What's Worse?

I think I may have mentioned a time or two that I believe our family is complete. We have two healthy girls, and in order for ME to remain mentally healthy, two girls is how it will remain.

Now if I'd had to deliver my girls by way of a c-section, I would have done the 'ole tube tying right after Megan's arrival. But since I was able to have them the other way, and since my husband has an aversion to sharp instruments down yonder ... I've had to keep babies at bay by consuming birth control pills. Taking these pills really doesn't bother me. What does bother me is the annual exam I have to endure in order to get the prescription for these pills renewed!

Okay, this might be a good time for you readers of the male persuasion to sign off. Especially those of you that I either attend church with or work with. It's not that I plan on this post being all that graphic, but I am about to share some moments from the last exam I had with my doctor (whom I have dubbed the Russian Rapist.) If you choose to read on, that's fine ... just do us both a favor and refrain from talking to me about it okay? Thanks.

Before getting to the main event, I should back up and tell you that in October I went to my doctor to have her check my blood pressure. I'd been to a new dentist recently and they took my blood pressure there, and it was high (not too surprising since I was at the DENTIST, but still.) Anyway, she confirmed that it was high and that because I was SO YOUNG (thankyouverymuch) she wanted me to do some serious diet and exercise, rather than treat it with medication (NOthankyouverymuch.)

I did what she told me to do (30 minutes of exercise everyday + healthy eating) and within a month my blood pressure was where it was supposed to be. So needless to say I've felt pretty good about my accomplishment in this area.

That was 2 months ago. Since then I have continued with the exercise, but since Christmas, I've had a little trouble getting back to the 100% healthy eating part. But hey, I'm still exercising, right? Right! Yay me!!

Well, today was my exam with the Russian Rapist (RR.) I call her that because:

1) She's Russian (for the slower readers out there.)

2) She's Aggressive (not the best combo for an exam such as this.)

After having to undress in an extremely cold examination room in the dead of winter, I then got to wait 40 minutes for my torture session in one of those hideous "gowns". (And why do they call them gowns? Gowns are supposed to be glamorous, and there is nothing glamorous about these!)

When she finally marched in, she began with the questions ...

RR: Do yous has any questions before I begin?

Me: No. I just need my birth control refilled.

RR: Ah yes, zee birth control. Okay. Done.

Me: Thank you.

RR (while taking my blood pressure): You exercise?

Me (all proud and happy): Yes I do! 30 minutes everyday!

RR: What you do for dose tirty minutes?

Me (even more proud and more happy): The elliptical!

RR: Alright. Dat ees good for cardio. Now to maintain you weight, you do total 60 minutes everyday. If you want to lose weight, you do total 90 minutes everyday.

Me (not so proud or happy): Whoa, whoa, whoa. 30 minutes isn't enough now?!

RR: Tirty minutes is okay for CARDIO. But to maintain weight, you must do 60 minutes. And if you want to lose weight, do you? Do you want to lose weight?

Me: Well sure.

RR: Okay den, you must do 90 minutes everyday.

Me: I'm gonna' have to get up at like 3:30 in the morning to do that!

RR: No, no, no. You do at night.

Me: I don't want to do ANYTHING at night. Especially exercise for 90 minutes!

RR: You eat healthy, no?

Me: Well, I WAS eating healthy until Christmas. Then not as much since then.

RR (apparently done with the small talk): Okay lie back and scoot to dee end of dee table.

Me: Ugh.

RR (while conducting the exam with one hand, she grabbed my stomach with her other hand!): Okay, so you want to geet rid of some of dees, no?

Oh my word! Did she really just grab my belly?! Who does that? Is this a Russian thing? Why do I keep coming back to this crazy woman?

Me: Uh, yeah?

RR (laughing all Russian-ish): Den you better geet you butt on dat elliptical for 90 minutes!

Me: Right.

It was right about then that she took a stool sample. Yeah. TOOK a sample. I wasn't even given the option to GIVE a sample. Oh no, she TAKES it. Last year she informed me, "You forty now. I geet stool sample." Lovely.

Once that's done, I feel this false sense of relief, like the exam is over. I know better, but it's how I cope.

RR: Okay. You seet up now. I check you breasts.

Does the fun NEVER END?!

RR: Okay. Lets see you cholesterol results. Ah, yes. You Christmas eating is showing. It ees up from last year.

Me: sigh

RR (handing me a pamphlet on cholesterol): So you eat better now, yes?

Me: Yes?

RR (smiling like she knows I've hated every minute spent with her): Alright Tamara, I see you in a year.

Me (all depressed like): Yep. See you in a year.

Why do I always walk away from these exams feeling so violated? Is all this really necessary? (don't answer that) And for what? (don't answer that either) A measly prescription to keep me from having more children? I honestly don't know what's worse ... the annual invasion without even a dinner or movie beforehand, or one more kid to suck any and all remaining energy out of me. Hmmm.

A year it is.

Just a Second ...

What is more irritating than telling your children to do something and being met with the response "Just a second"?

Megan has sensed that this delay in obedience has not set well with me (Yelling and spankings are usually a dead give away.) But, rather than obey, she's come up with a phrase that is not only odd, but funny (dang it.)

Me: Meg, go brush your teeth.

Megan: One sec of a midget, Mom.

Me: One sec of a what?

Megan: A midget, duh.

Yeah. What does that even mean? And why a midget? We don't even talk about midgets in our house. Not that it's forbidden. It just isn't a topic that typically comes up, you know?

Well anyway, as long as we're talking about them now, I might as well share a photo of my favorite little person. Mr. Billy Barty:

This is a photo of him in his role as a Bible salesman in the Chevy Chase & Goldie Hawn movie, Foul Play. His face just makes me smile. :)

Guess Who?

There are rare times when my girls enjoy playing together. This afternoon was one of those times. They enjoyed it so much that they wanted to continue their togetherness right into the bathtub. Now this used to be commonplace years ago, but let's face it ... the tub ain't really big enough for the both of them anymore.


I walked in to see how things were going ...



Megan: Mom, guess who he is.





Me: I don't know, who?



Megan: Eddie Eddie Poo Poo, but people call him Daniel.




If MY name were Eddie Eddie Poo Poo, I think I would want to be called Daniel too.

Snap Happy Momma

For as long as I can remember, my mother and maternal grandmother snapped (or cracked? Not sure of the correct term) their chewing gum. It wasn't obnoxious or offensive to me. It intrigued me actually. How were they able to do that without opening their mouth? And more importantly, when would I be able to master such a technique? Did it happen after child birth? Did you have to be over 30 to do it? All I knew was that someday I'd figure it out, and when I did, my mouth would be overjoyed.

Apparently I am in the minority when it comes to liking this sound. I just googled "gum snapping" and was amazed at the overwhelming distain for gum snappers. People really get annoyed at this, I've found out. I guess it's good to know that my husband isn't alone in his dislike of gum snappage.

About 15 (+/-) years ago, I had some old silver tooth fillings replaced with composite filings. It must have been the next day that, while chewing gum, it happened. My gum somehow folded into a groove in my new composite filling, creating a teeny tiny bubble, and without warning, when I chewed a 2nd time, it happened ... it made that glorious snapping sound! I now knew the secret ... the older you are, the more dental work you have done, and thus, the more places in your mouth for gum to get caught and create little bubbles for snapping. Cool.

Alright, not so cool around my husband who is annoyed by it, so I really try hard to not do this around him. And before you ask why I don't just stop chewing gum altogether, I will just tell you that stopping is not an option. I'm a wee bit obsessed with fresh breath, and no, mints aren't good enough. Not even those little mouth strips can take the place of my beautiful gumbley.

Okay, so like I said, I try not to do the snapping thing around Henry, and I keep it to a minimum when around other adults, but around my KIDS?! I should certainly have the freedom to snap away, I would think!

Um, not so.

Last Sunday on our way to church, I was getting in some pre-service gum snaps when I heard ...

Megan: Mom, you reeeally like to chomp your gum, don't you?

Me: I don't "chomp" it. I snap it ... a little.

Amanda: You snap it A LOT. And you're always telling US to chew with our mouth closed, so what's the deal?

Me: I keep my mouth closed when I chew gum.

Amanda: Well it sure doesn't SOUND like it.

Me: Well (I started all defensively) ... humph (I finished in defeat).

So there you have it. No more gum snapping around my family. It's sad really. Since becoming a mom, I've always treasured my "alone" time. Even if that time is spent grocery shopping. And now It seems I have another reason to look forward to being by myself ... at least when I'm alone, I can push my cart and snap the bejeebers out of my gum without ridicule.

So yeah, if you see or HEAR me in a store someday, please just walk on by, and let me snap on. Thanks.

Table Talk

Tonight our school had a Fundraiser at BJ's Restaurant & Brewhouse. This was the perfect excuse for me to not cook, so we went and it was a delightful evening.

Megan ordered the kid's macaroni and cheese with a side of mashed potatoes ...

Megan: I get potatoes mixed up with, uh, what's that red fruit that people think is a vegetable?

Me: Tomatoes?

Megan: Yeah, I get potatoes and tomatoes mixed up.

Me: Well, whatever you do, don't order mashed tomatoes. I don't think they would taste as good as mashed potatoes.

Megan: Blank stare.

After eating about 4 bites of her dinner, Megan kept saying the following phrase while looking at Henry, who was conversing with Amanda ...

Megan: Ugh, I'm full.

Henry: No reaction.

Megan (even louder): Ugh! I'm FULL!

Henry: Still no reaction.

Megan: UGH! I'M FULL.

Henry: Nothin'.

Me: Why do you keep saying that? Are you trying to get a reaction from Dad?

Megan smiling all sinister like: Mom, you're reading my mind!

Me: Ha!

Megan: Mom, do you think I could get a refill on these mashed toma ... I mean, potatoes if I finish them all?

Me: I doubt it.

Megan: Will you ask the guy when he comes back if I can have a refill?

Me: Maybe.

Megan: Mom, whenever you say 'Maybe', you always mean 'No'.

Me: And now YOU'RE reading MY mind!

Dinner ... AGAIN?!

I had this idea over the weekend. This brilliant idea. Since I loathe cooking, why not pick-up a ready-to-eat tri-tip from The Meat Market? Add a couple sides and dinner is done! (I can't believe it's taken me this many years to purchase something from a place that my friends rave about, but yesterday was the day to finally see if it was as good as they say.)


Henry came home for dinner, and while he was here, also made some tasty honey and ginger carrots to go with the glorious meat. I was in charge of the garlic bread, which of course burned (This was the 2nd bread burning since my post regarding the curse by the way.)



Dinner was fabulous (even the bread was edible once I scraped off the burned topping.) And what made it even better? There was meat left over!!! So you know what that means? No cooking tonight either!! This may have to be a weekly ritual. If tri-tip takes care of 2 nightly dinners, that only leaves 3 more weeknight dinners to figure out. One night is always breakfast for dinner (Amanda asked for "dinner for breakfast" Monday morning, and happily ate chicken and rice while the rest of us ate cereal. I thought that was odd. Breakfast for dinner is fine, but dinner for breakfast? That's just strange ... unless it's cold pizza, of course.) Speaking of pizza, Friday nights are usually pizza. Hmmm, that leaves one night for tacos. Yes! My life is starting to look up!

Alright, so like I said before, last night's dinner was fabulous.

Tonight, however, was me (sans Henry) warming up the tri-tip, making bread (it only burned on the edges, which I consider a wild success!!) and serving Trader Joe's spiced chunky apple sauce. While eating ...

Amanda: Mmmm this is so good.

Me: I know!

Amanda: Not as good as last night, but still good.

Me: What do you mean, 'Not as good as last night'?

Amanda: Well, you know, the carrots that Dad made. Those were sooo good, remember?

Me (rolling eyes): Yeah. I remember.


I also remember making the same stinkin' carrots a few days before, but no one said "boo" about THOSE.


THIS is why I hate cooking. Even when I put forth the effort, it's never as good as What's-His-Name.


It may be time to introduce my girls to TV Dinners. Yep. It's come to that.

Laundry Leftovers

Is it too much to expect people to empty out their own pockets before putting their dirty clothes in the hamper? IS IT?! Apparently it is.

MY list of items that are leftover in the washing machine or dryer isn't as long as you might expect, but any kind of list is too long, if you ask me. And you did ask, right?

Up until today, this was my list of laundry leftovers:

Wood Chips

Rocks

Candy

Candy Wrappers

Packs of Gum

Ponytail Holders

Money (unfortunately, this one is not a popular leftover)

Chapstick

Kleenex

Today I got to add this to my list:

Dog Poop Bag

It's true. It was left in my daughter's pocket after she and her sister walked their dogs the other day.

I should probably just be grateful it was an empty poop bag, huh?

I Can Pee WHERE?!

I feel the need to warn you all about the content of this post. In it I talk a lot about poop and pee. And not poop and pee from a child, but from ME. I know! Adult poop and pee stories aren't cute like a child's poop and pee story. So what's wrong with me? Why am I sharing it? And on the WORLD WIDE WEB no less?! Well, it's all because of this odd dream I had last night that brought to mind another time I had "issues" of this nature ... Read on if you dare, but please do so without judging. I did try to warn you.

One more thing before I continue: I would just like to apologize to my mother and to my husband, who will no doubt be mortified by this post.

Okay, so I had the weirdest dream last night. I was in college and getting ready for a date when I realized that I had to go #2 (Yes, POOP.) I wasn't sure there would be enough time to successfully "eliminate" before my date arrived, so I was in this panic mode, trying to get 'er done as quickly as possible. I went into the master bathroom, but was unable to produce anything. Not good. So I thought to myself, "I'll bet this bathroom is the problem. I'll go to the other one." The main bathroom wasn't any better. I was still unable to void (I've always hated the word "void" when used for this bodily function. So naturally I'm using it here.) In my oh-so-rational-dream-thought-process, I figured I should try yet a third bathroom. So I did, but STILL NOTHING. It's not like I was constipated, I just couldn't relax enough to, as my friend would say, "release the crease".

That's when I woke up.

That's also when I realized how thankful I was that I had not been successful in my efforts to defecate while dreaming because, hello? What kind of bed mess would THAT have been @ 4:30 in the morning?!

Exactly.

Alright, so that dream reminded me of childbirth. Well, not of childbirth, but more of what happened to me soon after childbirth.

It had been a couple hours since the delivery, and I remember the nurse coming in and telling me that I needed to try and urinate as soon as I felt the urge.

Sure, no problem.

And then she said something that had NEVER been said to me before:

Nurse: "You know, you could even go in the bed if you want to. There are bed liners, so if that's what you choose to do, just let me know when you're done."

Me: "You mean I have permission to wet the bed?!"

Nurse: "Yep."

Me: "I am so gonna' do that."

Nurse: "Okay, but just be forewarned that some people can't do it."

Me: "Seriously?"

Nurse: "Yeah, it's like their brain won't let them."

Me: "I'll give it my best shot."

Nurse: "Good luck."

So that was the plan. I mean, who wouldn't wet the bed if given permission, knowing that once they did, someone else would clean it up? It was a no-brainer.

Guess what? She was right! I couldn't do it. I tried and I tried, but it was like the 30+ years of NOT being allowed to do it suddenly had a death grip on my bladder.

So not fair.

Christmas Photo Shoots

Do you make your family pose for a Christmas card photo every year? I do.

Do you make your family wear coordinating colors for said photo every year? I do.

Do you go over the edge when your youngest daughter insists on doing her own hair for said photo? I DO!!

Let's just say that I could totally relate to Modern Family's Claire in the last episode of season one. And not once did I think she was being unreasonable or over reacting:

For the past 9 years, I have had full control over what my family wore (except one year involving a white t-shirt, but I won't go there today), and how their hair was fixed for the annual Christmas card photos. Here's just a taste of some of my successful dictatorship photos from Christmases past:

For the past 8 months or so, Megan has been growing out her bangs. And that's fine. Amanda did this a couple years ago, and it really was painless. Mostly because she kept her too-long bangs clipped up and out of her face. Megan, however, seems to enjoy the feeling of hair hanging in her eyes. Kinda' like those beads we used to hang from doorways in the 70's. Okay, I never did that, but I always thought they were pretty groovy.

So once again this year the family wore what I asked (told) them to wear. Amanda let me clip her already grown-out bangs away from her eyes. Megan, on the other hand, refused to have hers clipped up. Excuuuuse meeee??? Does she not know that MOM is in charge here? That this is the one thing I look forward too all year long? That THESE photos are the reason I gave birth to children in the first place?!

So yeah, I spent most of the photo shoot, trying to brush the hair out of her eyes. She has such a cute little face, I just hated for it to be covered up!!

There ended up being 2 poses that I liked a lot. But the one that I liked the most, had Meg's dang bangs hanging every which way but back. If this photo were larger, you'd be able to see the eye obstruction, and I'm sure you would feel my pain.

This one turned out, only because seconds before, I reached back and once again pushed that hair out of her eyes:

I know, I need to get a life. It's just a picture after all, right? (Who asked you, anyway?)

But here's the thing ... as soon as the photo shoot was over, Meg was like, "Mom, do you have a clip? My bangs are buggin' me."

WHAT?! ARE YOU EVEN KIDDING ME?!?!

Yeah. And as if that wasn't enough torment, she INSISTED on clipping her bangs up every day after that photo shoot for 2 WEEKS STRAIGHT!!!

But it's cool. I'm over it.

Monday with Meg

This past Monday was Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday. Amanda was at a sleep-over, so that left two parents with one daughter feeling slightly left-out. We decided to take her to breakfast at Panera. She thoroughly enjoyed her mango freeze and pumpkin muffin. See for yourself:

After that, I suggested we go to the mall so I could spend a gift card that had been burnin' a hole in my pocket since Christmas. They thought that was a good idea.

I don't know who had more fun ... me, getting to buy a few new things (which were marked waaaay down), or Megan who got to fix all of the mannequin's fashion flubs (she has sleeve issues):

So much better.

A Healthy Spelling Bee Host

Amanda is participating in a Spelling Bee next week. This has been a big learning experience for her. She tried out for the team because she's a good speller (duh.) And by good speller, I mean good speller of 4th grade level spelling words. What she didn't realize was that she'd be spelling 5th and 6th grade level words. She also didn't realize that she'd have to learn 1000 words in like 3 weeks. It's been a bit overwhelming, but she's decided to hang in there and make good on her commitment. (Not "good" as in "study her words", but "good" as in "not quit".)

Today I mentioned to Amanda that I didn't know where the Spelling Bee was going to take place ...

Amanda: It's at some school with a long name, "Our Lady of Perpetual Health", I think.

Me: HELP, Our Lady of Perpetual HELP.

Now I suppose there could be a lady of perpetual health out there, but I haven't heard of her yet. Not a bad idea, actually. Who wouldn't want perpetual health?

The Garlic Bread Curse

Amanda's been wanting us to have garlic bread for dinner. To date, I haven't made this for my family. Why, you ask?

1) If you know me at all, or have read even a few of my posts, you know that I hate to cook (I love to bake, however. Is that odd?)

2) Garlic bread is a delicate matter. It's not something you put in the oven and walk away from, which just doesn't work for me. If I can't walk away for a bit, then I'm not gonna' make it.

3) The last time I remember making garlic bread was for Henry, back when we were dating. I burned it to a complete crisp. He was gracious, of course, because I was just so wonderful in every other way (including humble).

4) I've been out of garlic powder for-like-ever.

Okay, so I bought some garlic powder, and last night was going to be the big night: Pasta with marinara and GARLIC BREAD. I must say, I was pretty excited.

Now before I go any further with this, I need all of you culinary snobs out there to just bite your tongue as I describe what went down, kapish?

Alright, instead of looking up in a cookbook what the proper broiling temperature would be for garlic bread, I thought I'd start off slow so as not to burn the bread (200 degrees slow, to be exact.) I put the bread in, and when I checked on it 10 minutes later, it was barely warmed up. And that's when I did it. Something I knew I shouldn't do, but I just did it anyway ... I turned the temperature up to 350 degrees without removing the bread first. I thought to myself, "If you don't take the bread out, it's gonna' burn because the heating elements are going to get too hot too fast." But then right after that I thought, "But it might go in my favor, just this once."

So you already know what happened. It burned. The girls were bummed. I was irritated, and vowed to never make garlic bread again! I also decided that my husband did not need to know what had taken place. He wasn't home for dinner, so why bother him with the details? Oh, and if I haven't mentioned it lately, he's a good cook. So, yeah, I had no intention of telling Mr. Iron Chef about the bread burning.

I thought that was the end of it.

I was wrong.

On the way home today ...

Amanda: Dad said that you're not supposed to turn up the temperature in the oven while you have food in there.

Me: What? You told your Dad?

Amanda: Yeah, so?

Me: For your information, I already know that I'm not supposed to do that, okay?

Amanda: Then why did you?

Me: Doesn't matter.

Whatever, right? Right.

I really thought it was over this time.

I was wrong.

AGAIN.

Tonight Henry came home right as I was trying to figure out which can to open for dinner.

Me: Amanda wants garlic bread again, but I'm not really wanting to make that.

Henry: You know ...

Me: Yes, I KNOW. I know you're not supposed to increase the temperature in the oven while you've got food in it. That's right, she told me that she told you. And just so you know, anything you say to her WILL eventually get back to me.

I also told him that I'd promised Megan we wouldn't have pasta again, because she hated the pasta I made last night.

Henry: Really? She had like 5 or 6 bites of the pasta I made when we got home last night (while I was at a choir rehearsal.)

Me: Seriously? I give up.

Now, just because God loves me and wanted me to feel better, he allowed Henry to burn the bread tonight. It wasn't to the level of scorching that I achieved the night before, but the fact that it wasn't absolutely perfect was good enough for me!!

Maneuvering Manure

Had to dash to Target with Megan while Amanda was at basketball practice.

By the way, have you seen the new Target shopping carts? They're awesome!

Megan wanted to use one of the bigger carts that had 2 seats in back for toddlers. You know the kind? They're like 50 feet long, and very hard to steer.

Megan: Mom, can we take this one?

Me: No.

Megan: Why?!

Me: They're too big and hard to maneuver.

Megan: Manure? Why did you say manure? I'm talking about the shopping cart.

Me: Not manure, MANEUVER.

She asked what maneuver meant. I did my best to explain.

Later in the afternoon, Amanda, who had recently spent the night with a friend who has horses, asked Megan ...

Amanda: Megan, what would you rather do, go shopping or muck a horse's stall?

Megan: Wait, isn't there maneuver in there?

Amanda: Huh?

Me: Manure, honey, not maneuver.

Megan: Ugh!! WHATEVER.

There's a fine line between manure and maneuver. Okay, not really. But when you're seven, they're easy to get mixed up.

Oh, and Amanda announced (after mucking out a stall at her friend's barn) that she "LOVES the smell of manure in the morning."

Nice.

Yada Yada Yada?

Megan likes to ask a lot of questions at bedtime.

The problem with that is: I don't like to answer a lot of questions at bedtime.

Last night one of my answers to her ended in "Yada, yada, yada."

Megan: What?

Me: Yada, yada, yada.

Megan: Yida, yida, yida? What does THAT mean?

Me: Not yida, yida, yida ... yAda, yAda, yAda.

Megan: Okay, yada, yada, yada. So what does it mean?

Me: It's like saying 'blah, blah, blah'.

Megan: Well why didn't you just say 'blah, blah, blah'?

Me: Believe me, I wish I had.

Inventions

Henry, by trade, is all things audio. When friends ask him to run sound for events, he often gets thanked with gift cards to restaurants. This is something that a wife who hates to cook, absolutely LOVES.

Tonight it was time to use the Applebee's gift card. Perfect for dinner on a Monday holiday evening!

After ordering, the girls were coloring their paper menu/activity place mats when Megan showed me hers. The activity she had completed was the "Draw Your Own Invention for Farm Animals" one.

Her invention: A whip for pigs. Once you hit them with the whip, they calm down and walk away. Genius.

We totally need to patent this.

Now if you're wondering why the whip has red claws on it, that's because when Meg told us what her invention was, we laughed. I know. Terrible parents. It wasn't like a big 'ole guffaw, but a laugh nonetheless. This hurt her feelings, and made her think the invention wasn't good enough. We tried to convince her otherwise, but she would have none of it.

Sooo, she added the claws and voila! A pig whip turns into a pig back scratcher!

Nothin' funny 'bout that.

All that JAZZ

How long has the term "Bling" been around? I believe it took over for the word "Bedazzled", if I'm not mistaken.

Well guess what? There's a new word in town, and my Megan is it's founder.

She walked into the kitchen the other day while I was rinsing some dishes ...

Megan: So Mom, how do you like my Jazz?

Me (not looking up): Your what?

Megan: Jazz, hello? How do you like my JAAAAZZZZZ???

I looked over to see her holding up her little arms which were fully adorned with several rhinestone bracelets.

Me: Wow. I absolutely LOVE your JAZZ.

Megan: Yeah, me too. Thanks!

Trust me, people. Jazz is the new Bling. If anyone would know, it's Megan. Mark my words: She's gonna' end up being the Trend Director of some clothing store like her Uncle Brad when she grows up. Or perhaps even a celebrity's personal fashion consultant. One thing's for sure ... God put her in our family, if for no other reason, than to make sure I don't commit some heinous fashion crime. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Perfume Purgatory

I usually "get" to run errands with my girls in tow. Today, however, my husband joined us. This was a big deal for me, because it's just so much nicer when you can share the parenting-while-errand-running "joy" with someone rather than keeping it all to yourself.

We had 3 places to go:

Costco: for samples and food and stuff.

Ulta: for make-up and hair products.

Lowes: for a refrigerator water filter.

I suggested we go to Ulta first. MISTAKE.

It wouldn't have been a mistake had I supervised my children. (Did I just type that out loud?)

We walked in and I said to Henry, "Are you okay if I head over to the make-up section?" He assured me that he could navigate the hair care area by himself, so off I went, overhearing him remind the girls (who were headed straight for Perfumes R Us) that this was "not a toy store." Works for me, SEE YA!

I wasn't gone but 5 minutes.

When I found my girls, I thought, "Wow. How could anyone work in this place? All of these perfumes mixed together is just a headache waiting to happen." (Side note: I have to be very careful when it comes to purchasing perfumes, because my Better Half is very sensitive to overpowering scents and will get an instant headache if it's too strong.)

Okay, so once we were in the car, thinking we had escaped the pungency, it became very clear that most of those perfumes were COMING WITH US.

Henry: Ugh! Who sprayed perfume on themselves?

Crickets

Henry: I'm getting a headache. Who did this? Who sprayed perfume? Was it you, Megan? (wild guess *)

Megan: Yep! But only a few of them.

Henry (Sigh): Please don't do that again.

We rode to Lowe's with the windows down. Not what we typically do in 50 degree weather, but drastic odors call for drastic measures.

* Megan's got a thing for perfume. Not sure why, but she loves her some good smellin' cologne. Okay, it doesn't even have to be good smelling. She just loves spraying smelly stuff on her person. So much so, that at Christmas when she was given a $50 gift card to Kohl's, she spent it all on a bottle of some Daisy Fuentes perfume! Hello? She's SEVEN!