We are officially back in our house after the Great Flood and Exile of 2010.  We’ve been a little back and forth over the past week – packing up the hotel room, unpacking boxes at home, escaping to the hotel when there was too much construction going on here, and then retreating to our house at night when it was empty.  We’ve all been coughing and hacking from the drywall dust.  That or we have mesothelioma from all the asbestos we’ve been living with for the past seven years.  Or black lung from the mold in the walls.

Or the consumption.  I’m not sure what the consumption is exactly, but it sounds very Victorian and tragic.  Yes, I think we all have the consumption.

It has been chaotic to say the least.  When we were gone, every single one of our belongings was either taken to the hotel or put in storage.  So getting everything back to its rightful place (with four kids running around) has been quite the task.  The other night, amidst the boxes, the kids found a huge box full of heavy footed pajamas that I bought on sale at the end of the winter season.  (Yes, I am THAT MOM).  I had planned for these pj’s to be Christmas gifts,  but once they found their respective character favorites on new pajamas there was no turning back.  My kids have insisted on wearing these fleece footies to bed in what I believe to be the hottest week of the summer (in a house with no a/c), and then they wake up in the night crying and drenched in sweat.

Of course, it could just be their fever breaking from the consumption.

In other stories of misplaced things, there was a good week where I could not find any of my underwear.  I packed them from the hotel to take home, and they somehow never re-emerged as I unpacked our suitcases.  I had to make due (make do?) with a couple pair of non-everyday underwear for the last week.  I don’t want to get too personal here, but when I say non-everyday underwear, I think you know what I mean.  The kind you pull out for, ahem . . .  special occasions.  (Like going to the gynecologist).  Not the kind you want to be wearing as you schlep a stroller full of children through Trader Joe’s.

(And as I’ve mentioned before, you ladies who insist that this kind of butt floss is really more comfortable?  You are attention-seeking liars.  Not to mention, I mean, really . . . should you be going around talking about what kind of underwear you prefer?  Show some decorum, people).

Luckily, yesterday I finally discovered a forgotten suitcase in the back of the car, that contained all of my sensible underwear.  Although, the reunion was brief because last night I had a fancy press event at a new restaurant at South Coast Plaza, so I threw some Spanx on and painted my nails just before hopping in the car.

The only thing is, just as I arrived to the restaurant and stepped out of my car, my Spanx (which were not real Spanx, but the generic kind from Target) completely rolled down.  Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. (And if you don’t, I don’t want to be friends with you).  So my non-Spanx are heading south, and my nails are wet, and all I can do is try to suck in enough to make my stomach concave so that the non-Spanx will unfurl (as if), and walk in such a way that there is no further rolling of the Spanx.   When I got to the restaurant, I said an awkward hello to the other bloggers and then high-tailed it to the bathroom where I did some creative adjustments with my elbows to avoid getting nail polish all over my dress.  After which point, I returned to the table where each of us had a formal place-setting, and loudly exclaimed  Dudes, someone put, like, eight wine glasses at each table!!  And then someone quietly explained that this would be a six-course meal with wine pairings.  And then I pretended like I had been kidding earlier, because of course I knew that’s why we each had so many wine glasses, because I am ALWAYS having multiple-course meals with wine pairings.

(no I’m not)

I must say, the Seasons 52 restaurant blew me away, and not just because it was fancy cuisine and I was without small children.  When we arrived I perused the menu and noticed that it was pretty heavy on the rare and fancy meats, and I pulled the chef aside and asked if there were vegetarian options.  Without missing a bit, he whipped up a vegetarian plate for me at each course, and it was truly stunning.  This was the artichoke-stuffed artichoke appetizer.  Because really, can you ever have enough artichoke?  I don’t think so.

Seasons 52 relies on seasonal, healthy food that is locally grown.  I was trying to describe the genre to Mark when I got home . . . sustainable gourmet, perhaps?  Anyways, it was delicious and I seriously ate so much that I felt sick by the end.  And then dessert came. 

Um, yeah.  I had a few Alka Seltzers last night.  And this morning. It was nice to sit with some other bloggers and chat about the “business”.  There was an interesting conversation about online privacy, and how to avoid sharing too much of your personal life with others through all of the mediums of social media.  And I was sitting there feeling very proud of myself for how I present myself as such a professional and perfect woman, and never share too much information in this space or on twitter.

Especially because earlier this week there was a particularly hilarious story that would have been fun to share, involving Jafta’s footie pajamas and a tragic re-enactment of a certain scene from There’s Something About Mary, but I held back from sharing it because 1) it is too personal, 2) it is inappropriate, 3) it would be getting a cheap laugh off of something painful for my kid, 4) it might present a crack in my strong feelings that circumcision is wholly unnecessary, 5) the use of the term “frank and beans” might bring me some unwanted google searches, and also might be considerably offensive to many of my readers, and 6) This particular movie has become Something That Shall Not Be Named in our family ever since I took my inlaws to see it when I was first married.  While Mark was out of town.  Just me, sitting in between my new father-in-law and mother-in-law, and a veeery long scene of Ben Stiller’s alone time in a bathroom as I wonder why in the world I didn’t check the content rating before suggesting the movie.  I’m shuddering just remembering the awkwardness of that moment. So, yes.  I’m glad I maintained my boundaries in holding back on that story.  Aren’t you?

Although I do feel compelled to issue this warning to mothers everywhere: if you are gonna let your child zip up their own footed pajamas, take care that they are wearing underwear first.

Incidentally, I haven’t done a “keeping it real” link-up in a while. Got a post where you overshare? Link it up here.

Rage Against the Minivan
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