Miss Kitty's seen better days...

Like when Jen was here. Not only did Jen make our house literally smell like roses, she also did the dishes, groomed the cat, and made the bed. And now, Kitty is once again thinking she's royalty, this is her kingdom and I am here only to serve her Iams and make Mack's life better suited to lounging with her.

Fine then...

Apparently my challenge wasn't very... well... challenging. My mind is busy being creative about other things like HALLO-FREAKIN-WEEN!

Anyway, here's the real reason Jen posed at Muscle Beach. I think his name is Dark Sexy, but I'm not positive. Jen was the one who got his number...

Extreme Tourism...

Jen is a tourism super model. She does all the right poses and is just so when it comes to getting her travel pictures taken. This makes assembling Martha Stewart-esque scrapbooks much easier.

But in the case of the photo below, Jen played up her tourist persona to bring you a very special glimpse of Muscle Beach. Can you tell what it is? Leave a guess in the comments and then I'll do a big reveal in a couple days. The first winner gets a trick or a treat... I get to decide.

A little toupee experiment

Jennifer is here. Suck it to the rest of you who want her. I won this weekend.

We've had oodles of fun that involves bicycles and margaritas and ravines and minimal blogging, but for now, I offer you this: a segment we call "uh, what's up with the hairpiece?"
Hey, we tried to be perfect, but alas, Mother Nature issued other mandates. Since it's been a losing battle, we've instead opted for perfect fun, which, to quote my future president, makes us potentially a little "too awesome."

Lisa, this one's for you...

Just about a lifetime ago, I had the privilege of being an observer of "A Summer of Staches." The "SoS" was a season of change for several of my guy friends, wherein they all agreed to grow mustaches and wear tank tops.

Lisa asked earlier this year if anyone had photographic evidence of this event, and while I had a mental picture, I just could not find the physical one. I pulled out boxes upon boxes of photos, making Mack think I'd caught the crazy that Barbara Hershey gets in Beaches when she's all, "I've got to find the picture of my mom's hands or else my daughter will die!"

I gave up and assumed it'd been lost in the move. Until last night.

While tidying up for Jen's visit (just 10 more hours!!!), I was trying to toss Mack's microphone to the top of the bedroom closet. It decided the top of the closet wasn't where it wanted to be, so it took aim at my head. I fell into the shelves where I keep my hot rollers to dodge its attack, and in my state of grace, I knocked a decorative photo box off the shelf. Photos spilled out chronicling misplaced moments from my life, and there, at the bottom of the pile of memories, folded in half, was The. Stache. Photo.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

Sitting in our respective spots in the living room, after watching a thrilling episode of Project Runway and eating pumpkin muffins for dinner, Mr. T looks my way with a glint in his eye that means he's thinking about something not related to judo.

"We've had some great adventures," he says.

"Season Finale, part 1...," I remind him, ruining the sweet moment that's about to slap me in the face.

"How many other couples can say they've been to Africa and to a McDonald's diner together?" he ponders.

"Or to jail."

No, this is not "baby fever"

But, come on, when meat collides as it has in this photo of my neighbor Sadie and her cousin, it needs to be shared with the world.
So as not to explode your mind, I cropped out the BABIES KISSING, because that would have been cuteness overload and the kiss was really not letting the meat have its moment.

Now, if I could just get my chub to look that cute...

Riddle me this...

Right, so, okay. There's this thing. It comes once every four years, but it lasts only about two minutes. And basically. Yeah, basically, people have died trying to get this thing. Uh huh, they've died. Like more people than have died in Iraq have died trying to get this thing. And now EVERYONE has it. Everyone. They've given it to Every. Single. Person. It's doesn't cost a penny. But it could cost you everything if you don't do it. So, what is it?

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

Mack slumps into the house after a long day of school and discovers me hard at work on his computer. Reading stories.

"Babe, seriously, can we get some groceries?" he whimpers. "I really can't go to school all day and not eat."

I tenderly point out the fact that it's not the we don't have food... it's that he won't make it. If it doesn't come in a microwaveable bag or a banana peel, suddenly it ceases to exist.

Broken into a state of ludicrous from starvation, he turns into a crabby monster.

"Don't treat me like I'm a baby," he huffs.

"Stop acting like one and I won't," I tenderly retort.

"Get out of my face and don't talk to me the rest of the night."

Normally, I would have thrown some hate back in his face because that's what makes us happy, but he was hungry, and I know how hungry can make you insane.

Like when I'm hungry (or tired), I turn into this:
I tenderly stood up, left his computer, went into the kitchen and started cooking every morsel of food we had in the entire house. I made him two grilled cheese sandwiches, a dinner plate's worth of green beans, pasta salad with green beans, basil and tomatoes from our garden or my Aunt Becky's garden, potato salad and tuna salad. Then I went to the grocery store and replenished some of the snack stash, even throwing in a bag of hydrogenate-free chocolate chip cookies in the hopes that it would sweeten him up a little bit.

And that is why I earned an A+ in wife today.

I'm sad about this.

I love the scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman eats 50 eggs. In no way am I a film expert, but that scene is executed to perfection. The ludicrousness of the challenge, the humor of Luke's distended belly, the rallying prisoners -- it's tense and dramatic and comical all wound up together in a dreamy little package of time.How do you pay tribute to the life of a man like Paul Newman, a man who happily stayed married to his wife forever and who started an organic food movement long before it was cool? I think it starts with a bag of Newman-Os, a tall glass of milk and plans to escape.

Smooshie Muahs

I love being this close to other human beings. I love squashing our faces together and forgetting whose arm is whose and letting our heartbeats make sense of it all. Thanks to those of you who let me be this close to you. It makes this life worth living.

The Endorsement Series (Part 9 in a Series)

When I visit my mom and dad's house, I eat basically every nut they have in their house.

They have Everybody's Nuts Pistachios. Ate 'em. They have Blue Diamond smoked almonds. Devoured. They have Blue Diamond wasabi almonds. Well, they HAD wasabi almonds.

I just can't help it. Nuts are like salty crunchy goodness wads, and I am weak in the face of salty crunchy goodness wads.

I crunched through every nut in the house, and then, on the way to the airport, just when they thought their nuts were safe, I discovered the Blue Diamond Cinnamon Brown Sugar Almonds that my dad keeps in the console in the event that during his workday he realizes he's skipped 6 meals and is on the verge of a coma from improper nutrition. His near-death starvation couldn't even stop me from popping a handful into my mouth.

Come on, they taste like CHRISTMAS MORNING, people! A nut that is like Christmas. As if I could resist that.

Just go out, buy them, and hide them in a special place like a little squirrel does with its winter nuts. Deez nuts.

Making Messers

Leiah and Matt finally did it. No, they did that a LONG time ago. This time they did this.
During a whirlwind trip home to witness the nuptials and share my over-sized bosom with relatives I haven't seen in years, I think I managed to get in 11 hours of sleep.

The whole weekend was like a slurry of sassy comebacks, which basically means it was like a long weekend in heaven for me. I went out with Leigh and Heather to soak up some "Is that Sarah Palin?" glances. I got to have a beer with my cousins Isaac, Ryan, Nate, Andrea, and Taylor, all of whom I haven't seen in years and are even more fun as adults than they were as kids. Aunt Tina and Aunt Becky made my mom smile that way that only her sisters can make her smile, and I had an impromptu family reunion right outside the restroom with the Hensleys, who all seem to be gradually turning into Mimis and Pas. I think Magnolia actually emits light from her bright personality. Of course, Seth was there too... flunking on his ushering duties and trying to grow facial hair. I got to spend the night at Betsy's apartment and be jealous of her tiny furniture and her ability to make random feel orderly -- and I got to perform some big sister duties against some newly discovered larvae in her bedroom. I got to teach Ben the importance of the clink when toasting, even though he was drinking out of a sippy cup.

The only thing not perfect about the whole affair was the absence of Shan, Chaz and the Sweet Meat. But, they were huge parts of the story telling and big sources of pride for the rest of us, so while they weren't there in physical form, they were represented well by the words hanging in the air.
I talked too loud, I barked too many orders, I laughed too hard, I revealed too much, I generally overdid everything. It was like I was on Life Red Bull or something, and now, now that it's calm enough for me to bathe responsibly, I am sick. Like sinus pressure, hacking cough sick. Like the sick where your colleagues say, "Um, maybe you should go home," and you retort, in the voice of a 13 year old boy because that's all the voice you have left, "No, I'm okay. I've got some tea."

I wouldn't change it for the world.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

The room becomes filled with what can only be described as bombed by a Porta Potty.

Me: Did you just shit your pants?

Him: No, you were just ignoring what I was saying so I tried to communicate with smells. 

Never before in my life

Normally I steer clear of political discourse because I get too mad to listen to people who don't care about those less fortunate than them and I am admittedly far too uninformed to challenge their way of thinking. And, in my house, even though Mr. T & I live on the same political page, he is black and white and I tend to swim around in murkier realities. Then he gets exasperated at how rageless I am and I shut down at how rageous he is, and then I make a mental promise never to discuss politics again. Ever.

But lately, especially since the Democratic Convention, I have been smiling at the TV in ways that are usually reserved for episodes of Wife Swap. I have been doing my dishes to speeches that make me take my sudsy mitts into the living room to worship the orator. I have been moved to approach voter registration tables to thank the people for working to get others involved. I have felt a kinship to people who I'd normally have nothing in common with, and all of this has given me a sense of peace.

This is going to sound nuts, but Barack Obama does for me what I imagine Jesus does for others.

He inspires me to love my fellow humans, he makes me feel valuable, he gives me courage to be myself, he teaches me that truth and honesty are the best defense and the greatest unifiers, and he shows me that being friendly is heroic. He gives me hope.

I have a very unfounded but very present fear that the world may in fact end in the year 2012. I know it's ridiculous. I know it won't happen. But things are just so bad and there are just so many coincidences that point to 2012 and the environment is flashing a red alert and I don't even have an earthquake box ready! That little voice whispering, "Twenty Twelve!!!" in the back of my head won't shut up all the way and keeps me in a constant albeit low level state of freaked out.

But ever since Obama has taken the political stage, I feel like we've had a second coming. Like we've been given a bonus chance to get it right. I don't feel afraid, but rather feel optimistic, like we may just come out of this alright. We may just be able to keep loving those we love and breathing the air we've become accustomed to. We may just settle down and stop running all frenzied until we die. We may start taking care of ourselves and stop being so damn greedy.

I have voted in every election I have been old enough to vote in, but never before have I been motivated to do much beyond that -- beyond placing my fate in someone else's hands even though I know it's really up to me and me alone. Unfortunately we have created a situation where I am not enough anymore -- and I am hard working, college educated, healthy, blessed beyond belief. I can't pay down my student loans because they've done nothing but accumulate interest since I got out of school. I can't afford to add my husband to my health insurance policy because it would prohibit us from paying our rent. I am not enough, and something needs to change so that those who are hard working, college educated, healthy and blessed beyond belief won't have to feel that they aren't enough.

Obama represents that change to me. His is the first campaign that I have donated to (meagerly yet always significantly appreciated). He is the first presidential nominee that made me want a campaign T-shirt. He is the first candidate that I have actually wanted -- and trusted with my well being.

Vote Obama.

Take This Milton Keynes!

Charles is always so braggy about England's impromptu witch hunts and strange festivals where they give babies dirty cats to chew on, so I wanted to share a little of what goes down in Venice, where I live, and where strange happens basically every weekend. And, I'm doing it in comic form because I know how Charles LOVES a Chick Tract!

Partying Down with the Virgo Babies

One of my best friends and my favorite nephew both have birthdays in September, so when the two collided on my front stoop on Labor Day Weekend, we had choice but to throw a party.

Sadie, the creepy monster who lives upstairs with her mom and dad and security dog, is turning 1 on Sept. 12, and Ben, the love machine with the goldilocks and shark chompers, is turning 2 on Sept. 15. I believe birthdays should be celebrated for an entire month, and the only way to teach the kids that is to start them early. That's where I come in.

I may have spoiled it for the rest of you by getting first dibs on the party, but I got what I want, and the squirts got what they wanted, so we win.
[Note: this is a slideshow from that Smilebox thing. It's admittedly more annoying/less cool than the scrapbook thing, but I wanted to try it. The pictures are cute enough to make you watch all the way through, though.]

Scrapbooking

[Note: I got a free copy of this scrapbook/slideshow software called Smilebox when I was at BlogHer. It's normally $40 for a subscription, and then a few bucks extra for music options and ad-free slideshows and photo albums. It's very cute software, so if you like it, now you know how to get it.]

Precious Moments

There are several things that are incredible about the following. First, Ben is voluntarily on the sand. Secondly, he is having fun on the sand. Thirdly, Leiah did not vomit despite spinning round and round and round. Fourthly, I restrained myself and did not right then and there kidnap that angel baby and flee to Mexico.

A Letter to John McCain

Dear John,

I don't think you're a bad guy. In fact, as far as Republicans go, you've always seemed somewhat mild mannered and reasonable. If I shared a table with you at a wedding, I wouldn't find it altogether miserable, and I certainly wouldn't rub my armpit on your chair and swab my crotch with your napkin, which is what I think Republicans usually deserve (except Jennifer, who I love). But as a presidential candidate?

John, come on. You're turning 100 years old soon. You admit you don't use the Internet. You've got that weird thing where your arms are stuck like Barbie's, which I'm sure is probably from all that torture you survived but it's still weird looking. You're not bad; you're just not right.

I don't deny that you are an asset to the United States, that you have served more and better than I would be willing to, that you make the Republican Party (except Jennifer, who I love) seem less insane and evangelical. But this presidential campaigning is just wearing you out.

It doesn't help that the guy you're running against is not only charismatic and charming and brilliant and deliberate and affirming and confident and stoic, but he's also young and sexy. Well, younger and sexy. When you try to come off as young and hip against Obama, you look older than ever. And it hurts me to watch, especially when all those idiots in your party (except Jennifer, who I love and who is not an idiot) start whining on your behalf after they've made you do things they couldn't stand up to the scrunity of.

So, pack up your dignity, hold onto your self respect, go back to being a rational right winger, and act your age. It'll help you save face, I promise.

Love,
Miss Thomas