Oatmeal Cookies

Oatmeal cookies remind me of my grandmother. Not just any oatmeal cookies, but her oatmeal cookies. And the smell of her oatmeal cookies reminds me of the way she would get dressed in a skirt or slacks with a pretty sweater or smart button down shirt every single day. Even if she wasn’t going to leave the house. Her hair and makeup was done by 7 am, and each piece of jewelry perfectly in place. And she always wore a pair of stockings with heels or flats. In fact, I don’t ever recall seeing my grandmother’s bare feet. Although, I'm pretty sure when I was 10, I may have caught the tiniest glimpse during one of her lightning-fast quick-changes into socks when she took us bowling. But I’m not sure. She was that fast. Stockings were truly her second skin. My feet, however, loathe stockings. My feet are bare pretty much all the time. In the winter I may put on some socks simply to keep warm at night. And every now and then, I will wear flats or running shoes. Heels are quite rare. Flip flops are pretty much standard. Even in the winter. I justify this by saying I live in southern Arizona. But I’m pretty sure my grandmother (and people from places like North Dakota) would never understand the reasoning behind this.

So, without fail, my grandmother would get “dressed up” every day. And never wore flip flops. For me, most days consist of jeans and a t-shirt if I’m going out somewhere. At home – I would be lying if I said anything other than “pajama-like” wear. I often wonder what it would be like to have the energy and gumption to actually get dressed, looking totally put together every day of the week. It sounds like so much work. But my grandmother did it. She was a classy lady. Me, not so much. I think I must’ve missed out on that gene.

And so the the smell of freshly baked oatmeal cookies is like looking at a picture of my grandma. This is the reason why I pull out my her recipe every now and then. Sometimes it’s just to remind myself that I could put forth a little effort and dress up my wardrobe somewhat by wearing skirts and heels every now and then. And then I laugh, because that is just ridiculous, crazy-talk right there. So I really pull it out mostly for memory’s sake. Like this week. While I can’t necessarily say that oatmeal cookies are at the top of my list of favorite sweets this time of year – can anyone honestly put oatmeal out there as a contender when it comes to pumpkin flavored concoctions, and chocolate drenched treats, and (my personal weakness) cheesecake? No? No one? That’s what I thought. But against these odds, I tend to make a few batches each year around the holidays. My grandmother was wonderful in the kitchen, and it’s my way of sharing my memories of her with my children. But I mostly make them for my dad. And my grandfather. Because I know if the smell and taste of her oatmeal cookies does for them even a small part of what it does for me, those cookies are a crunchy, crumbly, sweet river of memories. The legacy of love can show its face in many forms. And sometimes it’s in the form of a cherished oatmeal cookie recipe.


"When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are gone, after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust "The Remembrance of Things Past"

Poor, Neglected Blog

I just realized it’s been 89 days, 2 hours, and 2 minutes since I posted anything on my poor, neglected blog. I sure wish I had something interesting to post now. But… I don’t.

The One In Which I Make Excuses

Although my social calendar has been absolutely filled with a whole lot of nothing, the whole paving-the-way-for-a-better-future-and-more-meaningufl-life-thing (aka: nursing school) has kind of overtaken our household and kind of gets in the way of my blog.

That, and Facebook. And Twitter. I've succumbed to the ease of one-liners.

I promise it's only temporary. And by temporary, I mean at least another 6 1/2 weeks. But, I can assure you that on, or before, May 11th, I shall receive short-term parole from the jailhouse that is nursing school and will grace all ya all with my bloggy presence.

All 2 of you.

Or probably just myself. At least I enjoy my own company.

Zoinks! Scooby-Doo & Aerosmith

My kids love, love, LOVE Scooby-Doo. In fact, they’re watching it right now. Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed. Nowhere near as awesome as the retro Scooby that I loved as a kid. But truth be told, I think they like the old stuff better, too. And what's not to love about the shenanigans of the Scooby-Doo gang? Freddie is cool. Velma is smart. Daphne is quite the fashionista. Scooby is lovable. And Shaggy is...well, he's Shaggy. Like, Wow!

Put them all together with a groovy van, some spooky ghosts, and a mystery to solve, and you have something quite priceless.

And timeless. Seriously, the Scoob is older than I am. Zoinks! This got me thinking...what makes something “timeless”? Did you catch that nice transition - Scooby-Doo to timeless. Sometimes I amaze even myself with the all the randomness floating around in my head. That I can jump from one random thought to another without skipping a beat. And I digress. Yet again. Man, oh, man.

So when I think of things that are timeless, I think of Louis Vutton bags. Embroidered Polo shirts. Marilyn Monroe. Heinz ketchup. Scissors. Dick Clark. Coca-Cola. Barbie. Egg cartons. Tiffany's. Zippers. Legos.

I'm going to go ahead and add two more things to the list: Scooby-Doo and Aerosmith. That's right. I said it. Scooby-Doo. And Aerosmith. It's simple, really. They both grooved through the 70’s. Rocked through the 80’s. Jammed through the 90’s. And they’re still around today. Old. Yet relevant. Aged. Yet contemporary.

They adapt and modernize just enough to keep up with the times. Yet at the core of it all, they’re still the same. It’s still Scooby and Steven Tyler. Shaggy and Joe Perry. The Mystery Machine and Sweet Emotion. Scooby snacks and Crazy. Scrappy and Run DMC. In 2009, we’ve got CAD animation and Guitar Hero thrown into the mix. But still, Scooby Doo and Aerosmith are truly timeless. Just like Grace Kelly. And Audrey Hepburn. Minus the beauty. And exquisiteness. And sophistication.

25 Random Things About Me: Extended Version

1. I am a little bit obsessive about the way my dishwasher is loaded. All the spoons go in one slot. Forks in another. Knives in another. Plastic cups on the upper right. Glasses on the upper left. Plates lined up largest to smallest. Ummm…I’m kind of making myself sound a little craaa-zy, so let’s move on to number 2.
2. I wanted to have 6 kids. I have 2. I would be overjoyed to be blessed with 4.
3. Although my husband has been a Pilot for more than 10 years, I have never flown with him. I don’t really know why. Oh, wait, I think that it might be the whole motion-sickness thing. The older I get, the worse it gets.
4. I sometimes have to leave in the middle of a movie at the theater because of the whole motion-sickness thing. It’s quite sad, really.
5. I love, love, LOVE Crate & Barrel. My heart skips a beat when I receive a white cardboard box with big, bold, black lettering on it. Probably much the same way as those girls who get the little robin’s egg blue box with a white ribbon. Please don’t get me wrong, I would love one of those, too. But I would probably be just as happy with a shiny new kitchen utensil from C & B.
6. Three of my most favorite movies are The Princess Bride, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and Pulp Fiction.
7. I am devoted to keeping my eyes open for “thin places”…those places, points in time, people that subtly yet vividly reveal the presence and glory of God.
8. I want to raise my children in a small(ish) town. But not too small. It has to have a Starbucks. And a Target. Or there at least needs to be one within a 25 mile radius.
9. My daughter was born at home. Unintentionally. It was the single most empowering experience of my life.
10. Soup. Not canned. Mushroom soup. Split-pea soup. Potato soup. Wild Rice & Chicken soup. Posole. French onion soup. Soup, in general. I like it. A lot.
11. It is almost impossible for me to tell someone “no” even when I know that I should. I’m a Pisces. It’s in my nature. Now that you are aware of this fact, please don’t use it against me. Because if you seriously ask me to do your laundry and pull your weeds, I probably will.
12. I’m an Arizona native. And I’ve never lived anywhere but Arizona. I think I’m ok with that. Although I harbor this secret desire to move to Idaho. It just looks so welcoming. And yes, I know that people only move from Idaho and not to Idaho. And I’ve heard about the white supremacists and the meth – I just like to think that maybe they’ll be eradicated by the time I get around to moving there.
13. My dream car is a ’69 Camaro SS. Red with white racing stripes. One day. If they’re not first banned by the government because they are not “environmentally friendly.”
14. My hair is naturally curly. It’s a love-hate relationship.
15. I am infatuated with black & white photography. If I could wake up tomorrow and have any career, it would be that of a photographer.
16. I love the smell of a baby’s head. It’s probably the most innocent smell in the world.
17. My favorite food: tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and a chunk of ciabbatta bread.
18. Orchids have recently become my favorite flower. If only I could learn how to help them survive in my house. It is a goal of mine for 2009. First, maybe I should buy a new one to replace the one that died last summer. Then I can concentrate on keeping it alive.
19. Pinot Grigio. Zinfandel. Red. Not Pink. Pink is for the middle of your steak or a diamond. Or breast cancer awareness (save the tatas!). There are just some things in this world that should not be pink. Like wine. And cars. And socks.
20. Enameled cast iron cookware, stand mixers, food processors, stainless steel, a Viking stove, a SubZero fridge…the stuff that dreams are made of.
21. Willie Nelson. Coldplay. Allison Krausse. Pearl Jam. Cowboy Junkies. U2. Eric Clapton. Snow Patrol. Eagles. Grace Potter. Johnny Cash.
22. I never, ever thought that mounted deer heads would be a part of my home décor. The deer remind me that compromise and tolerance are essential to a happy marriage and home.
23. I only eat red gummi bears and red jelly beans. It kind of drives my husband crazy. He now refuses to let me anywhere near his candy stash. I remind him that I have not only one, but two, deer heads in my house. He doesn’t care.
24. I feel that my purpose in life is to live one filled with grace. To teach my children to do the right thing. And to “have faith and pursue the unknown end…”

I Am Not What They Are Looking For

I have some terribly excting news for you!

And by "terribly exciting" of course I mean "so-boring-it-might-make-your-eyeballs-roll-back-to-your-tonsils."

Go to Google and type in the following: "where can i buy bellmama stretch mark cream".

I'll wait while you open up a second browser window.

Look. Do you see it? My blog is the second entry on the results page! Really! REALLY?

Really, does it have to be? I have goals, people, but this, I am sad to say is not one of them. Seriously, being found on Google under strech mark creams? Thanks Mr. Google-Search Engine-Guru-Man for keeping me at the top of the list on this one. It is truly a highlight in my bloggy-career.

All I have to say is that I am probably not what that person was searching for.

(edit after posting)

So it seems that by virtue of the tagline alone (where can i buy bellmama stretch mark cream), my blog has now been promoted to slot numero uno on the google search engine. Here was the original search result:

THIRTY SUMMERS
But, I didn’t buy it 6 months ago. Or 3 months ago. Or even 5 weeks ago. ... My Peaches n' Cream Barbie from 1985 only cost $8.05...and she was ..... And he must be there before the first bell. Mama don't make me miss the first bell. .... that don't leave a colorful, permanent mark on the furniture, walls, or body? ...

Speaking Of Piñatas

...I thought the life size Little Mermaid piñata was just a myth.

However, for Brynn's 4th birthday, my sister-in-law, Lori, informed me that she was going to bring a piñata over for the birthday girl. If it fit in her car. She drives a full-size SUV.

And that is how we became the proud owners of one of the largest piñatas I have ever seen. In fact, instead of making that dreaded trek to the mall for the kids to sit on Santa’s lap this year, I just set the piñata up at home next to the Christmas tree. The kids dictated their wish list to Ariel the Little Merry-maid while sitting on her paper mache’ and tissue paper adorned lap. I even put a santa hat on her mane of fiery red locks for posterity.

Now, she just kind of hangs out around our house. Mostly in Brynn's room, but every now and then she gets adventurous. For some reason, she likes to visit my bathroom. When I’m not looking. And wait behind the shower curtain. Patiently. Then, at the end of a long day, I go to take a nice, hot shower, and……

...she never fails to startle me. Every time. Each and every of the half a dozen times or so that she has played this little game. Oh, Ariel, you sneaky, sneaky girl.

She also likes to wait here in the middle of the night...

Disconcerting. To say the least. After the initial startle response (again), comes amusement. If one can be amused at 3:00 am when there is a life size piñata sitting on her toilet. At least I have a husband who likes to make me laugh. One who keeps me from taking myself too seriously in life. One who has an odd sense of humor. Seriously. Do you see Ariel sitting on my toilet? In the middle of the night? Someone had to purposely wake up after I had gone to sleep just to put her there. And that, my friends, is what I find truly disconcerting.

That, and the fact that if we are ever going to use this piñata for her true purpose, I’m afraid we might have to take out a small personal loan to fill it up with candy. Or maybe I’ll just pray that the kids will pass out from the sheer exhaustion of beating the heck out of a gargantuan piñata.

And then they will fail to realize they only got a few Starburst and a Tootsie Pop for all that effort.

If You Could Have Any One Quality, What Would It Be

I'd like to be more generous with my time.
I'd like to be more generous with my money.
I'd like to be more generous with my patience.
I'd like to be able to sing.
I'd like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony.
I'd like to have Supernanny Jo's childrearing skills.
I'd like to be tan.
I'd like to have more energy.
I'd like to be better at managing my time.
I'd like to exercise more often. Or, at all.
I'd like to continue being the "best-mama-ever". Even when my children are teenagers.
I'd like to be able to subsist on three hours of sleep.
I'd like to be less scatterbrained.
I'd like...

Oh, wait. That was any one quality, wasn't it? Sorry. There are a lot of things I wish I was.

Apparently I fall short.

When Your Favorite Pen Is Gone For Good

I've officially called the search off. I've searched high. And low. And under. And in. I've even searched the chair. But that beautiful, beloved Pilot Dr. Grip Ltd. Gel Pen in Platinum has eluded me now for weeks. The trail has gone cold and I don't think it is ever coming back.

There's this secret little place inside of me that mourns for the loss. Is that strange? Yes. Yes, it is. I admit that it is a little bit odd. But it was such a good pen. And it cost $7. That's alot of money for a writing utensil. I could have bought 96 Crayola Crayons (with built in sharpener) for that price. That's a lot of color. With fascinating choices like "Atomic Tangerine." And "Unmellow Yellow." And "Razzmatazz." And my favorite, "Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown."

96 Crayons. 96 colors of Crayons. A much better choice than some silly, smooth-writing gel pen that made my penmanship *shine* with precise, flourishing strokes. Some silly, little pen that just took off, and is gone for good. But I'm not bitter. Nope, not at all.

Quote of the Day, Revisited

"No."
-Anonymous

Such Is My Reality

My life the past two weeks...First day of kindergarten. Search entire city of Tucson for a "KinderMat." First day of preschool. First day of preschool meltdown. Pink lunchbox. Blue lunchbox. Don't put the blue ice pack in pink lunchbox. Don't put the purple ice pack in the blue lunchbox. Wake up. Get the-not-a-morning-person-till-she-gets-her-morning-"milky"-little-girl her morning milk fix. Shower. Scramble eggs. Get kids dressed. Turn off Clifford. Brush kids teeth. Comb kids hair. Leave 2 minutes and 32 seconds to get myself dressed, put on makeup, brush my teeth, make sure my hair is doing whatever it does without being too crazy. Leave the house. No later than 7:41 am. Otherwise the kindergartner does not get there before the first bell. And he must be there before the first bell. Mama don't make me miss the first bell. Wade through morning traffic to the sweet little preschool. Drop off mostly grumpy little girl. Go to UA bookstore. Lug 100 pounds of textbooks over a mile to my car. Pre-employment drug screen. Pre-employment physical. Pre-employment paperwork. Show needy real estate client her 48th house. Pay my bills. Pay some more bills. What? Didn't we just pay the water bill? Trader Joe's. Target. Costco. Target, again. Nursing school orientation. Write needy client's third contract this month. Wait in a mile long line to pick up kindergartner. Take chihuahua to Auntie's house for a sleepover with cousin Mia. Pack for weekend camping trip to Mt. Lemmon. Notified by child that I have forgotten chocolate for s'mores. Trip to Walgreen's for Hershey bars. Came out with chocolate bars, bug catching nets, bubbles, facial cleansing cloths, apple juice, some velcro tennis ball and mitt game thingy. Waiting for Granny and Grampa to pick us up for camping. Try to squeeze in 10 more emails before I am sans technology for the weekend. Put tent up in the dark. Without husband. He's still in Tucson waiting for his paycheck. Paying more bills. Didn't grab the sleeping bags. It's kind of cold at night when you're at 8,000 feet - even in Arizona in the middle of summer. Thank goodness the well-prepared grandmother had a comforter. Little boy with tummy ache. Little girl who kept rolling off the air mattress. Mom in a tent in the mountains not getting sleep. But nice to get away before it all starts again. Full day of hospital orientation for new part-time job. Still need to get three more 20 pound textbooks. And a PDA. And some other stuff that I can't even remember at the moment. Realize little girl's 4th birthday is only 2 days away. Presents. Yeah...need those, too. Pink frosted cookies from Safeway bakery to share with little friends at preschool on birthday. Store-bought because parents are no longer able to take fresh-baked goods to school. Or cut fruit. Or fruit that requires slicing prior to serving. Or anything that is not commercially processed. With each and every ingredient labeled clearly on the package. So store-bought it is. At least it saved me from staying up until 1 am frosting little pink cupcakes. Now I have time to try and find a little bit of free space in my brain to even begin processing the thought of planning a birthday party. Worry that someone will make me feel guilty for not being on top of things. Oh, yeah, that person is me. First day of nursing school tomorrow. And my brain already hurts. Such is my reality.

It's Like "Blades of Glory," Only Better

Men's Springboard Synchronized Diving.

Really? Are we sure this isn't a contrived competition that serves the sole purpose of promoting Will Ferrell's next movie? Something along the lines of Talledega Nights meet Semi-Pro meets Blades of Glory? Oh, Olympic Committee, what will you think of next?

Blink

gray december skies
platinum crown of silken hair
my heart grew tenfold

blink.

a sweet sleepless spring
tiny hands and clear blue eyes
you relied on me

blink.

ready to explore
held my breath and let you go
my heart walks around

blink.

little man, size 2
a wisdom upon your brow
you bring me purpose

blink.

independent boy
exact, precise, curious
my heart follows you

blink.

compassionate soul
butterfly kisses we share
you make my heart sing

blink.

across the schoolyard
that hair just gives you away
my heart skips a beat

blink.

a grand adventure
on your own - kindergarten
I blink and your gone

Greatest Inventions Ever

1. The Refrigerator - what would our lives be like without it?
   
2. Indoor Plumbing - need I say more?
   
3. The Television - only like the greatest babysitter ever! oh...I'm kidding ;) (I think)
   
4. The Washing Machine and Dryer - does anyone else have a child that changes clothes five times a day? What? No, you say? Well, can I send her to live at your house for a while so that I can have a break until my long-awaited Laundry Fairy shows up? Do any of you internets have her cell phone number?
   
5. Crayola Color Wonder Markers - seriously...invisible writing utensils that don't leave a colorful, permanent mark on the furniture, walls, or body? And keeps the kids busy for more than 2 minutes? Amen to that!
   
6. The Internet - could care less about how it works as long as I got me some high-speed!
   
7. Trader Joe's - hey, this is my list. If I want to call a commercial enterprise that supplies at least half of my household's groceries at a reasonable cost an invention, then I will!
   
8. Air Conditioning - in the home: fabulous; in the car: a precious commodity; absolutely necessary when it is 108 degrees outside; absolutely a tragic loss if it stops working at the end of July when it is a 108 degrees outside. I don't roll so well with all four windows down in the middle of summer - honestly, how did they do it pre-1960's? Oh, yeah. They didn't live in Arizona.

Things We Lost In The Chair

Important discovery last night: nothing irritates a slumbering husband more than being nudged awake at 12:52 am to perform emergency surgery on a large piece of furniture that may have... kind of...accidently...and inadvertantly swallowed the wife's cell phone.

Not that I didn't try to rescue it on my own. For like an hour. Because there is nothing I hate more than committing an obviously careless act and then having to enlist the man of the house to help. And then on top of it, having to endure a mini-lecture at 1:00 in the morning on the proper way to take care of a cell phone. Detailing why men are more responsible with important things. Like keys. And rings. And cell phones. They always have them physically on them or in an exact location on the kitchen counter that never changes. Blah, blah, blah.

Even when a sometimes random, slightly neurotic wife goes on one of her cleaning sprees - keys and cell phone stay where they are. Because "we must have order!" Order, I tell you.

I'm not so good with order. I like to change things up every now and then. Just for fun. Actually, it's because I have this thing with repetition and routine. Case in point - the movie Groundhog Day. It drives me crazy. Especially the beginning of each scene that keeps repeating the day with the alarm clock turning to 6:00 am and Sonny & Cher's "I've Got You Babe" playing...ughhh it's driving me crazy just thinking about it! And there I go digressing, again.

So, back to the cell phone being eaten by the chair. I tried all the basic cell phone rescuing techniques taught by the American Red Cross. Shoving my hand into the dark, scary crevice of the living room chair that is filled with crumbs and hair and dirt and a juice box plastic straw wrapper and goldfish crackers. That lasted about 1/2 a second as I just could not stand the thought of all that nasty touching me and getting underneath my fingernails. I then moved onto the turning-the-chair-upside-down technique. I realized later that this is probably what caused my little black cell phone to end up wedged in what can only be described as the Bermuda Triangle of the La-Z-Boy.

So, if the turning it upside down technique didn't work, then the next rational technique would be rotating the chair through various positions - on the side, on its back, on its side again. That would surely do the trick, right? Not so much. After about an hour of such effort, a little bit of cell phone clunking sounds, and at least 30 calls to myself to try and pinpoint the exact location of the phone in the chair, I realized it was time to call in the big guns.

The big guns that were sawing logs like a bear in hibernation. The big guns that would not really understand the importance of getting a cell phone out of a chair in the middle of the night. The big guns that would rescue a damsel in distress. I hate being the damsel in distress, but my phone is a part of me. Like my arm. Or my legs. Or my sight. Or my hearing. Absolutely necessary. Even at midnight.

Long story short, after 20 minutes of intricate surgerical procedures, Dr. Laz E. Boy (and he sometimes is) extracted my beloved cell phone from that mean, hungry chair. Really. We needed a scalpel and suction. Okay, okay...really just kitchen scissors and a vacuum, but let's just say that I performed some extaordinary surgical nurse techniques. Like making sure the chair didn't fall on top of the doc. And sterilizing the O.R. by sweeping up all the debris. And continuing to repeatedly call the cell phone so we could tell if it had moved. Primitive techniques, people. No x-ray or ultrasound machines needed here.

And there's a bonus (or two, or three) to this random, middle-of-the-night event - we are now $0.41 richer, found the fluorescent orange Polly Pocket shoe that has been missing for like months, and since I didn't make it to the grocery store the past few days, now have some goldfish crackers for snacktime!

Score! Now I have some "Mommy Points" to offset the "Dumb Blonde Points" that I sometimes accrue through little things like leaving my cell phone sitting next to me while I watch TV and then having it accidently be eaten by the chair. Or something like that.

I Have Always Believed that My Children are Destined for Greatness

Honestly, what in tarnations is going on here? Any of you who know me (or my husband) can't possibly believe that these children are truly in possession of our genes.

I would rather take two tired, hungry, and ill-behaved children to Costco on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer than pose for such pictures. Oh, wait - that Costco thing? I already torture myself with that on a regular basis. So, I guess I would rather lie on a bed of nails or something, than pose for such pictures. Really. Even as a kid. Wouldn't do it.

Odds of my husband committing such an act: 1 in 6,230,000,000,000,000.

Peace out!

PS - do you notice the translucent quality of my children's skin...weird, huh? We actually don't need nightlights in our house. We all glow in the dark. No, really. If we were all standing out in the middle of the woods without flashlights or lanterns, moths would start flying around us all confused and like "hey, these guys aren't porchlights or lanterns, what's going on here?" And I would be like "hey, sorry Mr. Moth, but the Celtic genes hit us full force. Now, go away because I really hate flying insects actually touching me, let alone talking to me. Seriously. Shoo."

Places I Would Rather NOT Be

Death Valley, California - average high temperature of 134 degrees Farenheit
Kebili, Tunisia: 131 degrees
Tombouctou, Mali: 130.1 degrees (that .10 is a killer and definitely the tipping point)
Tirat Tavi, Israel: 129 degrees
Ahwaz, Iran: 128.3 degrees

All I can say is that I am infinitely grateful not to be in any of those crazy-hot places!

Note: Today's high in Tucson: 110 degrees, highest record temp: 117 degrees in 1990...still way to flippin' HOT for me to function at a normal level. 74 degrees is more my speed.

It Keeps Me In a Continual State of Inelegance...

The trouble with the heat is that it's hot. 108+ degrees hot. And it's only mid-June.

Which means that over the next 60 days, my intolerance to heat will continue to build to an astronomical level until one day my husband will come home to find me sitting in a bathtub full of ice cubes. And frozen vegetables. And those little ice packs shaped like smiley faces that are supposed to help make scraped knees and boo-boos feel better.

The thing about Southern Arizona summers is not necessarily the fact that walking barefoot on the sidewalk at night is out of the question. Or needing to slather 6 layers of SPF50 sunscreen all over yourself and your translucent children before stepping outside. Or being required to complete all outdoor activities before 7:03 am. It's the overall feeling of irritation. And a constant disagreeable disposition. And every so often, a little bit of heat-induced rage. But that's just me.

In my book, summer is highly over-rated. Probably because, as a Tucson native, scorching heat is all I have ever known. Next summer, I'm going to Idaho. Or Montana. Or Greenland.

Minute Maid 100% Apple White Grape Juice Box Trivia Questions

• Question: If you were a 3-year-old, how many times would you ask for a juice box before you finally gave up?
• Answer: 623

• Question: And if you were a mom of a 3-year-old who would ask you 623 times for a juice box before giving up, how many times would the 3-year-old have to ask you before you would finally give in, just begging for her to please leave you alone already?
• Answer: 9

• Question: And what if you were the mom of a 3-year-old who starts asking for cupcakes at 9:45 am, using the same juice-box inquisition tactic she achieved success with 7 minutes earlier?
• Answer: Lock yourself in the bathroom and curl up in a ball on the floor with your hands over your ears and your eyes shut tight. Counting slowly. To 623.

It All Started With a Chihuahua

Have you ever started one project that turns into about three or four or seventeen others? Yeah...that happens to me all the time. And then my usually dormant OCD kicks in and I just can't stop. Even as I am typing this, all I can think about is cleaning grout.

This time, it all started with a Chihuahua. A peculiar little thing named Josie. She has a penchant for keeping her nose warm by tucking it directly under the attached end of her tail (gross) and leaving "Josie trails" on fiberous surfaces (read: peeing on every single carpet and/or rug in the house). So, I asked my wonderfully kind and patient husband (six months ago) to please remove the carpet in our bedroom before I set fire to it the very next day. Six months came and went, and I just could never bring myself to light the match. I am sure that if I had, I would not have been happy with the results.

So, finally, a few weeks ago, the joyous day came when the husband just woke up one day with only one thing on his agenda (well, two if you count being a lecherous dork): to pull that carpet outta' there.

(Shhhh...don't tell him, but really I stayed awake all night whispering a hypnotizing chant in his ear: "I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out..." You should try it sometime. Sure, you're tired the next day, but when you've got your husband doing all the chores and taking care of the kids for the day, you can sneak off and take a nice little nap!)

Now that the carpet had been exterminated and laid to rest, I could proceed to the next task - paint. It started with the ceiling in that ever-daring hue of Roadster White. Which is really just a very light cream color, but Ralph Lauren wants you to think it is fun and exciting by throwing in the "speediness" of Roadster. RL is very cutting edge like that. I'm sure he is always thinking about the salability of a can of paint. His niche in the paint market is probably the bulk of his retirement plan. That, or the dozens of other home lines he endorses. Or that genre of clothing called fashion design. That area of culture that I know nothing about or have any interest in. I was born without the fashion OCD gene. Sorry, RL, but I tend to prefer jeans and cotton t-shirts. And your color palette in the paint section at Home Depot.

So, back to my paint. Everyone knows that when you paint the ceiling, you are going to have to paint the walls. And when you paint the walls in your master bedroom, you are going to have to paint the master bathroom. And when you paint the master bathroom, you are going to have to paint its ceiling, too. And when you live in a house whose previous owner loved high-gloss paint in the bathroom, you are going to have to put a minimum of two coats on. And while the two coats of paint are drying, you notice that, boy, the grout in your floor tile is really gross. So you go to Home Depot. And you buy some heavy-duty, burns the skin on your hands and knees grout cleaner. And everyone knows that after you have spent an hour scrubbing grout lines with heavy-duty grout cleaner and a toothbrush that it MUST be sealed to prevent such grossness from ever occuring again. And just for safe measure, two coats of sealant with a minimum of 1 hour dry time between each application must be used. Just for safe measure. And when you get to the doorway of the bathroom, you realize that it looks great, but makes the rest of the tile look even worse. So...if you just keep going, things will be just fine.

Except that it is 10:30 pm on a weeknight. And you have finals to study for. And final projects to work on. And the rest of the house is a disaster. And that unreliable laundry fairy didn't even feel the need to stop by to help out while I battled my compulsive behavior. Obsessive compulsive behavior. And it all started with a Chihuahua.