Homeless, Hipster, or Redneck: A Guide to Distinguishing The Younger Generation
I remember as a teenager that my mother was often aghast and confused at the things I found fashionable. This seemed especially true whenever one of those trends was a throw-back to something she had an association with from her own childhood. When I went through a bohemian phase, I remember her asking me why I would want to dress like a hippie, the word hippie dripping off her tongue with the same contempt that one might use for the word pervert or cancer. I remember . . .
the form letter for unmet expectations
I have found myself in another crushingly busy season where every day I look at the tasks on my to-do list, look at the time I have allotted for completing said tasks, and then wallow in a pit of despair because I AM TYPE A AND THAT’S WHAT WE DO. I am seriously so behind in every single area of life that I’ve decided to just make up a sort of multiple-choice form letter that I can email to people, highlighting the answers that are relevant to that particular person I have . . .
the lengths I will go to in order to avoid making a phone call
I've been wanting to get a piano for our house for almost a year now. We previously had a baby grand but it took up too much space, so we sold it and then my plan was to replace it with an upright. But Craig's List . . . it's just so much work with the calling and the appointment-making. Finally, this week I found a piano at a local thrift store. Only $99! It's really plain but that's what I was wanting, because my plan is to paint it. Okay, imagine it now . . .
so you think you can create a complex dance metaphor
The kids and I are catching up on some So You Think You Can Dance. This show feels like a bit of a milestone for our family, because it’s the first show that we actually all watch together and enjoy. Well, I should clarify – I enjoy. The rest of them beg me to turn it to Jake and The Neverland Pirates every five minutes, and then I threaten to just turn off the tv altogether, and then they huff and acquiesce because a show about dancing is better than trying to entertain . . .
a moment like this
I went to an Idina Menzel concert this afternoon. IT. WAS. AMAZING. Even though my fantasy of Taye Diggs joining her onstage for a duet did not happen. Nor did they spot me sitting in Row 112 Seat K and ask me to come down, sing a number with them, and then become a sisterwife. But unmet expectations aside, she put on a good show. When I got home I had several notifications on facebook. It seems that Kelly Clarkson gave Rage Against the Minivan a little shout-out . . .
ants in my pants
When someone asks me what I blog about, I often describe my blog as a collection of humiliating stories about myself. And then I ask myself, 1) why do I take glee in telling such stories, 2) why do I seem to have such a plethora of such stories, and 3) why do others enjoy reading them?I’ve leave the last question for you to ponder. But for your schaudenfraude pleasure, here’s what happened on Wednesday night.I was preparing for class, as usual. Wednesday is always a frantic . . .
of skulls, yellow pants, and the awesome that could have been
Oh, so much drama surrounding picture day. Jafta's was last week. The night before, we went to a pumpkin patch. And by pumpkin patch, I mean a bunch of bouncehouses in the parking lot of a mall. We let the kids jump to their heart's content, and then let them get their faces painted. (Side note: the gal who painted their faces was a lovely young woman who was also transracially adopted from foster care. She told us her story and proceeded to thank us for . . .
how to avoid oversharing in online spaces (keeping it real link-up)
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 . . .
homecoming buzzkill
I came home on a high from my trip to New York, excited to see my kids and longing to be home. When the taxi driver dropped me off at our hotel, I could feel my blood pressure go up. It's not that I forgot that's where I was headed. It just felt like such a downer to have a hotel be the stage for my homecoming. Not five minutes after hugging my kids, I started to feel that familiar grip of anxiety, claustrophia, and displacement that this little suite holds. Soon after, . . .
the new “mom jean”
I am gonna pull from the vault for my post today, since I don't think anyone wants to hear about my slow decline into madness at the hands of four children in a small hotel suite. I was thinking of this old post as I went on a quick trip to the mall yetserday, and walked into Urban Outfitters, which was my favorite store for a long time. My love for this store has abated as of late, following a progression that goes something like this: In high school, I discovered the store in a . . .
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