Apologies for making you envision my clear cylinder.

Crazy. (Five reasons I'm thrilled that the holiday season is coming to a close.)

1. I'm so, so sick of jingling bells. What gave me goosebumps in November, is now a migraine trigger. This encompasses every Christmas song ever sung. They all feature bells. During the lead up. In the chorus. As it wraps and fades. Goodbye, holiday radio! I would physically kick you out of my life if you weren't invisible.

2. Art projects. When the season hits full swing, the kids develop an insatiable urge to decorate, create and make stuff. Lots of stuff. All kinds. Of course, these holiday projects require my participation and/or supervision. My achy knuckles can only cut so many paper snowflakes.

3. Holiday food. I once watched a British tv show where they took everything an overweight person ate and dumped meal after meal into a giant clear cylinder. Then mixed it up - churn, churn, yuck - to make a graphic point. I tell you, my clear cylinder would be so nasty and full, I bet it would bubble and belch.

4. I'm a tired mom. I am fighting the urge to nap right now. Heavy lids. Heavy and getting heavier.

5. People. From crowded malls, to parties, to school functions and bizarre family members, I'm over the sheer volume of you and the weirdness (some of) you peddle. Because you have overwhelmed me, I'm going to request some space. Let's start with infinity miles through the end of winter.

Cool. (Five things I'll miss.)

1. Bea singing jingle bells, though she hasn't let up and it's three days post-Christmas. (Her vocal pizzicato is pure perfection!) Explaining the calendar to a two year old is wasted energy.

2. Lu and Edy's homemade gifts on Christmas morning. Even though they relied on me heavily to craft their cuteness, I realize that once they are old enough to purchase supplies, work my fickle printer, safely cut with adult scissors and not glue their fingers together, they will no longer feel motivated to declare their affections so sweetly. I'll get a text. If I'm lucky.

3. I do love food and will miss the "go ahead, it's the holidays," mentality I so fully embrace. Perhaps I am slightly proud of my clear cylinder??

4. Tired kids. There is nothing better than kids who hit the pillow hard. Head down and they're out. Exhausted, happy kids who are safely tucked into their soft, warm beds. It's a beautiful thing!

5. I'm sick of people, but not my people. My family of five. Come January 2nd, I will miss having the girls home from school and Jon in his lounge-about clothes, lounging about. I like us huddled inside while the winds whip and slushy snow falls. Cozy bliss.

Happy post-holidays to you!

Ridiculously mature.

Crazy.
I wasn't going to write about twenty elementary school children being gunned down. My puny thoughts can not begin to make sense of the terror or console those who are broken. But what else is there to compare? It's not just crazy, it's horrifying, a nightmare come true.

Here's my opinion on the bigger debate, for what it's worth.

I am a "live and let live" kind of gal. I truly believe it takes all kinds. When it comes to lifestyles that differ from my own, I am open-minded.

That said, the unreasonably paranoid gun enthusiast has me baffled. I respect your right to own weapons, but why can't you agree that the deadliest of rifles should be banned? Destroyed. No longer manufactured. As a nation, we can make this happen. Are you hunting herds of deer? Do you need to shoot an entire case of empty beer cans? Quickly? Without reloading? I'm sorry, but my children's safety trumps your hobby.

The NRA spoke out today and said what we really need are armed guards at every school. That's like handing out flame retardant suits in a raging inferno rather than working to put out the fire. Keep playing, kids! You'll get used to the heat! Oh, and who's paying for these suits, I mean guards? Schools are woefully underfunded as is.

What about the movie theater? The mall?

I'm also confused by moms getting all second amendment crazy because they identify as conservative and that's how the conservative playbook reads. Step back and think for yourself. Think about the fear those children felt. (Yes, they would have been afraid of a man with a machete, but they would have also stood a chance.)

The fear. That's what sticks with me. The children are at peace - now - but I'm certain the parents will never stop imagining the fear. Imagining the scene.

God bless them.

There's so much more to say, but I don't have the time or talent to word it well. There's a holiday sing at our elementary school in less than an hour and I will be there... because my children are my everything... not just a hobby/sport/recreational activity/reason to play in the woods.

Cool.
For many years, Lu declared that she was not at all interested in piercings. Or tattoos. Mohawks were also on her "never" list. She wanted us to know.

Then she got a little older. Then she changed her mind. Not about the mohawk, thankfully. She wanted her ears pierced and I had no problem with it, but I suggested she wait until soccer season ended. After soccer season, she seemed to forget. So did I.

On Monday night, I decided to drag the girls to the mall. Jon was (shockingly) out-of-town. I knew Bea would be a disaster, but I wanted a picture with Santa and we missed every other lap-sitting opportunity in town.

So Lu asked, "Can I get my ears pierced?" Feeling guilty about making an almost 11 year-old engage a mall Santa ("Have you been good, young lady?"), I said fine. She was stunned. And nervous. But resolved.

After Santa, we went straight to Piercing Pagoda. While waiting for the teenage manager to call Lu back, I stroked her perfectly formed earlobes. So soft. I made them. There was a sudden sense of ownership and a rush of regret, but it was too late. Deep breath.

Five days post-piercing and her ears look beautiful. They aren't red or sore or infected. So far. Most importantly, Lu is thrilled. Some changes are good not just for the surface reality, but for the way they make us feel. In Lu's case, it's "sassy" with a touch of "aren't I ridiculously mature?"

Yes you are. Getting there at least. 

Timber.

Cool.
For many, many, many years, I did not enjoy trimming our Christmas tree. I like order. I like balance. I like visual aesthetics. Maybe more than the average guy. Haphazard kids hanging ornaments haphazardly was no fun at all. For me.

I have been known to rearrange a shelf because too many books of the same color are too close in proximity. My eyes don't like it. Why suffer?

I have four versions of our Christmas card on my laptop. I have tweaked it to death.

In college, I pledged a sorority. During the entire semester, we were encouraged(!) to do favors for sisters in exchange for signatures. The goal was to get as many signatures as possible. I was born for this!  I cared for an iguana, I got a signature. I told a joke, I got a signature. I returned a sweatshirt to an ex-boyfriend, I got a signature. I had pages and pages of signatures. But I didn't like the way they looked. The different pens! Some light, some dark! Too random! My eyes!

So I went from page to page and simply traced each one with the same felt tip marker. (Oh, how I love a felt tip!) On the final night of pledging, I got in serious trouble. The good girl had gone bad. Apparently, it looked as though I forged them. Gutsy! (Um, is your iguana alive? Yes? Because I fed it!) I tried to explain, but how do you explain neurosis? At that moment, it seemed so ludicrous. (At my desk, with felt tip in hand, it seemed like a super plan!) I took my punishment which may or may not have been eating five fat bouillon cubes.

Twenty years later, I still use that incident to gauge whether it's worth fixing/changing/altering something when the result may please me, but may confuse/upset/alienate others.

The tree is an ideal example. For the last many Christmases, the kids would merrily decorate then walk off. I would quickly fix/reposition/totally change everything top to bottom until it was perfect. Someone had to intercede. Edy hung 14 ornaments on the same branch!

This year, they are older. (And a little uptight like me.) When every ornament was out of the box and on the tree, I stepped back and was pleased. Sure, there were a few I could have moved around, if I stared and obsessed. But I didn't. Stare or obsess. The tree was good and it was theirs.

Even Bea helped out by not putting hooks in her mouth and by not sucking the glitter off anything sparkly. Progress!

Crazy.
I was still basking in my chill mom status when I heard a loud crash. The tree fell.

I rushed downstairs and realized right away that there were some serious casualties. Anything fragile near the impact zone was smashed.

For our wedding present, Gail gave me a box of German glass ornaments, each with special meaning. She also gave us a beautiful Victorian angel -- ironically enough. For the last fifteen years, I have faithfully hung those delicate ornaments and proudly wedged that angel on the tippy top of every tree we have ever owned. For the last 6 years, it's been bitter sweet.

Now two of her ornaments were in teeny tiny pieces and I was faced with a decision. I could completely lose it or I could accept that the ornaments had a good run and nothing lasts forever. As I was mentally debating my reaction, I saw a breast cancer ornament among the mess and it buoyed me back. It's not a big deal. Cancer is a big deal. The love I feel when I remember Gail, that's a big deal.

It says "Faith Hope Love," not
"Weep for hours because your ornaments smashed."

I did most of the rehanging myself. The kids had moved on. So, a perfect tree again this year! I can't help myself.

No, I am not on cold medication. It was a stomach bug.

Or bad Thai food. Nonetheless, prepare for some serious "stream of conscious" ramblings.

This week, I'm combining Cool and Crazy because I'm efficient like that and because I'm still recovering. It took me down. It took me down hard.

Plus I chose a very random topic and couldn't decide if it was cool or crazy, then concluded that it is both. It can happen. It did happen.

Have you ever had an itch and when you itch it, you feel it somewhere else on your body. How crazy is that? And cool! It reminds me that we are a blob of cells interacting in ways we can't always control. Which is good because I mess things up a lot. If I was responsible for remembering to release bile from my pancreas, I would totally put it off and then die.

For me at least, never have the weird workings of my body been more weird (crazy and cool!) as they were when I was pregnant. Every day, I went about my routine – eating, driving, watching BRAVO tv – while simultaneously building a human life with, as it so happens, a soul. Just like that.

Of course talk of sour bellies and pregnancy makes me think of Duchess Kate. It's crazy that she was hospitalized, but it's cool that she's pregnant. Yeah for a baby royal who is also half commoner! Poor Kate needs to beef up a little and maybe she won't be so sick. I saw a report that claims she is 5' 10" and 95 lbs. What? I did some quick math in my head (5 lbs. per inch of height) and realized I would need to weigh about 70 lbs. to be her size. Um. No thanks.

Ironically, on the day they officially announced her pregnancy, they also passed a new law that makes the first born child successor to the throne, male or female. Go girls! I guess before, if a son was born after a daughter, he would simply bump her out. Bah-bye. Bump!

This gets a little complicated, though, since her severe sickness has sparked twin rumors. Most twins are born by c-section. How do they choose who to yank out first? Jon made some comment about royals murdering their siblings throughout history in a play for power. But during Medieval times, it was a lot easier to commit murder, throw your brother in a well, and then claim the throne as your own. Blame the court jester or whomever, kill anyone who protests. Move on as king until someone poisons you. Today, that wouldn't fly.

Because -- it's a better world today! (For most of us in the West, at least.) I love to argue with people who "long for the past." I guarantee, Kate's baby or babies will be very well dressed and won't be tossed in any wells.

Here's a picture of Lu and Edy at the Tower of London. Beheadings are fun! That's all. Back to bed.

What's the upkeep on a ball pit?

Cool.
Every year, as the cold weather settles in, I ask Jon why we bought an old house. It's so drafty. Like every day. Like every minute of every day I'm cold. I wear a silly number of ugly, bulky layers and I carry a space heater from room to room. Yet my toes are ice.

Jon gently reminds me that I insisted on an old house. It's all my fault.

So why is my misery in the "cool" category, when "cool" is not meant to be literal? Because this is the time of year I start dreaming. Dreaming about vacation, dreaming about summer, dreaming about summer vacation where I'll bury my toes in the hot, hot sand and smile.

I like to dream. Some of it isn't very realistic. The Powerball, for example. I did a little dreaming, a little envisioning, a little planning. It felt good. Got me to sleep one night. I don't think we matched a single number.

I also dream and plan about definite possibilities. Our annual March getaway. Last year we went to London. This year I'm pushing for the tropics. Maybe St. Thomas. Marriott has a beautiful, newly renovated property with a swim up bar in an infinity pool. Both, together. It's almost too much lavish luxury for this overly-layered housewife to handle! If there's a steel drum band anywhere within earshot, I may need to stop time and never, ever leave that infinity pool. For all infinity.

(I just took a break to move the space heater closer. My fingers are frozen.)

When the thermometer dips, I also start thinking about the house we'll rent at the beach. And sunsets over the bay. And the coconuty smell of sunblock. And sun-kissed shoulders. Sun. Sun. It's glorious.

With summer on my brain, yesterday I mentioned to Edy that her best pal's mother's friend runs a camp in Canada and she was invited to possibly attend. Thinking about something that may occur in seven or more months is torture for a kid. That's a long time to wait when you're eight! But I persisted out of my own need to think toasty thoughts. I asked her if she'd be "up for it," to which she responded with three quick questions:

1. Will Jessie's mom just drop us off in Canada? (Pretty much.)
2. Will I be staying in a hotel? (Uh, no.)
3. Will I be able to catch my own lunch? (Fish? Maybe. Small game? Unlikely.)

I don't know if I could give up Edy for a week or more. That kind of organic humor is truly better than anything I could ever imagine myself. It warms my heart, just not my hands.

Crazy.
It's back. A show that started out well-meaning, and has become an over-the-top mess. As is the case with so many things these days.

Extreme Home Makeover. Great idea. Deserving people. Ridiculous execution.

#1 - There is no way quality construction can happen in 5 days. Walls will buckle, lights will fail, pipes will leak.

#2 - The exploitation of the families is immensely uncomfortable.

Lu, of course, thinks it's spectacular. This provided me with a perplexing parental moment. Do I just nod and agree that it's nice to help people, or do I break it down and burst her sweet bubble?

For example, in the episode we watched (I only caught a few minutes, but it was enough) the designers made a Wipeout room for the family's adopted two-year-old. He's two! How can he be a Wipeout fan? Really?! It was such blatant cross-promotion of abc's big-ratings hits that I wanted to vomit. And speaking of vomit, there was a ball pit in his room!! What's the upkeep on a ball pit?

In one of my better parenting moments, I decided that explaining "blatant cross-promotion" to Lu was way harder than simply nodding. She caught me at a weak and tired moment.

Here is a parody of Extreme Home Makeover from several years ago. Super, duper silly and so spot on.

Travel-weary side dishes.

It's the day after Thanksgiving and I'm still in recovery mode. Meaning, I feel fat. Emotionally, I am a-okay. It was a very pleasant afternoon spent with an ultra pleasant group.

Not that the day was without excitement. After the turkey finished roasting, the oven displayed some strange probe light and wouldn't stay warm. We all ran around like idiots, searching for manuals and model numbers, calling 1-800 help lines, Googling in excess, and saying "probe" over and over again. Nothing worked.

Then several sources suggested we turn off the power for a few minutes. So we turned off the power... and the cable and the internet. Before I could blink, Jon was on the phone trying to resolve these new (pressing?) issues while the rest of us debated and discussed what to do because the probe light was still glowing, taunting, and our side dishes were still cold.

Probe. Probe. Probe.

"Let's take all these side dishes to my neighbors' house," I suggested. "They are away. I have a key. They won't mind!"

So a few of us carried a small parade of foil covered casseroles next door only to have trouble with their oven. Seriously. So we plodded back home with our less enthusiastic parade of side dishes and decided to cook them on the grill. Desperate times. We hauled the sleepy Weber out of the garage where it's been hiding since the hurricane and fired it up all nice and smokey and hamburger-smelling.

Inside, Jon had now completed his call to the cable/internet company. Football games were once again blasting from every tv. Alleluia!
When we caught him up on our lasted scheme, he was very much against heating his beloved stuffing on the grill. "There are more keys for more neighbors!" I shouted, ready to lead another Pyrex procession when I realized a few guests were attempting to inform me of a positive development. The nasty probe light was gone. Just like that! And the oven was working. Just like that! We loaded it up with our travel-weary side dishes and the rest of the day was perfect.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am writing about two cool things this week. No crazy.

Cool #1.
When your husband is overseas for the week leading up to Thanksgiving and you are the host everyone is counting on, it's time to delegate. My first cool item is help.

The yard crew came on Monday and a group of five men accomplished in twenty minutes what would have taken Jon hours and hours to tackle. They even edged the beds which classes up the place like nobody's business. 

The best part? All those leaves leave. They load them in their truck and buh-bye. Around here, we are supposed to rake to the street and then the scary leaf eater comes by when it damn well feels like it and sucks up (most of) the messy pile.

As lame as the leaf eater may seem, in Baltimore, we had to rake and then bag. That was the worst. Making small mounds all over the yard, then stuffing those mounds into garbage bags. Leaves up your sleeves. So tedious.

The fabulous house cleaners came on Wednesday. I love them. They tie the ends of the toilet paper into little roses. It makes me happy beyond description.

Yeah for help!

Cool #2.
If you know me at all, you could conclude that the latest PBS/Ken Burns documentary is exactly what I live for. 

The Dust Bowl is fantastic. Amazing. So sad, but cool because it puts everything into perspective. A broken oven on Thanksgiving. Not cool. (Literally and figuratively.) Losing your children to dust pneumonia. Total devastation. Watch it and try to empathize. Just try. The footage is mesmerizing, the interviews are heartbreaking. Watch it! Watch it! 

(Unless you're like Jon, "king of the rom-com," who believes anything upsetting - fact or fiction - is a complete waste of time. Then I advise you to steer clear and blast more football.)

My Thanksgiving vortex.

Jon had a nice, quiet summer. This was great, but mildly stressful for a guy who likes to stay busy. I reminded him to appreciate the break. Golf another round. You will be busy again.

Now he's busy again. And we're hosting Thanksgiving. And I'm addicted to Words with Friends. This is a recipe for frustration and really terrible gravy.

Crazy.
Thanksgiving.

Lots of people love it. It's Jon's favorite holiday. He enjoys the food. I enjoy the food. (Tart cranberries and savory stuffing in one bite. Yum.) I also enjoy the weather. But the menu and crisp air don't always counter the heaping helpings of family drama. There is always family drama.

It's amazing how people don't behave the way I want them to. Honestly. Life would be so much better and holidays would be like magazine articles, all cheerful and glossy. Don't you want that for yourself? Everybody does! Or at least they should. Our time here is short.

I admit that I have very high standards. Why not? High standards make for better table displays. It's true. And I admit that I have a hard time letting go of the past. But I try. I practice deep breathing exercises. I give myself pep-up pep talks. I remember all the fantastic things that surround me. Yes, being thankful helps me mentally prepare for Thanksgiving, a day about giving thanks and the cause of my stress. Do you see it? That statement is a big wheel of strange irony. Stand close and you might get sucked into its vortex. Tempting.

The Thanksgivings of my childhood were simple and perfect. Or at least that's how I remember them. We don't have many pictures so it's all in my head. Warmth. Smiles. Family. Love. Bad clothes.

How I wish I could ask my mom for an actual analysis. I'm sure she had opinions. She had lots of opinions. And I'm equally sure some were snarky. She had lots of snarky opinions. There is no doubt she resisted the urge to strangle someone at some point -- all while I merrily arranged homemade name cards on shiny china plates. (My kids are oblivious, too. It's good.) How odd that I feel especially connected to my mother when I'm totally frustrated with my family. I think I miss her more because I understand her more. 

On that "less than positive/missing my mother/considering the upside of strangulation" note, please enjoy your Thanksgiving. May the success of your gravy outshine whatever drama is brought to the table. No one can gripe with their mouths full.

Cool.
I am, admittedly, always late to a trend. And many times I need to be pushed and bullied into trying something new. I am comfortable with the status quo. "Same old, same old" is a big, soft sofa by a roaring fire. Getting up and going anywhere would just be cold.

I had heard of Words with Friends. I'm not under a rock! (More like a landscape gnome. It's fiberglass. I can peak out on occasion.) But it never, ever occurred to me to play. There are lots of social media-inspired games that look like trouble. I avoid trouble.

Then my ten year-old started playing with her cousin. Then she got a hold of my phone and signed me up. Then she challenged people to games. So there you have it. I started playing because my daughter made me.

Wouldn't you know, I love it! It's so chill, but fun. Move at your own pace. Exercise your mind. Yes, it brings out my nutty competitive nature, but the "luck" factor of random letters keeps me humble. Yeah for Words with Friends!!

Speaking of random, I am actively playing games with two very random people from my past. Good people. Smart people. But very, very unexpected people. Joby, you will never guess.

I could very nearly spell "refreshments" in a recent game. I like that word and I had a hard time letting it go. Refreshments offer such hope usually in a barely tolerable situation. Like during a meeting or at a boring open house or church function. The promise of a light bite makes it all better, even if the actual spread doesn't live up to your expectations. At its best, you get sugar cookies, maybe some buttery cracker rounds and squares of cheese, dips aren't out of the question, watered-down punch is typical. But it all tastes like heaven. Those refreshments are all you have. They save the day!

Maybe I should skip the turkey and offer refreshments on Thanksgiving? It's a thought and not a bad one.

Prediction: lots of friendly smiles in the cereal aisle.

I try to keep the negativity to a minimum on this blog and I definitely limit the amount I complain about specific people. I know writers who maintain anonymous blogs just to vent. I might explore this particular possibility for mental health reasons. I could write chapters and chapters. And chapters.

Crazy.
Here's something I hate that isn't aimed at one person. There are probably about five of you. Women I've met many times who fail to recognize me on a consistent basis.

It is mind-boggling.

How do you not remember me? I taught Sunday School with you. We spent an entire morning chatting about our lives, our one-time careers, your random birthplace, your current and not-that-interesting enterprises. Why do you look right past me in the cereal aisle? Private school and public school families can commingle. It happens all the time!

Or lady who I talked to at a party. I know some semi-personal details concerning your husband. How can you pass me, almost weekly, in town, at the post office, buying gas, and not say a friendly hello? It's basic social grace and you don't got it.

Or mom who's kid was in my kid's class for two years in a row. We sat next to each other at holiday celebrations, in very small chairs, sipping Dixie cups of apple juice.

I understand forgetfulness. Don't ask me what I had for lunch or what we did last weekend. (Please, don't ever ask me what I had for lunch last weekend!) Yesterday, I woke up with a headache. I wanted medicine, but I couldn't remember if I already took some. For the life of me. I had to wait it out. Ouch. And I mix up names more than I get them right.

So I understand. Sometimes I feel like my mind files are full. But, thankfully, common courtesy tends to prevail.

I do not take your absent expression personally. I accept that you compartmentalize and I am in the unimportant compartment. It's cozy there. You've packed a lot of us together.

And in case you're worried, I'm not seeking bestie status. I don't need you to like me. I'm not interested in side-by-side pedis. I don't want to carpool to the Lilly Pulitzer sale. I don't like Lilly Pulitzer all that much. There, I said it.

Just be polite. It's a goes-around, comes-around, karmic world. Smile. It can't hurt.

I'm probably not talking about you. But if you suspect you are this kind of person, stop it.


Cool.
Happy birthday, Bea! Today, you are two! Not to mention too cool, too cute, too silly and too fun.

We tried to have you for what seemed like an eternity but was actually four years. You didn't like all that stressful fussing. You sat up on your baby cloud in baby heaven and waited until we gave up. Then you decided it was time. Time for our family to get a Bea, which can be best described as a giant burst of everything sweet with a tiny side of trouble.

I'm not sappy. I don't get overly gushy with my children and their milestones. I wasn't like that with Lu and I'm even less like that with kid #3. 

I have a parent magazine that somehow arrives monthly in my mail. On the last page, they feature a reader-submitted photo with caption. This month's "winner" is a baby grabbing a piece of birthday cake and shoving it in her mouth. It's adorable, but the caption is ridiculous. I'm paraphrasing, but it says something about how the captured scene sums up her daughter's approach to life. Really? She's one. And you just put cake within her reach. Don't over-analyze! Her approach is "eat the cake!" Next it will be "poop the cake!"

Then it snowed, just a little, a few days ago. And I became a mushy mess. I led Bea to the window and pointed out the fat, wet flakes falling, swirling. Watching her watch the snow was totally emotional. I could sense, feel, see the circuitry firing in her little red head. Fine and beautiful. Smart and perfect. "Wait. I've seen this before. I think. And I've heard about it. It's snow. It's really snow. Right now." The sense of wonder was almost too much. 

Then it turned to rain and Bea went about coloring on more walls. Maybe the tiny side of trouble is more like an entree at a steak house. Thank God for the Magic Eraser. I know I've written about the Mr. Clean bottle I played with as a child. Well, our relationship continues. Those fantastic rectangles of space-age foam-ish material are ah-may-zing!

Bottom line is - I love Bea. We all do. She is constant entertainment. She is the light of our lives. And now she is two! Wish me luck.

No, you are not a loser. 
(Unless you consistently ignore me in the cereal aisle.) 
She is telling you she's two. Happy birthday, Beatrice Gail!

I'll have cake! But, please, no more Charleston Chews.

Crazy.
The hurricane. And Halloween.

We were (barely) ready for Hurricane Sandy. We moved furniture off the deck (in the rain), we put the Styrofoam graves in the garage (they would have blown to Ohio) and we hauled things upstairs from the basement. We also decided to dine out and save the food in our fridge for when we lost power. We were sure we'd lose power.

Jon had a plan. And part of this plan revolved around our ample supply of frozen chicken that he claims is unusually large. (We have four packs of breasts. Hardly large or unusual.) No worries, he reassured. Should the worst case come to pass, should we be stranded without electricity, should the entire town shut down, we would boil the chicken! Yes, we would have a chicken boil and we would all live. He referred to the chicken boil a lot. I think it gave him comfort amidst the chaos.

Keep in mind, we have a gas stove we can manually light, so boiling frozen chicken is a legitimate option for survival's sake. But why not sauté the chicken or fry it up? Brown it. Sear it. Ten out of ten people surveyed prefer their chicken any way but boiled.

Jon also grew a hurricane mustache. I prayed hard for SEPTA trains to un-suspend service. Get these husbands back to work!

In anticipation of the inevitable power plunge, we ate three consecutive meals at local restaurants. Bea has totally turned a corner when it comes to dining out, meaning she isn't a crazed lunatic anymore. It's sort of nice. She'll even look directly at the waitress and place her order, clear and certain. It's always "cake." She says it with such hope, but doesn't seem disappointed when a grilled cheese arrives.

Sandy struck and we were very, very lucky. Never lost power. Only a few branches down. Lots of frozen chicken spared. Others weren't so fortunate. I can only imagine the misery.

Our area had spotty outages so the township sent an email suggesting that maybe residents consider moving Halloween to Sunday. Flaky. Our neighborhood decided not to heed their "suggestion." Then on Halloween afternoon, the township sent another message officially postponing Halloween until Sunday. So ridiculously confusing! Some kids went out on Halloween and others will go out on Sunday. Many (my kids!) will do both. Two days of Halloween. What a pain in the a#$! It's November, I want to take anything with a smiling pumpkin or a black cat or a bat or a spider and pitch it. Now.

And I want to stop eating Charleston Chews. My teeth hurt.

Cool.
It's incredible how two children from the same parents, raised in the same (haphazard?) style could be so completely different.

Lu took to water very early and very easily. When she was two, she liked performing the dead man's float - to the shock of half-asleep lifeguards. She preferred the sensation of being submerged.

Edy, not so much. Until recently, she was still holding her nose. I admit, this drove me crazy. I'm not proud. I had little patience. "Stop holding your nose! Jump in, blow air out. It's not hard. You're fine!" Then she'd choke. Then I'd sigh with frustration. I was always, always comfortable in the water. Lu was just like me. Why was Edy so awkward?

Over the last year, I've watched her try very hard, face her fears, and come a long, long way. She swam in her first "winter" swim meet last weekend. From the balcony, she looked so tiny and the pool looked ginormous. I had a rush of regret. Maybe I pushed her too much?

Nope. She was great. The best behind-the-block dancer I've ever seen! And a pretty promising swimmer, too.

She swam five times. The announcer called her "Eddie" for the first four races. Her final event was the 100 IM. Four laps for the girl who just stopped holding her nose. When she hopped onto the block and the announcer read her name, I realized she had corrected him for this last, important swim. Lu would have never, ever been so brazen.

Yes, they are very different. Edy may not be a natural in the water, but she's no Eddie, either.

Unfortunately, the swimmer next to her, named - ironically - MacKenzie, wasn't as bold. There was a typo in the program and she was listed as MacKenzire. All day. Over and over. I talked to her frustrated mother. How do you not catch that? How does the announcer read "MacKenzire" and think that's right? I guess people name their kids all sorts of things. But MacKenzire?

Not your orb-inary Friday night! Boo!

I'm feeling totally terrified. And I like it!

Tonight I have a date with an old friend to tour a real, live haunted house. I guess it's more like a real, dead haunted house. No kids. Just silly us.

We got together a few years ago for a Chester County Community College event that featured a man who wrote a book about being haunted. I'm not sure if I received credits on my transcript or not, but it was so, so bad. The book itself is awful (Edy could create better sentence structure), but the actual presentation was even stupider. So stupid, it was amazing. We giggled the entire time. The sort of disruptive laughter you can't conceal. Here's the book review. Three stars is way generous.

Tonight's quest is the Selma Mansion in Norristown. Check it out. Chills, right? I'm going to try very hard not to giggle my way through it, but I probably will. Restless spirits, prepare to be angered!

The house was built in 1794 by a Revolutionary general. One of his sons, born in the mansion, would serve as Governor of Pennsylvania. The Knox family lived at Selma in the mid 1800's and unfortunately 3 out of four of their children and the mother died of yellow fever within a very short time. That's not good. Unless you want to experience a little Halloweeny fun. Then it's perfect! Wish me luck!

Crazy.
Once upon a time, October was pure excitement. It meant lots and lots of scary tv shows that weren't aired during the rest of the year.

There was a series called Scariest Places on Earth that I loved with a (disturbing) passion. It was narrated by the spooky medium lady from Poltergeist (and organ player from Sixteen Candles), Zelda Rubinstein. I seem to also recall another series hosted by Linda Blair. These shows were special because they were on for a limited time only, part of a Spooktober Scare Fest or something similar.

But their popularity made money-driven tv executives (the only kind that exist) decide to fund more paranormal shows. More and more. And broadcast them all year long. Soon the market was so watered down, it just didn't thrill anymore. It's like that line from The Incredibles, "Everyone can be super. And when everyone is super, no one will be."

And speaking of super, that's my super over-analyzed complaint about ghost shows on tv. I know I probably lost you a few paragraphs ago.

Cool.
Tonight! I'm ready to escape the safety of my happy home and potentially cross dimensions. Or, at the very least, take a few pictures and capture a few orbs.

I love another cosmic coincidence story.

I am sitting in what is called a boutique hotel feeling happy and well-rested. My comfy room is clean and funky. Funky in a good way. (You can’t be clean and funky in a bad way.) I’ve stayed at nice hotels that have icky elements - rusty vents, dirty rugs, questionable stains - and must rely on my trusty Benadryl. There have been too many Dateline NBC episodes investigating hotel grossness for me to sleep a single minute without its sedative qualities.

But this hotel appears to be perfect which is fantastic because a.) I forgot to pack my Benadryl and b.) I don’t own an incriminating blue light.

My only complaint is how hard they are trying. The decor is ultra hip and modern. I adore the bathroom wallpaper and the settee by the window. In the lobby, there are several brightly painted busts of Ben Franklin dramatically lit. Feels a little disrespectful. (Or maybe not. He was a character.) Every elevator has random pictures and scenes of weirdness plastered where I totally expect mirrors. In one elevator there’s a classic portrait of a woman. But get this, she has a mustache! What?! So unexpected! I missed the mirrors.

One of the elevator walls. A fireplace? No way!
Never got a shot of the mustached lady.

This morning, Jon went off to work and I wandered around looking for a Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia. There are probably 1,000 Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia. Of course, I ended up at the one on Market Street. It was packed, but I waited. Then they ran out of Pumpkin Spice syrup when my drink was finally "up." A clueless young fella was sent to the back to find it, but he never returned. So they sent a clueless young lady to find him. Then the manager got involved and eventually found all three. I got my latte and it only took an hour.

Cool.

We won our night in the boutique hotel at an auction last year. Then in May we decided to use it for our 15th wedding anniversary. Everything was in place for an overnight escape, when Jon called from the UK explaining that he wouldn't make it home in time. Grrrrr.

My niece, Nicole, is our go-to childcare angel. She started nursing school in May and was very busy throughout the summer making it impossible to reschedule. Grrrrr.

In October, Nicole was given a new rotation that leaves her weekdays free. The hotel gift certificate expires in November so we decided to book something on a weeknight. Use it or lose it.

(Sorry for all the boring details. It gets better.)

We picked a Wednesday because it is soccer-free and we chose the 17th because Jon was definitely in town. When I thought about the date and did some very basic math, I couldn't believe it.

October 17th was our original high school anniversary. The one we celebrated for ten years before we were married. And this October 17th marked 25 years since Jon asked me out at Jennifer Esser's party. Right before Seth Sonstein sprayed the fire extinguisher all over the dining room furniture and the cops came.

So we missed our anniversary, but we really didn't. Try explaining that to the waitress who brings you a celebratory bottle of champagne.

Crazy.

Twenty-five years! That’s a crazy long time. I feel lucky. And old. But mostly lucky. I bet Jennifer Esser's parents have gone through several sets of dining room furniture and have perhaps even forgiven Seth Sonstein in their hearts.

I survived my birthday. And so did you.

I have a lot of Libras in my life. I'm sure there's an astrological reason, but I'm not aware of it. Right now I'm in the thick of celebrating their existence. My dad, my sister, and two of my closest friends have birthdays within ten days of each other. Flavored card envelope glue is not a bad idea.

You may be surprised to learn that I myself am not an even, balanced Libra. I'm a Taurus and sometimes a Gemini depending on the horoscope source. Being born on a cusp causes split personality, or so I've been told. Being born on the cusp of the twin sign, heaps on extra insanity, by my own assessment. Lots of personalities fighting for control. Every day. No wonder I'm tired.

Crazy.
Everyone can agree, the best gauge of your birthday's worth is the caliber of celebrities who share it.

I share my birthday with Mr. T, Ray Bradbury, no wait, Raymond Burr (I get them confused), Judge Reinhold and Al Franken. Then a lot of people I never, ever heard of (Latin soap actresses?) and I've heard of most people.

Conclusion: my birthday is a big, fat dud. Or was until the world almost ended.

May 21, 2001 was supposed to be "it" for all humanity. Remember? I guess that's pretty cool? A psycho preacher did some wacky math and chose my birthday for the apocalypse. Mine! And Mr. T's! We'll take it!! Notoriety is better than nothing.

When the earth kept spinning, I turned 40 (bleh) and bought a t-shirt no one will understand once another prophecy trends. The ancient Mayans are betting (the lives of young virgins at the edge of a volcano) on December.

The fact that no decent celebrities were born on May 21st means my birthday is due. Maybe Kate and Will's baby (I'm still convinced she's pregnant) will be born on May 21st? Or the scientist who cures cancer? Or the next big break out star? Perhaps that blog writer star is me?! I have dreams of grandeur! Or at least one of my personalities does.

Cool.
On Monday, I went to dinner with two friends I've known since elementary school. When we get together, we always go to The Cheesecake Factory and we always order sour apple martinis, and we always complain when we don't get a young male waiter who flirts with us, or at least with Layne because she was our homecoming queen.

This time out, we were celebrating Joby's birthday. She has the best celebrity birth-pals ever. I am very jealous. Dwight D. Eisenhower, E.E. Cummings, Ralph Lauren, Roger Moore, William Penn, Lourdes Leon (that's Madonna's daughter for all you pop culture dummies), Bunsen MacKenzie (who turns 14!) and Stacy Keibler. I wonder if George Clooney will surprise Stacy with a romantic trip to The Cheesecake Factory for sour apple martinis? Unlikely. I read in People that she adheres to a very strict diet. I would rather drink martinis and enjoy unlimited dairy than look like her. Not worth it. I might be lying. No, I couldn't live without cheese.

Old friendship is the greatest. Relaxed and comfortable and supportive and funny. You don't stay close to someone for decades if your humor isn't compatible. We usually laugh and cry and laugh in that order. Every dinner. Every time. We are mutually making the best of our mayhem, successfully parenting 8 kids between us, and venting regularly at an over-hyped chain restaurant that is never not crowded. Life is good.

But it's also scary. 

What helps? Knowing a friend of 35 years won't ever exit your scene, especially when that scene has three pages of appetizers. I am certain, there are many, many crispy crab won tons in our future... 

and fewer and fewer flirtatious waiters. Sigh.