1. The seminole pumpkin is still, stupidly, producing only male flowers. GET A CLUE, PUMPKIN. I have read that it’s normal for a pumpkin to bloom with only male flowers until late summer or fall, so if anyone else googles seminole pumpkin and arrives at this blog (I WAS SO EXCITED, by the way! Thanks for stopping by; sorry my blog is useless) know this about seminole pumpkins: (a) they really like to grow, so plant them far away from any other little seedlings that you would wish to grow; and (b) do not be alarmed if your pumpkin, like mine, is growing through a dude-only identity crisis.

I’m still no help. Whatever, MOVING ON.

2. My son is cleaning up all his toys, and is getting increasingly frustrated when we point out the teeny legos scattered in the kitchen and in the hallway. Finally, when my husband pointed out he legos hiding underneath the table, my son lost  and yelled, “OH COME ON. YOU GUYS ARE ROBOTS!!!”

This is exactly why parenting is so hard. How do you stop yourself from laughing at this indignant  child barely out of toddlerhood, yelling about his parents? Hilarious.

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RIP, decorative cuff of my Ann Taylor Pants

Last week, I decided to put an end to my stapled-together-pant-hem, and asked my husband to take the pants to a seamstress shop, just to fix the separated hem on one pant leg. I also decided to include a pair of pants that were too long to me, and asked him to have the black pants trimmed to the length of the gray pants, and to fix the hem of the gray-pants pant leg. Clear as mud?

He looked at me with slight panic in his eyes and asked, “so…what length should the pants be?” I waved the black pants around and said, “cut THESE to THAT length” and gestured to the gray pants. “And fix the stapled hem.”

I should have known that something went wrong when I called today and asked, “so, how much did it cost to get my pants hemmed?”

“Oh, ten dollars”

“Wow, that’s it, for two pairs of pants? See, this is why it’s so great to fix things up instead of throwing pants away and buying new ones!” I sat back and waited for him to smugly agree with me, but instead, there was only silence. A heavy silence. Finally, in a voice full of dread, he replied, “It’s ten dollars for…..one pair of pants. Which is all that you asked me to fix….right?”

I’m going to spare myself the recounting of that conversation, and I also will not relive the 10 minutes I spent crying about my pants and everything being ruined (the crying that prompted my husband to point out that, “nothing is ruined, and this kind of behavior would have landed our son in time-out, please stop crying”).

My gray pants, with the hem fixed, are long. Ready-for-a-giant-to-wear, long. And the decorative cuff, my favorite part of these Ann Taylor pants, is gone. The black pants are completely unchanged.

I have two pairs of pants fit for a 6 foot woman. Who wants them?

talking to myself, in public

Today, I had three visits to my blog, and guess what? They were all me before I remembered to login so my own visits weren’t counted! I did have a day where, for some reason, I refreshed my blog exactly 21 times without logging in, so that I could see what a well-fed counter reader would look like. Sad.

This past weekend, I spent hours getting my family to jump into the pool while I  feverishly snapped photos, in hopes that I would be spotted as the best photographer in the whole world. This didn’t happen. What did happen was a sunburn on my face, a sunburn which outlined and exposed the sneaky horizontal lines on my forehead that do not disappear when I lower my eyebrows or unscrunch my face. Terrifying.

I give up. I give up scoffing at lotion before bed, or whatever other things that normal people do to their faces to make sure they don’t start getting wrinkles at 29. HELP ME, INTERNET. What do you do with your face?