Why did both of them have to get sick for us to have a nice day together?

That is the question B.J. asked me as we were cleaning up the kitchen this evening.

I don't know. Why is it that once both of our little monkeys are with the sniffles that we have a nice family afternoon together? Maybe it is because they've both slowed down enough to leave 'warp drive.' Maybe it is because, praise the Lord, we had an entire day free of sibling squabbles and rivalry. Maybe we'll never actually know.

We really did have a nice afternoon today. We decided that since it was so rainy and ugly outside today that there were two options open to us: 1) lay around the house all day like slugs, watching DVDs (for the millionth time), or 2) load up the family in the mommy-mobile, spend some of the money burning a hole in our pockets up at IKEA.

We chose option 2.

On the drive up the kids snoozed and/or spaced out. It was quite nice as it allowed us a modicum of peace and quiet that we usually do not get to enjoy on family car trips. The drive would have been really nice if I hadn't been white-knuckling the arm rest all the way to the store. When it rains and pours (as it often does in this state) and the traffic doesn't slow down and there's oh, say, less than 2 car-lengths between the cars--and very poor visibility--I turn into a nervous wreck. I worry (with what possible change to life's outcomes, I don't know) endlessly that there will be a massive pile-up of cars on the interstate. It is fruitless for me to do so, but I suppose it is a little Post-traumatic stress left over from a really bad car-wreck I was in when I was about 18 (it was a 3 car pile-up).

While we were at IKEA the kids were fantastic. They stuck with us, followed directions, ate their lunch without any screaming, throwing of food, or planning a massive coup d'état. I call that a successful trip. Although we did not have any luck finding the right measurements for wooden mini-blinds (dang! that means it will be at least $100 per window...and I have how many windows in my house? 1...2...5....7....) we did find some really neat little gadgets and storage devices.

Once home, the peace continued. After checking my vital stats more than once to see if I had passed to the hereafter, we managed another beautifully orchestrated and peaceful meal. The chubber was too tired to keep his little eyelids open, and passed out in my arms on the couch post-meal.

This left us open to make some pumpkin bread (thanks for the inspiration from Martin Bliss). Generally Chublet is my co-conspirator in gustatory experimentation, but tonight Peanutzilla wanted to help out. Normally, Peanut attempting to be my helper in the kitchen results in a melt-down (hers and mine) because impulse control and the ability to follow simple directions are more difficult that you could imagine. But, tonight the good vibe of the afternoon followed with us. Peanut was compliant, helpful, cheery, and we had fun measuring, dumping, and mixing the dough. Not a temper-tantrum or melt-down to be seen.

I just love when we have good days. They truly are so far and few between for our family. Usually Peanut and Chubb-chubb like to 'tag-team' with the naughty behavior. Once one is subdued the other jumps in with 'round 2' of bad behavior. Today, it wasn't the case. It makes me wonder if this is what an average middle-of-the-road family experiences on a somewhat frequent basis. I hope so.

What a lovely day. Perhaps sickness is underrated? I hate to think today was as good as it was due to both of them having a cold...

I'll just savor the memory of this afternoon, and hold tight to it for those days that are more frequent in this household, the days where mommy is red in the face and the monkeys are swinging from the proverbial chandelier.

Wrinkle-free

I do not know how to iron. Really, I don't.



I am the product of a very, very spoiled only child* household. As a result of this I never learned certain domestic skills, among them would be ironing. I grew up believing that God invented the Dry Cleaner for a purpose: ironing and those items of clothing with a label of "DRY CLEAN ONLY". I saw my mother ironing on occasion (on one of those occasions I, brain trust that I am, had to touch the iron) and I still carry the souvenir of that event on the 3rd knuckle of my index finger on my right hand. And, that is about the experience I'd had with ironing. My mother never taught me, she said, because then, maybe, I'd never have to actually do such a job.



Good try, mom. No cigar.



So, fast forward a decade or two, and here you have me: pathetic and helpless as a newborn mewling kitten with an iron.



Generally speaking, I try to purchase clothing items that do not have the dreaded 'DRY CLEAN ONLY' tag, or if I do, I try to buy those that I can magically whisk into my 'Dryel' cleaning bag to 'clean' and 'iron'. But, I find, as I get older and more selective about my clothing (truly, I'm a closet clothes horse held only in check by a fairly limited cash flow...) I am discovering items that require, well, frankly scream to be ironed.



So, that leaves me standing in my dining room, arms folded defiantly across my bosom, glaring at my nemesis: the iron and it's evil sidekick the ironing board. Yech.



Last night was one of those occasions where I whipped out my formidable foes and began the grueling and clumsy ballet of me trying to rid my new, very cute, white with black and tan pinstripe Capri's (and a couple of other items, just for good measure) of unsightly wrinkles. Damn my fickleness and vanity at refusing to wear wrinkled garments in public like a hung-over freshman fraternity boy.



Poor B.J. He's of absolutely no help, other than muttering a sympathetic "I never learned to iron, either..." Well, no, of course not. Your mother believed that God invented the Dry Cleaner for the same purpose as my mother--just yours dropped off Prada and Ralph Lauren, where my mother dropped off...things not with a designer label.



Our poor children. Being raised in a household with parents who are inept at basic, every-day domestic tasks. Will it be another generation who holds the Dry Cleaner with the esteem of their parents?



Hmm....



Does the local community college offer a 'basic domestic skills 101' course? Where do you learn how to iron if your mother never taught you? Are you left to suffer the mercy of rising Dry Cleaning costs? Or do you walk about looking like you're that Fraternity boy?



The mysteries of life continue to grow.

I continue to awkwardly dance my ballet of wrinkles, tête-à-tête with my nemesis: the iron.






*Technically, I am not an only child. However my brother, who is nearly 17 years my senior, moved out when I was two-years-old, leaving me more or less as an only child.

Dante's Lost Circle of Hell

Just 4 more days until we have a weekend away! There, as always, is a lot to do, but I'm excited. Peanut is excited (she can hardly wait to go on Opa's big boat), and if Chub-chub had any concept of time, I'm sure he'd be on pins and needles, too.

Since it is such a short time until we leave, I'm already gearing up for our family weekend in Seattle. As a part of the planning I am already envisioning what I'm going to pack. It sounds a bit shallow (well, o.k, a lot shallow) but that's where I'm at. This is a good thing, in a round about way. As a part of my planning for the weekend (we're staying at the Marriott--ooh, the swimming pool) I have discovered I need a swimsuit.



Yes. A swimsuit. *screaming and sounds of agony*



I have discovered in my pre-trip planning that the swimsuit that I currently own is fairly on the ginormously too big side. This makes me happy. It actually is a demonstrable way seeing that I have in fact shed 60 unsightly pounds in the past 21 months. When you have a lot of weight to lose, as I still do, it is sometimes really hard to see the changes. Even 60 pounds worth of change can be somewhat tough to see.



Take, for example, my fattest FAT PANTS. I saved my fattest FAT PANTS to remind me of why I cannot sit on the couch and watch paint peel while getting take-away for dinner. I tried them on just yesterday for a morale boost: it was good. I could physically see where my waistline was at (even at my heaviest, my FAT PANTS were tight in the waist, hips, and thighs) and I can see that my new-er waist line sits a comfortable 4.5 inches inside the circumference of the old. My hips and thighs can swim inside the old FAT PANTS. This makes me very happy; it makes me very happy, indeed.



I digress. As usual.



Anyhow, I was mentally envisioning myself playing in the sunshine and splashing in the swimming pool with my chickadees, but not in the old swimsuit. Couldn't possibly wear it, lest I offer a free burlesque show to the poor unsuspecting sunbathers poolside. So, that meant one thing and one thing only: swimsuit shopping *blood curdling howls of terror*



Now, if you've a svelte figure that you've always had or kept hold of by religiously punishing your body at the gym, you won't be able to relate to what is to follow. You go on ahead and just cruise on over to another blog. Go on, save your self some time and trouble. Ok. Now, the rest of the 68% of you (us) out there that have *gulp* blossomed past a size 14, here's the scary part.



Swimsuit shopping is enough to give any healthy, in-shape, self-possessed woman a case of body dysmorphic disorder. Swimsuit shopping for the overly endowed, voluptuous sort is something akin to having bamboo rods shoved violently under your fingernails and asking "please, sir, may I have some more?" This type of shopping is a grueling task master who likes to crack the whip of self-loathing, under glaring overhead lighting. No one looks good in overhead lighting; if you've got a little cottage cheese to go along with your squishy dough rolls, it is even less flattering.



I trekked to many stores, spanning two cities.

Fred Meyer: Nope.

Wal-Mart: Nope (they design suits for midgets*. I swear, the suits I tried on there either left me glad that my bikini line is neat and well groomed or wishing my boobs hadn't gone as far south as they had.)

JC Penney: not only did they not have any air-conditioning on, there was a waiting line at multiple dressing rooms and when I finally got into one of the sweaty little stalls there was someone else's mess waiting for me. Now, that was just disgusting.



So, I thought I'd try out Nordstrom. I love 'Nordies.' Granted, the Nordstrom we have here is what I call "Ghetto-Nordies":it is only two floors, and the women's, Brass Plum, children's, and children's shoes occupy one of the floors--so a very small and limited selection, but I still enjoy it (too bad the prices are a bit STEEP). Good 'ol Nordstrom, should have something, right?

Wrong. They had exactly 4 swimsuits above a size 14, all of which were so old-lady even old ladies would have gagged.



My favorite stand-by: Target (tar_Shay, ya know how to say it). Nada. Again, the suits had midget syndrome. Hey, I'm tall (5' 8") but, not freakishly tall like, for example, the women folk on my husband's side (his little sis' stands at a diminutive 6' 1"). So I should be able to fit into a suit. American women aren't that short.



I eventually wound up at Macy's. I'll forever think of it as Meier & Frank--calling it Macy's just feels wrong somehow even though the buy-out has been several months ago now.

Once at Macy's I slogged down to the ground floor and wrestled my way through the remodel going on to find the swimsuits. For moi: exactly 1 rack. Uno. ONE! And on that ONE rack there were about 5 different styles of suit. I found 3 different suits that weren't too 'old-lady' or too 'ugly' or too 'midget-ish' and drug myself into the dressing room. I tried each and every one on at least two times. I figured this was the end of the road. Short of a 45 minute drive to a bigger city, my swimsuit shopping options were exhausted.



It is funny, how when you try on swimsuits, you suck in your gut, square your shoulders, twist and turn in vain to look smaller. Uh-uh. No matter what you do, in that 6'x6' portal to hell, nothing makes a dang bit of difference. Yet, we still try. Why is that? If I suck 'it' in, its gotta go somewhere; so, likely, if I suck in my gut, the 'suck in' probably bulges out somewhere less flattering, like my butt. Or my thighs. Oh, my thighs...we're just not even going to go there...



After my dressing room calisthenics I finally decided on a two-piece 'tankini'. It is a simple brown with white piping/edging and a criss-cross back (gotta have the extra support to keep the girls in line--no black eyes for me after my Bo Derek '10' impersonation on the shore). My self-esteem was about 99.7% in the toilet when I walked out at last. However, I think it tanked entirely when I went to the check-out counter.



$106.00. *retching*



As if I needed insult on top of my injury.



Could someone please tell me why on earth a swimsuit would cost that much money? Please? I don't even know what brand it is to warrant such a price tag. (likely no-name brand) But, in the end, after a few hours of self-torture and the realization that the Swedish Bikini Team will not require my presence this season, I finally sucked-up the cost and now have a swimsuit.



I may not look like Claudia Schiffer, but at least I'll be able to play with my kids at the pool (bonus: without indecent exposure!) and have a good time.



As I walked away from the department store, mentally shaking my head over the price I paid, I came to a very real conclusion: I could use this experience as an excuse to go home, boo-hoo into a pint of Häagen-Dazs or stoke the fires of motivation to continue to get into better shape and look better, for myself.



I chose the latter. Sometimes the glass is half-empty; today the glass was half-full.







*if you happen to be a midget, no offense is meant.