll start with Prairie Tale -- who wouldn't want the dish about Little House on the Prairie? Then The Aquanet Diaries, which is a memoir about growing up in Richmond, Indiana where I lived for a few years when I was a little girl. After that it's a toss up between The Legacy and Unbroken.

So, what are you reading? Anything else I should add to this list?

A grievance against the elves

2011-12-27T10:52:00.001-05:00

Elfin Grievance Form -- NP123

Date: December 26, 2011

Grievance filed by: Amy M. (aka The 4th Frog)

Nature of grievance:

___ Shoddy worksmanship ___ Poor packaging ___ Wrong item sent _X__ Other

Please provide details of the complaint:

Our son Charlie received a basketball shooting game for Christmas. He was thrilled. Unfortunately, the elves in the sporting goods department must have slipped the box into Santa's bag before Santa could notice that they didn't actually assemble the game. Luckily, Charlie was kept plenty busy with his other Christmas gifts that he didn't seem to mind that the gift was still in the box.

The day after Christmas, Charlie opened the box, assuming that he would just need to unfold the game and it would be ready to go. Ha! If only we'd been so lucky. The box was filled with no less than 247 individual pieces that required significant assembly.

There were more than a dozen metal pieces that had to be put together to create the frame. To the elves' credit, these were all clearly marked and actually matched up with the numbers included in the instruction booklet. If only the bolts were as clearly marked. Yes, they were separated and labeled initially, but once the package was opened it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between a #24 bolt and a #25 bolt.

I started the assembly with Charlie helping me. That lasted about 17 minutes. Then it was Annie to the rescue. She and I matched metal poles and nuts and bolts and washers, hoping that the entire contraption would not collapse on top of us. Annie kept saying "Aren't there people who get paid to do this?" She is her GoGo's granddaughter!

Mike called us to lunch and we emerged from the basement, not yet finished, amazed to find that we had been working on this little project for more than 2 hours!

After lunch, we had to tighten up the bolts, install the hoops, hang the backboard, install the scoring system -- and oh, yeah -- find batteries, something else those elves forgot to do. All told (some unscrewing and correcting of erroneous building), it took us about 3-1/2 hours to put Charlie's gift together. I'm thinking the elves could have had it done in 45 minutes or so.

I suppose it was a character building experience. It was some mother-daughter bonding time. In the end, what really matters is that Charlie is having fun with his gift. And so are the rest of us.

But, I do think that someone might want to have a word with those sporting goods elves.

Merry Christmas, over and out

2011-12-24T10:42:00.000-05:00

As a Christmas gift to myself and my family, I'm logging off the internet for the next 24 hours or so.

It'll be a challenge to not run to Facebook to post funny stories or make lamentations about awkward family moments. But I'm giving myself presence as a present. And as much as I'd like to believe it's not true, I'm pretty sure the whole of the internet will not come crashing down as a result of my absence.

So Merry Christmas to you and yours from me and mine.

Dear Santa, I'm the one with the blue hair

2011-12-23T10:42:00.003-05:00

Dear Santa,

I know you'll be making your big flight tomorrow and I didn't want you to get confused when you peeked in our window and saw some lady with blue hair sleeping in my bed. It's really me.

You might have heard that I promised to dye my hair blue in exchange for donations to a little girl's Make-a-Wish Fund. Well, we got the donations and I kept my word. Let me tell you, it was not an easy process. I was at the salon for 5-1/2 hours! But Shana was a good elf and did a great job.

First, she put bleach on the parts of my hair that were going to get the blue. Then I sat. Then she wiped the bleach off and put more on. Then I sat. Then she wiped that bleach off and shampooed my hair.

It was so weird to see myself with blonde hair! I'm pretty sure I prefer being a brunette, but it was fun to see what a little yellow would look like.

After the bleach was all gone, Shana put some stuff in my hair called "Prepare." I had my own little prepare concoction, too. It wasn't the margarita that I had envisioned, but it turns out Almond Snickers do almost as good of a job calming pre-dye job jitters. So does a visit from a social media buddy, Chris Theisen, who works nearby and thought he'd come offer a little support, which was nice considering he's one of the two people who got me into this in the first place.

After the preparation, it was time do the blue. Shana dried my hair completely and then it was time for the bluification to begin. As if on cue, the other person who was responsible for getting me involved in helping make Kamylle's wish come true walked in the door. Leilan aka BgKahuna made a louder entrance than Chris and was his usual entertaining self. Plus, he acted as the official blue hair photographer.

Look at that gorgeous color!

Shana said they do a lot of reds and pinks, but I'm the first person to ever ask for blue. I love being a trendsetter!

That's Shana in the picture putting the blue on my temporarily blonde hair. Shana was even wearing blue for the occasion (well, I like to think that she was anyway). It turned out that a couple of my neighbors were in the salon that day too. I offered to share the blue with them, but neither of them took me up on it. That's too bad, because they are both blondes (or closer to it than I am) and it would have been a much easier process.

Once Shana got the blue dye where we were going to put it -- bangs, temples and some subtle (as subtle as blue gets) highlights in the back -- she put me under the dryer to set it. BgKahuna joined me there. Except he had no blue dye. He also has no hair (his contribution to the Make-a-Wish effort). We had a very Zen experience.

Twenty minutes later, it was time for the wet reveal. My blue locks drew plenty of attention from the other "elves" at the salon, all of whom said they loved it. I don't think they were lying -- you know, trying to stay on the Nice List and all, Santa.

Are you tired yet? Because by this point, I was getting there. But Shana still had to touch up the rest of my color (apparently blue and gray together is not a good look), then wax my eyebrows (which were in desperate need), then do the cut and style.

Whew! But it was so worth all the effort. Well, I hope Shana thinks so because my effort consisted of sitting there, eating Almond Snickers, playing Words with Friends and updating Facebook on my phone.

Here's the final product:

It shows up differently depending on the lighting. Here's a pic my sister took the next day in her office under much brighter lights:

I think I might be a little addicted to color now. It's so fun, isn't it?

The reaction from other people has been pretty varied. Some people -- Mike included -- love it. Others are disappointed that I didn't do my whole head. Several people wanted to know if I was going to last night's Colts game (Nope.). Random people have commented that they like it. A few people looked at it and didn't say a word. I guess they are of the "if you can't say anything nice..." school of thought.

The best response came from the kids in Robbie's class. A little girl looked at me and said "What happened to your hair?!" I played dumb and said, "What do you mean? What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's blue!" she shrieked.

"It is?!," I said, playing shocked. "I knew I shouldn't have kissed that Smurf yesterday!" Of course that elicited lots of shrieks about Smurfy PDA.

What do you think Santa? Is my new 'do gift-worthy? Not that it matters. The gift has really been in the experience and in knowing that a little dye on my head helped create happy memories for a very sick little girl.

So, have a safe flight, Santa. We'll be waiting for you here. And please be sure to leave something nice for each of my friends who contributed to Kamylle's Make-a-Wish fund.

Love,

Amy

10 cool things that are blue

2011-12-21T01:03:00.001-05:00

Clear blue sky on a spring day
Fresh blueberries on vanilla ice cream
The Twitter bird
Navy blue walls in my family room and kitchen
Sapphires
Crystal blue oceans
Cheese, bleu that is
Butler Blue II (see below)
A favorite pair of perfectly broken-in jeans
My hair -- I hope. Time will soon tell!

1 day to blue hair

2011-12-20T08:00:00.001-05:00

Can you believe it's been almost 6 weeks since I offered up my brunette (and gray) locks in exchange for donations to Kamylle's Make-a-Wish fund? I was supposed to undergo the dye a few weeks ago, when fever struck. But tomorrow is the day!

Tomorrow I'll submit my head to the capable hands of Shaina at Allure Salon -- now re-open in their pre-fire location. I admit, I'm a little bit nervous. But it's just hair, right?

Shaina and I have done a little strategizing and have determined that blue streaks/highlights are probably the way to go, not because I'm unwilling to go full-headed azure, but because she's afraid the dye on bleach might do some damage to my hair. Yikes! But it's just hair, right?

I'm envisioning my first trip to Target after the blue-ification. "Mommy, why is that lady's hair blue?" Maybe I should have some business cards made that answer the question. Maybe no one will notice, what with everyone scurrying around finishing their holiday shopping.

At church, maybe I can pass it off as an homage to Mary the Mother of God? I figure the one place I'll really fit in is Annie's school, where hair colors change almost as often as the weather.

What if it's awful? It's just hair, right? I can cut, re-dye it or invest in a collection of hats and scarves.

Better yet, what if I love it and want to keep it up? I suppose in just 1 more day I'll know. And so will you. Stay tuned.

Where are you, Christmas?

2011-12-19T07:34:00.000-05:00

Here we are, less than a week away from Christmas, and I find myself asking "Where are you, Christmas?"

I've listened to the all-Christmas-all-the-time channel on the radio. I've fired up the Christian Christmas music on Pandora while I'm at work. I've wrapped Christmas presents. I've watched Christmas movie after Christmas movie and still I'm just not feeling it.

I feel guilty over the fact that we haven't baked cookies or gone caroling or made any kind of Christmas memories that my kids will recall in years to come. But a combination of too many places to be and too much effort to make has done all that in.

I've tried to be charitable, to be in the spirit of the holiday, but dropping a gift under a tree for someone I whose need I can't see and whose face I won't experience feels so impersonal. I've handed money through the car window to the people on the street corner with their signs of despair. Yet, it's not enough. I feel like I want to get out and learn their stories.

I think I'm overwhelmed by all of the stuff of Christmas. And the fact that nearly every paragraph of this post starts with "I" isn't lost on me. I'm feeling a very physical yearning to make some personal connection that will touch the Christmas place in my heart. How do I get outside of my own head?

I have six days left to make it happen. Six days to find Christmas.

Extreme fragments

2011-12-15T22:49:00.002-05:00

Today, I'm taking Friday Fragments to the extreme. I'm sure our hostess, Mrs. 4444s, won't mind.

First, let's start with an extreme Christmas tree. It's my brother's tree.

Why yes, that is a flatbed trailer he's using to haul the tree to his house.

And yes, that is his 6-foot, 4-inch friend standing there dwarfed by the tree.

Is that awesome or what?!

Then let's throw in some extreme temperatures. Today is December 15. The high here today was 59 degrees! Holy tropical heat wave, Santa!

For extreme temps of a different sort, this time last week I was running a temp of 103.8 degrees! I think that is the sickest I've been in my adult life. I feel much better now, though I've had some extreme bedtimes trying to get my energy back. How's 7:45pm and 8:30pm grab ya? AND, I slept all night long! Terrible for getting things done, but awesome for the body.

This weekend, we're going to be doing some extreme housecleaning. We have a dumpster scheduled to arrive tomorrow. I'm giddy at the thought of just pitching so much STUFF.

Finally, my extreme hairstyle is scheduled to appear next Wednesday. I was supposed to have it done last week, but that's when I was sick, sick, sick.

And now, I am extremely tired and ready for bed. Have a good one!

How do I find "Idunno?"

2011-12-13T04:24:00.001-05:00

This time of year, it's not unusual for us to be thinking of places far from home.

Visions of the North Pole occupy the minds of small children who dream of meeting Santa on his own turf. Candy cane streetlights and gingerbread doorways. Rooms overflowing with colorful papers and ribbons and bows (yes, Mom, I know, Santa does not wrap presents). Entire teams of elves whipping up hot chocolate and snickerdoodle cookies.

Grown ups have their own fantasy locales. Tropical beaches where the sun is warm and the drinks are cold. Where the only things on the to do list involve taking naps and reading for pleasure. Elves of a different sort bring food not cooked by you on dishes that don't have to be washed by you.

Ahhh...

But I don't want to go to either place. No, I'm more interested in finding the magical, mysterical (yes, I just made up that word) land of Idunno. For it is there, in the land of Idunno, that -- apparently -- all the forgotten and lost items find a home.

I ordered Charlie a school basketball sweatshirt. I think it was gray. I'm not sure, because it was delivered to school, given to Charlie and never seen again. When I asked him where his new basketball sweatshirt was, he said "Idunno." Did he bring it home from school? He's not exactly certain. He checked the lost and found (after I asked him to, of course. Does any kid ever go to the lost and found on his own?). No luck. So where could it be?

Idunno.

I loaned Annie my new, not-yet-2-weeks-old winter coat to wear to a retreat at church. She came home coatless, but certain of where it was. We went back to look. No coat. We checked another coat rack and the lost and found. No luck. Well, Annie, where could it have gone?

Idunno.

Robbie is not immune to the allure of the Land of Idunno either. Apparently his tennis shoes up and walked there with his Nintendo DS. Charlie's lunchbox decided to tag along, too. As did Annie's blue and white scarf. And probably a whole host of other things I haven't even realized are missing yet.

And if I ever find this elusive destination of Idunno, I hope I find my sanity waiting there for me as well.

A better use of your time than my whining

2011-12-06T19:22:00.001-05:00

Earlier this evening, I published what was intended to be a funny and whiney post about all that I've imagined ails me.

Then I opened my e-mail to several messages from our parish prayer tree requesting prayer for people who are experiencing real suffering and even death. Can you say "perspective?"

So please, take a moment if you will to pray for all those who are waging battle against sickness, disease and tragedy. I can suck it up for them.

And if you know of someone in need of those prayers, please feel free to leave a request for their needs so we can all keep them in our prayers.

Who's the hypochondriac now?

2011-12-06T17:45:00.000-05:00

Apparently the illness doesn't fall far from the tree. In the past 24 hours, I've had:

The flu
Thyroid disease
Anemia
Ovarian cancer
Fibromyalgia
Kidney stones
Slipped disc
Menopause

I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm achey. I'm tired. At one point, I was pretty near death (or so it seemed). Today I'm at least upright.

Still, I recommend you go wash your hands after reading this.

BNO*

2011-12-01T22:44:00.001-05:00

*Bloggers' Night Out

It's been a little while since I've gone to a bloggers' event. My last opportunity was the Container Store, which sadly, I had to miss for some reason that was very important then, but that I can't remember now. So when I got the invitation to attend a night hosted by Plum District (a mom-to-mom deal company), I was happy. When I realized it would take place at one of my favorite stores -- 4 Kids Books & Toys -- I was thrilled.

The purpose of the event was to help area bloggers get to know Plum District and vice versa. Oh yeah, and to eat and leave with swag bags and prizes.

I saw some familiar bloggers (shout out to DesignHerMomma, The Average Parent and In Good Cents). I also met some new-to-me bloggers. One woman, Erin Wilson, is the founder of a company called CupCase. Can you guess what she sells? No cheating. Guess first, then click the link.

Travel cases for your bra. Yes. That's exactly what I just said. Truthfully, I thought she was nuts. Who the heck needs a case for her bra? Shove it in the suitcase and be off. Erin said she gets a lot of that, but she also talks to lots of women who are on her same wavelength and love the idea.

But she was a hoot and she was also one of the only other moms there who was beyond the diapers-preschool-little people stage. Plus, her contraption did make one cute little purse. She said they currently come in sizes A-B and C-D. I suppose if you are a GG, you could carry one as a bowling bag instead of a purse.

So after some wine and a few snacks (yes, I did make myself eat some veggies), it felt like a good time to go home. But there were the prize drawings, so I decided to wait. My name was the last one drawn (everyone got a Plum District deal as a prize) and if I had been my own mother, I would have been appalled at my behavior.

Some of the other ladies got frozen yogurt deals and bounce house passes and other fun stuff. Me? I got two Pilates sessions. My gut reaction kicked in before my be gracious reaction and I made a face that looked more like I'd just won a free pap smear. About 60 seconds later, I came to my senses and feebly said something about "maybe I'll give it a try." Geesh! One plastic cup of wine and all my manners went out the window.

The night ended with me finding that my keys were locked in my car (on purpose, but that's a boring detail). So Erin offered me a ride home. It was fun to get to know her better (raised in West Lafayette, Indiana University grad, athlete), even if she does put her bra in a protective case.

Oh, and if you're interested in the Plum District deals, check out the widget at the bottom of my blog.It's an affiliate link, so if you click it and buy the deal, I get some money. I'm not planning on getting rich from it, but if it pays for a Diet Coke from time to time, I'll be happy.

5 completely fictional causes I could stand behind

2011-11-29T07:42:00.001-05:00

Doesn't it seem like there's always a new petition to sign or cause to support? I was thinking about this yesterday and thought of a few that I'd happily lend my signature to.

"Occupy December" -- A movement to stay home the entire month of December and alternatively be lazy and efficiently domestic
Bring back the "Facts of Life" -- A petition to get Nickelodeon, The Hub, TBS, TVLand or some other television channel to start airing re-runs of the '80s sitcom "The Facts of Life"
Fashion declaration -- A push to have Stacey and Clinton declare on "What Not to Wear" that which I already know: Lime green is the new neutral.
Cereal: It's What's for Dinner -- A move to alleviate guilt on the part of mothers everywhere by declaring one day a month (even better, a week!) as Cereal for Dinner day.
Accio Siesta! -- So I just mixed a little Harry Potter speak with Spanish, but bring on the afternoon naptimes. My brother-in-law commented over Thanksgiving that I sleep in phases, a few hours here and there. See how well an afternoon siesta would work for me?

What fictitious cause could you get behind?

A cautionary tale for new moms

2011-11-26T16:49:00.001-05:00

When your doctor tells you at your postpartum appointment to do your Kegel exercises, listen.Do them while you're washing the dishes. Do them while you're watching TV. Do them while you're waiting in line at Target.

Because someday, you're going to be older and saggier in all sorts of places and you might get a really wicked cough that not only makes your head hurt and your body ache, but also makes you really wish you'd done your Kegel exercises.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some laundry to do.

In defense of Black Friday

2011-11-25T09:39:00.001-05:00

Black Friday. People seem to either love it or hate it.

The haters are staunch in their opposition. These are two recent comments that were in my Facebook stream about the subject:

"I can't believe people have to work tonight & miss time w/family so others can bow at the altar of greed."

"But the crowds of people that scream and run into the mall as the doors are opened...there's just something about it that is so representative of messed up priorities."

I am friends with both of these people and we're all entitled to our opinions, but when it comes to Black Friday, I am a lover.

I am devoted to Black Friday for the deals, yes. But for me, it's really about the experience.

There's a hum of excitement that bubbles through the crowd as we stand wrapped around the backside of the Target building waiting for the doors to open. Shoppers scan the ad and the map that shows the location of the doorbuster deals inside the store. There's conversation among strangers about who has already been where, what deals they're looking for and what store they'll be heading to next.

Then the doors open and there's a joyful whoop as the crowd starts moving forward. I've never been in a crush of people or feared for my life. I go straight to the deal at the top of my list. Then I wander the store, looking for other can't miss opportunities. I'm not there to shop just for the sake of spending money, but I'm happy to snag deals where I can.

Once I've gotten everything I need, I head to the check out. Sometimes it's a quick process. Other times I may as well get comfortable because I'll be there for a while. Most often there is happy chatter between shoppers. Sometimes there are some complaints. People are human after all. But mostly, the vibe is positive.

Black Friday is also the stage of many traditions between families and friends who travel the same route from store to store each year, making their annual stop at the Cracker Barrel or the local coffee shop along the way.

As for the assertions that Black Friday puts a magnifying glass on the greed of America or that people who shop that day don't have their priorities straight, I think it can be viewed in another way.

People have finite amounts of disposable income. There is nothing wrong with trying to stretch those dollars as far as they will go -- housewives have been doing that with the grocery budget for more than a century. If I have $100 budget for gift giving, I can shop any old day and purchase 2 or 3 gifts. Or I can shop on Black Friday and purchase 5 or 6 gifts.

I have a few rules I abide by that allow me to enjoy Black Friday:

Go with a buddy. Deals are more fun when shared with a friend. Plus, the whole divide and conquer strategy can be key to getting what you came for.
Start with low expectations. Life will not be over if you do not end up with a 42" TV for $200. There will be other sales, maybe not as great, but probably close.
Go with a list and a budget and stick to both. This one is challenging to me, but I've learned from past experience that the Black Friday high is not worth the buyer's remorse low when I get home and think "What in the world possessed me to buy THAT?"
Do not go to Walmart on Black Friday. I know plenty of people do, but this is my own personal rule.
Do not go to Best Buy or the electronics department of Target within 2-3 hours of the store opening. Again, just a personal preference, but generally the deals aren't worth the masses of humanity trying to move through there.
Be cheerful and express gratitude to store employees. From the security guards monitoring lines to cashiers who are ringing up countless shoppers, I've found everyone likes to be appreciated. A simple "thank you" and some conversation can make the experience happier for everyone.
If you're stuck in a long line, acknowledge to yourself that it's just a line for "stuff," not a line for food or water, as thousands of people around the world often wait in.
Take a copy of the ads with you. It helps keep you focused on what you wanted in each store and it can be useful at the checkout if the register isn't reflecting the advertised price.
Wear comfy shoes. Black Friday is not for fashion.
Don't wear a coat. Even if it's 30 degrees out, the rush of the crowd will keep you warm.

I know that Black Friday is not for everyone. I'm not saying it should be. But I also don't think the fact that I happily participate in the annual ritual means that I have to hang my head in shame.

Gratitude is never cliche

2011-11-24T05:23:00.001-05:00

It started with Oprah Winfrey and her gratitude journal. Thousands of people jumped in and began keeping nightly lists of 3 things for which they were thankful that day. But I didn't. It all seemed so cliche (I really wish I knew how to make an accent mark above the "e."), everyone rushing to do it just because Oprah said so.

I think the saying "have an attitude of gratitude" followed shortly after (or at least was resurrected). That got tired pretty quickly.

Then there are the annual daily November postings on Facebook. Beginning November 1, people post one status update each day that share something they are grateful for in there lives. But you won't find any of those posts from me. That's just so...unoriginal, maybe?

But sometime in the last few days as I've been thinking about what I might write about for Thanksgiving, I've come to the realization that gratitude is never cliche. Gratitude should really be a lifestyle, not a single action. And those people who write in their daily gratitude journals or who take the time to deliberately consider their blessings each day and share those thoughts are the ones who have it right. Instead of rolling my eyes or congratulating myself on being an original thinker, I should fall in line and, yes, adopt an attitude of gratitude.

It's not that I'm not thankful. I've written before Thanksgiving posts that acknowledge my blessings, even when they seem hidden. But somehow, I've missed the opportunity to practice gratitude as a way of life. I don't think I'm a bad person. I think I'm a busy, over-extended, overtired person. I saw myself in Judy Daniell's post on Momaha.com, Turning a Day of Thanks into a Life of Thanksgiving.

I'm don't know that I'll start a gratitude journal. But I will start trying to be more intentional about acknowledging my blessings. I saw this on Facebook yesterday and am pretty sure there is some truth to it. So I'll leave you with it now:

Happy Thanksgiving.

A catch up haiku

2011-11-22T05:45:00.001-05:00

Conference was great.

Kids were good. My feet hurt bad.

Bring on the turkey.

Keepin' the faith

2011-11-17T00:25:00.001-05:00

Let no one disregard you because you are young, but be an example to all the believers in the way you speak and behave, and in your love, your faith and your purity. -- 1 Timothy 4:12

For the next three days, I will be chaperoning a group of teenagers (including Annie) from our church as they join 20,000 other teens for the National Catholic Youth Conference in Indianapolis. I'm looking forward to the time away and am really hoping to be transported back to my own high school days were the LIFE group was such a huge part of my faith and social experience.

One of the lessons I'm going to try to stay in touch with was one from a retreat the summer before my senior year of high school. "Be here now."

I'm really going to try to stay in the present while I'm gone. Not worrying about how Mike and the boys are getting along at home. Not thinking about what tasks will be waiting for me when the weekend is over. I hope that my present presence encourages the kids with us to do the same.

Mostly, I'm really looking forward to the unique exuberance kids bring to faith. I'm anticipating great music, honest faith-sharing, and of course the hilarity and silliness that comes when you get a bunch of teenagers together.

I would appreciate prayers for our group and for all the teens at the conference. In the spirit of "be here now," I don't plan to blog again until I return home on Sunday.

Enjoy the days and know I'll be keeping you in prayer as well.

Diagnosis: Hypochondriacal Imagination

2011-11-15T22:56:00.001-05:00

Not me. My kid.

My middle kid to be exact. (Although my husband and my mother might suggest that he takes after me. I can't help it if I earned my medical degree from Google University.)

In the past 7 days, Charlie has had:

A "tweaked" ankle
A bruised "bone that sticks out under your shoulder"
Nausea
Headache
A bleeding mole
A sore throat
Deafness in his right ear

Often, these complaints come at the end of a sports practice or game. Mostly, my response is "that's part of playing sports. Either deal with it or don't play." Compassion is apparently not my strong suit.

Yet, I am not totally without mercy. I don't want to dismiss every complaint as a figment of his imagination. I have, on occasion, been wrong when I've alleged that he is just fine.

After a few days of complaining about the tweaked ankle, I did buy him an ankle support to wear during practice and games.

His comment after the first game? "This ankle brace hurts my foot."

Seriously?!

Then, there are the situational afflictions -- namely nausea and headache that seemed to perfectly coincide with a class for which he had not done the homework.

Honestly, if I had a quarter for every time he complained about an ache, a pain, a twinge or a tweak, I could probably single-handedly fund national healthcare.

Am I alone in this? Do any of your kids do this? What would your take on it be? Attention-seeking? Boredom? Overactive imagination? Or maybe he's been secretly attending Google University too?

Blue math

2011-11-14T23:57:00.001-05:00

So it's been a week since I offered my brown locks in exchange for donations to a little girl's Make-a-Wish fund. Thanks to those of you who have donated.The terms of the deal have changed a bit, so I wanted to update.

M.K. Fischer and I will go blue when Kamylle's fund hits $2,500 by November 18. That's a little less money and a few days shorter than I'd originally anticipated, but I'm going with the flow here.

As of right now, the fund has $1,780.30 in it. That means we need $719.70 in the next 48 hours. That seems a little overwhelming, so let's break it down:

If just 2 people donate $359.85 each, we're there. Of course that's a lot of money.

So maybe 4 people could donate $180 each. (I work better in round figures. Maybe because I am one.) Still a lot, but do-able for some.

Or 8 people could donate $90 each.

Or 16 people could pony up $45 each. That's one family meal eaten at home instead of out this week.

If 70 people decided they could do without going out to lunch one day this week or Starbucks a couple of days, we'd be at the threshold.

(You know I'm so not a #s person, so that right there was a big ol' brain stretch for me.)

Here's the reality folks. Even when Kamylle's wish fund hits $2,500, it won't be finished. I get that. So maybe this just isn't compelling enough. And it's the holidays and times are tough. Yep. Get that too.

My friend Liz wrote today about being a spark. That's all this is. Me, taking a spark from some other folks, and passing it on to spread a little light.

If you can fan the flames by spreading the word, by making even a small contribution, we can help make Kamylle's world a little brighter and a little warmer.

Homemade potato soup -- or how I almost burned the house down

2011-11-13T17:27:00.001-05:00

Occasionally, I get to feeling domestic. I make menus and go grocery shopping based on those menus and do things like plan to cook from scratch. When. Will. I. Learn?

Tonight's dinner plan called for homemade potato soup.

As I scanned the recipe, I noted that it called for bacon. Originally, I planned to use that pre-cooked bacon. But all the reviews talked about how the bacon fat imparted such great flavor to the soup.

I must remember reviews on recipe sites are typically written by people who can cook. And I cannot cook.

Blindly optimistic, I bought the real bacon. Fast forward to 4:15pm today. I put the bacon in a pan and turned the burner on high. I stirred it a bit and then put a lid on the pan so the grease wouldn't splatter. While the bacon was cooking, I turned to chop the onion, which would be sauteed in the bacon fat.

But when I lifted the lid of the pan to toss the onion in, flames shot about 2 feet into the air, licking the microwave. Expletive, expletive, expletive.

I had enough presence of mind not to put water on a grease fire. So I reached for the lid, which I'd dropped when the flames appeared, and attempted to put it on the burning pan. I got it sort of on the pan, but not all the way. I grabbed a dish towel and tried to put the lid on the pan. Instead of suffocating the flames, the lid slid all the way off, the flames reached higher and I made a run for it with the pan.

We're having some construction done on the back porch and the back door is blocked (a situation which will be remedied ASAP), so there I was, holding onto a dishtowel-wrapped pan handle, flames shooting out, running for the front door, screaming for someone to open it. Just as Annie opened the door, I could feel the fire on my thumb and pointer finger and my feet flew out from underneath me.

The flaming pan went flying out the door (thankfully!) and I landed on my arse. Unfortunately, the pan landed on the landscaping where the dry leaves are collected. So now the kitchen was not in danger of going up in flames, but the landscaping and front porch was.

Annie and I ran with bowls of water to put it out, screaming over the insistent chirping of the smoke alarms (yep, they work!). I finally came enough to my senses to turn on the hose and drag it to the mostly smoky leaves.

So here we are, 90 minutes later. My hand hurts like a son-of-a-gun (waiting for the 800mg of ibuprofen to kick in). We have no dinner. The house smells like burnt bacon. The microwave has a smoky gray film on it.

And I'm sending Mike out to buy a fire extinguisher. I would tell him to buy a new pan, too, but I'm not allowed in the kitchen anymore.

It's not about the hair

2011-11-09T08:17:00.001-05:00

When I told my family about my offer to dye my hair blue to help make a sick little girl's wish come true, my 14 year old daughter wanted to know "WHY?"

It's a valid question and one I've been thinking about. I know one thing. It's not about the hair. It's not about being eccentric or controversial or talked about. It is about stepping outside of myself and doing something good. It's not about the hair and it's not about me.

If you make your way around the blogosphere much, you might have seen that there's a push this month for the 30 Day Giving Challenge. I thought about doing that. I kind of feel like I've been revolving around my own little planet lately and I need to stretch myself.

But honestly, the thought of intentional giving for 30 days and of blogging about it for 30 days seemed overwhelming and exhausting. Lame, I'm sure. It's not that I'm not a nice person or that I am a stranger to generosity. I just didn't want to start something I couldn't finish.

Then I saw that my friend Leilan had volunteered to shave his head if people donated $1,000 to a 3-year-old's Make a Wish fund. He reached the $1,000 pretty easily, primarily through promotion via Facebook and Twitter.

I wondered what would the next incentive be to keep Kamylle's fund growing. So I, without much thought, offered up that for $2,500 in donations, I would dye my hair blue.

And then I got scared.

What was I thinking? So I quickly dashed off an e-mail to the organizer saying I needed a little time to think about it. Except...

He didn't get the message. And the next thing I knew my offer was out there -- on his blog, on Twitter -- and someone else had joined in and offered to do the same. I'm not quite sure, but I think that the threshhold is even a bit lower than I'd said. (I was shooting for $2,500 MORE. The countdown is going for $2,500 total.)

I could have said "Whoa!" I could have backed out. But I chose to go with it for three fairly simple reasons:

I said I would. I think keeping my word is important.
I don't know this little girl. I have no investment in her happiness. Her parents are not friends of mine. I've never even met her. But doing something for someone completely outside my own circle feels right to me -- like a perfect way to get out of my own orbit.
I'm scared. I donate to charity. I make meals for church members who are sick or who've had a new baby. I give a piece of each paycheck to United Way. I'm comfortable with those things. But this is way out of my comfort zone. Oh, I've talked a good game about blue hair, but I think I thought it was always in the realm of talk. Not anymore. The commitment to giving something of myself in a way that makes me feel a little uncomfortable makes me feel like this is something I really need to do.

As of right now, Kamylle's Wish Fund is at $1,640.30. Thank you to those of you who have contributed. If you haven't made a contribution yet and are in a position to do so -- even $5 -- please. Do it for Kamylle, the 3-year-old with acute myeloid leukemia. It's about her. It's not about the hair.

Blue for a cause

2011-11-07T13:10:00.000-05:00

If you've been reading The 4th Frog Blog for a while, you might recall that I've long been tempted to dye my brown hair blue. I considered doing it for my 40th birthday, but went the spray can route instead.

Then a few weeks ago, I had one of those feathers put in my hair -- pink, not blue. It was fun for a few days, but really wasn't the look I was going for, so I took it out.

Last week, I started seeing #shaveawish all over Twitter and Facebook. It turns out that my friend BgKahuna has offered to shave off his golden locks if people donated $1,000 to a little girl's Make-A-Wish fund.

Kamylle is a 3-year-old girl who lives in Indianapolis, Indiana. In 2010, Kamylle was diagnosed with a condition called Acute Myeloid Leukemia, a cancer of the myeloid blood cells. Her wish is to be a princess and go to Disney World.

After BgKahuna's efforts, Kamylle's wish fund is currently at $1,485.30. The total goal is $6,000.

Maybe it was low blood sugar. Maybe it was midlife crisis. Maybe it was just a way to fulfill my own wish, but I have volunteered to have my hair colored blue if my friends, family and followers (and anyone else who wishes to make Kamylle's wish come true) will contribute another $2,500 to Kamylle's wish fund by November 21, 2011.

Here's how you can help:

Go to Kamylle's Make-a-Wish page and click the Donate Today button.
Make your donation -- $5, $10, $100 -- whatever you have to spare.
In the Special Note section on the donation page, be sure to write Turn 4th Frog Blue so we can track the dollars.
Invite your friends to help out as well.

It turns out there is another woman, M.K. Fischer who has offered to do the same thing. If both M.K. and I can reach our goals, Kamylle will be princess-like in no time.

If you're on Twitter, follow our progress at #shaveawish

2-for-1 Friday

2011-11-04T14:05:00.000-04:00

Can you believe it? Two blog posts in one day. Guess I'm feeling chatty or inspired or something. It's been a bit since I've done a Friday Fragments post and I'm kind of missing Mrs. 4444s and all the friends I encounter via Friday Fragments so let's not waste any more time.

Halloween was fun -- how can endless flowing candy be otherwise? Robbie went as an Angry Bird (of course -- his latest obsession). Charlie went as a cereal killer. I made the hat myself with spray adhesive. I think I might be in love with spray adhesive. I'm tempted to use it to put the patches on Robbie's Cub Scout uniform.

Robbie was insistent that he carry a Nerf gun as part of his Angry Bird ensemble. Then he would walk up to the door of each house and say "Trick or treat. I'm just a Angry Bird...wif a gun." It was so funny. As we walked through the neighborhood, people would say "Look! An Angry Bird," to which Robbie would shout while raising his hand in the air "wif a gun!"

We're 4 days into November already and I don't even have my Christmas shopping spreadsheet created yet. What's happening to me? This year instead of shopping in Cleveland, my mom, sisters and I are shopping here in Indy. I'm going to really try to make most of my purchases from independent stores and avoid the big box retailers as much as possible.

I'm still totally loving my green El Naturalista shoes. Look how nice they went with the mammogram robe I got at the breast center today! (It was the same soft, cozy robe I had last year too.) When the tech led me to the changing room, she offered hangers that I could use to hang my clothes up on. I thought it best not to say "Oh, that's ok, I just picked these clothes up off my bedroom floor 30 minutes ago."

How would you love to not have to cook Thanksgiving dinner, but still get to eat all the yummy deliciousness? FitCity Indianapolis and Avec Moi are giving away a free, healthy and still tasty Thanksgiving dinner for 8. If you're in the area and want to enter -- or if you live far away and want to enter and bring the meal to my house to eat -- visit the FitCity Facebook page.

Mike is wrapping up week 2 of the new job. He likes it, but its a transition for all of us. That's a whole 'nother blog post. So please come back to read again later. In the meantime, go visit Mrs. 4444s and all of the other Friday Fragmenters.

Words that move people

2011-11-04T07:23:00.000-04:00

It's early November. Mornings are dark and chilly, which doesn't exactly make people in my house (me included) want to jump right out of bed when the alarm goes off.

There are, however, some words that have been proven to act as eject buttons, jettisoning people right out from under the covers and onto their feet. They include:

Pancakes/donuts/pizza for breakfast.
There's basketball practice tonight.
I DVR'd (insert coveted show); you can watch it after you're dressed and ready.
I bought marshmallows for the hot chocolate.
Did you finish that homework?
If you're not up in 2 minutes, you don't go to basketball practice tonight.
I brought you a Diet Coke with ice.
I hear the garbage truck -- is the trash out?
It's dress-down day today.
There's no school today.

Adding this bonus -- "Oh crap! The alarm didn't go off!"

What gets you and your family moving in the mornings?

Best dumpster ever

2011-11-02T10:03:00.000-04:00

It gives a whole new meaning to "take out...the trash."

My love/hate relationship with Halloween

2011-10-30T11:45:00.001-04:00

Things I hate about Halloween:

Gross, bloody costumes
People jumping out at you from the dark when you go up to their house to trick-or-treat
Carving pumpkins. It always sounds like fun, but it's a big mess and the kids lose interest after 10 or 15 minutes.
Perfect mom types who send homemade popcorn balls and cutesy little perfectly iced jack-o-lantern cookies to school
Those same moms who whip up elaborately sewn costumes like it's no big deal
Haunted houses. If I wanted to lose my breath and wet my pants, I'd drink a Biggie Diet Coke and go for a run.
Kids way too big for trick-or-treating ringing my doorbell anyway
Stupid candy like Dots and Dum Dum suckers
All the television channels being dominated by scary movies

Things I love about Halloween:

Vanilla Tootsie Rolls -- best when twisted together with the chocolate
Preschool Halloween songs -- "5 little pumpkins sitting on a gate..."
Friendly ghost and smiley witch decorations
Other people's fabulously carved jack-o-lanterns
Candy corn and peanuts or mallowcreme pumpkins all by themselves
The Today Show costume reveal
"It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"
Answering the door for trick-or-treaters (appropriately aged)
Clever and creative costumes -- check out the great one below

This is a girl who goes to our church:

Can you guess what she is?

Gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe! Isn't that great? Here's what her mom said about how they put it together:

We got the pink clothes from goodwill, and then hot glue gunned the shoe to a headband. Easy peasy. If you didn't want to buy costume giant shoes, you could blow up photos of shoes and paste them to foam core board and then hot glue those to a hat, hoodie, or headband.

So it seemed like a good idea at the time

2011-10-28T12:14:00.000-04:00

Mike and I are going to a fundraiser tonight that is black tie optional, tennis shoes required. So when I was getting my hair cut last night, I got a crazy idea to put one of those new-dangled feathers in my hair.

They didn't have a hot pink one, which is what I wanted, but they did have light pink. I figured that would be good.

Then I had the choice of clip in or the more semi-permanent bead-set. I decided if I was going to do this, I was going for the "rill dill." I had a feeling Annie would freak, but I thought one tiny feather was better than turning my whole head blue -- which I still think about doing.

She didn't exactly freak, but she did say "What did you do to your hair and why?," followed by "You're over 40, you know. Not some teenager."

She also said "It looks like a leopard and a bird mated."

Last night, I didn't care. It felt like an impulsive, carefree and fun idea.

This morning, my feather feels a little silly and -- don't tell Annie -- young for me. It actually kind of looks like a leobird is burrowing under my hair and into my brain. I guess I'll keep it through the gala tonight and probably through the weekend, then we'll see.

Maybe if I cut it so it's not quite so long, I would like it better. Maybe as my hair grows, it will be a bit more subtle. Maybe I'll just go blue after all.

Grief-stricken, self-indulgent, joy-filled fragments

2011-10-21T10:45:00.000-04:00

If there were ever a week for Mrs. 4444s' Friday Fragments, this is it. My mind is bouncing in about 100 different directions. Not to worry, I will not share 100 fragments. I'll just give you the highlights.

This has been a week of grief. First, my Aunt Connie died two days ago. Then this morning, my Uncle Jim passed away. My mom's sister. My dad's brother. I hate cancer.

All the sadness in my week has me craving comfort food. For two days, I couldn't stop thinking about donuts and how much better donuts would make me feel. I was thinking about donut-induced happiness and said to myself "Donuts make the world go 'round." Then that made me laugh. Because that's the problem. Donuts DO make the world (or at least my rear end and belly) round.

We took Annie to New York City for her Fall Break last week. We had a great time. We went to see "How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying." Daniel Radcliffe was wonderful. There was no trace of Harry Potter in him on stage at all. They did a really good job of covering up his scar.

One of the coolest things we saw in the City was a cozy little waterfall, tucked between a couple of buildings in Midtown. We just happened upon it. It was a little oasis of peacefulness. The sound of the water even drowned out most of the sounds of the city.

You might have already read about the awesome new shoes I bought in New York. Actually, I bought two pair -- one black and one green. They are the most comfortable shoes I've had on my feet in a long time. I walked to and from the subway in them, around Chinatown, in Times Square and in the airport. I "heart" these shoes. But the best part? Check out what's on the bottom. Those are frogs! We were meant for each other.

I had some age spot/warty thing frozen off my cheek the other day. Except it's still there, looking uglier than before. How long does it take for these things to fall off?

After four days of rain, the sun is finally shining here. What's sad is that I didn't even notice the absence of the rain until I saw a post on Facebook that said, "Hey, it's not raining!" Guess it's time I woke up and smelled the roses (or the hot apple cider).

Hug those you love today. Do something that will bring a smile to someone who needs it. Buy a pair of green shoes. Eat a donut. Find the joy.

Fashion statement

2011-10-21T00:34:00.001-04:00

You might not have heard this from Stacy London or Clinton Kelly on "What Not to Wear." I don't know if this has ever been said on "Project Runway." Calvin Klein may not agree with me, but I have a fashion statement to make.

(I'll wait for you to get paper and pen so you can write this down.)

Ready?

Ok. Here it is.

LIME GREEN IS THE NEW NEUTRAL.

Yep. That's what I said -- lime green is the new neutral. It goes with virtually everything. Case in point, my new shoes:

Besides the fact that these shoes are too cute with their little swirly design, they make great fashion sense because they go with everything.

Lime green and black? Yep.

Lime green and purple? Of course.

Lime green and brown? Works for the kiwi.

Lime green and orange? So fun.

Lime green and blue? Sure.

Lime green and pink? Love it.

Lime green and red? Daring, but go for it.

I really think I'm on to something. So when you see it in the magazines or maybe even on QVC, remember you saw it here first.

PS -- Because so many have asked, the brand is El Natura Lista. Please don't tell Mike they make men's shoes. He has too many shoes as it is.

The way I see it

2011-10-19T19:57:00.000-04:00

I've written and re-written this post 3 times. I think I'm hesitant to share my view of the afterlife because I don't want to be criticized or debated. I don't want my cousins to feel like I am using their loss as mere fodder for my blog. So I'm just going to put this out there and say it's from the heart and it doesn't begin to describe the fun and loving woman who slipped from this earth today.

My Aunt Connie passed away today after a long and valiant battle against ovarian cancer. I am sad that she is gone, but have found myself comforted by what I'm choosing to believe happened in heaven this morning.

When Connie arrived, escorted by angels, I imagine that God met her at the pearly gates with a huge hug, nodding his head, saying "very good, very good" -- which was one of Aunt Connie's signature phrases. Tell her about a deal you got on a pair of jeans and she would smile, nod and say "very good, very good." Share a joke she enjoyed and get a "very good, very good" in response.

In my mind, God was not the only one waiting for Connie's arrival. My NaNa (Connie's mom) and MaMa (her grandmother) were there too. Seeing the three of them together again brings a smile to my heart. In no time at all, I'm sure NaNa showed Connie where the Ohio State loving angels hang out.

Connie's illness and death have made me miss all the more my mother-in-law who passed away last spring. I think she was there to welcome Connie, too. Karen was so welcoming in life that I'm sure she would be on hand to greet someone I loved. Though Karen and Aunt Connie only met a few times, I know they would have been friends if they'd lived closer together. For one thing, they both believed if one is good, 10 is better, evidenced by the fact that on one of our annual shopping trips, Connie bought 8 pairs of boots for my cousin, just because she couldn't make up her mind which ones Teresa would like best. I think a lot of those went back to the store, but I just laughed as the boots kept piling up. (It was also Aunt Connie who taught me about themes for Christmas gift giving.)

It's been a year of loss in our family, as my sister lost her father-in-law in January. I'm sure Steve was on the welcome wagon, too. His love of running and beer and his sense of humor reminded me a bit of my Uncle Ed, Connie's husband. I like to think that Steve is there to look out for Connie.

It's probably a juvenile view of heaven and probably not 100% theologically accurate, but today it has helped me. I think Aunt Connie would even nod and say "very good, very good."


The pic is fuzzy, but Aunt Connie is the first on the left in the front row.

Rainy day surprise

2011-10-18T12:56:00.000-04:00

It's raining here -- has been since last night. Despite the gray and gloomy and wet conditions outside, a couple of friends at work and I decided to walk to a nearby Thai food restaurant for lunch.

The walk there wasn't bad. A little chilly, but not very rainy. The rain was coming down harder when we left to return to the office, but I didn't mind so much because this little surprise was there waiting to greet us as we walked by:

I couldn't help but smile. I hope it has the same effect on you.

A few words

2011-10-12T15:03:00.000-04:00

HAPPY! HAPPY!

JOY! JOY!

Oh, what a feeling!

Thank you, Jesus!

Mike has a new job!

What's a church-going parent to do?

2011-10-10T22:30:00.001-04:00

I really don't like conflict. Have I mentioned that before? So imagine how I feel when the conflict is within myself.

There is a proposal to put a not-for-profit correctional facility for non-violent female offenders across the street from my kids' school and our church. As in right across the street. The women, most of whom would be serving the last portion of their sentences in this facility, would be living there with their pre-school age children.

From the first time I heard of the plan, I was determined to be prudent in collecting facts and to consider those facts as non-emotionally as possible. The churchgoer in me is all about charity and forgiveness and WWJD. The parent in me who pays tuition to send my kids to school and who is first concerned with their safety is crying "not so fast."

I've talked to social workers and funders who've worked with this facility, who vouch for the strict procedures and low recidivism rates the facility has employed and achieved. They don't see an issue. I've talked to prosecutors and attorneys who are concerned that in order for non-violent offenders to be incarcerated they must be repeat offenders who've failed previous opportunities for probation.

Some people from the church (most who don't have kids in the school) and our priest are hopeful about opportunities for outreach and service the church could have. School parents -- myself included -- are concerned about the recruiting challenges having a facility like this across the street could present to the school.

The organization that is hoping to move into the building across the street has already been taking care of the grass, weeding the overgrowth along the building. Clearly, they are demonstrating a desire to be a good neighbor. They intend to build a playground on the property for the women and their children. The residents are only able to leave the building for pre-approved reasons at pre-approved times. They are not permitted to drive. Visitors are pre-qualified and screened. No one on probation or parole is permitted to visit.

But what about one of those non-approved visitors who comes to the facility, gets enraged by not being let in and who crosses the street to take out that anger on our church and school? What about the property values for homeowners in the area?

There are no easy answers.

To be truthful, the neighborhood the school is in is definitely in an urban area. There have been lockdowns in the school based on nearby incidents before. According to the organization hoping to move into the neighborhood, there have been 53 phone calls to the police in the past 10 months about crime and suspicious activity on the now-vacant property. Vandals have stripped the building of all the copper, commercial kitchen equipment, and anything else salable on the black market.

Would it be better to have the facility occupied by a responsible tenant with 24/7 security than to continue to allow it to sit empty and be picked apart? Or are there other, less controversial organizations that might occupy the building?

Are there benefits that the organization could bring to the neighborhood? Perhaps having this facility would lead to increased police patrols in the area, which would benefit everyone. Maybe public transportation routes would be improved because the organization would advocate for that to better serve their clients who rely on the city bus to look for work and get to appointments?

Can you see that I'm torn? I want to act in love and charity, but I also want to protect my children and their school and the place we go to church.

And I'm well aware (and extremely grateful) that the decision is not mine. Ultimately, the decision will fall to the zoning board that will have to grant a variance for the facility to occupy the building. Based on the ruling of the zoning board, I know there will be other decisions that will follow -- by the church, by school parents, by neighbors, and perhaps by the organization itself.

My decision is made. I'm turning it over to prayer. (Check out the prayer that was used to open an informational meeting tonight.) Maybe that's a cop-out. But it's the only decision I can find peace in right now.

What would you do?

Modern definitions

2011-10-10T16:44:00.000-04:00

Indian summer: When your brain is ready for jeans and sweaters, but your body still wants sandals and shorts.

High school: Four years during which you will never see your child.

Exercise: Punishment for all the bad stuff you ate yesterday or you plan to eat today.

Weekend: Two days on which the laundry is high and the motivation is low.

Dinner: 1. Something someone else cooks for you in a kitchen not your own. 2. Cereal.

Courage: This

Do you have any modern definitions to share? Feel free to do so in the comments.

6,575 days

2011-10-09T10:30:00.000-04:00

157,800 hours

9,468,000 minutes

568,080,000 seconds

Sometimes happily

Sometimes grudgingly

Sometimes with laughter

Sometimes with gritted teeth

Sometimes in fatness
Sometimes in shape

Sometimes in plenty

Sometimes in want (relatively speaking...)

Sometimes with absolute certainty

Sometimes with doubt

Always blessed

568,080,000 seconds

9,468,000 minutes

157,800 hours

6,575 days

18 years of "I do."
Happy anniversary to my huzzzband.

Interrupted

2011-10-06T14:22:00.000-04:00

I've been scarce around here I told you to put it away yesterday lately. Life has been a little crazy For the third time, do the dishes now and overwhelming. We're all good I can't bring your math homework to school, I'm in a meeting but moving in 100 different direc What's burning? tions, which is quite a lot for just 5 people. It's one of those seasons of You'll have to ask Santa for it because I'm not buying it life where I feel like I'm not doing a very good Uh, yeah boss. I'll have it to you at the end of the day job at anything I'm doing. Some of it is because I can't say NO we are not getting a puppy no. I can't help it, I'm a people pleaser. I'm sorry if you don't like me, I'm not changing my mind. Some of it is poor time management on my part How did it get to be after 2 o'clock already? Damn Facebook! Some of it is just the luck of the draw I suppose. I'm not complaining Why is every durn road in this town under construction? I'm trying to remember my blessings and be thankful that my burdens are really just inconveniences. Cancer -- so sad. She's so young. And when I'm frazzled and fallen I need some ibuprofen now I'll take a deep breath and try again. Be back soon.

What was I so afraid of?

2011-10-03T22:40:00.000-04:00

I've had a long-standing personal rule: No boy parties at my house. I know it's unfair and probably sexist, but groups of boys scare me. They're loud. They tackle things. They eat a lot. They're stinky. Last weekend, I decided I needed to get over myself. Seriously, I'm a 41-year old woman. I can handle a few boys, can't I?

It turns out I can!

Charlie invited friends to spend the night on Saturday. I was nervous because Mike was out with Annie, so it was just me and 6 boys (Robbie included). Even Charlie was a little unsure. "Mom, you're good at inviting people, but Dad is good at the actual sleepover." I really couldn't argue.

But I've figured out the magic formula for surviving a boys' sleepover:

Basement + Video Games = Easy Peasy

While I put the pizzas in the oven, the boys headed downstairs to play video games -- Cars 2, Michael Jackson's dance off or something like that, and some sports game. As I cut carrots and apples to serve with the pizza, I heard the boys squaring off in tournament-like pairings for the video games. Those who weren't playing at the time were tossing the football -- a common occurrence in our house.

I braced myself for the stampede when I called them up to eat. You could have knocked me over with a feather:

These growing boys ate less than Annie's friends did at her last sleepover. There was pizza, cheese curls, a few carrots, some apples and root beer left after they got up from the table.

Post-dinner activities included a movie, more video games and some chatter. Oh, a few times I had to remind them that the basement wall wasn't so good at catching the football. And I did have to extract Robbie from the fun so he wouldn't cramp his big brother's style. At 11:30pm, I gave them the 30-minute lights out warning. An hour in the dark later, there was still some laughing going on, so I had to put on my "mom voice" and be firm about them going to sleep. But that was it.

There was no cackling and squealing. I did not find myself in search of the ibuprofen. And no one asked me to make a last minute maxi-pad and candy run. In fact, the second bag of cheese curls, a bag of caramel popcorn and a family-size pack of Twizzlers went untouched!

The morning brought more video games, a backyard game of football and breakfast. Those boys may not have been big on snacking, but their breakfast consumption was more in line with my expectations. A dozen eggs, a loaf of cinnamon bread, milk, OJ and two pounds of bacon. They wanted donuts too, but because sometime around 7am they'd found and eaten some cupcakes, I put the kibosh on the donuts.

After the last boy went home, I found myself wondering what the heck I'd been afraid of?

Just missing John Candy

2011-09-30T13:11:00.000-04:00

I am an anxious traveler. I make plans to go places and then try to figure out if I can cancel those plans because I get nervous about flying or about being gone from home/work so long or feel guilty about spending the money. Usually, I end up going through with the travel plans, but only after at least a few hours of angst.

Tuesday morning when I was returning home from the Upper Midwest Social Media Conference, I was uncharacteristically calm. I was ready to get home from my family, but I didn't feel any of my usual travel anxieties. That should have been my first clue that adventure lie ahead.

It started at the Mason City, Iowa airport, which is probably not much bigger than your corner 7-11. For the first leg of my trip, I was flying with another conference attendee. I got my boarding pass while she checked her suitcase. We sat in the 1960s-era chairs and waited for the security area to be opened.

They issued the call for security checks and we got in line. I fretted a little about whether or not I needed to put my hand lotion and make-up in a ziploc bag. I didn't have it that way when I left Indiana, but it looked like these folks were a bit more persnickety. I decided to put the hand lotion that was within reach in a baggie, but left the other stuff buried in my rolling suitcase. I plopped my laptop, shoes and jacket in separate bins and walked through the metal detector.

BEEP!

"Ma'am, please back up and walk through again."

Okey doke.

BEEP!

"Ma'am, are you wearing a belt? buckles on your shoes? jewelry? Do you have change in your pockets?"

No, no, no. No pockets.

"Ma'am, have you ever had a security pat down?"

Nope, but I was about to. The uniformed grandmotherly-type directed me behind a see-through wall. (What's the point of the wall then?). She said I could have a private pat-down in the nearby restroom if I wanted. That sounded good to me.

Well, then that led to a whole other set of troubles. They had to find another officer to observe (and of course no one was available just then) and I could select someone to observe on my behalf. For the love of Wilbur Wright, just pat me down out here in the open.

As she was sweeping my chest ("just the back of my hands, ma'am"), I realized it was my underwire that set off the machine. I guess that's one inconvenience of being busty -- more metal in the bra, although the metal detectors in Indy didn't seem to object. It's a good thing I've already had babies because that pretty much ensured that I had no inhibitions left anyway.

Anyway, once Grandma Backofthehands was satisfied that I was not concealing a pick axe in my underclothes, then I got to stand there while they searched my bags completely and ran them all through the scanner again. By this time, I was thinking that I deserved a bumper sticker that said "I got a pat down in Mason City, Iowa."

Finally cleared to board the plane -- it took longer to go through security in Mason City than it took to fly from Mason City to Minneapolis -- I left my rolling case on the jetway to be stowed under the plane and took my seat. As I was buckling the seat belt, I looked across the aisle and something took my breath away.

The woman seated on the other side of the aisle looked in profile just like my mother-in-law, who passed away last May. Except the hair. Karen had much better hair. I immediately got teary and felt a wave of grief pass over me. It was quickly followed by a rush of mild panic.

Why was this woman who looked like my deceased mother-in-law sitting next to me on this airplane? Was it a sign? It didn't take long for my active imagination to discern that this angel-person-MIL-look-alike was there to be with me because the plane was going to go down.

(And no, I am not being treated for any psychotic episodes.)

As the plane taxied down the runway, I sped through a decade's worth of Hail Mary's and soon we were safely in airborne and I was no longer thinking like a crazy person.

The flight to Minneapolis was blessedly uneventful. The angel-person-MIL-look-alike did not follow me through the airport and I breathed a little easier. After saying goodbye to my conference buddy, Nicole, I headed for my gate. There was no hurry -- I had 2 hours to kill before my flight to Chicago. (My travel schedule was cruddy -- Mason City to Minneapolis to Chicago to Indy. Clearly, I am not an experienced traveler or I would have arranged a better route.)

As I walked through the terminal, I saw listings for several direct flights from Minneapolis to Indianapolis, all of which would avoid a total of 7 hours of layovers I had ahead of me. So, I went to the Delta help desk to see about making a switch. For some reason the agent seemed very sure of, yet is still unclear to me, I could not re-arrange my tickets. So I decided to just enjoy the pace of the day, bought 24 hours worth of WIFI, and set up my laptop.

Soon enough, it was time to board. This time, instead of sitting by myself, I had a row-mate. I'm pretty sure it was Lady Gaga -- if Lady G flies coach from Minneapolis to Chicago and if her real name is Lucy. I kept trying to figure out a way to take a picture of her to show the kids, but all the scenarios for why I might point a cell-phone at someone sitting 2 inches away from me seemed completely unplausible and downright rude. So you'll just have to take my word for this one. I flew on a plane next to Lady Gaga -- or someone who should definitely go as her for Halloween.

The layover in Chicago was scheduled to be 5 hours. I grabbed an Auntie Anne's pretzel (before, of course, I saw the Garrett Popcorn shop) and looked for a place to hunker down with my computer and its recently paid-for WIFI. After spending an hour or so folded into a small waiting area chair listening to a guy on my right snoring loud enough to rival any jumbo jet engine and three people speaking in animated German to my left, I decided to look for a more comfortable spot.

Starbucks to the rescue! They may not have Diet Coke, but they make a mean reduced-fat triple berry coffee cake...and they had tables with outlets I could use. With about 45 minutes left until my flight to Indy took off, I decide to go to the bathroom and the move to the gate to await the boarding call. It was on my way to the bathroom that I saw: Indianapolis...CANCELLED.

Seriously?! That would have been good information to have, oh say, 4 hours ago when I could have rented a car and driven to Indianapolis and been home by now. At this point I was near tears, though the cancellation was for mechanical reasons and I told myself "much better cancelled than crashed in a field."

I just wanted to be HOME. So I got in the line to figure out what my alternatives were. The guy in front of me said there was another flight to Indy scheduled for 10pm, but it was full. There were four flights to Indianapolis on other airlines, also all full. I was preparing myself to spend the night in a hotel and wait for the morning flight, when I looked up and saw someone I recognized from work. I realized that there were actually several people from work, most of whom I'd only met a time or two before. That didn't stop me.

"Julie! Hi. It's Amy. I work for Ellen." Thank God she remembered me. "Were you scheduled to be on this flight?"

It turns out that they were on their way home from China and had been traveling for more than 24 hours. That put my little jaunt from Iowa to shame. This same group had missed a connection on their way to China thanks to an airport delay so they weren't going to put their faith in the airlines anymore. One of them was on the phone arranging a rental car. So I hitched a ride with them back to Indianapolis -- 7 of us packed to the gills but happy to be moving toward home.

After three hours or so, we'd reached my exit off the highway. And that should really be the end of my tale. Except, about two minutes after one of the ladies and I were dropped off at a truck stop just off the interstate for her husband to pick us up and get us all the way home, I realized I'd left my bag carrying my laptop and wallet in the rental car.

Arrrgghh! It was a sadly fitting end to a crazy day of travel. I was never so happy to be at the end of a trip. I came home and collapsed on the couch next to Mike. When it was time for bed, I went in and kissed each of the kids.

Charlie woke briefly and asked, "What took you so long?"

If he only knew.

Tune in

2011-09-29T09:24:00.002-04:00

Just a little more than 30 minutes until my "national" (ha ha!) radio debut on "Living the Dream Mom" radio. I'm the first guest up. The show is broadcast at 10am ET, so set those alarms, grab a Diet Coke (or coffee if you must) and listen in. Better yet, call in! 1-877-864-4869

OOPS -- a link to listen might be helpful. Here you go: Living the Dream Mom Radio .

LOL Monday: Take 4

2011-09-26T11:00:00.000-04:00

Check out the license plate!

Honest, I was just getting a Diet Coke.

Apparently "juice" means something different in Iowa.

Robbie was right about the dog

2011-09-25T22:49:00.002-04:00

Last July, we adopted Gabby, the bagle hound. She came to us, as you may remember, with the promise that she was good with cats, great with kids, good on a leash and housebroken. And she was good with cats (though the cat was not good with her and defected on his own accord), great with kids, good on a leash, and definitely NOT housebroken.

For over a year, we tried to figure out ways to keep our home dog-friendly and pee-free. I talked to an animal behaviorist. We crated her. I searched on the internet for solutions. We gated off the upstairs -- her favorite place to potty. I even had an energy worker tap into the dog's aura and re-align her chakras. The only thing we didn't try was what Robbie suggested on a few occasions.

"Mommy, maybe Gabby would be better if we got her a friend dog."

Let me assure you there was no way on Noah's ark that I was about to bring another animal into our house. That's just what I did not need.

After trying for more than a year to make the dog pee and poop outside, we had to call it. There was no way we could keep her. I contacted the rescue where we got her, as well as another nearby no-kill shelter. They both said they would see if they could find a place for her.

Then my sister offered to put an ad about Gabby in the daily e-mail for employees at the company where she works.

4yo beagle/basset hound mix (hence "bagle hound") named Gabby needs a new home. She is a sweet, sweet, mild-mannered dog. She rarely barks and she is so tolerant of kids. She came to us 1 year ago. According to the rescue where we got her, she was housebroken. However, our lack of fence and no other dogs to follow has made this difficult in our house.

Gabby needs a fenced yard (6ft) or lots of walks -- she loves them -- and preferably another dog or two to play with. She loves Beggin' Strips, rawhide bones, chasing after balls and playing tug of war. She is very gentle, unless you try to take food from her. Then she will growl.

She is due for her check-up and shots, which we will be happy to take care of. We'd also be willing to allow a test-run of a few days to see how things go.

Within an hour of the e-mail going out, I received a phone call from someone interested in adopting Gabby. A few phone calls and dozen or so text messages later and Gabby, the very cute, very sweet, very ill-mannered, very unhousebroken dog has a new home...and, as Robbie had suggested, a friend dog:

Since she's been in her new home, I've received a few text messages from Gabby's new mom. She's fitting in very well -- loves running in the fenced yard and playing with her brother dog, Briggs. And she has not peed in the house once.

See? Robbie was right.

PYHO: I "heart" old people.

2011-09-21T07:57:00.002-04:00

I like old people. I really do.

Maybe it's because at 41 years old, I still have 3 grandparents and 1 grandmother-in-law living and they all mean so much to me. Maybe it's because at 41, I can relate to the idea of getting older. Certainly, working in the field of aging for the past 6 years has a little something to do with it.

Two of my favorite old people -- Grandma & Grandpa

Last week, I had three separate conversations in which the gist of each was "People don't like to donate to old people causes."

It's the reality. I know it, but it still wasn't fun to be reminded of it. Why don't people want to donate to "senior" charities? Maybe it's because seniors aren't as cute and cuddly as toddlers. Maybe because we have a sense that older adults have had their time and we need to funnel resources to kids. Maybe it's because we don't want to face the reality of our own aging and the mortality that comes with it.

Let's face it. Most of us are going to get old. It beats the alternative. But "old" doesn't necessarily mean home-bound, bedridden, forgetful and grouchy. There are examples all over of older adults who are thriving into their 70s and 80s and beyond. Betty White, Morgan Freeman, Joe Paterno, and my favorite --80-year-old Pat Koch, owner of Holiday World in southern Indiana, a woman who completed her master's degree at age 71 and who can be found sweeping the grounds or serving food at the amusement park.

And yes, there are some older adults who need some help. Perhaps they need meals delivered to their home. Maybe they need a ride to the grocery store or the doctor. Maybe they are lonely. Today's transient families mean that more and more older adults are left without physical and emotional support nearby.

So what do I want you to do? I'll leave it up to you, but here are some ideas:

Call or visit an older adult you know. Put a reminder on the calendar so it becomes a habit. Ask them to tell you stories of their youth, to pass down a recipe.
Volunteer at a local senior center, adult day center or nursing home. Deliver meals for Meals on Wheels. Bring your kids with you so they learn to value the aging as well.
If you contribute to your local United Way, consider designating some of your contribution to a senior-serving organization in your area. Or make a direct donation to an aging services charity near you.
Start a "grandparents and grand-friends" club at your kids school as a way to encourage intergenerational learning and relationships.
During the holidays, be a Santa to a senior.
Stop talking about getting old as if it's a disease.

I've been writing this post in my head for a long time. I guess today was the day to pour my heart out.

For more heartfelt posts, visit Shell at Things I Can't Say for PYHO Wednesday.

For better or for home improvements

2011-09-19T23:12:00.002-04:00

We've lived in this house for more than 13 years. We are still walking/lying/wrestling/sweeping the original floors. Do you even know what 13 years of drippy sippy cups, tweenage nail polish, muddy soccer cleats, pizza picnics, diaper changes and stubborn dogs will do to carpets? Let me tell you, it's not pretty.

So, the time has come to toss these nasty floors and spring for new ones that will hopefully receive kinder treatment by older kids and no dogs. (Yes, it means what you think. That's for another post.)

The prospect of new flooring -- once you can breathe again after the sticker shock wears off -- is so appealing. What is not appealing, however, is the getting ready for the new floors. It means everything has to be picked up off the old floors.

If you are a minimalist, this is not a problem. However, if you've spent the past 13 years saving stuff and storing stuff and inadvertently seeing just how much one corner of the dining room can hold, the task of getting ready for the floor guys is enough to make you want to throw up on your nasty, 13-year-old carpets.

Mike has been driving this new floor train. Well, at least in his own special way. He called the company, picked out the flooring (I did get to peek and veto) and scheduled the installation. His process of getting the house ready of course starts with the garage. So right now, our garage is a home for refugee furniture -- not all of which is coming back inside.

For my part, I spent 6 hours this weekend cleaning my walk-in closet and bedroom. (Again, that's an experience for another post.) Mike assured me he had everything else under control. When I left for work this morning, he promised his primary task for the day was to get the first floor ready to go. However, when I walked in from work this afternoon, he greeted me with "Wait. Don't yell."

Apparently, he had several freelance projects to work on during the day and hadn't gotten as far as he'd hoped (read: he moved kitchen and dining chairs to the back porch). I didn't yell. I'm always happy for freelance work.

The yelling came later. Not from me. From Mike.

I figured out his M.O. He was waiting for his minions -- the kids and I -- to come home and finish homework to get the job really done. He stood in the middle of the family room, barking orders. Telling kids to take this upstairs and 10 seconds later hollering because they'd left the room.

I don't like this approach, but not everyone parents in the same way. Then he started barking at me. That's when I the daggers came shooting out of my eyeballs. If looks could kill, it's a good thing the life insurance is paid up.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing," I wisely replied.

"You want to say something, so say it."

"No. I'm fine."

"Well, I know you're thinking it in your head."

The man may not be a mind-reader, but he's smart enough to know when his wife is cursing in her brain and biting her tongue at the same time. If he was a mind reader, he might have read something like this...

Listen here, buddy. You had all day to do this stuff. "Don't worry about it," you said. "I've got it covered." What you meant was "I'm going to scream and boss and stand around while everyone else gets whipped into a frenzy and does all the real work."

It occurred to me when I tasted a hint of blood from my bitten tongue that it's not just wallpapering and marriage that don't go together. It's any kind of home improvement project. At least in this house.

And I would say out loud to him what I thought in my head. Except. As unpleasant and frustrating as his tactics were, they worked. In a very short period of time, the job was done. By the end of the week, the floors will be finished and I will have forgotten the unpleasantries of Mike's approach to home improvement preparedness.

Until the next project comes along.

10 good things about Monday: A collaborative post

2011-09-19T12:51:00.000-04:00

This morning on the 4th Frog Facebook page, I made this request:

Quick: help me make a list of 10 good things about Mondays. GO!

Thanks to everyone who contributed to create the following list.

10 Good Things About Monday

Clean underwear in the drawers, courtesy of weekend laundry marathon
It starts with an M. I like M&Ms.
You get to see me (Contributed by my boss, who I haven't yet seen today).
You get a new start to a new week.
You didn't have to work the day before. (And, I'll add if you had to work on Sunday, be thankful you have a job.)
Monday Night Football (This was the top vote getter)
The kids leave the house for 6 hours.
It's trash day, so the bin will be empty. (I wish our trash day was on Mondays.)
You have all those fun weekend event memories to make you smile throughout the day.
Every day is a gift from God.

What would you add?

Could Sarah Jessica Parker play me in a movie?

2011-09-14T15:03:00.001-04:00

Ok, so maybe I'm not your typical "Sex & the City" type. But SJP's latest movie is "I Don't Know How She Does It," a comedy about a working mother. That could be me. Well, the much skinnier, longer haired version of me. Or you, if you find yourself with a to-do list longer than the line at the ladies room at the movie theater.

Let me just say right now that this post will probably make someone angry. Men for one. My husband probably. I know. They work hard, they take care of kids, blah blah blah. But in most situations, we wives do more. More laundry. More cooking. More grocery shopping. More calendar finessing. I know it. You know it. The American people know it. (That's a quote from a movie I don't have time to Google right now.)

The other people who might get mad at this post are stay-at-home-moms, affectionately known on message boards across the internet as SAHMs. I've been a SAHM and I've been (am now) a working mom. And I'm here to tell you that working moms have the harder job. For realz.

I'll spare you the details on my to-do list; you probably have a similar one. But suffice it to say I've entered one of those periods of time where when my body gives out at night, my brain keeps on churning.

Where the heck is life's PAUSE button? All moms (all women!) need one from time to time.

When Annie was a baby and I was a SAHM, my PAUSE button came in the form of donating platelets at the local blood center. At the time, the process took about two hours and you could pick a movie to watch while laying there. Now they've sped up the process, so you can't count on as much relaxation time. Besides, some people don't consider being stuck with a needle relaxing.

So now what? Now, enter Eversave and its "Back to Beauty" promotion. Eversave surveyed over 700 moms and 35% said they find time for themselves once a month and their preferred way to spend that time is pampering themselves with manicures, pedicures, facials and other spa treatments.

In cities all over the United States, Eversave is offering great "me time" deals. The deal in my area is $29 for a mani-pedi from The Spa at Salon D’Va in Avon ($76 value). Eversave was nice enough to give me one for myself and one to give away to a blog reader. Plus, the lucky reader who wins this Save will also get $20 in Save Rewards added to her Eversave account.

If you don't live in Indianapolis, check out the blog carnival hosted at Mom Generations for other participating cities. Trust me. Winning this Save will be more fun than donating blood. (Though that's a totally worthwhile activity and one you should definitely put on your to-do list.)

Geesh...I suppose you want to know how you can win. Because we're all too busy for our own good, I'll make this simple. ~~Paypal me $25~~ Leave a comment below and tell me what is your own personal PAUSE button?

Hunk of Meat Monday

2011-09-12T00:01:00.001-04:00

Oh wait. Wrong kind of hunk. Though if he makes your Monday a little brighter, I won't judge.

What I meant to share was an entry for a blog hop called Hunk of Meat Mondays. It's hosted by a fellow Indiana blogger. (I just saw on her site that they have a beagle. They live on a farm. Maybe they'd want a barnyard beagle-basset dog, too? But that's another post...)

Anyway, she (wish I could remember her first name. I've met her IRL once, but her name escapes me. It's probably something easy, like Amy) posted a yummy recipe for tetrazzini today. Well, mostly she posted it. All the ingredients and quantities, etc. But she didn't exactly spell out all the steps. She must be a good cook, because good cooks can get away with stuff like. ~~Bad~~Less experienced cooks like myself need step by step instruction.

Being a ~~bad~~less experienced cook myself, I can't really contribute much to her Hunk of Meat Mondays. But, I do have a hunk of meat that I have no idea what to do with. This is it:

Three pounds of boneless beef ribs

I have no idea what I was doing buying fancy meat like that. Most of the meat that makes its way into this house is deli sliced, ground or flash-frozen. Apparently, I was feeling culinarily adventurous -- or maybe I was lulled into purchasing it by a big "Save $3 NOW" sticker on the package.

However it got into the house, it's here and I have to use it.

I tried looking up a few recipes, but they included things like "liquid smoke" and I got scared off. Mike says I should just drop 'em in a crockpot, dump some barbecue sauce over it and eat whatever comes out. I'm not so sure.

So, I hope this is not a violation of Hunk of Meat Monday, but I thought I'd ask if anyone out there has a tested and approved for use by a cook with good intentions but a bad track record.

Let's hear it.

I don't want to talk about 9-11

2011-09-11T00:00:00.000-04:00

Today is the 10th anniversary of the 9-11 attacks of America. I'd rather not talk about it.

I'll talk about the Space Shuttle disasters. I'll talk about the wrath of Hurricane Katrina on New Orleans. I'll talk about last spring's tornadoes that killed so many. They were all unexpected and sad events, as was 9-11.

But none of them made me feel vulnerable like the attacks on America. I like to be in control. I like to at least feel like I have some control, even if it's really just an illusion. September 11, 2001 spun my world -- our world -- out of control. And that's why I don't want to talk about it.

However, we don't live in a bubble. 9-11 is part of the history of our country and, whether I like it or not, part of my own life history.

The timeline of events as they happened at our house is a little hazy. I think the first tower had been struck and it seemed like a freak accident, so Mike took Annie to preschool.

I remember calling him on the cell phone when the second tower was struck. Instead of going on to the office, he came home and we spent the morning watching the television in disbelief.

After a few hours, once it was clear that America was under attack, I went to pick up Annie. I was worried that something might happen in our city and I might be unable to reach her. I could barely breathe at the thought.

In the late afternoon, I talked to my mom on the phone. She wasn't sure what had happened, but she heard and felt an explosion in their city. There is a large Air Force base there and we were fearful that the attacks were continuing, even though air traffic had been frozen by then. We later found out the "explosions" were the sonic booms of fighter jets taking off from the Air Force base.

I went to Mass that night. It was very crowded for a Tuesday night. People stood and called out intentions for prayer, something that is out of the norm during Mass. My fears did not go away at church, but I did feel some comfort in being there.

That night, I insisted that Annie and Charlie sleep with us. Mike thought I was being silly and overly dramatic. I didn't care. I wanted them close to me. They were oblivious to the events of the day, so the family bed for the night wasn't for their benefit, but for mine.

In the days ahead, I would watch countless hours of coverage on the news. I would become fixated on the fact that very few body bags were needed at the World Trade Center site. I would remember stories of those who died and those were left behind. The man from New Jersey who died because he stayed with someone who couldn't get out of one of towers; his wife said she knew he was "working his rosary beads." Lisa Beamer, the pregnant wife of Flight 93 hero Todd Beamer. The man whose life was saved because he chose to take his child to kindergarten that day, which delayed his arrival at the Twin Towers.

I remember it. I just don't want to talk about it.

Sticks and stones

2011-09-10T09:10:00.000-04:00

Sticks and stones may break my bones,

but drinking my last Diet Coke really ticks me off.

10 steps to becoming a hoarder

2011-09-07T21:21:00.002-04:00

Early in your married life, take organizational tips from your mother-in-law (RIP), such as "pile stuff in laundry baskets to deal with it later."
Start a scrapbooking habit, take zillions of pictures, then fall desperately behind in scrapbooking for, say, 7 years. Put all the unscrapped photos into laundry baskets. Pile scrapbooking tools into a corner nearby.
Move on to stamping and create a smaller, though similar collection of rubber stamps, inks, paper.
Inspect bags your husband is hauling up from the toy room to take to Goodwill. Remove 40% of what he attempted to giveaway. You're saving the toys for the grandchildren (who might be born in 15 years or so).
Don't have the heart to decline anything offered to you by your husband's 92-year-old grandmother, even if you really don't need a battery-operated talking parrot, 3 Clinique giveaway bags or a yellowed U.S. map mounted on plywood. You don't want to hurt the woman's feelings.
Marry a man who cannot part with anything that has to do with Star Trek or Star Wars.
Ask your children "do you want this?" before you throw anything away.
Be sentimental enough to want to keep a newborn-size diaper (unused, of course), the hospital wristband your daughter wore when she had her tonsils removed, and the first letter your son wrote to Santa, plus about 17,000 other small pieces of their childhoods.
Maintain enough optimism to truly believe that you will fit into those clothes or they will come back into style someday.
When you finally decide to get rid of stuff, waffle back and forth between giving it away, throwing it away, saving it for someone else you know who might want it, or trying to sell it on Ebay. Put stuff in laundry baskets until you can make up your mind.

Because social media is not only about me

2011-09-06T23:43:00.000-04:00

When I sit down to write a blog post, it's generally about me. I suppose that makes sense because this is my life, my story to tell.

When I update my status on Facebook, it's usually about me -- something I did or don't want to do or how something made me felt.

I love social media, but I'm becoming increasingly aware of the challenge to remember that it's not all about me, myself and I.

I've received that reminder in sadly abundant ways lately:

A 36-year-old friend and mother of 8 was recently diagnosed with breast cancer
A 34-year-old neighbor received the same diagnosis earlier this summer and I didn't even know it
A friend from college has a tumor on her brain stem
A fellow blogger was told today that she has cancer. Again.

I could sit here and feel guilty that my blog contains tales of spendy skirts, impossible kitchen standards and faltering willpower while others are facing issues that really are life and death.

Or I can be grateful for the social media that exists so that I might share in these people's stories and lift my heart in prayer for the sake of their peace, comfort and healing.

So today, this blog post is not about me. It's about us -- you and I together -- and how we can turn this self-centered technology inside out . Instead of sending out messages of "me, me, me," we can allow these bytes and bandwith to open our hearts to those who are suffering today, to those whose day might be made just a little better by a quick message that says "I'm thinking of you."

It's a reminder I need to hear from time to time. So, how can I pray for you today?

Rules of the Fridge

2011-09-04T09:31:00.000-04:00

Attention 4th Frog Family Members:

You may have noticed there is a new refrigerator in the kitchen. You can tell it's new because it's clean. Really clean. Straight from the factory and passed over with soapy water clean.

Much like the rules that are declared, though not always successfully followed, when a new car is in the driveway, there are some rules that you should take note of for this new fridge.

There are 3 doors on this fridge, as opposed to 2 on the old one. Unless you are actively selecting something to eat or drink, these doors must remain closed. All the way.
Condiments belong in those handy shelves in the doors. Not haphazardly shoved in the first spot your eyes land on.
There will be no sticky, drippy bottles of ketchup, jelly, salad dressing or anything else allowed in the fridge. If it's sticky or drippy, wipe it off -- with a wet paper towel, not on your shirt.
Almost as bad as sticky bottles of ketchup and jelly are empty ones. If it's empty, throw it away. The same goes for milk. If there's not enough for at least a small bowl of cereal, drink the rest and throw the jug away.
Speaking of milk, there will be no drinking straight from the gallon. (I realize this is not exactly a refrigerator rule, but thought I would take the opportunity to sneak in the reminder.)
All leftovers will be covered. No one wants to open the refrigerator and see your pizza sitting on a plate out in the open. God invented foil and Saran wrap for a reason.
If you spill it, clean it up.
Those orange and red and green things that are in the bottom drawers? They're called vegetables. Eat some from time to time. (Again, not a fridge rule, but related enough.)
This fridge has an ice maker and water dispenser in the door. Yes, the control panel with it's glowing blue lights looks something like you might have seen in a Star Trek movie. No, you may not push the buttons just to hear the sounds. (Mike, I'm talking to you here.)
It is my hope that this refrigerator will be a beacon of health. It will not be tainted by slice and bake cookie dough, tubs of cake frosting, real mayonnaise, bacon, full-fat cheese or premium ice cream. That's what the garage refrigerator is for.

Down with mediocrity

2011-09-03T09:57:00.001-04:00

Last night I posted an entry titled "Would you go back to high school?" It detailed our Meet the Teacher night at Annie's school. But you can't read it now.

For only the second time in three years, I deleted a post. There wasn't anything untruthful in the post. I deleted it because I wasn't proud of the work. When I sat down to write it, I really wanted to convey how much I love this school. I wanted you to feel how energizing it is for your kid to have teachers who are passionate and engaged.

There is something special about this school, but there was nothing special about the post. While truthful, it was just not good. In fact, it kind of sucked. And I wanted to do so much better by the school (even though I didn't name it).

I rushed it because of some self-imposed deadline to post something. (See Wednesday's post for another mediocre example.) But it didn't do justice to the great things going on at the school and it was a of waste the time you might have spent reading it.

So it's gone. There will be another post in its place. One that will not be a waste of space or time. Thanks for reading. I hope you'll stick around.

Huh?

2011-08-31T14:22:00.000-04:00

Somebody wants me to go to a swamp to cheer on a firing squad? Stoner/sludge/metal? Is that like rock/paper/scissors? At least they don't want me to pay good money for it.

It's time to get serious

2011-08-29T15:59:00.000-04:00

You know it's time to get serious about eating less and moving more when...

...you open a new package of underwear and the sheer size of it takes your breath away for a moment
...you already have an answer formulated for the question "When are you due?" and you're not pregnant
...the IN Shape Indiana people want to know when they can schedule the final video shoot and your first thought is January 2013
...your snoring has made a mighty return and your husband has threatened to record it and share it on YouTube
...you don't bother hanging your clothes in the closet because going in there and seeing all the clothes that don't fit anymore is depressing
...your bra size has jumped to the triple alphabets
...you consider it a victory when you can go one whole day without eating something chocolate
...you can feel your belly resting on your upper legs when you sit down
...you contemplate trying on the fat dress you swore you'd never wear again, but don't because you're afraid it might be too small
...you feel guilty contributing posts to the Fit City Moms Blog
...your last family picture was taken in 2006 but you don't want to schedule another one for fear there will be an additional charge for mandatory use of the wide-angle lens

My secret fantasy

2011-08-27T12:16:00.000-04:00

Note: This post will not include anything about stripper poles, leather or anything else of an adult theme. If that's what you were hoping for, move along. Or get your mind out of the gutter and read on.

There are a few things you should know about me in order to understand my secret fantasy.

I love to sing, but I'm not great at it.
The only songs I know the words to are church music and show tunes.
I'm a cradle Catholic (which means I've been Catholic since I was born).

I love the Catholic church. I love the tradition and the ritual. I love the universality of it -- knowing that the Scripture we're reading on Sunday is the same one being proclaimed in a Catholic church in Honduras and Vietnam and Germany on the same day. I love the presence of Christ in the Eucharist. (And I'm not here to debate the pros and cons of Catholicism. So if that's what you were hoping for, move along.)

But one thing that is true about the Catholic church is that the music is often not exactly rockin'. Although 6pm Mass on Sunday nights at my church is as close as we Catholics dare come. Someday, I'm going to visit one of those evangelical, rockin' and swaying, churches where the music is alive. But that's not my secret fantasy.

My secret fantasy is that someday I'll stand up in the middle of my church, and moved by the Spirit, start belting out a song. This will likely always remain a fantasy because of #1 above. And because I care too much about what other people think and I'm pretty sure if I stood up in church and started singing a capella, they'd think I'd been sneaking a few too many sips of communion wine.

The closest I've ever come to even having the chance to fulfill my fantasy was last Sunday. We had a visiting priest who was there to raise money for Franciscan missions around the world. Fr. Ed was his name. Fr. Ed did exactly what I've always wanted to do. He stood up and starting singing when it was least expected:

"My God and my all, how I long to love you. To give you my heart, to give you my soul."

The difference is that a.) Fr. Ed is a priest and was running the show and b.) the man could SING.

His homily was about the fact that none of us is perfect, yet God calls each of us. I briefly considered that this was my opportunity -- to take my imperfect voice and answer the call I've felt for all these years to stand up and sing. Except that I think that "call" might actually be more ego than invitation.

Fr. Ed continued on, telling the story of an Easter Mass he was offering in Jamaica where one woman did sing out "God is not dead!" and another woman replied in song "He is alive!"

As Fr. Ed told the story, singing as the women in that small church had sung, I began to cry. I wasn't sad. It wasn't about wanting to sing out and not doing it. I was moved by the love and the Spirit these women felt, carried across the world by a priest to my own church, where that same love and Spirit touched my heart.

I think if I ever had the chance to make my secret fantasy a reality, I missed it last week. Unless I go to church in Jamaica someday.

On paint and perspective and other possibilities

2011-08-26T10:27:00.001-04:00

Ahhhh! Stretch! I'm just waking up from a little mid-morning snooze and I am rarin' to go. Or at least to frag. Because it's Friday and that means fragments with Mrs. 4444s.

Remember my paint dilemma? It's solved. As in painted and too late to change my mind if I wanted to. And it looks good. But was doesn't look good is my house and all the upheaval still waiting to be put away. So, I don't have pics to share yet. But my goal this weekend is to get everything in order. I won't go back to work until this place doesn't look like a Goodwill sorting room. (In other words, boss, I'll see ya in two weeks.)

I could complain about the mess in the house, but then I remember there are people with no place to call home. The other day I was whining about not liking the way my hair looked, and then I saw a note on Facebook from a friend just starting chemo who was excited about the cool hat she got to wear when her hair is gone from the treatment. Life is just a matter of perspective, isn't it?

Driving home from church this morning, I was behind a gold SUV with vanity plates that said GRAMS. Not being able to see the driver, I couldn't decide if the car belonged to a grandmother or a drug dealer.

My job is not particularly stressful. I've been there for almost 6 years. I work 30 hours a week and I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've actually felt stress over the work I do. But the next 3 months are probably going to skew those stress stats. I've got my normal stuff to do, plus a few short-term projects, plus I'm taking an online graduate course in grantwriting. Add in my presentation to the Upper Midwest Social Media Conference, my Visit Indiana stuff and oh yeah, being a wife and mother and excuse me while I go fix a ~~morning cocktail~~ Diet Coke just thinking about it. Happily, it's all good. It's just a whole lotta good.

Christmas is less than 4 months away. Have you started shopping yet?

You know that very bad dog we have? The one that has only earned a place to stay because Robbie loves her so much? Well, she chewed his black Angry Bird and disabled the bird sounds. Robbie was none too happy and declared, "That's it! We are getting rid of that dog!" I'm not sure why we didn't capitalize on the emotion of the moment, but lucky for Gabby, we didn't and she's still here.

It's a gorgeous day here. Hope it is where you are, too. And if you happen to be in the path of Hurricane Irene, know I'm praying for your safety.

Is it global warming or perimenopause?

2011-08-23T00:53:00.000-04:00

I've never been a bake-in-the-sun kind of girl. But I have been a turtlenecks-and-sweaters-in-the-winter and wear-socks-to-keep-me-warm girl. Until the last six or nine months, that is.

My husband used to marvel at the preferred temperature of my shower -- stinging hot. And I could climb into a garden tub full of hot water and soak for long enough to watch at least one episode of Grey's Anatomy. I drank hot chocolate year-round.

Over the past several months, I've become a connoisseur of showers that border on downright cold. A garden tub full of hot water is wasted on me because after about 3 minutes, I'm sweating so much that "relaxing" is the last word I would use to describe the experience. I keep a fan running in my air-conditioned office and the last time I had hot chocolate, I put ice cubes in it.

Either those tree-hugging, global-warming-criers are right or I've entered that magical time known as "perimenopause." That's when your body begins flirting with the idea of menopause, but thinks that it might be fun to mess with you and internal systems for 8 or 10 years before finally caving to the non-fertile, non-flashy phase of life.

I'm not a stranger to hormonally-induced hot flashes. When I was pregnant with Annie, I worked for a Fortune 500 company. I would get such crazy hot flashes that when they descended on me, if I didn't get some cool relief like NOW, I would be physically sick. As in tossing my pickles and ice cream. So, when I felt one coming on, I would run to the bathroom, praying that the handicapped stall was free. Once safely inside some stall, I would start stripping clothes off until eventually I was standing in my bra and underwear, mopping my forehead with scratchy, business-grade toilet paper and praying that there were not secret security cameras capturing what took place in the ladies room.

I'm fortunate to not have hit that extreme of hot flashes, yet. But I do turn the A/C up full blast when I get in the car, no matter whose car it is. I put ice on the back of my neck and don't even flinch at the sting of the cold. I'm all for family togetherness, but don't even think about sitting right up next to me at church. Leave some room for the Holy Spirit (and for a breeze), please.

We went to visit my father-in-law for the first time since my mother-in-law passed away. I used to complain that their house was so cold -- the thermostat set to "frosty" just as she liked it. During our most recent visit, I found myself flapping around magazines to cool off and wondering if anyone would notice if I turned down the air conditioner about 10 degrees or so. I was able to negotiate about a 4-degree drop in temp. Not exactly what I wanted, but it was a good start.

Tonight, I was sorting laundry upstairs and cursing our new air conditioner because I was not feeling cool air. "I feels like the air isn't even on," I complained.

"It's not," said Mike. "I turned it off around 3pm." Seriously? Taking air conditioning away from a woman in perimenopause is like taking the remote control away from a man during the Super Bowl. The consequences can be life-threatening.

I wonder how my body will react to winter this year. Maybe I'll be one of those fools running around without a coat on. Maybe I'll stand outside on the front porch during an ice storm to enjoy the "light precipitation" and the cold air that comes with it. I'm guessing there will be no fuzzy slippers and flannel pj's. Instead, I'm thinking cotton shorts and a t-shirt.

So, just how long does this hot flash phase last? I mean, should I get rid of my collection of cotton turtlenecks completely? Or just pack them away for a few months? Will it get worse before it gets better?

My kind of yoga

2011-08-21T11:34:00.000-04:00

Some of you may remember that my first (and until yesterday, last) experience with yoga was not the relaxing, restful encounter I'd hoped for. Yesterday, at the invitation of a friend, I took a restorative yoga class.

The room was dark and cool. The requisite Eastern music was playing. My friend Brenda helped me get a mat and the three dense pillows I would need for the class. I was all set.

Except that I didn't know I had to pay for the class at the front desk, which was all the way on the other side of the building. The class was getting ready to start, so I had to high-tail it down three corridors. I handed the attendant my $5 and she looked at me like I was nuts. The class was $12.

During the trek back to the yoga studio, I was muttering to myself that this class had better be worth it. I arrived back in the room feeling a little defensive and irritated. But I took my place on my mat and tried to allow my deep inhale and exhale push those feelings out of my mind.

Right away, I could tell this class would be different. First of all, each pose is held for 7 to 10 minutes, so that eliminated the anxiety I had in the other class about just figuring out a pose when the instructor moved on to something else. Because the poses were so lengthy, that meant that instructor wasn't chattering through the whole thing.

All the poses happened on the mat. The intention of the class is to encourage stillness, release muscle tension and counteract those bad-for-my-bod postures I spend much of the day in. None of the poses were confusing or hard to do. The most difficult part of the class was trying to keep my mind empty of thoughts about what I had to do later in the day and whether or not my belly was hanging out from under my t-shirt. I'm pretty sure I might have dozed for a minute or two here and there.

Truthfully, I can't tell you how long the class was. I think 60 minutes, but it felt longer. At the end of the class, I was a believer. I don't think I've been that relaxed since I was under the influence of nitrous oxide in the root canal that wasn't.

As I left the studio, I recognized what I was feeling. It's the way I feel after I've gotten a massage. Except, there was none of that deep muscle soreness. And there was no stranger putting her hands all over me. But the results were the same -- I felt taller, more fluid and amazingly rested.

Restorative yoga has restored my faith in yoga.

Fabulous Fragmentation

2011-08-19T09:58:00.001-04:00

It's awesome day -- mostly because I don't have to go to work today. (I love my job, but I love days off, too.) The boys and I are headed to the Indiana State Fair in just a bit. But I couldn't leave without celebrating Friday Fragments with Mrs. 4444s and you all!

Over at the 4th Frog Facebook page, we were having a discussion about fairs. What Kimmybeee had to say was so funny, I thought I'd repeat it here:

We are rednecks and hillbillies and country bumpkins lol when we wear cowboy boots, they usually have cow poop on them lol.

I'm thinking I shouldn't introduce her to Annie, who earlier this summer declared "I will never marry a redneck, ever." Just recently we were at a wedding. Late into the reception, Annie walked out into the hall and said "It is full-on hillbilly drunk in there."

* * *

Last night we met up with some hometown friends of Mike's who were passing through Indy. Josh's mom is of Mexican descent, so they always want to find some authentic Mexican cuisine. We ended up here:

If you plan ahead, you can eat dinner, have your taxes done and schedule your next vacation all at the same time!

***

School starts for the boys next week. Charlie's soccer team has already met for practice. But Robbie doesn't have any outside activities. I don't want to overload the kids, but I do think one outside activity is a good idea.

Me: "What activity do you want to do this fall? Swimming?"

Robbie: "No."

Me: "Gymnastics?"

Robbie: "No."

Me: "Soccer?"

Robbie: "No."

Me: "Well, what do you want to do?"

Robbie: "Sit on the couch and watch TV."

At least the kid's honest.

***

A few prayer requests:

* Please continue to pray for those hurt (45) and killed (5) in the stage collapse at the Indiana State Fair.
* Prayers for a friend and mother of 8 who will begin treatment for breast cancer next week.
* Prayers for another friend who is struggling with tough love for her daughter who is currently in jail and with the worry of how to help their granddaughter.
* And of course, prayers that Mike find employment soon are always appreciated. He's been blessed to have some freelance work to do, but we'd sure like a regular paycheck.

Have a great weekend. For more Friday Fragments, click here.

The $100 uniform skirt

2011-08-17T09:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was Annie's first day of high school. Unlike when she went off to kindergarten, she did not throw a fit about having to wear a plaid uniform. Instead, she was quite adamant that she would be wearing the plaid uniform skort on the first day of school.

Her exact words were "Mom, if I show up to school in khaki pants on the first day, everyone will think I'm a lesbian." Never mind the fact that she wore khaki pants every day to summer school and no one questioned her gender identity.

So, skort for school -- fine by me. Not so fine by the uniform store.

I think uniform stores and bridal salons are in cahoots to make girls and women feel totally crappy about their size. Although the skort Annie tried on at the uniform store was tagged as 2 sizes bigger than she actually wears, it was too small.

I asked about ordering something in a larger size. Seriously, Annie is not that big of a kid. No. This was all they had to offer me. However, if I wanted to, I could order the plaid fabric and have someone make a skort for her. Other students had done the same, the saleslady told me, and the school had the pattern.

Ok. Fine. Let's order the fabric.

Well, not so fast. See, the person on duty at the store while we were there didn't actually know how to order the fabric. Could someone call me the next day to place the order? Sure.

About a week passed before we actually connected and I authorized the $45 charge for the fabric. Once the order was placed, I called the school to see about getting the pattern. Except that school doesn't exactly have a pattern. As in they definitely do NOT have a pattern. But not to worry, the person I was speaking to (who happens to be a friend of mine) said she would figure out what was going on.

She asked around and found out that yes, some girls did have their skorts custom made last year -- by the uniform store. So I called back to the uniform store where I was promptly told that no, they didn't offer that service and never have.

Frustrated, but not yet defeated, I called the store's 1-800 customer service number. I was hopeful because when I went to the website, it says right there "Full Size Ranges -- We fit the whole school from preK to teachers." The nice but clueless woman on the other end of the customer service number had no idea what I was talking about and suggested that I just find my daughter's size on the size chart on their website and order accordingly.

Ugh! If it were only that easy!

So I called back to the local store, told them that I was coming to buy a skirt that I knew didn't fit. But I was going to take it to the fabric store and use it to find a similar pattern skort. Then I would buy the pattern, find a seamstress to make the skort, and return the store-bought skort for a full refund. Praise the Lord, they had no problem with that.

The (next) trouble came in trying to locate a skort pattern at the fabric store. Annie and I went straight from the uniform store to JoAnn Fabrics, where we spent more than an hour trying to locate ANY skort pattern, let alone one that would match the sample skort we were carrying around.

(As an aside -- why in the world haven' t Butterick's, McCall's, Simplicity and all their sewing cronies entered the 21st century? Seriously, we had to page through book after book after book, looking up indices, trying to find skort patterns. Where are the kiosks that allow people to go on a computer, type "skort" in the search terms and then be given near instantaneous feedback as to where such a pattern might exist? But I digress...)

Having run into another brick wall, I turned to the place everyone turns in times of desperation or desire for inspiration: Facebook. "Does anyone in the Indy area know of a seamstress who can make a skirt w/o a pattern, just by looking at a sample piece?"

Within a few minutes, I had a couple of names.

I called Cele (short for Celadonia), an older Venezuelan woman who has done lots of sewing for family friends of Mike's family. She said sure, no problem. Come on over.

Cele looked at the sample skort and said she could make one in Annie's size. She took Annie's measurements, asked when we needed it and said she could do it. Before we left, I had to hug her. She was a long-awaited answer to an admittedly egocentric prayer.

The day before school, I called Cele to see when we might be able to pick up the skort.

"This evening."

A little close for comfort, but ok. About an hour later, she called and said that she needed a few extra measurements. A few hours after that, she wanted us to come over to try on the shorts part of the skort.

When we got there, the shorts, though unfinished, fit really well. Annie was excited. Cele looked tired. It turns out her son is getting married in Venezuela this weekend and she'd spent much of the past several days sewing dresses for her granddaughters. But, she would get the skort finished in time for Annie to wear to school the next day.

In the meantime, I started preparing Annie for the possibility of spending her first day of school in khaki pants. She reacted as most 14-year-old girls would -- with tears.

At 8:00pm, I called Cele to check in. 9:30, she said. The skort would be done then.

At 9:30pm, she called to say she needed about 20 more minutes. I could her the exhaustion in her voice. I told her if she wanted, we could get it another day. The world would not come to an end if Annie wore khaki pants to school on the first day.

"No, I promised and I don't want Annie to be disappointed."

We arrived at Cele's apartment at 10pm. So much for early bedtimes the night before school starts. She was finishing the hem of the skort. We chatted as she sewed. She wanted to press it. I said not to worry. One good thing about school uniform plaid is that it's industrial strength and rarely needs to be ironed.

Cele sewed in a "Made Especially for You by Celadonia" label, then Annie tried on the skort. It fit perfectly! Both Annie and I hugged Cele this time.

For all of her efforts, Cele only charged my $40. I knew how much time she'd put into it and I really appreciated her working late into the night to get it finished, so I gave her good tip as well.

And that's how Annie got a $100 uniform skort. I think it was worth it:

LOL Monday: Take 3

2011-08-15T17:17:00.000-04:00

This week's LOL Monday is courtesy of one of Mike's high school friends who posted this on his Facebook wall. He snapped this pic at a magazine rack he happened upon:

I had to laugh at the juxtaposed title of this magazine. And I wondered what a magazine that captures the soul of the North might be called?

What's made you LOL recently?

Please pray

2011-08-13T22:31:00.001-04:00

The stage at the Indiana State Fair grandstand collapsed under a gust of wind tonight. At least 4 people are dead. 2 dozen injured. Please keep these people in your prayers and also my colleague Andy who handles communications for the fair. I'm sure he's working through a nightmare.

http://www.wthr.com/story/15262930/stage-collapses-at-state-fairgrounds

Sometimes I just can't help it

2011-08-13T04:20:00.002-04:00

I know before going in that this is pointless. But my pride gets the better of me and I do it anyway.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So clearly, I am insane. What other explanation is there?

Maybe, I tell myself, maybe this time will be different.

But it's never different. Always, I end up physically and emotionally tensed. Useless anger bubbling up under the surface. I hold my breath. I tighten the muscles in my back. And when I get the usual result, I go back for more.

Insanity, I tell you.

Seriously, though. Sometimes I just can't help myself. Hope springs eternal and this time might offer a different outcome.

Or not.

Just fragments

2011-08-12T00:33:00.000-04:00

That's what I've got left after this week. Just fragments. A brain download, if you will. And I can do that, thanks to Mrs. 4444s.

Putting out an ABB: Hello officer, I'd like to report an ABB. Yes, that's right. An "assault with a binding brassiere." I purchased a new bra this week. I wanted a new dress, but what I ended up with was a new bra. Anyway, the lady at the pricey store measured me and said I'm "a 41 on the dot, so let's go with a 40." I'm always up for smaller numbers. But now, after two days of wearing this torture device, I'm pretty sure the durn thing has bruised my sternum.

Play it again, Skeeter: I saw "The Help" on Wednesday night. Great movie! There aren't many I'd pay to see in the theater twice, but this one I would. It was fairly true to the book. Oh, and go easy on the Diet Coke because it's a LONG movie and you don't want to miss anything.

Mason City, Iowa, anyone? Do you live within driving distance of Mason City, Iowa? It's 1/2-way between St. Paul, MN and Des Moines, IA. Anyway, I'll be there in late September speaking at the Upper Midwest Social Media Conference. My topic: Privacy in Blogging and Social Media: How Much Is Too Much? If you've never been to a social media conference, this might be a good one to start with. Admission is only $50.

Home improvement (dis)harmony: Well, we've arrived at no real decision on the paint colors for the first floor. I did convince Mike to postpone the painting there. We're having the master bed and bath painted, but we haven't quite agreed on which room will be which color. I think a Serious Gray in the bedroom and Expressive Plum in the bathroom. Mike wants the opposite. Also, he apparently thinks little fairies are going to come in the night and prep the house for the work to be done. Although the first floor walls won't be painted, they will be painting the ceilings this weekend. Do I have to take down the curtains for them to paint the ceiling? This little fairy is going to need a lot of Diet Coke to pull this all-nighter.

Back to school: Most kids around here started school this week. That's way too early. Annie starts high school on Tuesday. The boys don't start until a week later. Tonight was parent orientation night at the high school. It was a little weird looking around the room, wondering who would be the parents we'll get to know well over the next 4 years. As we listened to the head of school and several of the teachers, I felt like we'd definitely made the right decision about where to send Annie for high school. That felt good.

Time to get a move on in getting this house ready for phase 1 of its renovation. Hope you have a great weekend!

This is how the trouble started in the first place

2011-08-11T00:15:00.000-04:00

We've lived in our house for 13 years. The last time we painted the kitchen and family room was 11 years ago. The last time we painted the living room, dining room and entry was about nine years ago. The last time the first floor bathroom was painted...well, that's where the trouble got started.

I wanted a yellow bathroom. Eleven coats and three shades of paint ranging from macaroni and cheese to school bus to "I wear my sunglasses to pee" later, the bathroom was painted and I was banned from ever selecting paint colors again.

Until tonight. We've decided to repaint the first floor, our bedroom (which Mike says is currently "old lady blue") and the master bath, which is still sporting the original builder's paint. I would have like to take my time selecting the colors. Go through some decorating magazines. Maybe consult a decorator or at least a few friends with a better eye for color than me. But when Mike gets it in his head he's going to do something, he wastes no time. So he scheduled the painters to be here Friday, Saturday and Sunday to paint the entire first floor (except the laundry room and the pantry), the stairwell, the master and the upstairs hallway.

Which is why we were at the paint store looking at paint chips tonight. Mike said, "I'm leaving the colors up to you." The flourescence of the first floor bathroom must have wiped the memory cells from his brain because he distinctly said previously (after the screaming yellow and the old lady blue incidents) that I was not allowed to choose paint colors anymore. His position has even been agreed with by two good friends.

I decided to take advantage of the lapse in his memory and selected a palette for the home re-do. Here is what I chose:

Indigo Batik for the majority of the first floor walls, with the exception of a few accent walls, which will be Antique Red. The bathroom will go from "I'd rather be blind yellow" to Quiver Tan. Our kitchen cabinets and the doors and trim are white, so I thought they would stand out nicely against the blue, which will also cover the stairwell leading to the bedrooms.

The master bedroom will lose "old lady blue" in favor of Expressive Plum. The plan is to paint the master bath and the upstairs hallway Serious Gray.

I love the colors on the color chips, but I'm beginning to wonder if all that blue and gray won't make it seem a bit cave like? Maybe the living room, dining room, entry and stairway would be better Quivering than Batiking?

What if the painters get the paint on the walls and I hate it? I guess if nothing else, I can blog about it.

When going with the flow means $h!+ doesn't get done

2011-08-10T16:18:00.000-04:00

I have always prided myself on being a laid-back kind of girl. No rigid routines. No crazy procedures. No Meatloaf Monday, Taco Tuesday at our house. Nope. The words that I use to describe myself are words like "easy going" and "flexible."

Those are adjectives that I'm happy to be associated with. (Yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition, but because I'm rolling with the punches, I'm happy to look the other way.) But I've reached a point in my life where the going with the flow means shit doesn't get done.

Appointments get missed because they weren't immediately put into the family calendar that resides on our phones. Late night writing sessions occur because suddenly instead of having four weeks to get eight articles written, I have two days. Boys go commando under their shorts (not that they're complaining) because I forgot to wash the load of dirty underwear sitting in the hallway. The gym membership goes paid for, but unused, because the thought of "I need to exercise" somehow doesn't translate into actual exercise without some planning and dedication.

It's time, I'm afraid, for me to pull out the "s" word. No, not the one I've already used. The other one. The one that makes me want to a choke a little bit just saying it.

"Structure."

I'm envisioning before and after school checklists for the kids. Family calendar meetings on Sundays after church to plan for the week ahead. A writing schedule for myself so that all of my assignments get the attention they deserve. A routine school-work-gym schedule that fills everyone's needs.

In some ways, the implementation of more structure in my life feels a little like my carefree self has been defeated. That there will be some anal list-maker type standing over my shoulder saying "I told you so." (Sally from Mike Myers' "The Cat in the Hat" movie, anyone?) Yet there is a part of me that is deliciously tempted by the promise of order and sanity.

Maybe I will find that being a little more organized in my approach to life will actually leave more room to be easy-going, instead of rushed and harried, trying to catch up in those places where I've fallen behind. Or maybe it will suck.

Who knows? But I'm willing to give it a try.

For more Pour Your Heart Out posts, click here.

Put yourself in my bathtub

2011-08-09T08:10:00.000-04:00

You've been traveling for five days, the last two of which were spent at an amusement park. You're pretty sure that you might be forced to call a chiropractor or a massage therapist to erase the effects of the bumper cars on your back. The house is quiet, but you can't sleep because your feet, legs, arms and back are registering their discontent with being cramped in a car, rested in strange beds, and assaulted for entertainment. So you decide a hot bath is in order.

You've just sunken your aching body into the perfectly-temperatured bath. You can feel your muscles begin to forgive you a bit for the abuse you've heaped on them. Despite what the Rolaids people would have you believe, you're certain relief is spelled "H-O-T-B-A-T-H."

Then you hear it. Thunder. Long and rolling and nearby thunder.

Do you:

Think how lucky you are? You love the sound of rain and think it adds a perfect backdrop to the moment.
Pretend you don't hear it and try to rush your body into relaxation before your better sense kicks in and you force yourself out of the tub?
Immediately hop out because you once saw on Oprah/Dateline NBC/Mythbusters that taking a bath or a shower during a thunderstorm is just asking to be struck by lightning, even if you are inside your house?

LOL Monday: Take 2

2011-08-08T23:50:00.000-04:00

Squeaking in at the last minute with this LOL Monday post because we just got home from vacation at Holiday World and Splashin' Safari. While waiting in line to ride The Wildebeest watercoaster (ride was awesome; 60 minute wait was not), I caught sight of an attractive woman with a large tattoo of a native American on her back. I did not have a phone or camera on me -- hello, water slide! -- or I SOOOO would have snapped a picture.

Based on the two words inked above the Indian image, I know the tattoo was intended to convey respect and admiration for her heritage. It said:

Charokee Pride

Guess she wasn't proud enough to make sure they spelled it correctly before having it permanently affixed to her body.

What came home from camp

2011-08-07T00:26:00.002-04:00

Last Sunday I sent to camp:

* 1 pair of sheets, two blankets and a pillow
* 1 pair of Keen-knockoff shoes, never worn and purchased the night before
* 6 pairs of socks
* T-shirts and shorts
* Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap and shampoo, though didn't know if there would be anyone at camp to nag...I mean remind...my camper to put them to use.

All with a boy who, despite his tendency to be a little boastful, could be sometimes meek and longing for approval and acceptance and who always wanted to be playing video games.

Yesterday, I picked up from camp:

* 1 pair of sheets and 1 blanket -- maybe a bear ran off with the pillow and the other blanket?
* 1 pair of Keen-knockoff shoes, muddy with the evidence of creek-stomping, crawdad catching and nightly bonfiring
* 3-1/2 pair of socks
* T-shirts and shorts that corroborated the story told by the shoes
* Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap and shampoo that had amazingly been used, apparently with some regularity

And a kid who seemed to not only have grown two inches in the space of 6 days, but who also had a new confidence, not swagger but a self-assuredness, about him. What's more, he didn't even ask to see an iPhone until we'd been in the car for more than 30 minutes. And he's voluntarily taken a shower two nights in a row.

To borrow the words to a song he learned while at camp:

Amen. Amen. H-A-P-P-Y! Yay God!

Trip down Memory Lane, driven by Facebook

2011-08-04T00:44:00.001-04:00

A former co-worker of mine grew up in the same city where I lived for about 3 years when I was little. I saw him posting to a group on Facebook called "Memories of Growing Up in Richmond, Indiana." Despite only living there from ages 6-9, I do have many memories of those years and it's been fun reading through what others remember as well.

This little excursion via Facebook reminded me that I did a real-life trip down memory lane earlier this summer with Annie. We went to Richmond to check out the Chocolate Trail. While we were there, I took the time to show Annie some of the places I remembered from my childhood.

Places like the house I lived in, which smelled like incense when we first moved in. (An Indian family had lived there before us). It had an opening next to the fireplace through which you could crawl from the sunken living room into the kitchen.

I got my first kiss in that house. I was in the 3rd grade, wearing my pajamas. Danny Wissel had come over to our house with his mom. He kissed me on the cheek and I was in luv. (Note to self: Look for Danny Wissel on Facebook.)

We drove past the really cool dome house just down the street from ours. Except its not so really cool anymore:

I told Annie about the time my friend Paige and I went from her house to mine, walking across freshly laid asphalt in our bare feet. I still remember sitting on the edge of the bathtub, eating popsicles while my mom scrubbed out feet with lighter fluid.

Annie almost didn't believe me when I told her about the day I walked two blocks away in search of the ice cream truck. I bought 4 cones with my own money as a surprise for my mom, sister and brother. But I couldn't carry them all, so I happily accepted the ice cream truck driver's offer to drive me home. I climbed aboard the truck anticipating how surprised and happy my mom would be at my generosity. That was not exactly her reaction.

I remember Valerie Duffy's older sisters crying and carrying on because some guy named Elvis died. I didn't get it.

Then Annie and I drove through town and found ourselves in front of St. Mary's, where we went to school. There used to be a metal jungle gym in the right-hand corner of the lot, next to the windows.

My teachers while I was in school there were Sister Julia, Sister Shirley and Miss Barth. Sister Julia had a plastic apple filled with peanuts. If you got the right stamp on your paper, you could go pick one or two peanuts out of the apple as a treat. No allergies to deal with then, I suppose. One day during indoor recess, someone broke Sister's plastic apple. It was replaced by a red and black plaid lunchbox. The neatest thing about Sister Julia was that she could eat anything because her taste buds had been destroyed in a car accident.

I was happy to find that the church was open. This is the church where I received my First Communion -- two weeks early because my baby sister was due on First Communion Day. It's the church where Fr. Van Benton scared the daylights out of us when he came out of the confessional and yelled at us in his deep and booming voice because not everyone had the Act of Contrition memorized. It's also the church where my dad and I would go to evening Mass twice a week when he was out of a job.

We moved from Richmond at the end of 3rd grade. I wonder how my life would have been different if we stayed there? No regrets. Just wondering.

Wordless Wednesday: Some people need to be told twice

2011-08-03T09:14:00.000-04:00

For more Wordless Wednesday fun, click here.

Separation anxiety

2011-08-01T23:48:00.000-04:00

We took Charlie to his first sleep-away camp yesterday.

We arrived toward the tail end of check-in, thanks in part to some shoddy navigation by someone who should have been paying attention to the Google map instead of playing 13 games of Words with Friends on the phone. By the time we checked in and walked up (and up and up) to his cabin, his group was gathered out front, ready to go to the pool. While he changed into his swimsuit, Mike and I made his bed and tucked his suitcase away.

Charlie seemed a little nervous, but mostly ready to go make some new friends. I gave him a quick kiss and hug and off he went. There wasn't a lot of time for long goodbyes and really, I was excited for him to have the opportunity.

By bedtime last night, though, I was starting to miss him. It's not like Charlie's never slept away from home before. In fact, he spent Friday night at a slumber party. I'm not sure "missing him" is the right phrase. I just wondered whether he was warm or cool enough in the cabin, if he'd liked what they served for dinner, how he was getting along with the other boys in his group. I said a quick prayer for his safety and his experience and went to bed.

This morning, "missing him" certainly fit the bill. Did he sleep ok? Did his pillow fall off the end of the bunk bed? Did the nurse remember to give him his allergy medicine? Had he lost anything yet? (I'm pretty sure he won't come home with everything we packed.)

As I walked from the parking lot to my office building, I was thinking that this will be the longest period of time in Charlie's whole life that I've gone without talking to him. Again, I said a prayer for him and walked into the building.

When I got to my desk, the red voicemail message light was lit up. As I waited for the laptop to warm up, I punched in my voicemail access code to listen to the message. It was Charlie! He'd left the message for me after I'd left the office on Friday, so the question he was asking was no longer relevant. But the sound of his voice was just what I needed to hear.

I smiled as I listened to it and thanked God for this small reminder of his faithfulness and for that kid at sleep-away camp.

LOL Monday

2011-08-01T06:00:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I read things or see photos that legitimately make me laugh right out loud. This one was posted by a Facebook friend (and high school classmate) of mine. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

For all you single ladies who are in such a hurry to get married, here's a quick piece of Biblical advice: Ruth patiently waited for her mate Boaz. While waiting on YOUR Boaz, don't settle for ANY of his relatives: Brokeaz, Poaz, Lyinaz, Cheatinaz, Dumbaz, Cheapaz, Lockedupaz Goodfornothinaz, Lazyaz or Marriedaz and especially his third cousin Beatinyoaz. Wait on your Boaz & make sure he respects Yoaz!

I'm not sure who said it originally, but it really did make me LOL!

Oh no he didn't...

2011-07-29T23:00:00.000-04:00

Me (to Mike): You know it's time to get really serious about exercise and healthy eating when you're walking through Target formulating your response to the person who might say "When is your baby due?" and you aren't pregnant.

Mike: Amy, no one's gonna think you're pregnant...(isn't he sweet)...You look too old.

I think he might want to sleep with one eye open tonight.

Frags on wheels

2011-07-29T11:04:00.001-04:00

Today's installment of Friday Fragments is inspired by wheels. That's been the theme of the week around here this week.

First, there was the Suburban we rented to go to Amish country last weekend. I only drove it for about 30 minutes, but I did not enjoy it. I'm too short to drive something that big. Felt like I was driving a semi. BUT...I did love riding in it. There was so much room. Everyone had plenty of space. There was no "she touched me" or "I'm squished" whining. I could get used to that, as long as Mike does all the driving.

Then on Wednesday, we got to spend 4 hours tooling around Indianapolis in the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Frankly, it was bunderful! (I know, so bad!) I wonder if I can get one of those from CarMax?

Last night, we went to Lucas Oil Raceway where they were racing stock cars and midget cars (apparently the word "midget" is socially acceptable in reference to automobiles). I am really NOT a racing fan, but we had a great time. Going to the race track is like going to the movies with someone you don't like. It's ok because you don't have to talk to each other. I need to make an appointment to get a hearing aid now.

And next week, I'm taking some friends for a limo-chauffered girls' day, courtesy of one of my tourism contacts!

Finally, in the category of "spinning my wheels," I have had a heck of a time getting a uniform skirt for Annie to wear to high school. It's a long story that she probably doesn't want me to share all the details about, but let's just say that $45, 3 yards of fabric and umpteen phone calls and e-mails later, she is still skirtless. At this point, she might be showing up on the first day of school in a plaid sari.

In need of more fragments? Wheel yourself on over to Mrs. 4444s's place to hear what she's got to say today!

I wish I rode the Oscar Mayer wiener (and I did!)

2011-07-27T23:45:00.000-04:00

The e-mail came from Dyl-icious Dylan, asking if I wanted to hop aboard the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and show him around Indianapolis. Frankly, he didn't have to ask me twice! I told him I would relish the opportunity.

Dylan and his partner, Ketchup Kylie, are in Indy for the week and had some down time. They were looking for someone to introduce them a bit to the city. So Dylan googled "Indianapolis bloggers" and came up with me. Hot diggity dog!

It turns out that Kylie was feeling a little under the bun, so Dylan pulled up to my house by himself. There is nothing quite like seeing the Wienermobile driving down your street.

The boys wasted no time running out of the house and taking their seats in the hot dog on wheels. I'm just glad Clifford the big red dog wasn't around to chase down this treat. Dylan, being a very conscientious Hot Dogger, insisted everyone buckle their "meatbelts" before we headed out. I decided to ride "shotbun" so I could help Dylan navigate our way to our first stop.

We headed to a nearby shopping center where Annie and about 29 other teenagers were due to return from a day of service at a camp for kids with disabilities. You should have seen how excited these kids were to see the Wienermobile, get Wiener Whistles and stickers that said "I saw it!"

I'm afraid, for these kids, any other surprise just won't cut the mustard after they've experienced the Wienermobile. And it wasn't just the service day kids. People came out of stores, pulled up in their cars, and followed us into the parking lot just to get close to the legendary Wienermobile (which is actually one of 6 Wienermobiles on the road around the country).

We had so much fun spreading hot dog smiles that we decided to take the smiles across town to our friends at Joy's House, an adult day community. For security reasons, the guests at Joy's House couldn't come outside to visit the Wienermobile. Instead, Dylan pulled up along the dining room windows, so the guests could relish the view from there. Then we all got out and went inside to visit with the guests and hand out Wiener Whistles and I saw it! stickers.

Of course, we took some time for a few photo ops:

Laura & Tina at Joy's House -- What you might not be able to tell from this picture is that Tina was about to strangle Robbie if he blew his Wiener Whistle one more time.

Once she took the shotbun seat, we weren't sure if we were going to be able to get Tina out of the Wienermobile.

And despite the fact that the heat was beginning to ketchup with Robbie, we piled out of the HDOW (hot dog on wheels) to pose for a family picture. I'm pretty sure I'm going to send this one out in our Christmas cards.

By the time we were wrapping things up at Joy's House, we were getting pretty hungry. Despite the fact that you're driving around in a giant hot dog -- did you know the Wienermobile is 60 hot dogs long and 24 hot dogs high? -- there's actually nothing to eat on the Wienermobile. So, where do you take the Hot Dogger who is graciously driving you around town in a grilled fiberglass hotdog? To a hamburger joint, of course!

After a dinner at Boogie Burger, we decided to introduce our Hot Dogger to the hottest dawgs we know -- the Butler University bulldogs. We pulled up outside of legendary Hinkle Fieldhouse and snapped this postcard-perfect picture:

Just as we were getting ready to leave Butler, there was a knock on the side of the Wienermobile, which Dylan said is a pretty common occurrence. What was uncommon about this knock, however, was it came from the father of Butler Blue 2. They (Blue 2 and his pop) had been following our tweets and knew we were on campus. So we introduced Butler's hot dog to Dylan and the Wienermobile. Even our seasoned Hot Dogger was impressed.

First Blue 2 checked out the Wienermobile -- that's just mustard. Blue 2 was perfectly behaved.

Then Dylan tried out the Blue 2 mobile.

It was a mutual admiration society.

By that time, we were all getting pretty tired. So we rolled on home and said goodbye to Dylan and the wiener on wheels. But before he drove away, Dylan left me with my very own beanie weenie -- a stuffed Wienermobile!

Of all the things I've gotten to do as a blogger (and there have been plenty), I think my afternoon in the Wienermobile has been the best yet. (Even better than flying upside down in an airplane!)

Stay tuned for an exclusive interview with Dyl-icious Dylan, the Hot Dogger and Wienermobile driver.

What a difference 3 years makes

2011-07-26T00:01:00.001-04:00

Three years ago today, I started this blog. I called it the 4th Frog out of desperation and sheer lack of creativity for anything else. But in those three years, I've grown into the name.

I've become the 4th Frog. I answer to the name on Twitter. But I've stopped short of getting vanity license plates and decorating my house with frog figurines.

Three years ago, I clicked over to Google Analytics several times a day to see how many people had read what I'd written that day. Now, I check out my metrics about once a month. I felt like it was my duty to make people laugh when they visited this blog. I still like to make people laugh, but I feel more duty-bound to be honest because that's where the real connections happen.

I thought 2008 was going to be the launch pad for my first book -- grown out of this blog. Now I'm not so sure what I've written here is book worthy, but I do feel like I've found a voice here that could also find a home in a book or two if I choose to take that path.

Back in the day, I was afraid if I didn't post every day (or nearly so) that I would lose followers. Now I know that if I don't step away from the blog from time to time, even if its just a for a few days, I'm in danger of losing perspective.

In 2008, I was worried about attracting followers. Now I blog because it brings me friends.

I'm older now. Maybe more cynical. Hopefully a little wiser. But the most important thing is, that on this, my 3rd blogiversary, I am still here and you are here and I'm happy about that.

Laughs from Amish country

2011-07-25T15:41:00.000-04:00

We took a little family vacation to northern Indiana last weekend. Our destination? Amish Acres in Nappanee.

When I was a little girl, I read every book about the Amish I could get my hands on in the Richmond, Indiana library. I was fascinated by their different way of dressing and their mysterious-to-me ways. In more recent times (like in the last 6 months), I've harbored a secret desire to embed myself with an Amish family for a couple of weeks. Totally disconnected. Work my fingers to the bone on something other than a keyboard.

So when the marketing manager for Amish Acres invited our family to come visit, I didn't think twice. Despite the fact that we had the kids convinced that we were going to assume the Amish lifestyle and customs for the weekend, we actually stayed in a modern(ish) hotel and were limited to learning about the Amish culture from our visit to the Amish Acres farm.

You know that transplanting a family of tech-heavy, suburban folks into a slow-paced environment where technology is not embraced is going to produce some laughable moments.

We watched two pretty interesting documentaries about how the Amish came to be and how they choose to live in the world and not of it. Amish today reject the use of most technologies, though they will use gas lanterns and gas washing machines in their homes.

After learning several of the customs of the Amish, Annie said to me, "Mom, I think you could be Amish with benefits."

"Amish with benefits?" I asked.

"Yeah, you could be Amish as long as they let you have a computer."

* * *

On a tour of a restored Amish home, we approached a small building with a crescent moon cut in the door. Robbie asked what it was. I told him it was an outhouse and explained what an outhouse was used for -- that people had to go outside to go potty.

Without skipping a beat, Robbie said "I wish Daddy used an outhouse."

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Annie and I went to see "Plain & Fancy," in Amish Acres's Round Barn Theater. The Broadway musical about a New Yorker heading into Amish country to sell some inherited farm land to Amish neighbors has been performed at the Round Barn Theater for 25 years.

Before the show began, the announcer came over the loudspeaker and reminded people that videorecording and photography was strictly prohibited during the performance.

"If you use photography," said Annie in a very serious voice, "you will be shunned."

Sandwich Showdown Giveaway

2011-07-22T10:26:00.000-04:00

Dagwood Bumstead.

Shaggy and Scooby Doo.

My husband.

Lots of people love sandwiches. And in the summer heat, they're a perfect go-to meal when you don't want to heat up the kitchen by using the stove. At home, I'm pretty much a PB&J girl. But I do enjoy a good made-fresh-for-me deli sandwich -- don't forget the banana peppers!

(It always comes back to food with me, doesn't it?)

Eversave.com is hosting a "Sandwich Showdown" in several markets across the country today. In Indianapolis, the deal is $5 for $10 worth of yumminess at Stars Sandwich Market. Similar deals are likely available near you, too.

What's better than 50% off your lunch? How about a FREE lunch?!

That's right, one lucky 4th Frog reader will get:

Today's Sandwich Save (in your market)
An extra $5 in Save rewards to be used on a future purchase

What if there's not a sandwich save in your area? No problem. You'll get $15 in Save Rewards!

How to enter

If your mouth is watering just thinking about a freshly made, tasty sammy, enter by simply leaving a comment on this post telling us your favorite flavor combo when it comes to sandwiches. Get detailed -- what kind of bread, meat, veggies, condiments, etc.

For a bonus entry, tweet the following: I want to win a sandwich showdown Save from @EversaveIND and @4thfrog! and leave a comment letting me know you did.

I'll use Random.org to select the winner tonight. Please come back here or watch the 4th Frog Facebook page for the name of the winner.

If you want to be certain to get a sandwich deal, go ahead and purchase the Save for yourself. If this is your first Eversave purchase, you'll get $2 off the Save and I'll get credit for referring you. The nice folks at Eversave gave me Save Rewards for hosting this giveaway as well.

Stalking the ice cream truck: my interview with Smiley's armpit

2011-07-21T10:09:00.000-04:00

Generally in the mornings on my way to work, I listen to the Smiley Morning Show. Today, Smiley and his co-host K.J. had commandeered an ice cream truck and were driving through the city giving away free ice cream to beat the heat.

Well, you know how I feel about ice cream. Combine that with how I much I enjoy the SMS and of course I had to go find them. Locating them was pretty easy. They were live broadcasting from the ice cream truck. So I found them at Monument Circle downtown, rolled my window down and thanked K.J. as she handed me an Astro Bomb Pop Jr.

After I drove off, I snapped the pics of the pop and thought, "I should totally blog about this!" I decided to drive back around to take a picture of Smiley and K.J. handing out the goods. But when I got back around to where they had been parked, the ice cream truck was driving off.

Because I will do anything for this blog, I followed the ice cream truck in hot pursuit. About 4 blocks later, they pulled over in front of an office building. I pulled over too, hopped out of the car with my trusty iPhone with the intention of taking a few pictures. Which I did:

Then I remembered that this new phone has a video record feature. Suh-weet! So when Smiley started to interview me live on the radio, I switched the camera to video mode and recorded the encounter, too.

I am not a professional videographer, as evidenced by what ultimately turned out to be my interview with Smiley's armpit:

10 things I learned by not exercising

2011-07-20T22:50:00.000-04:00

Regular exercise leads to better sleep.
Even moderate exercise can make the difference between weight loss and weight gain.
Layin' around like a sloth begets more layin' around like a sloth.
Exercise leads to healthier eating habits. Who wants to eat a chocolate chip cookie when it will wipe out 45 minutes of sweaty exertion on the treadmill?
Exercise excuses you from 30 to 60 minutes a day of hearing "MOM! MOM! MOM! Can you..?."
Exercise can make simple things like climbing 45 stairs to your office seem like a piece of cake.
Exercise is contagious. When people find out you have an exercise habit, they want to join in.
Exercise means you like seeing yourself in pictures better.
Exercise makes shopping for clothes more fun.
Sweating and heavy breathing from exercise is much better than sweating and heavy breathing from just being fat.

Tomorrow. I'm back at it. Honest.

O. EMMM. Geeee...

2011-07-19T15:21:00.001-04:00

Like ohmigosh, I'm sitting at a bagel place soaking up some free wifi and trying to get some work done, but there are these two, like, girls who must think they are on a talk show because they are talking loud enough for everyone in this place to hear.

And they must be, like, totally popular because they rully, rully miss lacrosse and they should totally have a reunion -- with just the people they like.Oh and the boyfriends, they have boyfriends. But maybe one not for long because she and her boyfriend, like, get in these fights, but "omigawd, our fights are SOOO lame."

Then there is the whole pity for the friends who have jobs. I mean that must be like, soooo awkward, having to work to get your money. Oh well, we should totally do lunch next week, rully.

They better hurry because "I totally can't believe you're leaving soon" and we'll fer sure text each other all the time. But they can't go tonight because like she finally said yes because he kept wanting to take her to this party, even though the last time they went to a party, she got like TOTALLY wasted and he held her hair back while she was totally puking.

And O EMMMM Geee isn't that just soooo cute?

Of course not everything is so cute because "I told her that she is gonna be soooo hideous when she grows up because I saw this one lady who looks kind of like her and she was so ugly, I almost had to barf."

I'm sure there's more, but I rully have to go ask these restaurant people if they have a spoon I could totally gag myself with.

My favorite day of the year

2011-07-17T10:57:00.001-04:00

Today is National Ice Cream Day. It's my favorite day of the year -- even though I just learned about it 10 minutes ago. But seriously, how could you not like National Ice Cream Day (unless you are lactose intolerant, in which case we appreciate you not joining in the celebration).

While my diet is much healthier than it was say 5 years ago or so, ice cream is still my favorite food. If I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be ice cream. If I were on death row and could choose anything as my last meal, it would be a smorgasbord of ice cream. And the beauty of having ice cream as a favorite food is that if, when I'm older, I have trouble chewing and swallowing solid food, good old-fashioned ice cream will not let me down.

If I were limited to just one flavor, I'd choose chocolate, though I do enjoy a good vanilla bean where you can see the bits of the beans in the ice cream. My default combo when I just can't decide on anything is one scoop chocolate, one scoop mint chocolate chip on a sugar cone.

Also, always a cone, never a dish. Unless it's a sundae, which I very rarely eat.

I have different favorites depending on where I go:

Baskin-Robbins: Peanut butter chocolate -- a perfect go-to flavor

Maggie Moos: Dark chocolate and Cinnamoo mixed with almonds -- a sophisticated, grown up taste

Ben & Jerry's: Chubby Hubby -- delicious and the name makes me smile

Marsh Supermarket: Marsh brand light Moose Tracks -- all of the goodness, not so much of the badness

Graeter's (although I've only been there once): Buckeye Blitz -- similar to, but smoother than, the Baskin Robbins peanut butter chocolate

Steak 'n Shake: Chocolate milkshake, straight up. No fancy mix-ins or crazy side-by-sides

Dairy Queen: Dilly Bar -- Not too fattening and I love the crunchy chocolate outer shell.

McDonald's: The 49-cent vanilla cone hits the spot without hitting the pocketbook

You'll notice I'm not real big on fruit in my ice cream. Once, we were in Nashville, Indiana in the fall and I had pumpkin pie ice cream that was surprisingly good. Sometimes I get adventurous like that.

My favorite ice cream story of all time is from college. Our friend Beth had been raving to Mike that Ben & Jerry's had a new pepperoni pizza dough flavored ice cream. She kept up this charade for several days. Finally, she got Mike to go to Ben & Jerry's with her. He stepped up to the counter, asked to taste the pepperoni pizza dough ice cream and got back a very confused stare in return.

I think tonight we might have a make-your-own-sundae buffet after dinner. Heck, we might have a make-your-own-sundae buffet FOR dinner.

So, wherever you are, today raise a cone in praise of ice cream and know I'll be doing the same.