What a Difference a Generation Makes

Things I said as a kid that my kids never will:

- I hate phone numbers that include ’9′ because it takes sooo long for the dial to spin back around.

- Will you get off AOL so I can make a phone call?

- Be kind. Please rewind.

- Can I have a stamp to mail my letter to Samantha?

- I couldn’t do my research report because I couldn’t find the Microsoft Encarta ’95 CD.

- Got an ‘A’ on my History presentation on Christianity!!

- Who is Paula Abdul?

Things my kids say that I never would have said as a kid:

- The battery in my toothbrush just died.

- Can we watch a movie on the way to school?

- It’s so annoying when The Lion King has to buffer on Netflix.

- That’s what spellcheck is for!

- I better email my Christmas list to Santa!

- Mrs. A said I could call her cell phone if I have a homework question.

- Who are the Backstreet Boys?

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

Left to Right.

The Hunger Games.
I was skeptical. The last time I read a book because it was a “super awesome” series and made into a movie, I wanted to poke my eyes out. This is nothing like Twilight. Thanks to my dear friend Dawn (who I miss ridiculously) for allowing me to borrow the books on my Kindle iPad app (confused?), I’ve done absolutely nothing but read for the last few days. So. Good.

McDonald’s Sweet Tea.
I mean, honestly, nothing can compare.

Betsey Johnson leopard-print watch.
My parents bought me this for Christmas, and I’m in love! It has a big, masculine face, but is dainty and pretty with the leopard band, a small gold dangling heart and a touch of pink on the time-setter. I hate days that I wear patterns, because I can’t wear this watch. Which means I should probably buy it in black, too.

Bar Keeper’s Friend.
Hello. If you have silver pots and pans, you need this miracle-worker. It literally erases (with a little scrubbing) the brown rust-looking stains and anything else that your pots and pans may encounter. It’s seriously amaze.

MAC Lipstick in Syrup.
I LOVE lipstick, but I’ve never been a daily wearer. My SIL bought me this lipstick (a pretty pink) for Christmas, and I realized I just never had the perfect everyday shade. Now – I paint my lips all the time. It makes me feel feminine and pretty, and it completes my makeup.

MAC Paint Pot in Bare Study
If you wear eyeshadow, and you don’t use a primer – you’re doing things seriously wrong. It keeps all your eyeshadow and liner in place all. day. long. Plus, this shade (a pinkish neutral) also serves as a foundation for your eye makeup, so it gives it an extra kick of color. Lurve.

Michael Kors purse.
I bought myself a little something-something last night. I think I deserve it.

My husband.
I think I’ll keep him.

Meet My Furball: Piper

This is Piper. I also call her Scoop. Which was derived from Scooper, which came from Pooper Scooper, which originated from Pooper because it kind of sounded like Piper.

That was three years ago.

This is Piper now.

If you think she looks normal-sized, you’re very mistaken. She’s freaking huge.

But don’t let her hear you say that. She thinks she’s a lapdog – and I don’t try to change her mind.

She gets very jealous when Daysie (her Chihuahua sister) sits with Momma on the couch, because she’s not allowed on the furniture (even though we sometimes bend the rules when Dad isn’t around).

And even though she likes to pick fights with her furry sibling by rolling her on the ground or coating her tiny chihuahua body in slobber, she’s a good big sister.

 

Piper loves her Moose, which can be anything from a duck to a ball of rope. If it’s her baby, it’s Moose.

Her favorite night of the week is Calzone night. She waits patiently for the crust, and only whines if we take too long to eat our part before she gets hers.

She’s very photogenic.

     

She loves peanut butter. And chicken. Not necessarily together. But not necessarily not together.

And apparently plastic toy rings, because she ate three of them.

She finds it absolutely hilarious to run away from Momma. Every morning. For long periods of time.

She thinks someone running is someone who wants to play. Including little children at the park who are running for their lives away from Monster Dog.

She knows that Momma and Dad in the bathroom, with treats, talking in baby voices means it’s bath time. At which time she sprints to her bed.

But she does love water, although she prefers it in creeks or from water hoses, and not so much from a shower head.

She’s endured many back rides from Christian, and about 200 too many people have made “large” jokes to her face. If it makes her sad, she’s too tough to show it.

What really makes her sad, though, is if Momma tells Daysie she’s the prettiest little girl in the whole entire world. Which, she does. And Piper – she just cries. More of a whimper. But a long, drawn-out whimper. And then she gets up (slower now that she’s three years old … or 21?), jogs quickly over, and lays her head on Momma’s lap.

And Momma says, “Little Tiny Piper Girl, you are Momma’s pretty girl, too!”

And then she sighs and nuzzles her nose under Momma’s hand to let her know she wants her ears rubbed. And if Momma stops, she nuzzles some more.

And then, Piper lets a fart that stinks up the entire apartment, and Momma yells. A lot.

Life ain’t a fairy tale, okay?

 

Five Ways to Know It’s Get-Skinny Season

Grocery stores’ junk-food displays are untouched.
If you’re looking for SlimFast or Nutella or Special K bars, fuh-get-about-it. They’re sold out. But Oreos? Cheese-Whiz in a can? Little Debbie Valentine Hearts? In stock and a-plenty. And – just some advice – you should go ahead and stock your pantry and your bomb shelter with the fatty food while it’s available. Come February? All those I’m-gonna-be-frickin’-Gisele-Bundchen-by-summer crazies will be Black-Friday-ing it up for some powdered doughnuts and tubs of cookie dough out of sheer deprivation.

Now I’m hungry.

The park’s running trail is congested by a herd of cattle.
Figuratively, of course. And by no means am I referring to the actual size of the runners because, let’s face it, who am I to make fun of large people? But seriously. The gravel running path is always. completely. packed. What do these people do for a living? Why aren’t they at work at 9am? Or 2pm? Or in bed at 11pm? In fact, I’ve almost caused numerous fender-benders along the park because I like to stare at the runners as I drive past. And sometimes (just sometimes) I even judge them. Nice outfit, I’ll say to myself in regard to the dude running in jeans or the girl jogging in flip flops. And then I take another bite of my Little Debbie Valentine Heart and keep driving.

The treadmills at the gym have a waiting list.
Look. If I’m getting up at 5:30am to be at the gym by 6 (and that’s a big if because it’s really never happened), then I don’t want to wait on your size-2 butt clad in a brand-spankin’-new Victoria’s Secret PINK workout outfit to not jiggle when you walk off the treadmill. I just don’t want you to be there in the first place because, honestly, why are you here? You have a full face of makeup on. And your hair is flat-ironed. With a poof. Here – have a Valentine Heart.

Everyone is drinking (or trying to drink) 8 glasses of water per day.
And now I have to wait for you to get out of the bathroom because you’ve nearly drank yourself to a bladder burst. Drink some chocolate milk. That’ll stop you up.

Too much?

People all around you order salads at restaurants.
I mean, thank you, I guess. If the chefs are just throwing some lettuce and a few veggies on a plate for you, it really shouldn’t take too long for my extra-loaded cheese fries and my double-decker burger to be ready.

(In all honestly, I never order cheese fries. Evan says they’re too fattening. And I’m certainly not going to eat them if he won’t.)

And let’s get real. There’s no way you’re going from Ben & Jerry a pint at a time pre-New-Year’s to a toddler’s portion of rabbit food. It ain’t happenin’. You have a secret stash of Swiss Cake Rolls in your nightstand. And what are you going to do when someone finds the 32 Twinkie wrappers you’ve stuffed between the couch cushions? Just order the cup of loaded baked potato soup with extra cheese, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

It would make me feel better about the seven Little Debbie Valentine Hearts I just ate.

Hot Pink Thread and Dog Fights

You know when is not a good time to learn how to use your new sewing machine? During that special time when you’re moody, emotional and irritable.

If you’re talking to my husband, that would describe Everyday Jen. So, my advice is to not talk to my husband.

But seriously.

I sat down and finally pulled my brand-new sewing machine out of its box, where it’s been since I unwrapped it Christmas Eve. I’ve been putting it off, because I knew it was going to be a serious task requiring my entire attention.

I knew this from experience.

A few years ago, I recruited my Mamaw Charlotte to teach me the basics of the sewing machine. She started with threading the needle.

“All you have to do,” she said, “is push it through here, pull it all the way down here, loop it here, pull it back through here – but make sure you’re holding on to it, because you’ll then need to pull it through here, here, here and push it through here. See?,” at which point she turned around to find me watching Larry King with Papaw Darrell.

Or something like that.

This time, it was just me and the seven-language manual.

I mean, who knew there were multiple translations for bobbin.

What the heck is a bobbin??

Whatever it is, I threaded it. With hot pink thread.

And then I pulled the hot pink thread here, here and through there. Pushed it through the eye of the needle. Held on to the two pieces, and pulled it through here, and then there.

Turns out Mamaw Charlotte was right.

After the 742 steps to thread the crazy thing, the manual told me I was ready to sew. But let me tell you something. The writer of that manual? A liar.

I couldn’t sew a straight line, no matter how steady I thought I was feeding the material through. My irritation level was reaching the bubbling stage, which is not ideal.

As I was contemplating crying, screaming or yanking out the material, wadding it up and throwing it across the room, Piper and Daysie got into a bit of a fight of their own, Daysie on the bed, of course, and Piper taunting her nearby.

I let them duke it out for a bit. I was busy trying to stay sane long enough to finish ‘sewing’ so I could watch The Bachelor.

After yelling over my shoulder for them to hush, stop it, and then to SERIOUSLY STOP IT, I turned around.

“GIRLS!” I said, more mad at the sewing machine than the Fur Balls.

“Yeah, Mom? What’s up? Nothing to see here.”

And as soon as I turned my back:

As I was getting ready to strangle two canines while smashing a Singer into a million little pieces, Evan walked in to see what I was up to.

He pointed at my masterpiece scrap material.

“You know, you have to make it sew a straight line. It doesn’t do it by itself.”

At which time I punched him in the face.

Have you ever found yourself halfway through a story when the sudden realization comes to you that, Wow, there is really no point to this, and that you should just stop?

Yeah.

On Being a Wife

Us. Getting hitched.

I haven’t mopped the kitchen floor in weeks. The caulking in my bathtub needs some serious attention. There’s a layer of dust on the TV everything. My refrigerator is lacking basic essentials … like, food.

I’ve been a wife for nine days, and I couldn’t blame the guy if he asked for an annulment.

(Fortunately for me, Evan is a pretty stand-up human being and a swell husband. And, well, he kind of promised me forever, so he’s stuck.)

So what if I haven’t been Susie Homemaker my first week as a Mrs? I’ve been busy. Ya know, spending time with my husband. (That’s still so weird.)

What have we been doing? Real important stuff.

Like,

- finishing the first season of Mad Men.

- Getting the oil changed in my car.

- Kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

- Eating greasy Tudor’s biscuits for breakfast.

- And 5-billion-calorie-laden Burger King for dinner.

- Playing PS3 and reading a new iBook. At the same time. In the same room.

- Watching the kids’ basketball games.

- Watching the Kardashians.

- Falling asleep on the couch.

So, it’s not exactly a Jamaican honeymoon. And though I certainly wouldn’t mind sand between my toes and a tropical sunset in the distance, buying toothpaste and dog treats at WalMart with my husband is pretty special, too.

And I promise to vacuum, do laundry and cook a decent meal.

At least before our first anniversary.

Photo: Lawhon Photography

They Have Facebook in Hell

My new motto.

See, the other day, I posted my Flexible New Year’s Resolutions, which included “don’t sweat the small stuff.” I challenged myself to chill out; to just keep my mouth shut when Faith is singing karaoke way too loud, to not have an anxiety attack if there’s a blue DVD case in with the white DVD cases, to not scream and cry when Piper has whined in my face for 15 minutes …and counting.

The same day, the Devil logged on to Facebook and, scrolling down his news feed, saw my post for a new blog (I didn’t think about why I am friends with the Devil on Facebook before I started this story, but whatever). He was all, “So, Jen wants to have a better attitude about life, does she?” And then he laughed an evil laugh, and smoke came out of his nose.

First things first: coffee. I poured my Starbucks Thanksgiving Blend into my new camera-lens thermos Evan bought me for Christmas. Sniffin’ the bold, spicy aroma, I couldn’t wait to sit down in my office chair to read my blogs and drink my java.

I must not have been paying close enough attention, because at some point between my kitchen and my office chair, that mean ol’ Devil locked the lid. Tight. I tried with every muscle in my upper body (which really isn’t much, if you want to know the truth) to open that stupid thing -to no avail. As much as I wanted to throw that cup into the concrete wall, I muttered a couple goosfrabas and gently set it (with my piping-hot coffee just sitting inside) on the desk. (It is still unopened, by the way.)

Stupid Devil.

He recruited some helpers, too, in his journey to break me: The rude customer on the phone who interrupted me every time I started talking. My jerk-of-a-coworker who yelled at me when I asked him if so-and-so had kept their appointment. And, of course, every Ohioan behind the wheel of a car.

Every time, I just smiled and moved on.

At home, the kids were playing with the over-the-door basketball rim that we (unintelligently) bought them for Christmas. That thing is louder and more annoying that the 700 real-sounding power tools my Mom bought Christian. And please, just for a moment, imagine a 10 year old and 6 year old playing tackle basketball in the hallway, throwing a thick, foam ball at the door.

The Devil was in them.

I wanted to get on my knees and, with tears in my eyes, beg them to stop. But I remembered my challenge. Let them be kids. So even though I was sure, from two rooms over, that someone’s head was going through the wall, I let them have at it.

Come to find out, Christian’s head actually did go into the wall, which I realized when I heard the I’m-actually-hurt-and-not-just-whining cry. I picked him up and cuddled him instead of giving the “maybe you shouldn’t have been rough-housing” speech.

Actually, Faith got that speech. She was playing a bit too rough for 6-year-old inclusion.

My wall is okay, if you were wondering.

But the Devil wasn’t done. He kept thinking to himself, “How can I seriously provoke this girl? What really ticks her off? Loud noises? A messed-up linen closet? Evan yelling at the refs on FIFA ’12 for PS3 for making the most horrendous calls?”

(I do dislike all of those. He knows me well.)

“No,” the Devil said to himself. “That’s not enough. What does she hate?”

About that time, WVU scored another touchdown. (And about a million more after that.)

And even though those awful, terrible, blue-and-gold-wearing devil-helpers were hootin’ and hollerin’, looking happy and breaking bowl records, I simply changed the channel to more inspirational programming: a Lifetime original movie.

Take that, Devil. You got nothin’ on me.

.

Take Me Down to the Little White Church

Remember when he liked it so he put a ring on it?

Well, he liked it so much, he put another ring on it. A wedding ring.

Hi. I’m married. Nice to meet you.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t tell Facebook, either. Or anyone, really (other than family, obvs, and close friends).

See, last year we went to Times Square to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve (and I just realized I never blogged about that. Oops.), so we wanted to continue the tradition of go-big-or-go-home for NYE. How do you top Times Square? With a wedding, of course! (Although, I’m a bit concerned with how big next NYE’s plans will have to be to top this.)

We started planning on Monday. You know, the Monday after Christmas. The Monday before New Year’s Eve. The Monday that was five days before the wedding. No big.

I knew from the beginning I wanted something quaint and small. I think intimate is a better word. I knew I’d rather spend the money on being a family, rather than becoming one (read: furniture, car, groceries > dress I’ll wear once, chaircovers, DJ). Had it not been New Year’s Eve and a Saturday when the courthouse was closed, we probably would have just dropped in, said I do, and called it a {wedding} day.

But I’m glad we didn’t.

Because no matter how small, my Mother sure knows how to throw a party. Or at least decorate one.

She turned the reception area from blah-college-kid-hangout to let’s-drink-sparkling-white-grapejuice-while-holding-up-our-pinkies. And it was perfect.

There was no receiving line, no garter toss, no first dance, no bubbles or birdseed. It was just me and the people I love, being together to celebrate someone loving me enough to promise me forever.

What? It’s not all about me? Whatevs.

Seriously, it was perfect. And now I’m a wife. And a StepMom. And I’m happy.

More details later. Probably.

{Photo courtesy of Lawhon Photography. He rocks!}

I’m Going to Love This Year

Two-thousand eleven was a good year. And as much as I’m sad to see it go (maybe or maybe not because that means I have to face 26 this year), I’m looking forward to 2012 and what adventures I’ll encounter. It’s going to be another good one. I can just feel it.

Now, I love making lists. I don’t, however, love having lists that never end up with lines all through it (or with other people’s handwriting, but that’s another blog). In past years, I’ve made Resolutions lists that look something like this:

-          Blog every. Single. Day. Without. Fail.

-          Read 4,867 books.

-          Lose enough pounds to equal another person.

Needless to say, my Resolutions lists have rarely made it to the “cross-off” stage. They just aren’t practical.

While it’s good to have specific goals and to challenge yourself, I’ve decided this New Year’s that I do want to compile a list of things I’d like to accomplish in the next 365 366 days, but I don’t want boundaries. I want this year to be about growth, love, fun and family. And if that means I take 14 pictures or 1,400, lose 10 pounds or just getting healthy. Whatever happens, as long as my family and I are happy, the particulars aren’t that important.

So. Here’s my 2012 Flexible Resolutions List.

Write.
On my blog. In my journal. On little pieces of paper to put in my kids’ lunches. I miss being creative with words and learning new words. I miss telling stories. I’ve thought about venturing back into reporting, but, let’s face it, the hours suck and the pay is ridiculous. Regardless of where my nonexistent career takes me, I want to put words on paper (or into the Interwebs). I have a lot to say, and I just know you want to read it.

Read.
I have a couple stacks of books on my nightstand that I’ve started to read and just became too bored with to really even care. Those? Are going into the closet until I have a library to showcase them. I’m over finishing books just because I’ve started them. Too much time is wasted on a bad book. A good book? Worth every minute (which ends up being hours because I just can’t put it down).

Take pictures.
While I don’t consider myself a photographer by ANY means, I do love taking pictures. (Having two adorable Mini Adult models doesn’t hurt, either.) Last Christmas – as in 2010 -, my parents got me a Canon Rebel, and I still have no idea how to do anything other than push the button that makes it go ‘snap.’ This past Christmas, Evan bought me a new lens. I couldn’t even tell you what kind. This is how horrible I am. BUT. I want to learn this year. I want to know every button, every setting. I might even start posting pictures on my blog instead of pages and pages of words.

Learn to sew.
I mean, I can reattach a missing button. I could even make an apron by hand if I had 12 years to finish it. But my parents gave me a sewing machine for Christmas, and I’m dying to learn how to use it. And I will.

Make our house apartment a home.
Renting, in no uncertain terms, sucks. Not only is it throwing away money each month just to be sheltered, but I’m not entirely interested in spending money to remodel, redecorate or beautify a place that I’ll never get anything out of. That being said, there’s a good chance we’ll be renting for a little while longer, and I’m desperate for a home. I want to do little things that will make our place – wherever we are – feel like it’s ours. Like it’s where you go to be comfortable. And loved. Thank God for Pinterest.

Love myself.
Although I do have a number in my head that I’d like to lose, I’m not going to let that be my boundary. Most of all, I want to be comfortable in my body and not feel like a lump of fatty disaster. If that means taking a walk with my dogs every day, running at the park on a snowy day, actually going to the gym that I pay monthly for – and just feeling better, then that’s good for me.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.
I stress. Easily. I get aggravated. Irritated. Mad. Easily. If Christian wants to hop around the house howling because he’s a wolf today – that should be okay. Even if I’m trying desperately to hear Ryan Seacrest tell me why Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphreys got a divorce. Sometimes … okay, most of the time, it’s just not worth it.

Hold family close.
I told you about how I was thisclose to losing my Mom (or at least thought I was), and how I did lose my Aunt Jessie last year. I’m not taking that for granted. When visiting family over Christmas, I literally hugged each and every one tighter. You never know when it will be the last time you’ll have the chance.

Budget.
I really hate this one. Honestly. I love to spend money. But we are in a position where we can live comfortably and still get ourselves back on track financially, and we have to take this opportunity while we have it. If you have a good budget plan, please, please share. I’m going to need serious help (and therapy?) with this.

Be a good wife.
What? Wife? Yeah, more on that later. (giggle)

2011, You Were Good To Me

Another year (almost) over. The older I get, the quicker time seems to pass. I don’t love it.

But, 2011? I didn’t hate it.

Last New Year’s Eve, Evan and I celebrated the end of 2010 in New York City, watching the ball drop right in front of us. To be perfectly honest, we were both pretty happy to see that year go. It wasn’t the greatest. Or the easiest. But the end of it? In Times Square? With a giant lighted ball and confetti and NKOTBSB? Awesome.

While in New York, I got the call from my mom telling me she would have to have yet ANOTHER open heart surgery. This would make number two. Not to mention the more-than-a-dozen heart caths and numerous stents. She has a doozey of a heart. (Physically, at least.)

The next weeks were awful. I thought about nothing but my mom and the possibility of losing her. I cried a lot. As in all. the. time. Evan must have thought I was going crazy. I thought I was going crazy.

The day of her surgery was one of the scariest days of my life. They phsyically stopped her heart during the bypass, which is not knowledge that is fun to have. Necessary. But not enjoyable.

Because I am able to function enough to write this blog post almost a year later tells you that she is still alive and all is well. And I thank God for that.

The next few months were equally as difficult. Evan’s 98-year-old Grammy went through some tough neurological surgery and just never really recovered. She passed away a short time later, but not before one last Strawberry Daiquiri at Applebees.

And then a month-ish later, my Aunt Jessie, who had been battling cancer for over two years, just became too weak. She passed away. I’ve had a blog post saved in my drafts for months about my Aunt Jessie, but I can’t bring myself to publish it. It’s still too hard.

Those were a rough few months. I’d never cried so much in my life.

Okay, well that’s not true at all. I’m pretty sure I broke the World’s Record for the most crying way back in 2005. But that’s beside the point.

May was good, even though I officially entered my mid-20s (if you don’t count 24). I over-thought turning 25 way too much, because it’s been pretty great so far.

Evan and I took lots of small trips throughout the summer. Technically, they were business trips for him, so the day-time was filled with lots of playing on my iPad in the car, waiting for him to finish up his meetings. But outside of that, we visited lots of fun places, tried several new area-local restaurants, and had hours of talking, singing to good music and just enjoying time with each other.

That’s good stuff.

Christian (Little Man) started Kindergarten, and has since grown into an ornery mini-adult who says the most hilariously witty things, and always keeps me on my toes. My favorite, though, has to be the first time he “rapped” the Ludacris interlude to Justin Bieber’s “Baby.” Or possibly the day he randomly started break dancing in the aisle at a Marshall Volleyball game. It’s a tough call.

Also this year, my parents celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary. And I did nothing for them. I’m a horrible daughter.

Wait. I did make them a homemade card that took hours and was childishly adorable.

Nope. I’m still a horrible daughter.

One of my best friends had a baby boy in November, marking the first baby-in-my-life event, which is super exciting. Baby Cohen is the cutest thing ever, and I plan on seeing him exponentially more in 2012.

My other best friend got married. And is having a baby girl. I couldn’t be happier for her. And me. Now I get to buy frilly dresses and everything pink. Life is good.

This year was also the first year we held an actual birthday party for Christian. Something other than family and a Kroger cake, anyway. We had a Pirate Party, complete with eye patches, mustaches, boats, planks, tattoos. I don’t know about the kids, but I had a heck of a time. Even my mom painted on a mustache for herself. Me, well, I go to great lengths to keep from having one, so I passed.

I think that about sums up 2011.

Oh, yeah.

I’m getting married.

My life is filled with genuine happiness, lots of love and more blessings than I can count. I know there are good and bad times in everyone’s life, and despite the emotional, trying time I experienced at the beginning of the year, I know I could have had a lot more unhappy things to write about in this post. But, I don’t. And for that, I am so thankful.