This May, we bought a house, and I ordered my husband to build a raised garden bed. I came home to a raised rhombus, and, because the pioneer woman told me that you cannot have a rhombus bed, I made him redo it. This, I think, was foreshadowing to the rest of the gardening experience. Observe, two sides of our raised bed:

normal raised bed, right? The plant escaping from the box is a Seminole pumpkin, native to our area and great at climbing trees. The basil I purchased at Publix and then planted out of pity is clearly thriving, and one of the pepper plants is also doing great.

Now let’s look at the other side of the box:


I’m just trying to decide whether the bed is half empty or half full. I guess that’s life, though. Pumpkins take everything over, and strawberries are dying. In the meantime, I have been forced to purchase $2.50 pints of strawberries at Publix. Shameful.


5th year

If anyone is ever bored, I highly advise having a kid, waiting for 4 years, and then sitting back to enjoy the show. Yesterday, for example, my son colored all over himself in blue and purple markers as camouflage to sneak up to the cat (the cat didn’t fall for it, but then again, the cat really doesn’t like moving, so sneaking up on him isn’t a high achievement).

My baby also instructed me to film him commanding battle droids and post it on facebook for his grandparents. The battle droid scene started with my son sticking a plastic blind-turner he got who-knows-where down his shirt and pretending it was an antenna. “Darth Vader, we have too many good guys. Send more battle droids. SEND MORE!”

What really made the scene were his pajamas, which featured a teddybear face and the word HUG. I love the mix of babyhood and active kid that I am seeing these days – he is straddling the line between needing to hold my hand when he falls asleep, and having adventures that I’m too boring to follow. I love this age.


It’s so me!

I admit that I love giving out backhanded compliments. I mean, once I ate lightly all day so I could appropriately stuff myself at the Melting Pot, so the Godiva chocolate martini hit me pretty hard. As I was revving up into fully social, laughs-loudly-at-everything tomato, a high school acquaintance showed up to do magic tricks at the table, and told me that he makes a great living as a magician. After he hugged me, I laughed and said, “well good for you! Who knew that wasting your high school life on magic tricks could actually come to something!”

What? That wasn’t a compliment at all? Yeah, I was surprised at my words, too.

Anyway, back to compliments. Given clear instructions to purchase a knee-length sleeveless black dress for a wedding, I showed up in a simple dress adorned on the front in chiffon roses. I didn’t choose this dress specifically for the flowers, it was the only dress that I could find that fit within the request parameters.  Others showed up in a wrap dress, a strapless dress, and a simple black dress.

“Oh, it’s a good thing you’re not wearing jewelry”, the wedding coordinator said while eyeing my dress with distaste.

“What, is it too much? This is the only dress that I could find!”

The bride smiled and said “no, don’t worry about it, it’s so…you! And that’s exactly what I wanted, for everyone to feel like themselves!”

Why is it so me? Why are flowers on the front of a simple black dress so me! I mean, if I had to choose a defining characteristic of my style, I would pick, “work until late, run into a store 30 minutes before closing, try on all the sleeveless knee-length dresses in the inventory, wrench my neck out by trying to get out a complicated dress quickly, grab the dress that makes me look the least like a mommy kangaroo, and run back out in time for dinner.”

Naturally, I smiled, and then mulled this phrase over for the past three days, and you know why? Because that’s so me!

The death of a lizard

If there is anything that should be shared with the world wide web, it’s that my husband is the rescuer of lizards.

As soon as a lizard runs into our house,  Husband and Son launch a tactical operation I call 4C. It goes like this: (a) Call Cat away; (b) Capture lizard; (c) Castigate lizard gently for stupidly running into the den of the Cat; and (d) Carry Lizard outside.

I don’t like lizards and the best that I can do is ignore their presence, or shake my head sadly and say, “oh lizard, you have just sealed your death” and then go to work, or go to the kitchen, or go outside, or go hide in the bedroom and pretend like I am currently not sharing a house with a scaly creepy animal that can cast off its tail on command and then leave it in my shoe.

This morning, my son found another lizard. Unfortunately for the lizard, Husband was already at work, so I started to lie to my child.

“Baby, that’s not a lizard, that’s just a piece of wood you must have carried it in and forgot.”

“Are you sure that’s just wood? It has the shape of a lizard without a tail, and I think it blinked…”

“Yes, I’m sure. Look, it’s not even moving. A lizard would move, right?” and I confidently walked away.

Somewhere in the house, the Cat is probably having a delicious snack, and it’s all my fault. I’m sorry, lizard of the morning. You should never have shown yourself without your protector at home.

Angel of femininity

Today, I wanted to wear the Ann Taylor pants – the very same striped pants that so horrifically betrayed me three weeks after purchase by unraveling at the hems.

I own a very beautifully decorated sewing box gifted to me at my wedding. I am not needle-less. I have spools, I have a pincushion tomato (speaking of tomatoes). What I don’t have is patience or capability to sew, although I am really good at threading a needle, because I have steady hands and eagle eye sight. Wait, I don’t want to lie to you, internet ether. I actually have 20/30 vision in one eye, and need eyeglasses with one prescription lens and one glass lens. I asked for a monocle, but my insurance doesn’t cover it.

I’m sorry, back to my original point: what’s a girl who wants to wear unraveled Ann Taylor pants DO? I don’t know! I chose to carefully staple the hem back together. With staples. Metal staples. From a stapler that I found in our house junk drawer. I mean, if staples are good enough for doctors, then they’re good enough for me, am I right? I’m totally right.

A friend confided that she is also not great at sewing, which is why she safety-pins. Safety pins – OF COURSE. That probably would have made more sense.

So, who wants me to bake a pie by taping together some flour and eggs? Just kidding, I’m amazing at making pies. Just kidding, I make my husband bake! Such a catch (me, of course).

Momon housewives readership, here I come!

Like son, like mother

Whenever my son takes his blue bike with training wheels out for a spin, he slowly pedals down the street while yelling, “TOO FAST! I’M GOING TOO FAST! I SHOULD SLOW DOWN, SHOULD I SLOW DOWN?” The snail crawling 2 mph faster than my son, his bike, and his training wheels, probably laughs to himself (snails are assholes).

“Where does he get this weird caution? I’m not like this at all, and you’re DEFINITELY not like this!” I muse to my husband, who, for some reason, never answers the question.

This weekend, our friends invited us to go bike riding, something that I immediately expressed great interest in and knowledge of, until it came to actually ascend on the bike. The saying is true – everything is just like riding a bicycle, except riding a bicycle.

I suddenly found myself hurtling down a residential street and screeching at the top of my lungs that THIS IS TOO FAST, I’M GOING TOO FAST, SHOULD I SLOW DOWN, I SHOULD SLOW DOWN. The bike was in the first gear (gear 1? #1 gear? Best gear in the world? I don’t know the phrasing here), so objectively, I was probably teetering back and forth while standing in place, but it certainly felt like it was too too too fast.

Eventually, after I told my husband that I just couldn’t do it (also something my son says frequently about things such as putting on PJs), we ended up going on a lovely 5 mile bike trip, although everyone else refused to agree with me that we were just like Sons of Anarchy, only using a much more environmentally friendly mode of transportation.

This is probably what it feels like

When doves cry.

If you have ever wanted to cry for days over a broken heart, then you and my four year old son have something in common. Pain, tears, listening to Dave Matthew Band’s “Stay or Leave” on repeat.

As with any heartbreak story, I have to begin at the beginning: today’s mandatory Fun Trip to the ocean (you know, the trip where you insist in a high-pitched voice that IF YOU DON’T STOP BEING AFRAID OF THE WAVES AND HAVE FUN RIGHT THIS MINUTE, WE ARE GOING HOME). The beach was fantastic – small pieces of plastic majestically breaching the shore, cigarette butts, seaweed, rumors of the Horrible Evil menacing society (jellyfish – is there anything creepier than transparent sea creature? the answer is no), and the never-ending blue sky.

At some point, my four year old son was given a balloon in shape of a sword. He was in love, for ten minutes. [As an aside: I have read that, aside from picking a niche for your blog, you should also include lots of pictures. I have included below the most terrifying picture of a balloon sword that I could find on such short notice. Incidentally, I am exploring my niches. Yesterday, this was a pet blog, and today it is a mommy blog. Maybe tomorrow, it will be a photography blog!]

This is ten million times more frightening than today.Tragedy struck. The balloon, to put it delicately, shuffled off its mortal coil, and my four year old sat down on the ground, opened his mouth, and began crying. Grape-sized tears rolled down his red face, and – this is how I could tell that he was truly gripped by woe – into his mouth. If you’re crying directly into your mouth, it’s usually because a pet died or your graduate school slipped a notch in rankings, but no, not for my son.The balloon had burst as easily as a soap bubble. The dream of a silver balloon sword dissipated. And the only way out – the only solution for him, was to sit down on the ground and begin throwing a fit RIGHT IN PUBLIC. Y’all, you have not known true embarrassment until your child sits down in the middle of a public beach and cries hysterically over a balloon. TRUST ME.

I didn’t capture any pictures of the moment, but if you combine the sad parts of The Notebook and the angry parts of Bright Eyes songs, you will understand his pain. Maybe.