Freshour Feats & Follies

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2010-11-24T08:02:00.016-05:00

Last Wednesday night, Jeff had to go to band practice which meant I was responsible for putting all four kids to bed (shudder). I was brushing Griffin's teeth when I came across this.

Anyone see something strange growing in there? Yeah, me too. So as not to embarrass him or draw attention to THE EXTRA ROW OF TOOTH in his mouth, I immediately sat him down and took nine rapid fire pictures of the oddity. And then I made a mental note to ask Jeff how long Griffin has had the spare and why it hasn't come up in conversation before now.

I was driving the kids to school the next morning when I realized I had forgotten to ask Jeff about it. So I called him on the cell and tried not to use words like weird, freaky, or Ripley's candidate to describe it. Ever notice when you are trying to have a conversation about one of your children, that this will be the one moment of the day they will stop whatever they are doing and really listen to you? Suffice it to say, despite my effort to be discreet, Griffin quickly figured out that I was talking about him, and started telling Carter about his twin tooth in the back of the car. Apparently, he has known about it all along and has conversations with the other Kindergarteners at school about it on a daily basis. Evidently, one of his friends, whom we'll call, K_ _ t_n, to protect his privacy, told Griffin that his brother, N_th_n, who is in 2nd grade, had a twin tooth too!

As you can imagine, I felt much better after overhearing the news that there was another child in the world with a twin tooth, and resolved to hunt down said child's m_m at pick-up on Friday to inquire about it. Well, K_ _ t_n's m_m knew right away what I was talking about when I mentioned the words, twin tooth, but in reality N_th_n had never had one. Their Better- Dentist-Than-Ours had noticed when looking at N_th_n's x-rays, that N_th_n had the potential to have a twin tooth, and had pulled some teeth to avoid the dreaded twin tooth scenario. Meanwhile, back at Chez Freshour, our twin tooth is reaching for the stars!

In other oral news, please observe the normal. Considering her predecessors, we have little faith it will last.

I hope you can appreciate what it took for me to get this shot.

It was basically a lot of this.

My First Sale, Vol. 1

2010-11-19T21:47:00.018-05:00

This is a story about a Cameraman named Andy, and the awesome morning he had at our house.

Back in September, I came across an article in the Charlotte Observer announcing HGTV's show My First Sale would be taping in our area, and they were looking for "fun, high-energy people" to be on the show. Well. I am nothing if not high-energy. Also, our house had been on the market for 10 months at that point, and interest (if one can possibly refer to 11 showings in 10 months as interest) was waning. Obviously, I had nothing to lose except my privacy. And since I clearly do not value my privacy by virture of the fact that I occasionally blog, that seemed worth it to me. So I applied online and promptly forgot about it. Thus, when our phone rang a few weeks ago, I was stunned to discover that a) it was not a political call, and b) our application had made its way into the hands of a casting agent named Sami.

Sami listened very politely as I bored her with our current home sale story, which basically amounts to this: Depressed economy, blah, blah, blah, growing out of our house, blah, blah, blah, cannot compete with all of the foreclosures, blah, blah, blah, currently commuting 2.5 hours a day, blah, blah, blah, etc.. I knew our story was mundane and I didn't expect to hear from her again. By this time, our house had been on the market for almost a year, and Jeff and I were slowly realizing if we were ever going to dump the albatross that we needed to embrace a more agressive, forward-thinking sales approach. That's right. We needed to bring in someone with a decent Klout score.

Meet Lisa. She's our new realtor. Klout score = 58. My First Sale thought she would make for some great TV...or at least have the potential to drive some traffic to our house.

Lisa had prepped more than I had, which is why she was able to answer her set of questions in an intelligent and articulate manner.

So was Jeff. Although he was slightly more dramatic. If Wells Fargo doesn't work out, maybe he can get a job as a weatherman. This is his "cloudy day" face.

I, on the other hand, cried. Literally. The question I was responding to was simple: When I hand over the keys of My First Sale, I'll... But suddenly I was overcome with the realization that our current home still feels like sacred ground to me. We have experienced life changing events in this house, and my worst fear is not that we'll never receive an offer, but that we'll get one from some college guys that want to turn my Graceland into a frat house and trash the place. So my answer was weep. And then I did. Which is really quite pathetic considering all Sami asked us to do was, "Have fun with it! Smile a lot! Be happy!"

You would think my blubbering would have been the worst thing that could have happened, but no. When Andy filmed me and Jeff together, a rogue fly started flying around us and actually at one point landed on Jeff's nose. We flailed like idiots. Then Peyton crept in behind us and started playing with a really loud singing baby toy. After that, our dignity was pretty much circling the drain. Suffice it to say, if we eventually make an appearance on a bloopers reel somewhere, I think we can all be assured that the honor is well deserved.

Bath Night

2010-07-02T21:26:00.006-04:00

It's a universal truth that soap and sunblock are interchangable in the summer.

Does anything make you look goofier than a pair of googles?

Here, we are taking a break from Griffin.

Casper going into the pool.

Our golden child.

Let the Countdown Begin

2010-06-02T12:41:00.001-04:00

School is officially out for the summer in about 5-days. Coincidence? I think not.

Bodily Fluids Unleashed

2009-10-28T20:02:00.003-04:00

Today Carter got sick at school. And when I say got sick, I mean he got up from his desk to get a book and hurled on his way to the bookshelf.

What's good about this is that it happened when he was in 1st grade and probably no one will ever remember it. Because goodness knows I sure don't vividly remember the day Timmy Dixon had an accident in our combined 1st and 2nd grade class. And for sure that unfortunate incident has never come up in conversation in the 31 years since.

Worse Than Walking Around With Toilet Paper Stuck to the Bottom of Your Shoe

2009-09-17T14:27:00.007-04:00

A few days ago, I decided to attempt to refinish the hideous 80's brass chandelier our home came with. I drug it out of the attic where I had banished it just 6 short years ago and carried it down to the garage, thinking I could hang it from the overhead garage door opener in the middle of the ceiling. That worked. The chandelier was both off the ground and able to spin freely. Then I laid an old sheet on the floor, moved our fleet of bikes out of the way, and proceeded to spray primer on the chandelier until it was a delightful shabby chic. Ten minutes later, after the primer had dried, I sprayed it with Krylon's Oil Rubbed Bronze. It was lovely. Not the design of the chandelier so much as the new color, but you've got to be able to give a little when you set out to repurpose rather than to buy new.

What I was ultimately hoping to do was to replace this brass monstrosity currently hanging in our entryway...

with a fixture that was a little more compatible with these pieces also found in our entryway.

My little DIY project was looking quite promising. Confidently, I went inside to get a glass of water and wait for the color to dry. A few minutes later, the professional painters power washing the outside of our house asked me to close the garage door so they could work in that area. Ever accommodating, and apparently very high on paint fumes, I enthusiastically hit the button which both closed the garage and sent my "new" chandelier crashing to the ground below. And that, my friends, is why I am not crafty.

The story continues. I left the drop cloth on the floor for a couple of days - mainly because after trashing the chandelier, I was out of time and had to race out to go pick up Carter from school. When I got back home with three tired and hungry kids, the drop cloth was kind of the last thing on my mind. Needless to say, I drove the van back into the garage over the sheet and parked on top of it. Since then we've been going in and out of the garage always on top of the sheet. Today, after dropping Carter off at school (far, far away), and Griffin and Peyton off at preschool (close, close to home), I had to drive back up to Mooresville which is even further away than Carter's school for a meeting. I got there, had my meeting, and walked back out to the van only to find that somehow the sheet had attached itself to the right back wheel. I had been dragging it like a flag all over town.

This is what it looked like when I finally got home - which was about half the length of what it was when I discovered it in Mooresville 20 miles earlier.

You can see that it is completely wound up in the wheel well.

Jeff unwinding miles of fabric from our car.

Rest assured, I am not going to try to repurpose it.

Christianese

2009-09-02T12:41:00.005-04:00

Dear Faithful Few...readers that is,

If you read nothing else today, read this post. You will not be disappointed.

He holds the keys,

Mel

AFRICA: This For My Friends Not on FaceBook

2009-08-31T21:27:00.001-04:00

Turn up the volume and prepare to be musically astounded.

Griffin Begins His Career As An Aerial Acrobat

2009-07-30T19:52:00.004-04:00

Overall, the coach was quite pleased with Griffin's progress. So much so that he wondered if the Freshours might have TWO flying sons.

Unfortunately, they do not.

VBS 2009: My Week In Review.

2009-07-17T22:00:00.001-04:00

July 4th Images

2009-07-04T20:45:00.007-04:00

Beef was grilled, sparkers lit.

Griffin in patriotic attire...patriotic attire with distinctly Asian overtones. (To the right of Griffin, you'll notice the hand of a child stealithly trying to filch the lighter. I'll let you all take a guess as to which child that is.)

An overexposed picture of the successful thief. I had to crop it kind of tight because while Griffin was paying homage to the Japanese, Carter was rocking the Union Jack. (Just kidding, Dori.)

Pyromania 101.

Great balls of fire!

This Is Not A Post About Michael Jackson

2009-07-01T12:39:00.007-04:00

As all three of my remaining readers are aware, Jeff and I attended Rift Valley Academy which is a Christian boarding school for the children of missionaries. Because their target audience hailed from a variety of denominations, RVA tended to err on the side of the conservative when it came to particular codes of conduct. Dancing, for example, was strictly prohibited.

Needless to say, it was quite a ground-breaking moment when it was announced in my 8th grade class that the girls would begin doing aerobics in PE. To say I was excited about this radical new addition to the usual mundane PE curriculum would be an understatement.

Not surprisingly, it was aerobics set to Christian music.

Exercise for Life by Stormie Omartian, if I remember correctly, and taught by a none other than a member of our own supporting church in CA. (Have you any idea how rare that is on the mission field? I mean sometimes in a blue moon you’ll find someone in the same country that went to your home church in the US, but never upon never do you find someone from your home church working right alongside you.)

But as conservative as RVA was, the BJU alumni* responsible for raising me were nothing short of rigid when it came to the perceived evils of dancing. Though my Dad had never actually witnessed aerobics in action, the mere concept of physical movement set to music seemed entirely too much like dancing to him. How could it be anything BUT sexually suggestive? To my horror, I was promptly banned from doing aerobics with my class. Instead, I retired to the library for 50 minutes alone while the rest of my girl friends jogged to an early 80’s techno mix of “Crown Him With Many Crowns”, and did risqué donkey kicks to “This is the Day That the Lord Had Made”.

My exclusion from this exercise only served to cause me to seek out the opportunity to do it. I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader, not for the cheering so much, but for the awesome routine they got to choreograph and perform at homecoming. Alas, I was never cute enough, or thin enough, or talented enough, or coordinated enough…or perhaps the coach didn’t want to tangle with my Notorious D.A.D.

After graduating from RVA, I attended Taylor University, yet another environment that was wholeheartedly anti-dance, and that pretty much sealed my fate. While dancing often called my name, it was never going to be something I did regularly…or when I did do it, felt confident about my ability to do it. (Insert some violins playing some awfully sorrowful music here. This is a sad story, isn’t it?)

Jumping ahead 20 years. This summer our church is running a sports-themed VBS, which involves bringing in professional athletes like Rodney Monroe to run sports clinics interspersed with large group and small group sessions. We’re expecting 600 kids and oh, hey, I’m on the committee, can you tell?

I knew that we were having a bit of trouble confirming someone to lead the dance sessions, but because our church has an entire praise-dance division, I was kind of tuning those conversations out. Also, I was a little concerned with how I was going to manage my own area of responsibility, that being overseeing the multitude of small group coaches/assistants we need, and was busy mentally trying to figure out if I could sell the idea well enough to entice the Sr. Saints to come get run over for a week! So you can imagine my surprise, and ensuing delirium, when the children’s pastor I teach under emailed me last week to ask if I would teach the dance sessions at VBS this year – and not just any old dance…but hip hop.

It’s a genre I am well-versed in, not because I have ever done it per se, but because I watch a lot of So You Think You Can Dance, and America’s Best Dance Crew. In my mind, I consider myself an expert…if expert is defined as 9 times out of 10 you can guess who is going to win the competition.

As you can imagine, my impressive street cred, coupled with years of repression in both high school and college, prompted me to jump at the chance to trade responsibilities, and thus FINALLY be able to live out my dream of being a fabulous hip-hop artist. Except that I am seriously way past my prime so there is really no way this is going to be anything but a HUGE PUBLIC SPECTACLE culminating in a nightmare. But one I’ll be awake for and after which we’ll probably have to move out of the state because I’ll never be able to live down the humiliation. My dear husband actually took a look at me trying to decipher some moves last night and said, “I can see a lot of humor coming out of this.” And then he cringed and left the room. It bodes well, doesn’t it?

I would like to end this post by listing for you here a few observations related to my most recent practice session in hopes that this experience will benefit someone else on the downhill slide to 40 that may be tempted to allow their fantasy life to guide them a step too far:

1. The trendy shag carpet that works so well in the play room has not proven to be the optimal dance surface. Also, I have never been so tempted to rip out a ceiling fan with my bare hands. Apparently, when I jump, I am 7 feet tall.

2. Speaking of jumping, while this is both inexpensive and readily accessible, I can say with great authority that it is not intended for high impact “sports”.

3. I have asthma. How this debilitating medical condition has gone undiagnosed for 38 years, I’ll never know, but unless our insurance company approves my request for an oxygen tank immediately, I do not expect to live through our first clinic on July 13th.

4. It is my opinion that the hip hop genre is best suited for waifs rocking a size 2 wardrobe, which means I have approximately 12 more days to lose 45 pounds. Make that 46 pounds since I just ate a huge brownie. I’m carbo-loading in hopes that it will help me to build up some stamina…or at least some energy reserves.

5. Like kegels, core muscles are something I’ve never really given much thought to. Until I needed them in order to teach something that looks like this….and subsequently discovered they weren’t there.

And now if you'll excuse me, I really must go get a massage.

* I would be remiss if I did not add somewhere here that my parents have loosened up ever so slightly over the years. My youngest brother tore up the dance floor at his wedding, and my sister served adult beverages at hers. At neither event was anyone struck by lighting. Both were nights to remember in the history of Bustrumdom if for that reason alone.

My Advice? Make a Double Batch.

2009-06-07T16:11:00.004-04:00

Brown Sugar Cookies

The most efficient way to bake these cookies is to portion and bake half of the dough. While the first batch is in the oven, the remaining dough can be prepared for baking. Avoid using a nonstick skillet to brown the butter. The dark color of the nonstick coating makes it difficult to gauge when the butter is sufficiently browned. Use fresh brown sugar, as older (read: harder and drier) brown sugar will make the cookies too dry.

Ingredients:

14 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 3/4 sticks)
1/4 cup granulated sugar (about 1 3/4 ounces)
2 cups packed dark brown sugar (14 ounces)
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour plus 2 tablespoons (about 10 1/2 ounces)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon table salt
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Instructions:

1. Heat 10 tablespoons butter in 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat until melted, about 2 minutes. Continue to cook, swirling pan constantly until butter is dark golden brown and has nutty aroma, 1 to 3 minutes. Remove skillet from heat and transfer browned butter to large heatproof bowl. Stir remaining 4 tablespoons butter into hot butter to melt; set aside for 15 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 large (18 by 12-inch) baking sheets with parchment paper. In shallow baking dish or pie plate, mix granulated sugar and 1/4 cup packed brown sugar, rubbing between fingers, until well combined; set aside. Whisk flour, baking soda, and baking powder together in medium bowl; set aside.

3. Add remaining 1 3/4 cups brown sugar and salt to bowl with cooled butter; mix until no sugar lumps remain, about 30 seconds. Scrape down sides of bowl with rubber spatula; add egg, yolk, and vanilla and mix until fully incorporated, about 30 seconds. Scrape down bowl. Add flour mixture and mix until just combined, about 1 minute. Give dough final stir with rubber spatula to ensure that no flour pockets remain and ingredients are evenly distributed.

4. Divide dough into 24 portions, each about 2 tablespoons, rolling between hands into balls about 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Working in batches, toss balls in reserved sugar mixture to coat and set on prepared baking sheet, spacing them about 2 inches apart, 12 dough balls per sheet. (Smaller baking sheets can be used, but it will take 3 batches.)

5. Bake one sheet at a time until cookies are browned and still puffy and edges have begun to set but centers are still soft (cookies will look raw between cracks and seem underdone; see photo below), 12 to 14 minutes, rotating baking sheet halfway through baking. Do not overbake.

6. Cool cookies on baking sheet 5 minutes; using wide metal spatula, transfer cookies to wire rack and cool to room temperature.

Makes 2 Dozen Cookies. Published in Cooks Illustrated, March of 2007.

Taming the Wild Animals...Or Euthanizing Them in Your Driveway

2009-05-15T21:20:00.015-04:00

I had a difficult day today. There was really no reason for it other than the fact that it was Friday and Griffin and Peyton weren't in preschool this morning. Instead they were home all day with me. Per usual, as the day progressed I found I really enjoyed it. Both were cooperative and did very well with one another. Griffin was his charming, happy self, and Peyton stayed dry all day! There were successes to celebrate and moments to share. It was at the end of my day, when I realized I had accomplished nothing on my to-do list and our house looked worse than it did when we started out, that I found myself reevaluating my last 10 hours and deciding that they left much to be desired. It's a sad thing when efficiency and progress are hallmarks of your personality because when your day is being orchestrated by a 4-year old and a 2-year old, efficiency and progress are nowhere to be found. This is one of the things that makes me terrified of the career change that I am slowly crawling toward. You can modify how you spend the hours in your day. The question is whether or not you can adapt your personality to appreciate the new ways in which you are spending your hours. Can value be found in a day in which nothing was accomplished?

Also affecting my current life experience is that Carter is struggling at school. Today, for example, he told a bunch of kids at recess that he had taken a leak on the playground - a scenario for which he was sent to the principal's office a few weeks ago so it's not exactly an unlikely story. Then later this afternoon he angrily gave his teacher the bird. Admittedly, he has no idea what the gesture means, but he does know it has a negative connotation and the spirit of the movement was still readily interpreted by a bunch of kids who did know what it means. Today marked the 12th day in a row of his reign of naughtiness. On a high note, he seems to have moved past his kleptomaniac stage. Now he just lies constantly.

When Jeff and I lived in the DC area we attended McLean Bible Church. The Pastor, Lon Solomon, used to say about parenting, "You've got to get in the cage and tame the wild animals." At the time we had not yet begun to procreate and thought that statement was hilarious. Now we think it's profound. All this to say, we've got problems over here and I can say with great certainty that they aren't going to be solved efficiently. Worse, it appears that none of the disciplinary measures we have taken thus far have had any sort of impact whatsoever.

I took my crummy mood with me to dinner tonight. Dinner I was simultaneously thankful not to have had to cook, and frustrated by the need to constantly correct my dinner companions: stop turning around, use your napkin, get your feet off of me, stop pulling on my shirt, sit down on your bottom, be careful with your water, hold my hand. It would appear I am a relentless nag. Jeff, on the other hand, was patience incarnate. I'm sure there is no correlation to the fact that he, "had a quiet day at work and was able to accomplish some items on his to-do list." And here I thought I was the only one programmed to achieve.

On our way home tonight, we happened up this slithering across our driveway.

I'm positive the kids were not at all alarmed when Jeff and I both leapt out of the car to get our respective tools of the serpent-killing trade.

Mick Dundee at work. Incidentally, Mick claimed afterwards that the snake was around 5-feet long. But I'll let you all be the judge of that. I'm just here to report the events of the evening in my unbiased and objective way.

Time of death: 9:00pm. Which explains why I spent so much of the evening nagging our children. They should have been in bed.

Alas, if only parenting were this easy.

Where Hand Models Get Their Start

2009-04-25T12:54:00.003-04:00

The Freshour Children's Choir

2009-04-24T09:52:00.001-04:00

The Freshour Children's Choir singing Peyton's favorite song. Carter on (teeny tiny) lead guitar.

Veggie Tales: Popeye Donuts

2009-04-23T14:03:00.008-04:00

Here at Chez Freshour, I'm on a quest to expand my children's vegetable awareness because, quite frankly, I'm a little tired of the seemingly endless rotation of carrots, peas, green beans, broccoli, carrots, peas, green beans...you get the idea. So when I came across this recipe while at the hospital yesterday with Carter, I shamelessly tore it out of the magazine and took it home. What is exciting about sitting in a waiting room for an hour and a half, is all the time you have to scan free magazines and ponder what to have for dinner. And wonder if you are going to be there for so long that a trip to the grocery store afterwards will be out of the question.

You could probably call these Spinach Balls, but around these parts, conspicuous vegetable typecasting earns us swift and blatant rejection. There's nothing like a clever marketing ploy to help move them from the plate into the mouth. Without further ado, I bring you:

Popeye Donuts

Ingredients:

2 (10-oz.) packages frozen chopped spinach, thawed

4 eggs

1/2 c. grated parmesan cheese

1 lg. white onion, finely chopped (I grated mine thereby rendering it invisible.)

2 c. Pepperidge Farm Herb Seasoned Stuffing mix

1/2 tsp. garlic powder

1/2 tsp. dried thyme

1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

10 Tbsp. melted butter (Try to keep your mind centered on all the folic acid while drizzling this in.)

Directions:

Heat oven to 350. (Mine was already on because I was baking cookies. This because we are not above bribery when it comes to pushing new vegetables and we weren't exactly sure if the green donut idea was going to fly.) Squeeze the water out of the spinach through a colander in the sink until the spinach is just about dry. Beat the eggs in a large bowl, then dump spinach and the rest of the ingredients in and mix well. Cover the bowl and refrigerate until the mixture holds together, about an hour. Shape roughly into 1-inch balls and bake on a lightly greased cookie sheet (I'm nothing if not lazy and avoided that whole greasing bit by lining my baking sheet with parchment paper.) until just browned and crispy, 30-35 minutes. Sprinkle with kosher salt while still hot prior to serving.

It's spinach for spinach haters. Not only did the kids give them two thumbs up, but they would be a slammin' summer appetizer or side. They were that good.

CMS: C is for Convenience

2009-04-20T20:32:00.017-04:00

Around this time last year, Jeff and I began to ponder education options for our rising Kindergartener. At the risk of causing all of my homeschooling readers to hyperventilate, I will admit that our final decision was based solely upon something entirely unrelated to our educational philosophy. It wasn't based upon curriculum, academic emphasis, use of enrichment programs, student-teacher ratios, or test scores. No, instead it was based upon convenience, which is a hot little commodity for this working mom.

The school we chose for our firstborn was none other than our local public school and, after touring and researching several other options, we picked it because it didn't start until 9:15am in the morning, (around the same time I needed to be in the car running the other two to preschool), and it didn't get out until 3:30pm allowing our youngest to take her afternoon nap uninterrupted. Also, we thought, "It's Kindergarten, right? How much damage can they do?"

So now we are coming to the end of Carter's first year in CMS, and I can honestly say they have not just met our lofty expectations, they have by far surpassed it, earning them a well-deserved A++. Not only has his academic day been completely compatible with Griffin and Peyton's preschool and nap schedule, but Carter has delighted in being able to ride the bus to and from school each day, thereby making my job even easier! Other pleasant surprises for the year included Carter's teacher - a seasoned veteran who manages him exceptionally well, and the fact that under her, he learned to read, and tell time, and count to 100.

Unfortunately, the disappointments are beginning to outweigh how cool we think it is that the bus stops right at the bottom of our cul-de-sac, and that Ms. Juanita makes all the Kindergarteners sit up at the front of the bus with her. One of those is that we live in a fairly diverse community both racially and socio-economically. While our family possibly owns more children's literature than the local library, some of the students who entered Kindergarten with Carter had never held a crayon or a pencil. How as a teacher do you reconcile your responsibility to bring all 26 of these children with such varying abilities up to a common level? And is your bigger problem the non-English speaker who is legitimately struggling, or the kid who races through everything and spends the rest of his day cutting up? Because that would be our kid. The brilliant bored one. Or maybe he's not smart at all. Maybe he's entirely mediocre, he just looks smart because the competition is working at such a tremendous disadvantage.

Another concern is the lack of focus on enrichment activities such as art. Consider Exhibit A below:

It's an Easter hat, sent home as a Fun! Family! Activity! like so many other art projects have been this year. Problem being that neither Jeff (who is entirely responsible for the above millinery masterpiece) or I are at all crafty, hence the finished result is altogether worse than if Carter had just done it himself. AT SCHOOL. With an accredited art teacher presiding over the mess.

All things considered, Carter's teachers have done a wonderful job this year despite a work environment that would have sucked the joy right out of me. They are tasked with directing far too many kids at once, are very under-resourced, and endure constant pressure not to teach creatively, but to raise to raise test scores. Speaking of the AYP (which we didn't pass), in our particular elementary school, only 60% of the kids in Carter's school were found to be performing at or above grade level. I find that deeply disturbing...which is not to say that I don't understand why.

Suffice it to say, despite a seemingly successful year in public school, we are once again elementary school shopping. Yesterday we toured a private school option we are quite familiar with. For the past year we have compared the awesome projects that line their walls with the enormous stacks of worksheets Carter brings home. He, lately, has begun to notice what is hanging on the walls as well. On our last visit, he commented on "all of the different materials they used". It really is a much more vibrant, creative learning environment than he is in presently. The class sizes are significantly smaller, integration of faith and learning is a priority, and the other students are closer to his performance and achievement potential so the pacing would be more stimulating for him. Challenges are numerous, the school is a 20+ minute drive from our house, and they require something Jeff and I are only too familiar with: school uniforms.

Fortunately, Carter is a big fan of red.

S.O.S.

2009-04-16T11:31:00.004-04:00

My blog and I are experiencing a slight identity crisis...where "slight" equals all-consuming, very disturbing, I need to find a therapist immediately.

Please be patient while I try on different themes...where "try on" equals my husband hated the springy green stripes, try to embrace the whimsical giraffe, I'm not replacing my widgets (gadgets? plug-ins?) until I actually decide on something. Which might take a while since, again, the identity crisis is not solely restricted to this blog.

Bloom Where You're Planted

2009-04-09T20:58:00.009-04:00

When we moved into our current home, there was a large, overgrown planting area between our house and our neighbors that really had to go. I tore it apart at the height of my second pregnancy whereupon I promptly went into pre-term labor. Suffice it to say, it was a busy fall.

One of the first new shrubs I planted was a lilac bush...because lilac bushes are rumored not to grow that well in the south and, being the gardening rebel that I am, I like to tempt the naysayers. I purchased it from Wayside Gardens in 2004, put it in the ground and waited to behold the glory of a bush I had never seen in full bloom.

Four years later it had grown but had yet to flower and, in my opinion, a lilac bush without the flowers is a deciduous waste of space. For three seasons of the year it is lanky and ridiculous looking sticking out of the top of my planting bed, and in the winter it's just a bunch of sticks. So this year I decided it either needed to produce something bouquet worthy or I was ripping it out.

It apparently sensed the end was near.

Because right at this moment there are exactly three blooms on the darn thing...

And as you can see below, they make quite an impact.

Or not.

Fortunately, I think I have figured out the problem. Lilacs like loamy soil. Four years ago, I had no idea what loam was. Now I do. I don't have loam. I have clay. And while I am fairly certain I can turn clay into loam, I'm not so sure the other plants around the lilac would appreciate the effort. So I am admitting defeat and giving this round to the naysayers.

But I'm keeping the lilac. Because if a lilac can adapt to clay soil, I can probably adapt to the south. Maybe we both just needed that 5th year.

How to Make the Barter System Work to Your Advantage

2009-03-19T22:11:00.004-04:00

Jeff: You can have the mommy makeover you've been talking about if I can have one of these.

Mel: Fine...as long as yours comes with the accent.

Dear Daylight Saving Time,

2009-03-08T20:09:00.008-04:00

At first I didn't like you very much. This morning, for example. I felt rather certain we could never be friends.

But this afternoon, you redeemed yourself and I have since reconsidered my earlier position.

A position that was confirmed when at 7:00pm it was still light enough to take this picture of my husband tooling around our neighborhood on a Bratz bike. As you can see, he was thoroughly enjoying his purple velvet banana seat ride. I know it goes without saying that it is precious moments like these that remind me why I married him in the first place.

So, DST, we can be friends until your twin, Humidity, comes over to play. Then I must go back to despising the both of you.

Until then, Melanie

#1 and #32

2009-03-04T14:12:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, these were removed from my head.

(insert picture of wisdom teeth laying on the metal tray)

(insert second picture of huge swollen jaw)

You're welcome.

Is There a Reentry Seminar For This Sort of Thing?

2009-02-21T08:00:00.003-05:00

Guess who, after 16-days of adult conversation and fine dining, is flying back home from Hong Kong today? Good-bye expense account, hello really needy ~~wife~~ ~~kids~~ family.

We'll try not to maul you at the airport tonight with our excess love, but I'm not making any promises.

Conundrums of Childhood: Peyton, Age 2

2009-02-20T11:00:00.003-05:00

Baby has a thumb.

Peytie has a thumb.

Where's Ducky's thumb?

A Little Less of Me: Release Your Inner Gym Rat

2009-02-16T22:40:00.005-05:00

I went to the pacemaker clinic last Monday for my annual tune-up. In short, this involves a technician sticking a bunch of wires on my chest and stomach and then using a magnet and some software to test the device, leads, and battery. The testing involves speeding up and slowing down each chamber in my heart, which is about as enjoyable as it sounds. The process had just begun when the conversation below took place.

Pacemaker Technician Carol: Do you work out?

Me (laughing): Why do you ask?

Pacemaker Technician Carol: Well your pacemaker recorded a total of 4 elevated heart rate episodes in the last three months. All were between 9:30-10:30am.

Me: Considering I know that is when Dr. Phil is on, I think we can safely say, yes. Yes, I do work out. As you can tell, I'm a real gym rat.

(You know that conversation totally got back to my cardiologist.)

Appropriately, A Little Less of Me Tip #3 is this: Conclude the exercise sabattical.

Every year I take an exercise break from November through January ~~so I can bulk up and hibernate for the winter~~ because things are so harried at work that something has to give. Needless to say, balance is not my forte. Generally speaking, by the beginning of February things have usually slowed enough that I am able to pencil my date with the elliptical machine back in more regularly. Unfortunately, that has not been the case this year. Or, really, last year. Or 2006. But that is beside the point.

However, after my broken heart shamelessly betrayed me last week, I decided the time had come to ~~crawl out of the cave~~ put on my yoga pants and actually wear them to the gym. As opposed to the grocery store, or the gas station, or the mall, or any other location they are frequently on display. I determined that would start on Tuesday.

The next morning all was going according to plan...until about 8:15am when I happened upon a horrific stench coming from Peyton's room. She was swimming in vomit and other revolting bodily fluids. Let your imagination run wild. I assure you that you cannot possibly conjure up anything close to what we experienced together, my Sweet P. and I. (And later the Grandparent Reserves who were called in to join the FUN!)

My week slid briskly downhill from there...until Friday afternoon when she began to slowly climb out of the viral pit. Suffice it to say, between trips to the emergency room, the pediatrician, and our own laundry room, my target heart rate was not in the zone at any point during the week.

(As a positive aside, I will say I have never been more delirious to have this setting on my washing machine. Truly. In the presence of hazardous waste, it makes me very, very happy.)

During this awfully wet and malodorous time at Chez Freshour, I am proud to report that I did manage to take my vitamins regularly. And my birth control pill which is perhaps the most important vitamin of all. This concludes the exhaustive listing of everything even remotely health related I accomplished last week.

Which brings us to this week. Tomorrow, around 9:30am, you will find me and Dr. Phil here.

I can only hope my heart won't explode from the sudden exertion.

(Photo by Molly. Because, surprisingly, I didn't bring my camera on any of the four trips to the gym I've made since October.)

Adventures in Appliance Repair

2009-01-29T20:44:00.019-05:00

Have I mentioned before that I am married to an appliance repair man? No?

Hi. My name is Jeff. I try to fix our appliances after my wife has called the real appliance repair man and we've been thoroughly fleeced.

See, we've been having some issues with our Whirlpool Super Capacity 465 Oven. An oven that was originally purchased for $600 back in 2001, giving it a current depreciated value of $36. Try to remember that important dollar figure as we progress further into this story of appliance woe.

A few months ago, I tried to use the self-cleaning cycle. Normally, the oven automatically locks and then cranks itself up to highs previously unknown so it can burn off the grime encased within that I have ignored for the past year. But this time I got an error message that looked like this:

Anyone want to try to decipher the secret message from the stove? No?

Anyone want to come over to my house and clean the control panel? Please?

How about the wall behind the stove? Would anyone like to volunteer to clean that? I'll bake you a smoky cake.

Well, neither did we. So, predictably, we just let it all go...until we realized this was happening.

That would be the vinyl fronts peeling right off of the cabinet drawers due to heat escaping from the oven we haven't had fixed. I believe in HGTV circles this happenstance would be more commonly known as deferred maintenance. But I like to call it, 3 kids, 2 jobs, and the yard needed to be mown last week. (Mown? Is that a word, or have I been living in the south too long?)

Naturally, when we realized all of our high-end cabinetry was going to be slowly cremated, we raced to do something about our troubled oven...which is why I was able to take the above picture for you just tonight. Right.

What we actually did was to wait until the oven was so coated with baked on crud, that we could not turn it on without smoke billowing out of it, thereby causing the smoke alarm - which is connected to our house alarm - to wail for hours on end. Case in point. It wasn't enough that it went off for 45 minutes while we were trying to host a lovely dinner party this weekend, I tempted the forces of Hades again on Tuesday night when I tried to bake enchiladas. Dinner that night was delicious, but earsplittingly loud. Louder than the kids even.

Fortunately, after the second night, my live-in lover threw in the towel and we decided to call an official repair guy. He was supposed to come between 8:00am-12:00pm this morning. Naturally, he showed up at 3:00pm.

15 minutes and $141 later, the oven still wasn't working. However, I did learn that for another $278, he might be able to fix it. That is when I bid him adieu.

Jeff came home later that evening, and believe you me when I say he was DELIGHTED that I had shelled out $141 for an oven that still wasn't working. And that is precisely when he decided he was going to fix it himself. Because nothing, no nothing, will get a man all hot and bothered like having spent $141 on a $36 appliance, unless it is the possibility of having to spend $278 more. (Somebody give me an Amen.)

And, so, this is what commenced.

First he did some electrical surveying back here. It was gross. I felt sorry for him. Not sorry enough to climb back there myself simply because squeezing into tight spaces with a screwdriver isn't part of my Less of Me weight loss plan for 2009. Maybe in 2010.

Then he unscrewed some important bits in the front of the unit.

And then he totally mooned me.

And while I would love more than anything to show you that picture, I cannot. Because I have to sleep with that same moon tonight. Also, I was laughing so hard that it's not really in focus.

Anyway, after Jeff had retrieved his pants, he determined that we needed part #32 (See it there in the middle of the page?) and he ordered it. From California. So in about 10 days I'll be able to use my oven again. Isn't that exciting? And the biggest victory of all is that we'll have only spent about 5 times what the oven is actually worth.

Assuming he ordered the right part.

(To be continued...)

The Weekend in Review

2009-01-26T09:42:00.032-05:00

You know how I've recently pledged to be the most intrusive neighbor on the block? Well. On Friday night around 9:00pm, I heard a lot of shouting across the street. There weren't any police cars parked outside, but I knew there had been dire trouble recently that resulted in a restraining order against the head of household. So when I saw him running down the block followed by a couple of their older kids, I knew the situation was breaking down over there. It was freezing outside, so I got in my car thinking maybe I could pick up some of the runners. I came upon their 10-year old first. He was panicked and calling out a name that sounded suspiciously similar to the name of their 4-year old...who, incidently, frequently leaves the house on his own - mostly to come over to our house, but his mom rarely knows when he has left. I immediately thought perhaps the 4-year old had escaped, but upon further inquiry I found that it was actually the 10-year old's dog that flown the coop.

It's an important dog. He was given to the 10-year old to help him through the implosion of his family. What we can learn from this is that there are some wounds that not even a pet can heal.

At that point, the 10-year old had no interest in getting into my warm car, so I drove on to see who else I could find. Around the corner, I came upon their 15-year old daughter. She was wearing a tee-shirt, capris, and no shoes in the near freezing weather and had been outside for 20 minutes. My warm car was vastly more appealing to her. She got in and told me they were having some problems at home. Really? I didn't know.

The two of us drove around the neighborhood for a while and then headed back to where the 10-year old, now sobbing, had been joined in the hunt by one of his older brother's basketball buddies. Now I had three kids in my warm car. The four of us drove around for 15-20 more minutes before we finally came across the older brother who had chased the dog over to the the local elementary school, through several other subdivisions, and finally back into our neighborhood where he had sort of cornered him. Between the four kids, they managed to catch and load him into their Dad's car (he had been trying to follow his oldest son as he chased on foot).

This is the story as I understand it. Two weeks ago, the Dad pushed the Mom over the stair railing in their garage where she fell onto the cement floor below. Whether this was intentional or not is still being debated. She blacked out, and he ran knowing she would call the cops. In the fall, she miscarried (as it turns out, the story CAN get worse), and from there decided she probably needed a restraining order if she was going to survive. She was supposed to stay in their home, but their furnace broke down quickly thereafter, so she took their three youngest children and went to live with her mom until it could be replaced. In the meantime, their two older children were growing weary of living at their grandmother's house with their dad, and he decided (despite the lack of heat) that if she wasn't going to be in the house, the three of them were moving back home. So they secured a couple of space heaters and did just that. The furnace guys were supposed to tell the displaced mom when the furnace was fixed, but when that call failed to come through and things started to go south with her temporary accommodations, she decided to come home and check on the progress. She called the officer assigned to her case to let her know that she was changing locations and returning home...only to discover the squatters camped out in their own house. The kids were livid because she hadn't called first to tell them that she was coming home so they could get out of the house (yet she didn't even know they were there), he was mad because he thought she had called the cops to report him before giving him a chance to get out of the house (also not so), and in the hub-bub the back door was left open and the dog took off. Naturally, what followed was an all out family war about who was responsible for letting the dog get away. It kind of defies logic, doesn't it?

Getting back to the 4 kids, the dog, and the Dad. I had been talking to him outside while we watched the kids and knew that he expected the older kids and possibly the 10-year old to go back with him to his mom's house for the night. However, as soon as the kids got the dog in his car, they all came racing back to my car. Curious, yes? They were adamant about not wanting to go back home where their mom was (she had been drinking), and they clearly didn't want to go back with their dad to their grandmother's house. So, literally, I kid you not, they decided their best option for the night was to sleep over at the Freshours.

We ended up taking the unrelated 16-year old friend back to his house for the night, as well as the 10-year old. His mom needed him and I understood that. If I was in a crisis, the first thing I would do is to gather my little lambs close to my heart. But the older two spent the night and went home late the next morning. Today is the formal separation and custody hearing. Both of the older kids say they want to stay with their dad, but when push comes to shove, they would rather spend the night at our house than go home with him. How desperate for peace do you have to be to opt to sleep at a home you have never set foot in rather than to go home with either of your parents? The situation just makes my heart so very heavy.

Jeff and I are comfortable with the fact that we may never know who is or isn't right over at their house. Ultimately, for us it just doesn't matter. It only matters that their family recognizes our home as a place of refuge and that we attempt to ooze grace all over all of them regardless of who is or isn't at fault. The approach seems to be working. He called late Saturday night to thank us for taking in his kids and then called back moments after that to ask where we go to church and if he and his older son could follow us up there on Sunday. I had a hard time containing my incredulity and giddiness on the phone simply because I felt such a moment of triumph in which God still managed to shine through all of Jeff's and my sloppy, misguided attempt to genuinely love our neighbors. They didn't end up going, but we feel like the door is open for us to follow up on it. We're calling it a weekend win.

Then, on Sunday evening, we had a celebration dinner with our African Children's Project board. A celebration that might have gone a little better had not the lasagna run over in the oven causing our fire alarm to go off repeatedly for 30 minutes straight. Fortunately, we were among friends...friends with children that when combined with ours were almost noisier than the alarm.

Why the celebration you ask?

On December 30, 2008, the IRS approved our 501(c)(3) application - meaning our little NPO has been recognized as a public charity with full tax-exempt status!

Which means, Lord willing, someday soon this exact spot...

will be forever changed by the presence of this children's home...

and this 4-year old named Anna (along with a bunch of other kids) will finally be able to start living the life God intended her to live.

The thought kind of rocks my world.

When Snow Eclipses Politics

2009-01-20T11:30:00.007-05:00

We live on the east side of the cul-de-sac...which is great when it's icy because our driveway melts first. It's not so great, however, when it snows. Try not to laugh at our definition of snow, Michigan readers.

Griffin laying on the neighbor's driveway trying to make a snow angel. Thanks neighbors for letting us use your driveway. We're sorry we gloat a little when our driveway melts before yours does after ice storms.

See Griffin's icy art there to the left? He's very proud of his work.

Fortunately, yet another neighbor had enough snow on their hill to use our sliders.

Hey neighbors, where were you all this morning when we were so shamelessly trespassing on your properties?

Even the Dad got into it. It just so happens that his butt is about the same size as the boys'. Big surprise.

Not exactly a fashion statement on the princess. Her mom wasn't expecting any extreme weather this season and failed to adequately prepare for it.

Carter getting ready to nail a someone with his snowball.

He got him.

Griffin with his everpresent snowplow. If we were smart, we'd invest in Tonka. There's little chance their stock is falling.

FRONT PAGE NEWS!

2009-01-14T21:43:00.003-05:00

Today, Griffin made the front page of the Charlotte Observer. More importantly, he was the first person in our family to discover this.

Maybe with his brother at the helm, Carter won't be in the Principal's office as much this year.

(And yes, that is our Christmas tree still up behind him. But without ornaments and lights, so hey! Progress!)

A Little Less of Me: Find Your Motivation

2009-01-10T08:11:00.011-05:00

In an effort to compete with every women's magazine published in January, I hereby bring you A Little Less of Me Tip #2: Find Your Motivation.

Late last year, far later than she should have started pondering her involvement, someone in my high school graduating class of 1989 decided she would attempt to plan a 20-year class reunion. The impending event is scheduled to take place in July of this year which gives me a whopping 6 months to turn my saggy, lumpy, average mom body back into this world class athlete of yesteryear.

Y'all let me know if you want to see my letter sometime. I'm pretty sure my excellence in high school sports is why I was ~~institutionalized~~ accepted into college.

Worse, the idiot party planner decided it would be just brilliant if she scheduled the event to take place in the dead of summer...at, of all possible locations in the 48 contiguous United States, the beach. Presuming the terror of having to face all of one's old classmates in a bathing suit for an entire weekend is not enough to make you put down the nutella already, it's wise to employ some sort of backup motivation.

I have this. Suffice it to say, avoiding the natural state at Chez Freshour is no longer an option.

A Little Less of Me: Retraining Pavlov's Dog

2009-01-09T21:45:00.006-05:00

I'm a terrible dieter. The first and foremost reason being that I really, really love food. And I'm not that particular. I love all of it. Except yams. And cornbread casserole. I have to be pretty desperate to eat those two things. Or under a lot of pressure to keep up appearances. That's very important here in the south. You don't get your heart blessed if you don't shovel in the cornbread casserole.

Anyway.

Last summer my sister got married and I managed to lose a staggering 10-15 lbs. before I poured myself into the spearmint green bridesmaid dress that, incidentally, I picked out. Surprisingly, it wasn't really that difficult. I simply stopped getting pregnant and breastfeeding (See you later male readers...I flatter myself to think you made it this far.) and slowly realized I wasn't ravenous anymore. That whole bit about breastfeeding causing the pounds to just melt away? If it was true, I'd be a size 2. Instead, I'm more like a 2 with a 1 in front of it. Not really. But I am closer to that second number than I am the first.

Needless to say, because of my unparalleled weight loss success last year, I decided I was uniquely qualified to bring the blog world all of my weight loss tips this year. Because I'm a giver, that's why.

Without further ado, here is A Little Less of Me Tip #1:

Find something highly caloric that you really, really like, and swap it out for something that you LOVE.

Jeff and I both adore ice cream. What you see above are the unopened containers currently stored in our gargantuan freezer in our garage. We have two additional opened containers of product in our smaller inside freezer bringing our total ice cream inventory to 8 (or 4 if you are only counting the Cookies 'n Cream). For ~~several years~~ a while we were eating hefty bowls of it at least 3-4 nights a week after we put the kids to bed. This because we felt like we needed a BIG reward for just making it through the day. Mine was frequently smothered in hot fudge with a massive scoop of dry roasted peanuts on top. I needed more than a reward, I needed Publishers Clearing House knocking on my front door. But I would settle for smooth, creamy, crunchy, sweet, salty, cold, warm, sticky, delectable yum.

Indulge often enough and you eventually develop a Pavlovian response when the clock strikes eight each night. I never bothered to calculate the caloric load - possibly because I was concerned that my calculator wouldn't go that high. Or that then I might actually have to ADMIT how much I was inhaling and I can't honestly think of a bigger buzz kill. But I did know deep, way down deep, that I probably needed to find something that I could savor at night that would effectively suffocate my highly conditioned craving for the ambrosial ice cream triptych...assuming I didn't want to spend the rest of my life wearing maternity garb disguised as real clothes.

I tried drinking coffee, I tried drinking tea.

And then I tried drinking this. Bingo. All it takes is a sip (of the red, always the red) and I can watch Jeff wolf down the Cookies 'n Cream without even a hint of a hankerin'. And that, my friends, is proof that you really can eat the foods you love and still lose weight. Not only that, I'm sleeping better! Though that could possibly be attributed to the fact that the kids are all sleeping through the night now.

Unfortunately, the forsaken ice cream inventory does not live alone. As far as bacon and butter are concerned, the dog is still drooling.

It's Like Riding a Bike

2009-01-03T14:54:00.023-05:00

When Carter turned 4, we bought him a bike from the renowned bicycle expert, Toys-r-us. There was a whopping total of three different bikes on the rack that we thought would fit him and, naturally, we bought him the flashiest one. At the time it seemed of paramount importance that our firstborn not only conquer this preschooler rite of passage well ahead of his peers, but that he looked fly doing it. There was simply no way a Dora the Explorer, or a Thomas and Friends bike was going to fit that bill. Coincidentally, a few months earlier we had traded in my beloved Honda Pilot for our current minivan. I would be remiss if I didn't admit that there is a distinct possibility someone in our family was trying to offset that very uncool decision by buying a hot orange bicycle for their 4-year old.

The sweet bike we brought home that day was a tricked out Mongoose BMX, and with the training wheels attached it weighed about 400 lbs. We thought that was a good thing since it would give him more stability. What we failed to take into the equation was that Carter only weighed a total of 32 lbs., which meant there was not enough of him to provide the necessary torque to efficiently pedal the bike. Idiots that we are, we figured he would eventually grow into it and encouraged him to keep trying to ride it anyway.

Three months after we gave him the bike, Carter participated in the annual YMCA Preschool Bike-a-thon in the 4-year old division. Here he is going about 1 mph on a completely flat surface. See the kid behind him? His much smarter parents had sprung for the 12" Thomas and Friends bike. A year later he was whizzing around this same track WITHOUT TRAINING WHEELS.

Meanwhile, Carter (now 5) was still just barely puttering along. He is tolerating my camera only because he is at a complete standstill and is dependent upon me to get him moving again. This was back in April of 2008 - a date that is important only because on Friday (a mere 8 months later), I decided the problem perhaps was not with Carter's lack of biking ability at all, but maybe because his parents had bought him a sucky starter bike.

So yesterday afternoon, Carter and I drove down to Trek where I proceeded to have him professionally fitted for a bicycle his size. Then, after listening to an exceptional savvy sales pitch, I plunked down an exorbitant amount of money for yet another brand new starter bike for my precious firstborn. Let's just say I felt the purchase price was appropriate penance for the suffering we put him through with the first bad bike. Then we went home, told his dad all about it and watched him have a heart attack. All in all, it was an eventful day and it was only 4:00pm.

Fortunately, while I was making dinner, Carter was busy proving to his father that the problem really was with the old BMX bike all along. As you can see here, we're proponents of the ridiculously effective no-training-wheels method. Also working in our favor for the first time EVER is the fact that we live on a very steep hill.

In about an hour and a half, he had mastered balance, could glide on his own for quite a distance, and was confident in using the hand brake. Not only that, he was happy. It's an emotion we've never associated with biking before.

We knew when he could successfully round the corner of the cul-de-sac (this morning) that it was time to put on the pedals. His coach helped him with that this afternoon. About 10-15 minutes later, the guy was racing the kid on the chopper.

I am pleased to report that Carter has officially beaten the battle of the bike.

Christmas Revealed

2008-12-27T15:36:00.005-05:00

Remember my college friend, Veronica? She saved Christmas for me last year. She is elevating it again this year. Go here, here (not entirely epiphany related but meaningful nonetheless), here, here, and here. You won't be disappointed.

A Holiday Pictorial (How's that for a catchy, creative title?)

2008-12-26T14:37:00.024-05:00

Remember our Norweigan Christmas tree from last year? This year, due to my aversion to both the dead and the fake (and, apparently, the pretty and festive), I bought it an Austrian friend.

Perhaps someday when he is 60 feet tall and 25 feet wide, he'll forget he started out his little tree life in such a demeaning way; choked with strands of hot lights, burdened by a bunch of really cheap ornaments, and being smothered by a spare sheet. But I doubt it.

Next, I'd like to give a shout out to all of the Dads out there who spent their entire day doing this. Every picture I have of Jeff from yesterday is a variation on this theme.

Probably because it takes a very long time to dewire toys like this.

These two have been here all week entertaining their grandchildren. Portrait of my Dad below by Griffin. I think he captured his true essence.

Believe you me, it's been a gift that keeps on giving when these are the children who need to be entertained. They can't stand to be with or without one another.

(As an aside, Jeff took the boys to get their hair cut this week. He claims he gave the exact same set of instuructions to the two people doing the trimming, "Use a #2 guard and blend in the top." Behold, the big reveal. One of them has a buzz cut in the dead of winter.)

These three came over yesterday to share in the festivities as well.

On the right is Mammaw, of Mammaw fame.

And Larry who I could not entice to come over and hang up my Christmas lights this year. He did, however, bring over his circular saw so we could chop the bottom off the door to the loo (the bathroom renovation continues). You have to love an in-law that brings power tool rather than veggie plate to a Christmas party. Now there is a guy who knows what is truly important.

Lastly, Christmas cookies...made a day late. We hope your holidays were as fun and family-filled as ours!

This is What a Lapsed Vocalist Does With Their Free Time

2008-12-21T21:22:00.001-05:00

Behold, the culmination of my last 13 Sunday mornings. Perhaps now I'll have time to go out and get a Christmas tree.

Brady Matthew Bustrum

2008-11-17T13:51:00.005-05:00

Behold, Brady Matthew Bustrum has arrived and made his way successfully home. Because he is an adopted child, his homecoming feels almost as miraculous as his birth.

Kevin and Brady. Brady will probably end up calling his Dad, "Pops". Or not.

Brady and his mom. Don't you just love how a baby's face gets all squished up when they sleep on you? I started lactating when I saw this picture and I'm totally not kidding. Don't anyone tell my husband.

Sweet Mother of Pearl, I just may have to bring the uterus out of retirement. I don't think I can take it.

I Have Never Seen Her Smile

2008-11-10T21:42:00.004-05:00

Jeff, Carter, and I hadn’t lived in our house for very long before we discovered that we were living across the street from a registered sex offender. At first I found it very disconcerting. Carter was under a year old when we moved in and I was acutely concerned for his safety. I spent hours online searching court documents trying to figure out what the exact offense was in order to determine how protective I should be of my precious firstborn. In the meantime, we watched him, his wife, and their three elementary age children through our front window as they played in the cul-de-sac. Truth be told, I was troubled that he even had children.

It wasn’t long before they had a baby, and soon he and Carter began to play together in the cul-de-sac. Jeff made contact with them first. I note that only because if frequency of opportunity is considered, it should have been me. But I was content to sit behind my closed door and silently pass judgment.

A tentative relationship based on a shared cul-de-sac and a lot of Little Tikes vehicles eventually began, and very quickly thereafter we came to know why he is in the registry. She was 14 when they met and began seeing one another. He was 21 and already the father of a 3-year old son, and 1-year old daughter. At 14 she became their de facto mother, and by 17 she was pregnant with their 1st child. They were married shortly after she graduated from high school.

As far as the safety of my own young family was concerned, I felt better about the situation having been granted these details. Their relationship had not only lasted a decade, but he had a thriving small business, and they seemed fairly stable (with the exception of occasional police visits which we assumed had to do with his prior record). As both of our families grew, we spent more and more time together in the cul-de-sac watching them play. Their 2nd son is sandwiched between Carter and Griffin. Peyton is next in line and they had a 3rd child late last fall. I wouldn’t say a friendship has grown, but certainly the familiarity has. This year, Carter started riding the bus to and from kindergarten. Their 10 year old son (who has always been so tolerant of the three little boys who want to follow him everywhere) rides with him and looks out for him on the bus. When Carter gets home from school each afternoon, their 4-year old is at our front door in minutes wanting to play. Thankfully, the play-set has been a huge hit. Our lingering discomfort with the three of them playing around their house was a primary motivator for that investment. We wanted to draw the all the neighborhood kids to our house – to an environment we knew we could keep safe.

Over the last two years, things have steadily started to break down at the house across the street. Last year the police were called 3 times on assault charges. This year, they’ve been called 5 times. Sometimes the other neighbors fill us in on the details, sometimes she fills us in. Invariably, she is always the victim.

In October, she was attacked by four teenagers while her mother-in-law stood by. Their weapon of choice was a wrench. Her 16-year old son tried to help her, but he was sorely outnumbered. She eventually escaped and ran to a neighbor’s house and begged them to call the police. This was the one incident I know of in which her husband was not her abuser. Her de facto daughter and friends were.

On Friday night around 7:00pm, I left with Griffin to do a few errands. There were two police cars parked at their house. When we returned an hour later, there were six cars and two of those had almost run us over in their haste to get on the scene. The neighbors in the surrounding streets were all outside watching the action. Apparently, there had been a domestic dispute at their house involving a hand gun. The police had chased down, caught, and subdued the individual with the firearm, but he had managed to ditch the piece before they caught him. They were all outside in the dark with flashlights looking for the missing gun.

It’s a curious thing. I am able to feel an astonishing range of emotion on any moment of any day for Africa’s orphans thousands of miles away. Emotion that motivates me to dream up extraordinary measures to try to remedy circumstances so dismal they almost cannot be described with words. But for 5-years, I have shut my eyes and heart to the dire needs right in my own neighborhood. I have hid my light under a bushel of mammoth proportions. What causes me to be so selectively compassionate, so exclusive with my love, I do not know. But on Friday night it was hard to decide if the crime that had been committed across the street was more despicable or if that award should go to me for my callousness.

I carefully maneuvered my van around the law enforcement obstacle course, into the cul-de-sac and up into our garage. I knew that there was no excuse for the fact that I had not harnessed the power of God earlier in my relationship with them, and decided there was no time like the present to inject my peaceful, hope-filled self into a situation overflowing with evil.

I passed Griffin off to Jeff and told him that I was going across the street to get the kids out of the house. If nothing else, our home could and should be a place of refuge. I walked to the nearest inhabited police car only to find our neighbor handcuffed in the back seat. Since they were his kids I was about to start making decisions for, I thought it only right that I inform him of what I was about to do. Handcuffed or not, the guy has always been cordial to us and he was, per usual, very polite. I went to their house, retrieved the two youngest and told their obviously battered mom I expected her to come over as well after the cops left. Jeff and I then spent the next several hours trying to care for an exhausted infant and entertain an anxious preschooler until their traumatized mother arrived to spend the night. It felt right.

Our neighbor may not be a sexual offender in the manner that immediately comes to mind (i.e. rape or incest), but the resulting effect on his wife has been the same as if he had. Physically, she is 27-years old. Psychologically, she has the decimated ego and decision making skills of the 14-year old she left behind. She lives in fear and will do anything to avoid facing the anger of even her own young children, some of which are already beginning to exhibit a tendency toward violence. She has a drinking problem (let’s call it a “coping mechanism” to be fair), a nicotine habit, has never worked or been self-sustaining, and owns nothing in her name. It is readily apparent that the very idea of having to find a way to support herself and her young children is far more intimidating than dropping the charges against her husband and allowing the escalating cycle of abuse to continue.

My pitiful psychology degree expired in my head years ago, and I have no personal or practical experience with domestic violence. I have even less experience with firearms and if I could register as a pacifist I’d do it tomorrow. I’ve decided, however, that relatability in this instance is perhaps not the point. Compassion is the point. Love is the point. Being willing to wholly engage in order to help someone transform their life and the lives of their children is the point. The question that plagues me now is whether or not I am too late.

When We're Not Talking About Obama...

2008-11-05T11:21:00.008-05:00

We're debating paint colors. Soft white, beigy white, medium brown, blue? Should I try to accent the dark mirrors/vanities, or should I try to accent the tile/travertine? It's a quandry.

The Bull is at the Ready

2008-11-04T21:49:00.003-05:00

This is what a media briefing looks like in Kisumu. Mmmm...I can smell the nyama choma from here.

Two Transformers and a Doll

2008-10-30T10:18:00.006-04:00

Happy Almost Halloween from...

Optimus Prime,

Bumblebee,

and Raggedy Ann. Hey, her brothers tried to convince her to be Arcee, but she wasn't having it.

Wrestling with Manna

2008-10-18T09:02:00.009-04:00

Last night Carter and I read Exodus 16 before he went to bed. I know what you're thinking, "Seriously? You read 36 verses to a 5-year old?" I did not. I read a whopping total of 11 sentences from his children's Bible that so impacted me that I had to sit down tonight and try to mentally sort through it. Which just goes to show, you should never underestimate the power of the Word of God in any form. Even a highly condensed form.

Here is the passage we read in all of its abbreviated glory:

The whole community told Moses they weren't happy. "In Egypt we ate all the food we wanted. But you have brought us out to this desert to die of hunger."
The LORD said, "I have heard the people talking about how unhappy they are. Tell them, 'When the sun goes down, you will eat meat. In the morning you will be filled with bread.' "
That evening quail came and covered the camp. In the morning thin flakes appeared on the desert floor. Moses said, "It's the bread the LORD has given you to eat." The people called the bread manna. They ate manna for 40 years until they reached the border of Canaan.

Jeff and I have some friends that are missionaries in Sudan. This was their blog post last Monday. This was their blog post on Friday. I had an impossible time reading through either of them without feeling compelled to try to find a way to help. Should I send baby formula, baby clothes or money? Bethany responded to me by saying (among other things) that they wanted to make sure they started something they could sustain.

Right. About that issue of sustainability. I'm in complete agreement, but last night I was also angry to the point of distraction. I serve a God who supplied fresh bread six days of the week for 40 whole years to the Israelites. He clearly gets the concept of sustainability. My question is why help the whining Israelites and not the dying Sudanese? Baby Amana and baby Rahab are no doubt just the tip of the iceberg in Yabus. What stops God from seeing their desperation and coating the entire country in manna?

My combined sense of helplessness and uselessness continued into this morning. Thankfully, as we drove to Lowes to pick up some supplies for a class I'm teaching tomorrow, the haze began to clear. 2000 years ago, God did not have another entire continent full of people fully able to acknowledge the problem and choose some element of self-sacrifice in order to meet the need. It was He, and He alone that had to come up with a sustainable feeding program.

It seems also that the hands that are outstretched to embrace and provide for the orphaned and destitute matter. The Israelites had full comprehension of God and had a relatively interactive experience with Him. Compassion wasn't a requirement to convince them that He cared. But we live in 2008 and 1 John 4:7-12 seems crystal clear that there is no other way.

For the last decade, Jeff and I have felt very much at peace with the decision not to return to Africa. It has been a difficult decision at times because to some degree you feel like you sold out. You choose to embrace comfort, materialism, and accessibility, over ministry and/or helping people who simply cannot help themselves. That said, we have never felt out of the center of God's will. We have been abundantly blessed to be in a place financially where we have been able to enable others who did make the decision to return. Giving has always been a high priority for us, but writing a check is no longer feeling like contribution enough. I know money is useful, but because I'm not personally motivated by it, it almost feels like I've missed the true point of sacrificial giving. And if I should get the point, could my circle of influence be larger? Could my impact on the world be greater?

I was going to try to end this on an upbeat note, but I just don't have it in me. I will say this one last thing: I think it's no accident that I received the 2008 SIM Gift Catalog in the mail today. I couldn't help but notice for the price of my new Italian ceramic and travertine tiled shower a deux, that I could have fed 40 orphan children in Malawi for 8 years.

I wonder if those 40 kids would have considered that a sustainable feeding program?

Building an Indoor Pool

2008-10-14T17:35:00.006-04:00

This is our bathroom as of this morning. What's a month or two, or possibly thirteen, without use of your master bathroom? Sometimes I actually forget we have master bathroom...until I went in yesterday and spotted the pool that we ditched the garden tub for. If this doesn't eventually turn into a slammin' shower, I'm holding all 15 of you who voted for it accountable.

Optimists that we are, we expect the pace of the remodel to pick up from here. Famous last words, I know.

Red-Necked For a Night

2008-10-14T13:49:00.016-04:00

Back in August, my parents gave Jeff tickets to the Dollar General 300 for his birthday. I don't know about the rest of you, but anytime someone wants to give us an experience rather than more stuff for our birthdays, we are all about it. For one thing, we don't get out much. For another thing, we already own way too much stuff. It's a problem we should probably be seeking some sort of therapy for.

Anyway.

On Friday night, Jeff and I loaded up the boys sans ear plugs and headed out to Lowes Motor Speedway. That was a mistake. We definitely should have brought ear plugs because 43 cars going 200+ miles an hour around a track is much, much louder than watching a race on TV would lead you to believe. Fortunately, the family sitting next to us was sympathetic to our plight and passed down a pair for Griffin.

Thank you Kasey Kahne fans for saving the night. We're sorry Kyle Busch had to win. But he dominated the field, really, he did. Even we race virgins could see that.

The field? Is that what you call a fleet of race cars? Or are too many hours spent watching the Golf Channel starting to take effect?

Carter was significantly less bothered by the noise because he was transfixed by the gourmet fare served at the track. The race started at 8:00pm, so we had eaten a light dinner prior to heading out. That didn't stop him from consuming a hot dog, a Sprite, nachos, a Coke, popcorn, and a slurpy. He basically ate his way through the evening. I'm not even sure he knew there was a race going on or that we were there for any other purpose than to sample the various and sundry delicacies of the track. All this to say, Carter's compliments to the chef. Manna itself could not have made a better impression.

I am regretful that I did not capture Carter's gastronomical excursion on film, but I was focusing on the actual race.

This is the first lap with everyone following the pace car - which is not entirely unlike what we did in our minivan last year, but without the screaming fans. You'll note the blue Citi car in the bottom left hand corner. Feel free to BOO each time he passes. We don't like Citibank. They made our lives miserable last week.

And this is the same group of cars flying off of the turn we were sitting on. Sorry it's not as sharp as the above picture. Somewhere between 70 mph and 200 mph, my trusty Nikon exhibits some limitations. As luck would have it, my children cannot yet run 70 mph so this does not often prove to be a problem.
This is where the cars pit during a rain break, or to get tires, or to get gas, or to get other bits and pieces I know nothing about.

On a sunny day, it's also a great place to feed your month-old infant. What can I say? I'm a big proponent of feeding on demand and if that means I have to shamelessly expose myself at a gas pump at the local speed track, so be it. There's really no explanation for the camoflauge pants. Perhaps I was planning on going hunting immediately after. Or maybe, just maybe, they were the only thing in my closet that fit. Let's assume the latter to be true since I do remember those pants to be supremely comfortable.

While I was shocking the overwhelmingly male population at the track that day two short years ago, 3-year old Carter and 2-year old Griffin were checking out the Cars exhibit.

(Who has kids this close together? Something about it just doesn't seem right, though I'm sure it will make perfect sense when they are all in college at the same time.)

The whole evening really was spectacularly fantastic. Jeff, the good parent, started making moves to leave around 10:30pm, but I insisted we stay until 11:00pm because I was so into it. There is just something about seeing the rush of cars flying at you around the turn, the acrid smell of the exhaust, the screeching of tires, and the promise of wrecks that kept me mesmerized. I'm actually contemplating a trip to the Wal-marts (grrr) to get some real ear muffs for future races. Yes, a little bit of red has finally invaded my Yankee self. I'm not proud, I'd just like to get on NASCAR's mailing list.

This last picture is for the Gisberts. In case you guys ever get tired of the "magnificent ocean" at Bolsa Chica, you might want to consider inside the track of Lowes Motor Speedway for a family vacation. I can promise plenty of RV hookups, Carolina BBQ, deafening noise for hours upon end, and no sleep whatsoever. Also, I can guarantee that the track as well, as your neighbors, will be well lit. Come on, it will be fun. We might even be convinced to rent a trailer and park next to you.

A Summary of Jeff's Life Over the Past Few Days

2008-10-08T13:26:00.001-04:00

The Food Pyramid of a 5-Year Old

2008-09-22T19:28:00.002-04:00

Carter has been eating one meal a week in the cafeteria at school. This was what was on the menu last Friday for him to pick from:

Entree:
Nachos with Meat & Cheese
Nachos with Cheese
Fish on a Bun with/without Coleslaw
Chef Salad

Sides:
Refried or Pinto Beans
Corn
Mashed Potatoes
Fresh Pear
Peaches
Shredded Lettuce with Diced Tomatoes
Celery Sticks & Carobites
Trail Mix
Tossed Salad
Congealed Fruit

My son, who when I pack his lunch sometimes gets TWO vegetables, selected the items in red and washed them all down with an ice cold chocolate milk.

Another $1.75 well spent.

A Character Sketch for the 21st Century

2008-09-17T20:36:00.001-04:00

I interrupt my usual shallow programming to bring you this brilliant moment of selflessness.

Resolve to carry someone today.

Carter Makes A Second Withdrawal

2008-09-13T16:39:00.014-04:00

I can only trust that the Tooth Fairy's investments have not been negatively impacted by the lagging economy in quite the same way that Carter's parents' have. Surely TF's incredibly competent CFP advised that she not only diversify, but that she keep enough in cash to pay down our entire nation of 5-year olds. Right?

A Dental Milestone

2008-09-08T19:43:00.005-04:00

Tonight, someone in our family lost something.

I fear we'll never get it back.

Today is the Last Day to Make Your Vote Count!

2008-09-03T08:46:00.002-04:00

If you haven't voted for or against our pressing bathroom remodel issue. Scroll down and go for it.

To Bathe or Not to Bathe? That is the Question.

2008-08-30T10:57:00.014-04:00

Let's see what's been happening at Chez Freshour since we got back from vacation shall we?

Hey, here's our now tidewater blue master bedroom.

Lest any of you think I'm an overachiever, which would be impossible if you have read this blog for any length of time, you'll note the ongoing absence of window treatments. But not to worry because now we have a really big mirror in front of the window which will surely buy me some time since no one in the world wants to come and take if off our our hands.

Case in point. The last bathroom mirror we took down came from the kids' bathroom - see it over there on the left?

This is what the bathroom looks like now (below). I realize the color scheme is not for the faint of heart. But I adore it. There are surfboards on the shower curtain that remind me of (sniff, sniff) California.

Habitat for Humanity was delighted to take the old cabinets and vanity when we remodeled, but the mirror? Not so much. This spring, my brother, Kevin, and I finally ended up smashing it up into a million tiny pieces and trashing it. But come now. There must be a better idea for disposing of these things. Suggestions, anyone? Please try to keep in mind that I am not crafty.

Anyhoo. Back to this second ~~window mistreatment~~ mirror...

This is what our master bathroom looked like when we moved in. For the last 5-years not much has changed. It has, however, been messier. Much messier.

Now, however, it looks like this...

and this (One of us still thinks it's a swell idea to try to use the shower. Hint: it's not me.)...

and this as well.

Conveniently bringing me to the issue of this ridiculous garden tub. I'd like to rip it out and put in a massive mac-Daddy shower for (ahem) two. You know, a fixture that would actually get some air time rather than just wasting space. Then I could rip out the old shower and put in some functional cabinetry, because despite the fact that we have an enormous master bathroom, we have literally no storage to speak of. We actually store all of our bath towels in the hall closet across from the kids' bathroom. Which, as you can well imagine, is REALLY convenient if you happen to forget to retrieve one before you get into the shower. I'm not saying that's ever happened ~~100's of times~~ because I always plan ahead. But still. At some point, should not practicality weigh out?

Keeping in mind that blogging is supposed to be interactive, and in honor of the fact that the presidential election is right around the corner, I thought this would be a great opportunity to take a survey on our remodel and give you all some voting practice at the same time. You will find it in the sidebar to your right. Please note that I have taken no liberties in assuming which direction you will side. Just like I have no idea how you will vote in the fall. I do, however, assume a direct correlation between the two polls might be made. I will keep the survey open through Wednesday, September 3rd 10:00pm EST when we have to make a final decision on the matter. And remember, your vote counts. Sort of. For now, I'm off to peruse tile.

A Few Things I Learned Today

2008-08-27T16:54:00.014-04:00

Strep throat is far more painful than that wuss bronchitis.
It is also something they can diagnose and treat at the CVS Minute Clinic vs. a lifetime spent in the waiting room of your internist. I'm actually considering switching my primary care physican to Nurse L'Anita, because I value efficiency over education when it comes to medical care and Nurse L'Anita does not waste her breath.

If Nurse L'Anita asks if you want a prescription for Lidocaine there are a few things you might want to be aware of.

Despite her description of the fresh minty mouthwash, the Lidocaine of which she speaks has the consistency and taste of Elmers glue.
If, based upon her strong recommendation, you are desperate enough to try to gargle with it anyway, it will make your entire mouth numb for hours.
With numb lips, no basset hound in the country will have anything on you. Except that they will know they are drooling. You won't.

Anyone Have an Old Slide Projector? Because I Could, In Fact, Make This Even More Boring.

2008-08-26T19:43:00.028-04:00

While in the Smokies, we stay in a great little chalet. I'd tell you the name of it, but I'm afraid you all might rush to the rental agency and we wouldn't get our sacred week next summer.

And, seriously, if I don't get the opportunity to turn down a soak in this jacuzzi tub each year, I simply don't know what I would do with myself. It's the many mirrors, people. I know they really light the fire for the less inhibited among us, but for the rest of us it's like submerging yourself in a pool of insecurity. Also, if you must know, we attempted it last year only to discover that the tub itself requires more hot water to perform than the hot water heater is capable of delivering. Fortunately, there is a second hot tub outside on the lower deck that calls my name on a regular basis. I would have taken a picture of it so you could compare and contrast, but, well, I was in it and couldn't hold onto my camera and ~~glass of wine~~ towel at the same time. You may all thank me later for my photographic oversight of this minor detail.

The upper deck has its charms as well.

It's a great place to cool off with a cold seltzer on a hot afternoon.

Or for sitting around watching your dad grill brats for dinner. It's even great for throwing things off of - like your most cherished green golf ball. Which sadly, is the same color as everything else you see when you look off the deck.

Thank goodness you have the kind of dad who understands the preciousness of this particular golf ball and is willing to brave the poison ivy to go find it for you.

He's also the type of guy that takes you on the alpine slide at Ober Gatlinburg.

Uncle Patrick takes your brother.

EGAD! WHERE ARE THE SEATBELTS?

Your dad definitely enjoys the ride down the mountain.

You like it a lot more when it's over.

Your brother, however, is totally feeling it.

The best thing about Ober Gatlinburg? This aerial tram you get to take to get up there.

Kindergarten Calls

2008-08-26T14:41:00.013-04:00

Today was Carter's first day of Kindergarten.

It was Griffin's and Peyton's second day of Preschool.

It was their mother's first day of life without a diaper bag. Until she adjusts to this, she is keeping the stuff that was in her diaper bag in this big stainless steel mixing bowl. Don't be surprised if you see it sitting next to her on the pew this Sunday. It's working better than any purse she's ever owned.

Places That Begin With the Letter G

2008-08-25T22:23:00.013-04:00

We were in the Smoky Mountains last week.

Residing in a lovely little chalet without internet access (insert very shrill shriek of despair here).

This was a minute yet critical fact I would have remembered if I had bothered to read last year's post on the same event. Instead, I lugged up my laptop expecting to ~~blog~~ ~~surf~~ ~~shop~~ at least keep up with work while the kids napped. Instead it was one blissful week of hiking, swimming, hot tubbing, and meandering about town wondering why the Mayor of Gatlinburg doesn't put the kibosh on eager "entrepreneurs" wanting to hawk more tie-dye, fudge, and garage sale remnants masquerading as fine art. In addition to the wealth of tchotchkes, various and sundry weaponry, and pancake restaurants are all the rage. Basically, we vacation in Kitschville. It's charming folks. Why don't you join us next year?

(Speaking of work, did I mention I was losing yet another bookkeeper at the end of the month? No? Well I am. She's leaving me to pursue her dream of becoming a Wagnerian Soprano. Unfortunately for me, it's something she needs to do in Germany rather than in DC. Which brings me to say, I've been broken up with for many a reason, but being dumped for the Opera -- let's just say it's a first. The stress of having to rehire and retrain, however, is only too familiar.)

I digress.

One thing I did remember from last year is that we needed a decent baby carrier if we were to survive the day hikes with the progeny. I wanted this sweet Kelty Kids model but was loathe to fork over the $255 necessary to call it my own.

Miraculously, days before we left I managed to find the exact same Pathfinder child carrier on Craigslist for less than half the retail price!

Peyton loved it. More importantly, the people who carried her around when her little legs got tired loved it. Suffice it to say, it was worth every cent - especially since those cents came from the Craigslist sale of our old Crate and Barrel kitchen island a few days before.

One of the places we enjoy hiking with our rockin' child carrier is Greenbrier. We discovered it last year and loved it because it goes right along a mostly child friendly creek.

There are loads of small rocks for throwing...

and larger rocks perfect for an almost 4-year old to climb.

The shallow pools are just the right depth for people only 30-inches high on a tall day.

You can even take off your shoes if you want.

But if you do, you are definitely going to need your older brother's help if you want to get anywhere. (Please take a moment to observe and note that Carter is not hanging out in his jags like he was last year. Peyton, well, let's just say I hadn't anticipated her enthusiasm in wanting to try EVERYTHING her brothers were doing.)

It's a dogs life, really. Wait a minute. We don't have a dog.

Oh Hello, Cousin Patrick and Cassie. Cousin Patrick is one of those friends who sticks closer than a brother. In a pinch, he also makes a great 3rd parent - a manny of sorts.

Greenbrier is also home to a variety of compelling wildlife. Along the edge of Injun Creek, I snapped this picture of a delicate butterfly.

Meanwhile, Carter was doing a little exploring of his own. It looks to me like he's found something.

He's going in for a closer look. Whatever could it be?

Why it looks like he's found a snake with a fish in its mouth. Every mother's dream nature discovery! (Insert Jeff imploring Carter in a panicky tone not to touch it here. Repeat 5 x.)

It's the kind of sight that makes an afternoon in Gatlinburg look both enticing and tame. I may even spring for a haute couture airbrushed t-shirt.

Yeah, this is definitely more my speed.

Temptation via the Charlotte Observer

2008-08-24T20:41:00.003-04:00

Wachovia plans its first branch in downtown L.A.

Posted: Friday, Aug. 22, 2008

As Wachovia Corp. wrestles with rising loan losses, the Charlotte bank is slowing its Western expansion, but it still aims for sizable growth in what it sees as attractive new markets.

On Thursday, the bank announced plans to open its first bank branch in downtown Los Angeles in early 2009. The location is across the street from L.A. Live, a new entertainment complex that counts Wachovia as one of its major sponsors. The move comes a month after the bank opened a commercial banking and wealth management office in L.A.

Wachovia got its first big foothold in California in 2006, when it acquired adjustable-rate mortgage specialist Golden West Financial Corp. The company's mortgage portfolio, however, has deteriorated, leading new chief executive Bob Steel to announce plans last month to slash jobs, cut the dividend and slow the pace of West Coast growth.

Spokeswoman Aimee Worsley said the bank plans to open 30 branches in California this year and 25 to 35 in California, Arizona and Nevada in 2009. That's down from earlier plans to open 40 to 60 branches per year just in California.

Wachovia is in the top five in the state with 179 branches, but it's still far behind Charlotte rival Bank of America Corp., which has around 1,000 locations. Wachovia's top 10 branches by total deposits nationwide are now in California.

The bank also has become a big employer in California, although its work force of more than 9,000 is likely to drop with planned mortgage cuts.

The bank's efforts in L.A. tie into the city's work to revitalize downtown, said Frank Newman, Wachovia's Southern California president. “As downtown continues to thrive, Wachovia plans to be front and center,” he said.

Rick Rothacker

All Who Are Thirsty

2008-08-22T21:48:00.017-04:00

All who are thirsty

All who are weak

Just come to the fountain

Dip your heart in the stream of life

Let the pain and the sorrow

Be washed away

In the waves of His mercy

As the deep cries out to deep, we sing...

Come, Lord Jesus Come

~Brown, Robertson~

A Roast By Any Other Name

2008-08-16T20:31:00.019-04:00

I interrupt my mind numbing California adventure posting to bring you a pictoral tour of the first half of Jeff's life. I would have covered the second half as well, but two things kind of crippled me. One, I'm packing for a trip to our mountain house and we're going to need to eat while we are there. Two, I just learned to use my new scanner today and am not that proficient at it. It probably would have helped if I had at least once attempted to read the directions, but I was under a lot of pressure and thought I'd just wing it.

Without further ado.

Here is little Jeffrey McLean at around 6-months. Cute, yes? It gets better.

At 18-months. Peyton, is that you?

Kindergarten calls. It's also calling Jeff's oldest son, Carter, and Carter's mother has had one heck of a day thinking about watching her firstborn get on the bus for the very first time next week. Thusly, the Kindergartener you see above had to put up with with a rather large truckload of emotional crap today that Carter's mother couldn't quite explain.

Is it just me or does the 1st grader above look nothing like the Kindergartener - excepting the glasses, of course. Those are rather difficult to get around. Anyway, it's like his whole face changed between Kindergarten and 1st grade.

This picture was taken in the early 80's, that we know for sure. So I'm guessing 5th or 6th grade?

Hey Moms, you know what would be a good idea? If you forsook the reading of this lame post to go write the ages of your kids on the back of ALL of their pictures. Their wives will thank you later. But probably not their husbands. Unless, of course, your daughter happens to marry someone with a blog who shamelessly takes complete advantage of her matchless sense of humor and goodnaturedness.

For reasons I am quite sure I do not need to elaborate on, this is bar none my absolute favorite picture of my husband. I met him in 11th grade and he looked EXACTLY like this.

This is Jeff at ~~Prom~~ Banquet with someone who looks like she could get up and dance the Flamenco at any moment in that dress. It's curious as to why her date wore red, is it not? Perhaps he remembered from his 1st grade picture that he looks great in red. Or maybe he is trying to complete the Spanish theme with a matador flare?

Finally, I give you Jeff's crowning high school moment in which he gets both the diploma and the girl.

Happy 37th Birthday tomorrow, my Love.

Wildlife in a Park-Like Setting

2008-08-16T09:18:00.014-04:00

The LA Zoo and Botanical Gardens bill themselves as wildlife in a park-like setting.

Where park-like equals alligators slipping silently into backyard pools.

Sweet Mother of Pearl, I find this image disturbing.

Somewhat curious is this picture of orange Flamingos.

Just so everyone knows, flamingos frolicking on the shores of Lake Nakuru (where the Tennessee orange flamingos had to have been snatched from) look like this. I feel confident in saying that the LA Zoo flamingos could use some algae in their diet.

These last two pictures are not LA Zoo pictures but they should be. Joy and I came across this strange vehicle while traveling on the 605 on the way to her first shower. It appears to be a three-wheeler of some sort.

But upon further inspection, we find that it is actually a converted motorcycle towing a milk crate with a circa 1970's lawn chair in the back.

It makes you want to make a citizen's arrest, doesn't it?

Dear Laguna Beach, Why can't you be in North Carolina?

2008-08-15T22:52:00.021-04:00

Let's talk about Laguna Beach.

First of all, it is rather far from Pasadena, CA where we were staying. And if Jeff is driving he cares more about trying to limit his own time behind the wheel than he does about trying to make the drive more visually enjoyable for his wife. How selfish. I can't imagine why he didn't want to take PCH down and be forced to stop at 1,113 traffic lights just so his wife could gaze for 3-hours upon her beloved Pacific.

Secondly, even at the end of July the beach is cold and I had forgotten that important little tidbit and dressed my children and myself entirely inappropriately for 60 degree weather. See this picture of Peyton with her Uncle Kevin?

In my heart of hearts, I truly believe she would be smiling sweetly if she hadn't been distracted by the sheet of ice forming on her upper lip.

Frigid temperatures also make taking a decent family picture out of the question no matter how much the family's beach-loving mother demands it.

Here we have Jeff and what looks to be his 4 children. One of them is grimacing and trying to get away. This is a slightly better composition, but Griffin and Peyton are both looking at something completely non-existent. How is it so hard to look at the guy holding the camera?

Here we found a more comfortable location, but we couldn't get Peyton out of the tide pool without incurring a raging tantrum. So we all got down there with her thinking that would solve the problem... but then she stood up and obliterated Jeff. Thus ended my valiant effort at a family beach shot. We don't so much need a professional photographer as we need a professional family. At this rate, it will be two decades before I send out another holiday card.

Thirdly, the rules of the beach have changed since I was there last. You'll note the snazzy swim vest on Carter.

Totally illegal. Apparently, he's supposed to learn how to go under the waves so that they don't pick him up and crush him. Who knew?

Here is some more illegal activity with his Aunt Emily. Apparently, adults cannot hold children and take them into the ocean. While it would seem that this would be safer than sending a 5-year old out on his own to battle the surf, I believe what they fear happening is this.

This would be a picture of a wave knocking them both off of their feet. They both survived, but I will say that this is the type of swimming experience that the YMCA waterpark just does not adequately prepare you for.

We stuck to the sand after that.

Peyton loved just rolling around in it.

Griffin built roads almost the entire time we were there.

And here is Carter being buried in the sand. It's at times like this when it really pays to be only 3 feet tall.

Fourthly, if you are going to make the haul down to Laguna, BJ's Pizza is really the only place in town that can provide adequate sustenance for the 1,113 traffic lights you are going to have to stop at on your way back to the 605. But it will be worth every bite.

On Hallowed Ground

2008-08-15T20:40:00.007-04:00

In defense of my 3-week bloggy hiatus, I'd just like to say it's my sister's fault. If she lived, say, here in boring ol' North Cacalakey with me rather than in ~~Caanan~~ Southern California, our 10-day vacation there probably wouldn't have thrown me into the funk that it did. Alas, I just can't see sights like this...

Or this...and not desperately, so desperately want to move back. Immediately.

And yes, mentally I realize if we did move back that things probably would not be exactly the same as they were when I lived there. I'm just guessing that our family of 5 probably couldn't get a mortgage for the $550 Joy and I were paying to live here.

Nor could I work part-time at an office minutes from Seal Beach, wear my bikini under my work clothes, and sunbathe on the beach during my lunch hour. And not just because my Whelpers Cup body is no longer bikini friendly. The $14/hour, no benefits lifestyle just doesn't cut it for someone with a pacemaker.

With 3 children in tow, teaching a children's choir for $250 a semester wouldn't cover the cost of a babysitter no matter how much joy it brings, not to mention I wouldn't have hours upon hours to wile away alone trying to find just the right music to teach. And my friends have literally scattered. Most are still in So. CA to be sure, but they are no longer going to my old church which was my lifeblood. (The faithful few that are will be rewarded later this week with a post unto themselves.)

Regardless. Somehow in my heart, I think I could still make it work. So much so that typically when I return from CA, I badger my husband mercilessly about finding a job there so we can move back. Predictably, this trip was no different.

What was different was this. On Tuesday night of this week, I had a meeting at church. When I came home around 9:00pm, Jeff had found a job opening in Irvine, CA that looked interesting and he was well qualified for (With Capital Group of all places, KP, if you are reading this.). Considering my west coast heritage and my inflated opinion of life there, you'd think that I would have leapt for joy at the very prospect. But instead, I kind of panicked. Because as it turns out, I'm not ready to leave MY job. As accommodating as they have been of my telecommuting for the last four years, I'm pretty sure a 3-hour time difference would kill the deal.

So we are staying. For now. And I'm pretty much over my funk. I think. Because it's pretty hard to stay depressed when you realize maybe you are already on hallowed ground, it just has lot more humidity than you were expecting.

The Bustrums are Getting an Upgrade

2008-07-20T20:05:00.009-04:00

There should come a time in every girl's life that she should get to wear a pair of shoes that look like this.

With a flirty little dress that looks like this.

And in my case, I have my one and only sister to thank for the opportunity.

Also this guy, who agreed to marry her.

Well, technically speaking, she agreed to marry him.

And it's all going down in an undisclosed location in Pasadena, CA in less than 2 weeks!

To say we are excited here at Chez Freshour would be putting it mildly.

Just Slide, Slide, Slippity-Slide

2008-07-19T20:57:00.006-04:00

Bluedoir

2008-07-16T22:00:00.008-04:00

And on the 5th day of their 252nd week of homeownership, she finally got around to painting their bedroom...

and using the garden tub she just had to have when they bought the house nearly 5-years ago.

Because when she initially toured the house with their realtor, she could well envision the tub filled with jasmine scented bubbles and surrounded by softly flickering candles. She also envisioned herself weighing in at an alluring 120 lbs. which she hasn't weighed since she was 13-years old.

Reality. It often bites.

Let's get back to the paint, shall we? I wonder what color she is trying not to splatter onto their useless garden tub?

Why it's a lovely shade of blue. She likes blue. She likes blue a lot.

She likes blue so much that she painted their very first love nest in DC a similar shade. And, sadly, until she dredged up this picture tonight, was even thinking of going with another blue and white duvet cover to complement her new blue walls. Something in a fetching toile.

Because despite her longing to be a whimsical, spontaneous, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl, she is really just a predictable creature of habit who is lost in some sort of blue decorating vacuum. It is clear she could use some professional help.

A Picnic With Strangers

2008-07-06T14:32:00.016-04:00

I have been a Freshour for nearly 9 years now and and, up until this weekend, considered myself well-versed in Jeff's side of the family tree. So when we were asked to attend a 4th of July picnic in Tennessee a few months ago, we did not hesitate to send in our RSVP. We love going to Knoxville and our last trip there was about two years ago, so we were excited to see:

Granddaddy, and Mammaw, and Babu, and Bibi, and Brother Greg, and his girlfriend Alex, and Aunt Sarah, and her boyfriend Bob (boyfriend?), and Cousin Patrick, and Cousin Shannon, and her husband John, and their children Thomas, Chase, and Sarah Renee, and Cousin Chris, and his wife Paige, and their children Drew and Reese, and Cousin Rachel, and her husband Mark, and their children Josh, Jayden and Jordan, and Aunt Susie and her husband Steve, and their son Ian, and Uncle David, and his wife Delia.

What say I just save myself 1,000 words with a picture.

Oh. It's too late you say?

As a group, we belong to this guy. His name is Granddaddy. He also goes by J.V. which is short for Jefferson Vance. It's a stately name for a stately fellow.

Now this is where our 4th of July picnic gets really interesting. When we got to the picnic site, we found these people seemingly squatting at our reserved site.

They seemed nice, so we let them stay. But they were soon joined by these people:And finally, by these people - all trying to encroach on our glazed ham, fried chicken, and macaroni salad!

Fortunately, they came bearing coolers, or we would have turned them away. All kidding aside, I'm sure they were as surprised to see Jeff and I as we were to see them. We thought we had signed up to come to a little ole BBQ with the cousins, not an extended Freshour Family Reunion.

That said, this is a genealogical review of the Freshour family tree as I understand it post picnic.

Apparently, Granddaddy has some siblings.

He has a sister named Jessie.

And a brother named Clarence. Clarence is sitting with a woman by the name of Jean. I was fairly certain Jean was Clarence's wife...

until I saw this picture of Clarence holding hands with some other woman. I think her name is Nellie. Or Nelly? But whether Nellie/Nelly is his wife or sister I do not know. And if Nellie/Nelly is his wife, then who is Jean?

That concludes the genealogy portion of this post. I would have spent more time trying to figure it all out, but I was a little busy trying to keep track of these Freshours:

Which can be a real challenge when you have to cut them from a herd of 70+ Freshours you don't know from the Smiths down the street.

All in all, it was a lovely day. The weather was beautiful, the location ideal, the food plentiful. It was just the company that was, well, a bit strange.

Breakfast with Dad

2008-07-03T08:53:00.002-04:00

I Believe an Update on the Playset is in Order

2008-06-28T10:00:00.010-04:00

As you can see, the finished playset is small and inconspicuous. Also, that it does not take up the entire back yard. Much.

Best of all, it makes any future landscaping efforts completely pointless since anything I am tempted to plant is bound to go entirely unnoticed.

Case in point. See the Norwegian Spruce between the ladder and the bottom of the slide? You didn't even notice it until I pointed it out, did you?

That is our Christmas tree from last year and they said a live tree would not survive the transplant shock if I tried to plant it outdoors after the holidays were over. But you see I have proven them wrong. Experts Schmexperts, she says gleefully.

Speaking of Christmas 2007, we had to put our tree in our entry way (an area we can barricade off) so that Peyton wouldn't discover and consequently destroy any of our 14 ornaments.

Like this one. It was originally a Valentine's Day gift from my friend, Jacob, that he gave me back when I was single. I have since repurposed it into a Christmas ornament so as not to make my husband jealous. Which brings me to say, does Jacob not have the nicest penmanship in the world? For a guy, that is?

What we were talking about again? Oh yes. My feeble attempts to landscape my backyard.

I mean, the playset.

The kids like it.

Some of them more than others.

Peyton has even conquered her fear of the mighty and unpredictable swing.

An Open Letter to the Electrical Engineer of the Toyota Sienna

2008-06-27T15:47:00.004-04:00

Dear Toyota Motor Corporation,

Prior to owning your 2006 Toyota Sienna LE, we owned a 2003 Honda Pilot EX which I adored. We purchased the Pilot just days before Child #1 was born in early 2003. It was my very first new car and I fully expected to drive it into the ground. I would still be happily driving it today, but we realized right before we had Child #3 in the summer of 2006, that not only was the back seat of the Pilot only suitable for elves, but that Child #1 (then age 3) was already taller than most elves. This is not to say that he minded sitting in the "trunk" with his knees folded up around his ears. He actually liked it. What he didn't like was getting hit in the face with his sippy cup or snack when I would try to toss it back to him from the front seat where I was supposed to be concentrating on driving. (Ahem)

Practicality necessitated that we trade in our rockin' SUV for a vehicle that could hold three car seats across the middle row. Close to the driver. So she wouldn't have to hurl things at her passengers. And I will say that it was enticing that the center seat in the middle row of the Sienna slid forward a bit so that the three wee passengers couldn't throw things at each other as well. That, I will readily admit, was a moment of TMC Design Genius, and was the sole reason we purchased your Sienna rather than a full-size SUV. Well, that and the fact that my husband has a pecuilar mini-van fetish and Jeff knew he had to seize his moment or lose it forever. In my enormous and exhausted state, I didn't have the energy to fight for my right to drive a more image enhancing vehicle. By then I was just trying not to waddle.

This brings me to the reason for this letter. Call me crazy, but I think it is incumbent upon an automobile to START when called upon to do so. Especially when said automobile is being driven by the mother of three small children who simply must be able to escape the confines of the house each day in order to keep them all from going stark raving mad. And if that mother is me and I have just carried two backpacks, and one diaperbag, and three sippy cups, and one water bottle out to the car - after having dressed three children, brushed three sets of teeth, taken two children to the bathroom, changed the diaper on one, buckled two sets of sandals, loaded all three of them into the mini-van, and securely fastened them into their car seats...I'm going to need said automobile to start IMMEDIATELY.

For about a year and a half, your Sienna performed as promised. It started right up when I turned the key. But as of late there have been many mornings that your product has let me down. So many mornings that on the eve of my husband's last overseas business trip, I insisted that he buy me a AAA membership just in case the car didn't start while he was gone. Which under normal circumstances would be considered a wise, thoughtful investment intended to protect precious cargo. In this case, however, it was purchased for a vehicle that is STILL UNDER WARRANTY. I would consider it a total cash loss except that I've actually had to use it. And I will say, that there is nothing like getting your car jumped right in the comfort of your own home. Unless, of course, your children are climbing the walls and you had to wait 90 minutes for the AAA "battery specialist" to show up only to be told that your battery levels are so low that you'll need to either drive around or idle your engine for a minimum of 10-hours in order for the battery to charge back up to reliable levels.

I'm no expert, but when I'm told it's going to take 9 hours and 45 minutes longer than the usual 15 minutes of idling to recover the battery, I suspect I have a bigger problem than merely leaving my lights on or door ajar or something.

To say this predicament has caused dissention between Freshour and Freshour would be an understatement. Jeff is convinced that it is something that I am doing that is causing the battery to drain. Our local Toyota dealership backs him up. And since he thinks he can identify what that something is, it goes without saying that he also thinks that I should change my behavior in order to solve the problem.

I say, Not. So. Fast.

As a mom, I consider myself a typical user of the Toyota product we own. Which means if I am having a specific, consistent problem with my mini-van, it stands to reason that a multitude of other soccer moms out there are as well. My reliable friend, Google, and hundreds of web pages full of complaints back me up.

The problem we are having is this. On the LE, there is an automatic sliding door on the right hand side of the car. If this door is left open for even a very short amount of time, it completely drains the battery.

So why not just close the sliding door? Three very good reasons:

1. When the door is left open and your 5-year old needs to go out to the garage to retrieve something he left in the van (cup, books, toys, shoes, socks, Buzz Lightyear costume, etc.), he can do it by himself. When the van door is closed, I either have to hunt down the key in order to open the door from inside the house, or I have to go out to the garage with him. I can only go out to the garage so many times in one day to retrieve the ~~junk~~ treasures of childhood before I start to growl.

2. I have been known to pre-load the car in the morning so when it’s time to leave the house I can focus on getting all the kids into the car without incident. Rather than make multiple trips out to the car, I often carry it all in one load. If the sliding door is already open, it is a simple matter to load it all in. But if the sliding door is closed, then I have to put all or some of the bags down, open the door, pick the stuff back up, and load it in. Worse, if the door is closed and LOCKED, then I have to lug all the stuff back in, put it down, find the key, unlock and open the door, pick all the stuff back up, carry it all back out to the car, and then load it in. You see my pain here? If you park your mini-van in the garage, it is just completely inefficient to close the sliding door.

3. Similar situation when coming home. It already takes multiple trips to get everyone and their stuff into the house. I rarely have an empty hand with which to close the sliding door, and I’m not making a third or fourth trip out to the garage just to close the darn thing.

Sadly, it's not just "misuse" of the sliding door that drains the battery. So do leaving the interior light(s) on, or idling for more than 10 minutes with your radio on. Fortunately, Moms are rarely at risk of having their children play with the overhead lights, or needing to sit in line at a car pool somewhere while they wait for summer camp to dismiss.

Oh, wait.

As a frustrated people group, I speak for us all when I say that we would like an electrical redesign. We would also like you to recall all of your minivans and outfit them with not just a new battery, but a new battery with more power than the current 9V that you equipped the car with. A battery that will stand up to normal mom-use. And if you don't want to do that, I'm going to be forced to organize a bloggy picket in protest. Or worse, trade it back in for another Honda product.

Waiting expectantly for your response,

Melanie
Member of the Dead Battery Club (I believe you've heard of us.)

Buffalo Bloggers: Class of '89 Edition

2008-06-25T08:39:00.006-04:00

Dori, meet Tina. Tina, meet Dori. And I believe you both know Marit and Karen.

Nothing Says Summer Like a Peach Mojito

2008-06-23T09:37:00.007-04:00

Say Hello to Mammaw.

Mammaw turned 93 on May 29th. She celebrated this milestone in an assisted living facility where she was recuperating. Recuperating from her brief stay in hospice care where she decided one thing she was not going to do was die of boredom. A few weeks ago, she moved back home to Haywood Estates Retirement Community where she is shunning her walker for a cane and whipping the other gray hairs at Mexican Train. This upcoming week, I fully expect her to take up salsa dancing. Or to start umpiring for the Braves.

Last summer, back when Mammaw was only 92, she spent hours peeling and slicing fresh South Carolina peaches for us to freeze.

(As an aside, you know how Georgia's nickname is the Peach State? South Carolina, whose nickname refers to a tree I could not identify if my life depended on it, actually produces far more peaches than does Georgia. They produce so many, in fact, that they are second in production only to...drum roll, please...California. So basically this post is for my limited Carolina and California readership who will be buying fresh peaches for $0.25/lb. all summer. Georgia, of course, would say that their peaches are higher quality which is how they ended up with their nickname in the first place, but in this recipe, even a peach from Colorado grown in a hydroponic greenhouse would taste terrific. And with that, I conclude this 5th grade social studies lesson.)

At the end of Mammaw's peachy marathon, we probably had 6 or 7 bags of frozen peaches in our freezer - which I fully intended to use on pancakes, make pies out of, etc.. Except that I kind of forgot that they were in there until I came across a recipe for Peach Mojitos in the June 2008 issue of Cooking Light.

It was about two weekends ago, and Jeff and I were in one of 20 planes sitting out on the runway in Chicago waiting for the wind to die down so we could take off. Wind that so rocked the plane even when parked that I was heavily dreading the moment when someone sitting comfortably up in the control tower decided United Flight 190 to Grand Rapids should chance it. Adding to my fear was our cowboy of a pilot who kept telling us in an eager, hopeful voice that he really thought we should be allowed to take off since our flight wasn't that long.

Really? Duration of flight comes into play when you still have to fly OVER A WALL OF WATER to get to your final destination? To say I found this logic to be somewhat unnerving would be an understatement. Especially since we had been nearly blown off the runway flying into Chicago several hours earlier.

So when I happened upon this picture the only thing I could think was:

Where is the bartender already?

It's a joke, people.

I know they call them flight attendants now. But for a moment, I did wish we were sitting up in first class rather than in the tail of the airplane, because the seats are bigger up there and I would have climbed directly into Jeff's lap and curled up into fetal position. Instead, I had to resort to squeezing the life out of his hand as if I were a starving python while trying to mentally conjure up the contents of my freezer, desperately hoping it held even one small bag of frozen peaches. Preferably one without freezer burn.

When it comes to air travel, I am not exactly a pillar of strength. Which is strange because when I was 17-years old, I actually spent three days learning to fly (yawn), followed by three more days of piloting a little turboprop (indescribably awesome) all over Kenya with 7 other slightly geeky kids. Geeky only because there were cooler things we could have done with our week, such as: climb Mt. Kilimanjaro or Mt Kenya, track game, learn to scuba dive, study Asian cultures in Mombasa, visit the island of Lamu, or ride 800 miles on a piki. Jeff went on Piki Safari with his Yahama 500 which, seriously, was not any safer. At one point he attempted to jump over a dirt mound using a sand ramp and ended up flying 15+ feet over the handlebars of his bike.

The experience itself was called Interim and was designed to be an opportunity for juniors and seniors to dabble and explore outside the realm of our usual academic classroom setting. And lest you think I'm exaggerating, I just dug out my old photo albums and took pictures of the notes I took during "flight school" for you.

Here, for example, is a picture of the Ascent procedure. As you can see from the detailed diagram I drew in "training", it appears to be a very complex process. Also, that I seem pretty excited about the Cruise! part of the ride. Probably because Top Gun had come out the year before and, well, Pete and Melanie Mitchell did have a certain ring to it. Top Gun may have been the reason I picked Aviation Interim over snorkling down at the beach. I simply do not recall.

Equally complicated, were the directions for Descent. It is obvious to see that when landing, it's important to fly in a rectangular shape as opposed to flying in an oval shape when you are taking off. Also, to try to hit the runway. Which never looked like that since all of the runways we used were comprised of grass and dirt. And we usually had to buzz them first in an effort to clear the grazing wildlife/cattle. At the bottom of the page you'll note I wrote Downwind and underlined it three times. This is information the pilot who flew us into Chicago could have used.

Here I am either trying to take off or land. One thing we know for sure, scrapbooking has never been my forte. My photojournalistic creativity even as far back as 1989 can be summarized with the words, "Me in Plane".

Lastly, here is a picture of my refueling the plane with what looks to be a pasta pot. That is disturbing. As are my turquoise socks, peg legged jeans, enormous teal shirt, permed hair, and the fact that my future husband thought I was attractive.

Needless to say, while dabbling there were plenty of opportunities for death being that the two planes flown were piloted by kids using diagrams like mine and a couple of MAF instructors who had a thing for zero gravity drops. At no point while we were in the air was it ever smooth sailing. We lived for the thrill of turbulence and the next hot air current that would cause the plane to buck a little. I loved it. I did not fear unusual weather patterns. I did not have to meditate on summery adult beverages when the plane lifted a little in a warm air current. I used to be a real Maverick when it came to flying. Which is what makes my current aerophobia all the more perplexing.

As Jeff and I deplaned in Michigan, the pilot cheerfully remarked that people pay for that kind of ride at Carowinds. I contemplated kicking him in the shins but decided against it as that would have slowed my race into the terminal and onto solid ground. Fortunately, the trip back to Charlotte was much smoother. Best of all, look what I found in our freezer when we got home.

Don't anyone tell Mammaw we didn't use them in a pie.

Everything I Need to Know About Politics...

2008-06-02T13:46:00.002-04:00

I learn from Bossy. And I'm not ashamed of it.

Gettin' Jiggy Wit It

2008-05-31T22:35:00.009-04:00

Jeff and I attended a wedding a couple of weekends ago at the Belk Chapel.

It is lovely, isn’t it? The wedding was scheduled for 5:30pm and it started on time. We know this because we showed up at 5:40pm where we happened upon the bride patiently awaiting her moment of glory out in the foyer. Fortunately, her cubicle is right next to Jeff's and I believe she will forgive us once she sees our gift...which we haven't bought yet, but will now have to be nothing short of spectacular since we nearly destroyed her walk down the aisle. Indeed, we are probably going to have to spring for the china. It's an adorable Kate Spade pattern so perhaps after I buy it I'll just pretend it's mine for a few days. And seriously, the barware?Regardless of the fact that a cupboard full of highball glasses would be a complete waste of space for a family currently contemplating building an addition onto their kitchen in order to store their vast collection of sippy cups, the fireflies speak to me.

The wedding was followed by a reception at Providence Country Club. In no way was it similar to the reception Jeff and I had in the fellowship hall of the church we were married in. We served salad with our cake. And punch. Because what would a wedding reception in a church fellowship hall be without the requisite foamy punch? It's like the common denominator of churches everywhere. And, just so you know, we did not serve our church punch in highball glasses. That would have been wrong.

Anyway.

When a wedding invitation specifically ~~warns~~ notes that dancing will be a high point on the reception agenda, it is more of an obligation than a request that you willfully and enthusiastically partake in the festivities. When Jeff read the invitation, I’m sure his only thought was, “Nice. I get to look at a golf course all evening.” Whereas mine was more along the lines of, “FREAK OUT! Now I have to come up with cocktail attire.”

This is just the sort of predicament that makes me break out in hives. For one thing, I am married to a guy with a much larger array of clothing options than I and he just doesn't get it. Jeff’s weight has fluctuated maybe 10lbs. since I married him nearly 9 years ago, whereas mine has fluctuated more like 60lbs. What this means for our shared closet is that he fits into EVERYTHING he has purchased over a 9-year span of time giving him a wealth of options from which to pick. That guy could walk into our closet blindfolded and come out holding multiple ensembles for pretty much any occasion. I, on the other hand, have no fewer than 5 different sizes of clothing on my side of the closet. This means that on any given day 80% of my wardrobe has the usefulness of a row of nuns' habits.

The remaining 20% of my closet has thus far worked just swimmingly for the vast majority of my daily grind. It's lamentable that more weddings are not held at say, the YMCA, for example. Because when it comes to gym wear, and pretty ratty gym wear at that, I have several sets of nearly identical items from which to pick. (As an aside, ownership of a lot of fitness apparel is not to be confused with being dedicated to working out, because that I am not. I just like to be ready to consider the option should I open my calendar one day and find it completely blank. As you can imagine, this rarely occurs.)

Mercifully, after several anxiety-filled days of shopping, I found something that I thought would be suitable. It required not only new shoes, but new underwear because, well, up until a couple weeks ago I was still wearing my old maternity underwear.

Did I mention that Peyton is now 20-months old? No?

My husband is one lucky, lucky man.

Regardless, a short celebration is in order because I now have a new $42 bra that the girls are much more elevated in. As that was about the only truly rewarding moment of my entire mall experience, I felt it worth mentioning. Predictably, after Victoria and I realigned the planets so to speak, I got a little neurotic that they were perhaps featuring too prominently in my overall look and decided a wrap might give me a false sense of security.

Of course, once I got to the reception, I realized my wrap was complete overkill as the phrase "cocktail attire" evidently equals = cleavage + a highball glass.

All in all, we really had quite a delightful time. We dined with other parents of small children - all of whom were marveling that we could actually hear each other speak, and that no one was incessantly asking us to cut their meat, or get them more milk, or that they didn't like what was on their plate. Dinner. With adults. What is this strange, yet blissful, phenomenom?

Finally, after dessert and much stalling, peer pressure prevailed and we ventured out onto the big square hardwood floor in the middle of the room.

What I experienced next was nothing short of a revelatory marriage moment.

My husband can dance.

I knew Jeff had an enviable sense of rhythm because he plays the bass, but he has never upon never wanted to dance with me – unless it is to some stupid slow song that you sway mindlessly to, and then he has been known to give in under duress. Not exactly ideal conditions for what could be a romantic interlude. But for what it's worth, I actually hate those slow songs myself. They feel like a cop-out. I like music with a driving beat you can feel and that makes you want to move. It’s the forbidden music of my youth and as an adult, I can’t get enough of it. So to see my husband, who has had an 8-year run of dance floor shunning, out there ~~grinding~~ grooving...well, it was a sight to behold.

I'm not saying that the guy did backflips or spun on his head or anything, because neither of us have a move to speak of. All I'm saying is that due to a combination of factors our inhibitions reached new lows causing the merriment quotient to soar. And a DJ playing songs like this really helped because who can deny Flo Rida?

I think I totally scored in finding a mate, I really do. But at that reception, I felt like I had just ~~picked up the hottest guy in the club~~ won the marriage lottery. Maybe a little of both. Which just goes to show, sometimes you need to throw your ego to the wind and shake things up a bit.

Suffice It To Say, Our Memorial Day Weekend Was Not Restful

2008-05-29T09:30:00.029-04:00

I believe an update on the playset is in order, but first I'd like to take a minute to correct a small but significant typo on the front page of the installation manual.

Right. Try 36-48 hours.

Actually, maybe it isn't a typo at all. Maybe I and another lesser mechanicanically inclined loser could have gotten the thing put up in 20-24 hours. But what we're dealing with here at Chez Freshour is two highly skilled people who have elevated the simple act of measuring to an art form, and think levelness is next to Godliness. They're hard to argue with.

Efficiently assisting them are two little boys who can't resist the call of the power tools or the thousands of screws, washers, bolts, and nuts required for assembly.

This is Griffin demonstrating his expertise with a socket wrench he successfully lifted from the toolbox. In this particular picture, he is diligently trying to unscrew a bolt holding the ladder together.

The part about requiring two people, however, is correct as noted. This is why.

Eventually, the roof has to go on the upstairs cabin. Here you can see Jeff perched 8-feet up in the air precariously balanced on the window ledge. Looks a little dangerous, no?

What you don't see is his Dad on the inside of the cabin ~~belaying~~ holding Jeff to the side of the playset by ~~his climbing harness and ropes~~ the pocket of his khakis. Uh Larry, it's not that I don't trust the tensile strength of the common khaki, but how about at least using TWO hands to hold my babies' Daddy in place?

Thanks. That makes me feel a LOT better.

Only the tunnel, three swings, a lookout post, and a climbing wall to go. That shouldn't take long, right?

Around Here, His Name is Synonymous With Progress

2008-05-25T21:35:00.005-04:00

Who is this I see in our backyard?

Why, it looks a lot like Larry, another highly skilled person! His presence can mean only one thing.

Progress is finally being made on the new house we bought for the kids.

And we are very, very happy about that.

Just Trying To Beat My Own Kids To The Punch

2008-05-23T09:20:00.003-04:00

Bringing Small Animals Together One Disgruntled Owner at a Time

2008-05-14T14:50:00.005-04:00

Dear Cousin Paige,

You may want to schedule the guinea pigs for a play date at Kacy's house pretty soon because their hamster's days appear to be numbered.

Love, Melanie

Diverting Destruction: A Tale of Hope

2008-05-11T19:59:00.017-04:00

We live on a third of an acre and being able to have a relatively large yard for our children to play in is one of the primary reasons we moved to Charlotte. Yet, sadly, having only green grass, rocks, dirt, trees, and other assorted plants and wildlife is not entertainment enough. When God's green earth threatens to bore them, this is what commences.

See how there is a carefully constructed piece of lattice on the right hand corner of the bottom of the deck? There should be one on that big middle section as well, but it was torn off by two determined little boys. I know what you're thinking. That's a big piece of lattice, Melanie. How long were they unsupervised out there to be able to physically tear that off of the deck? Like five minutes. I had to (ahem) use the facilities. Indoors. Let's call this Exhibit A simply because one day I may be forced to consider bringing some litigation against the two of them.

Exhibit B shows the deck to the left of the above picture. You'll note the peculiar absence of lattice here as well. One afternoon they had a unquenchable urge to joust and deconstructed it to use as sabres...sabres that were just loaded with rusty old nails and staples. Perhaps in 2024 when they are both fencing in the Olympics, I will be able to look back on this and laugh, but at present I find myself choking back a more medieval response.

In Exhibit C, I'm proud to say I caught them in the act and screeched at them for an extended period of time. Because that is what a calm, collected, self-controlled parent does when she realizes that her kids are more than capable of taking apart their ENTIRE HOUSE and she begins to panic.

Exhibit D. Disturbingly, their urge to destroy is not limited to the deck. This is a blueberry bush. It is one of seven I planted early last spring in hopes of this being their first big year of production deliciousness. Alas, six of them were ripped from the ground in January having commited the lesser known crime of deciduousness. Here at Chez Freshour, daring to look dead while dormant is a crime punishable by actual death.

The evidence notwithstanding, while Jeff was in Hong Kong in April - a period of time I fondly refer to as Two Weeks of Terror - I decided I just couldn't take it anymore. I have to be able to leave the boys in the yard for two seconds without calling in the National Guard to protect our property. And after assesing the repair work that needs to be done to the deck, Jeff agreed.

Brilliant strategists that we are, we've decided to try an elaborate method of diversion as far as keeping our kids occupied outside goes. We're going to build them their own house that they may systematically destroy at their leisure in hopes that they will keep their grimy little hands off of ours. Right now it looks like this.

But we hope one day it will look like this.

According to the 68-page instruction manual, assembly should take two moderately skilled people 20-24 hours. We have one highly skilled person and one person who looked at Step 1 and knew she was going to be of limited assistance when she saw the following words; Tower Leg, Spike T-Nuts, Hex Bolts, Lock Washer, and Flat Washer, incorporated into just TWO sentences. It's like a Home Depot vocabulary test. Give me an Ann Taylor or a Sur La Table vocabulary test. I'd do better. In the meantime, Honey, call me if you need me.

Mirth for Mother's Day

2008-05-10T14:42:00.002-04:00

1. Go here.
2. Watch video.
3. Cry tears of mirth.
4. The end.

This is What Having 6 Children Would Be Like

2008-05-09T07:42:00.013-04:00

My brother and sister-in-law along with their three girls came to visit us last weekend. Amazingly, we discovered that going from 3 children to 6 children brought instantaneous peace and harmony to a previously conflicted household. I'm sure my friends who have 6 children of their own will attest to the fact that this is a typical result when you choose to up the ante and produce more than the national average. But do the majority of them have to be girls? Because if so we would be treading on thin ice.

This is Peyon (ours) and Sahara (theirs). See how nicely they are playing? I took seventyonehundred pictures of this precious, tender moment because I was so mesmerized by their enjoyment of one another. And you know what? Every one of them has that massive dirt patch in the background. To say that I have enviable photography skills would be an understatement.

This is Bria (theirs). She is a quiet, collected child which means she is the inverse of the one you see below.

This is Griffin (ours). We have yet to raise anything soft-spoken.

When it comes to ice-cream lovers, however, we are 3 for 3. This is Carter (ours). He would look at you and say, "Hello", but he is busy right now.

This is Tirza (theirs). If her shirt is any indication, she will someday defect to Canada where she will gleefully raise flowers.

This is Jeff with all six kids right before the sugar high hit and they dispersed to play in the dirt. See how he has them all corraled and sitting nicely? Honey, we could TOTALLY do 6! Let's consider it.

I kid.

The only downer about the weekend is that Mark and Hannah are on their way to Portugal this summer with the IMB which means our children won't even grow up on the same continent. It will be months and months and months before they get to eat ice cream, much less play together again, and that just makes me sad. Jeff and I both grew up overseas, and while Jeff did a lot better maintaining contact and building a relationship with his cousins, I'm pretty sure mine don't even read my blog. Cousins, cousins? You out there? Yeah, I didn't think so. I don't take it personally, I just think this is a testimony to what happens to relationships if you don't determine you are going to prioritize them. On that note, it is apparent I need to dig out and hook back up the webcam.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2008-05-03T16:21:00.018-04:00

Here are a few things that make my life a little easier - but just a few because I wouldn't want to cause anyone out there to stumble.

This is a picture of the shower in our master bathroom. I know a lot of you have been secretely wondering where we bathe and, well, this is it.

Allow me to direct your attention to the bad 80's floral wall paper that no doubt rocked the Kasbah in its day. Also garnering an honorable mention is the ubiquitous beige carpet. The house was built in 1990 and that very-poor-excuse-for-tile is original. Original means its 18 years old and, having lived it's life in a sometimes steamy, wet bathroom, also means it is undeniably gross. But oh-so-cozy-soft in the winter time - let's look on the bright side shall we? And hey, Vintage! Anyway, neither the wall paper or the carpet really have anything to do with this post, I just thought I'd give you all a little opportunity to go into your own master bathrooms and see them in a whole new light.

What is notable about this picture is that you can actually see through the glass to the wall the faucet is on. A few days ago, when I came back from DC (otherwise known as a little slice of heaven where your hotel bathroom is cleaned for you every single day), I realized two things:

A) I hadn't cleaned our shower in a really long time.

B) It was revolting.

Under normal circumstances, I would take this banner opportunity to delve deep into the minutia of just how revolting it was, but I read a post recently that pretty much trumps any adjectives I've got, so let me just point you there. While the situation is not the same, I feel supremely confident you will get the idea. That said, the issue came to a head when I became aware that while taking a shower, I was having trouble making out my daughter playing on the floor with her ~~trucks~~ doll. It was clear something had to be done because without an unobstructed view of her, it was almost as if I was taking a shower alone. And goodness knows, we can't have that. Privacy is dead to me. To be afforded even an illicit whiff of it now might cause my pacemaker to suddenly short.

So the next time I was in the blue lagoon, I took it upon myself to do a little market research and test drive this new Scrubbing Bubbles product that...suspense, suspense......ACTUALLY WORKS! Hot diggity is that ever a novel concept in bathroom cleaning products. You know what else is novel? Unlike the usual sprays, sponges, and scrub brushes, it requires a minimum amount of effort. Not only can you can actually see the fruit of your labor right there on the disposable cleaning pad, it's flexible enough to get in all the little crevices - like where the 80's brass shower enclosure meets the 80's almond shower wall. Best of all, my brief moment of domestication occured while my Bed Head conditioner was working to make my coarse, unruly hair soft, shiny and manageable. The Maniac has a delectable pina colada scent that almost made me forget that I was sloshing about in a puddle of soap scum and bacteria. That is Thing 1. The Action Scrubber, not the conditioner. Though I dare say my hair is softer and shinier, albeit still unmanageable.

Thing 2. I have a close friend who lived near us when we were residing in the aforementioned little slice of heaven. When I would visit her, she would frequently lament her inability to get organized. At the time she had three little boys and we had none, so I would basically nod as if I understood exactly, but in reality I had no real concept of what she was talking about. Now, nearly 5-years later, we have brood of our own and with the abundance of toys, books, and their constant need for whole new wardrobes, it is possible my Type A-ness has been almost snuffed out. Also, I'd like to take this moment to declare: Hey Jenn, about the organization thing? I TOTALLY GET IT!

And that is why I so heart these long underbed storage boxes from the Container Store that I use to store the hundreds of dollars of clothing that my children each wore for THREE ENTIRE WEEKS before they grew out of them. Because I don't live near a Container Store, I generally buy a case of 6 - which baffles my good natured husband because, "Who in the world could possibly need this many plastic boxes?" And, "Can't we get this exact same storage box from Target?"

But then I show him the magical, glorious thing I have done with them and he is forced to skulk off to dream of the 42" plasma TV that costs roughly 10 x as much as my organizational system. I love these boxes so much, I have two entire closets almost full of them. See, here is another.

Baby clothing is my own personal Kilimanjaro and I feel I have conquered it. The rest of the junk in the closet, well, not so much. I do know that when I run out of closets to fill with plastic boxes of childrens' clothing, we'll be forced to move simply because I can't bear to part with them. And at that point it will be obvious that I have gone from Type A to Pack Rat and should probably be institutionalized.

Favorite Thing 3 is this.

I had one or two or eleven today. This because I am weak and cannot resist the call of 4 pounds of red, rubbery goodness.

Not Exactly the Sanctuary I Had Envisioned

2008-04-26T22:01:00.010-04:00

Long, long before I ever had a mortgage, I dreamed of one day having a master bedroom that would inspire rest and romance. It would be our own little hideaway; a place of tranquility we could escape to if only to get a short break from the chaos, pressures, and responsibilities of the outside world. It would be a comfortable, yet luxurious room in which we could slow down, debrief, and you know, do that other stuff that married couples do. I had high expectations for this very important room. Expectations that didn't fully take into account that with three small children it was going to require far more than a perfectly coordinated bedroom set sporting 600 thread count linens to whisk me away to a place of serenity. But hey, that's why they call it a dream.

This brings me to my own little mortifying slice of reality. Veronica came to visit me back in late February. I'm sure someone will correct me if I am wrong, but when someone you sincerely like makes the effort to track you down in your own cul-de-sac, which is entire states away from their cul-de-sac, would not giving them a tour of your home be the courteous thing to do? Particularly if you happen to LIKE your home? Or maybe I alone am under the impression that giving "the tour" is socially appropriate simply because when someone shows me around I think it is bar none the greatest thing ever. But Veronica, despite having seen my lackluster dorm room on a multitude of occasions and not having it affect her opinion of me in the slightest, did not get the grand tour. Worse, she came over not once, but twice, which makes my deliberate breach of etiquette nothing less than a faux pas squared.

Why the curious lapse in decorum, you ask? Because I am horribly embarrased of our cave-like bedroom, that is why. And no matter how much I like the rest of our sunshiny home, I can't give a tour that includes the master bedroom without some explanation as to why it is frozen in a vast decorating abyss when the rest of the house is so bright and cheery. An explanation that could only be, "Well golly, Oprah, I really don't know how I became so house-blind. It just seems that after painting through the dining room, and the living room, and the kitchen, and the playroom, and the downstairs bathroom, and the hall, and the upstairs bathroom, and all three kids' rooms, that I hit a brick wall creatively speaking. I know, I know. I am not living my best life. Could you send Nate over?"

So a couple months ago, Jeff started repeatedly asking when I was going to do something with our room already. Apparently, we are both negatively impacted by its bleakness. And per usual, I have been dragging my feet due to a complete and utter lack of inspiration. But then a few weeks ago, I took a business trip to DC for a week and stayed at the Hotel Rouge. Their moniker, as you can imagine, pretty much tied them to a crimson color scheme, and I am happy to report that their interior decorator did not disappoint. My room looked like this:

My only regret is that I was traveling alone because with the heavy red velvet drapes at the window and the complimentary leopard print robe, it was a room just begging for some hot, fiery passion. But not to worry. After coveting the sexy red drapes for a week, I believe I've finally gotten my creative groove back. So, figuratively speaking, I still scored.

At this juncture, I will bravely expose the shallowest part of my soul and let you view the horse in the corner. And I'm showing it to you for one reason only: because I am going to fix it and later we can pretend this post never happened. I will reclaim my bruised comportment and will from this point onward be able to fearlessly lead tours of our toy-ridden home. Maybe even start charging a fee. But probably not.

Steel yourself against the onslaught of ugliness you are about to behold.

Ah yes, there it is. Really puts the boo in boudoir, doesn't it? Probably would have helped if I would have picked the comforter off the floor, but that wouldn't have been keeping it real and I'm all about flogging myself for your reading pleasure. Here's the thing. While I genuinely admire a neutral palate in the homes of others, in my own home I just can't make them work. I like sunny yellows, restful greens, and invigorating reds. Stimulating colors that make me want to get up and move. So on the very best of days, the color formally known as Pelican Brown only manages to arouse within me a debilitating truckload of ennui. The lassitude is so gripping that I take no pride whatsoever in the space. On most days, I don't even make the bed. (At this moment, my mother is wondering where she went so horribly wrong.)

You'll note the dresser is basically a dumping ground for laundry, stuff that has to be returned, clothes that the kids have grown out of, etc.. I'm just not that motivated to even try because cleaning up the stuff and straightening the bed wouldn't erase all the beige.

Lastly, I present to you the crown jewel of the space. Cast your gaze upon our high-end window treatment.

That sad twin size sheet has been hanging in the window - held up by two tacks - for at least three years. It was preceeded by three unmatched and broken window blinds that were OEM for the house (with the Pelican Brown) when we bought it from the previous owner. So really, this is a slight improvement, except for the undeniable fact that it DOESN'T ACTUALLY COVER THE WINDOW.

I really feel tonight I have come out of the closet. Exposed, but relieved. Now where is my color wheel?

Prêt-à-Porter

2008-04-24T21:45:00.020-04:00

The 11th Annual Rift Valley Cup is upon us, which means the annual hunt for orange pants has consumed our lives this last week. You see, there is a small but highly influential Dutch contingent that flies in from Holland every year just to attend the event. Orange is the official color of the Dutch soccer team (which is why, Marit, I was surprised to read that you didn't like the orange door on your new house - he, he, he). Anyway, to show his solidarity, not only to the Dutch, but to the University of Tennessee which embraces the exact same disturbing hue, Jeff excitedly pulls out every orange item of clothing he owns and packs it for the trip. This morning he left in this shirt. And some pants, but I was so blinded by the shirt that I cannot confirm the color or style of pants, only that they were not orange.

Between the Volunteers and the Gators, orange shirts are relatively easy to come by. But orange pants are another matter entirely. I believe we can all admit that there is absolutely no good reason anyone should own a pair of orange pants unless that individual happens to reside in a penitentiary. Consequently, it is understandable that no retail estabishment in any surburban mall would carry such an item. Understandable to me, that is. Jeff has to prove it to himself every year. Last year, when his mile walk around Concord Mills was in vain, he actually went as far as to order a pair of pants online from an institutional uniform site.

Fetching, no? These were the right color but were rejected due to their 100% polyester status which inspired questions as to their breathability on the course. Also, I believe, because he was afraid someone would call the cops and they would send the K-9 unit to track him down.

Realizing prison apparel maybe wasn't his best bet, this year Jeff took a different approach to his quest for orange pants.

First he took an old pair of khakis...

Then he made his cousin pose with the Rit dye.

(Okay, I did that, but Cousin Patrick is so accommodating, photogenic, and all around adorable that I just can't help myself. He's single ladies, and he knows about all there is to know about produce. Just to give you the 411.)

Mix it all around with some boiling water and salt. To protect against third degree burns, wear your wife's favorite blue gloves which will heretoforth be destroyed. Fortunately, during this photographic tour, said wife will notice something sitting up in the windowsill and become very distracted by it.

Sip, sip. Slurp, slurp. Strangely, my blue glove loss is not looking nearly as dismal.
And my husband is looking hotter than ever.

Which I'm sure has absolutely nothing to do with the steam coming off the dye bath.

Survey your progess repeatedly. Smile gleefully when you realize it is working. Contemplate embarking on a new career as a fashionista.

Try to forget about the drought as you watch gallons of orange water flow down the drain.

Promise your wife you will never upon never wash your new orange pants with ANYTHING ELSE IN THE HOUSE. They will always be washed ALONE, just like they are right now.

As predicted, the finished product is not only much more breathable in its new cotton blend, but is so versatile it can be worn with almost anything.

Hello Walmart? This is Jeff. Why yes, I'd love to design a clothing line for you.

On The Plus Side, I Have Lost 5 Pounds

2008-03-03T17:35:00.002-05:00

Which is what being sick for 6-days in a row will get you. Which is more than what the treadmill has gotten me in the past. I'd celebrate but I simply do not have the energy.

Thanks A Lot, Han Solo

2008-02-22T21:15:00.005-05:00

For the past 45 minutes, Jeff has been watching an episode of the Sarah Connor Chronicles on-line. When it was over he turned to me and said, "That's a really good show. It's a shame you don't like Sci-Fi."

Really? It's a shame that I don't like Sci-Fi? Or it's a shame I'll never fit into Princess Leah's metal bikini?

Friday Freebie

2008-02-22T15:43:00.009-05:00

Well, not exactly a freebie, but I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with, Hey! You Can Get $20 Off Dinner at McCormick and Schmick's If You Work Quickly!

Nothing really enables a romantic night out like a coupon, a gift certificate, or a free babysitter... if you're a parent, that is. DINK lifestyle, my old friend, sometimes I really miss you.

This link really works, by the way, you just have to use their online reservation system. Jeff and I went last year on a quiet Sunday night and we're going again this weekend. It's our annual date night.

Just kidding.

Sometimes we have two.

Spring Is In The Air

2008-02-21T14:16:00.016-05:00

Few things say SPRING! It's HERE! quite like these super cute transitional shoes from Lands End.

Unless it is the sight of delicate purple flowers gently starting to peek through the surface of the cold, dry dirt, as they struggle to lift their faces to the morning sun.

Oh wait. That's just a thicket of weeds that has been taking over our grass for the last month. The fact that they are flowering so profusely now tells me their collective "beauty" will be even more pronounced next year. Clearly, there is but one sensible solution to this problem. I'll just redirect all the money I would have spent on weed killer to the cute shoes. And to the weeds, I wish each and every last one of you a sincere bon appetite as you dine on my lawn.

Google Reader. It Is Efficient, Oh Yes It Is.

2008-02-18T13:22:00.005-05:00

This was bar none the most helpful post I read in 2007. I've been meaning to direct all 7 of you to it for quite some time, but I've been a little busy. Suffice it to say, if you are reading more than 3 blogs a day, I highly recommend embracing Google Reader. And then tell Michelle how thankful you are that she posted it in the interest of educating all of us more recent converts to the blog world.

Meme

2008-02-16T20:51:00.009-05:00

My friend Veronica over at Toddled Dredge tagged me for a meme weeks and weeks ago. A meme, you say? What the heck is that?

Firstly, it’s pronounced mEEm (rhymes with seem). I had to look it up because I am not exactly down with the geek speak and had, up until this very minute, been pronouncing it mème (as in crème de la crème). Secondly, by the end of this post, I believe we will all agree the more appropriate pronunciation is mEE-mEE, since it really is all about me. Combine that concept with a game of tag and that is the shortest definition I can give you. Now that we’ve clarified the word meme, let’s get back to Veronica then, shall we?

I started reading Toddled Dredge last August when I came across her Alumni Magazine Meme. Oh my. It is very difficult not to appreciate someone who is this honest, hilarious, and creative. But what kept me coming back for more was her insight and intellect – something I marvel at considering Veronica and Az have managed to reproduce at approximately the same rate as we have. It has been my experience that this particular lifestyle choice does not leave much time for deep, reflective thinking, yet Veronica consistently manages to deliver. And she is very funny. Did I mention that earlier?

So this last Christmas I had a rough go of it. Basically, I’d like nothing more than to kill the getting at our house and to refocus on the giving – and preferably to people who actually NEED to get something, rather than my own children who are awash in The Toys. I think if we could all admit that most toys, regardless of cost, have a life span of about 3-weeks, then we could come up with a plan to redirect some of the outflow currently dedicated to The Toys to pretty much anywhere else. And that would make me very happy. Happier at Christmas time, anyway. At the peak of my frustration over this, Veronica began posting her twelve days of Christmas series which I thought were just brilliant - and intriguing since I had never heard of the Twelve Days of Christmas or the Epiphany. They were so uplifting and inspiring at a time I felt the materialism of the season was overcoming all that was right and good, that I managed to surpress the lurker within and comment...only to find shortly thereafter that I ACTUALLY KNOW VERONICA. It was a tremendously joyous revelation. The type that keeps you up all night smiling to yourself. It was indeed, a little serendipity.

So, this particular meme requires that I list six of my quirks:

1. I received my first pacemaker when I was 28 for sinus arrest with syncope. Sometimes, Karen, I have supraventricular tachycardia and can no longer play tennis because the stretching pulls on the leads. Want to know what’s amusing about that last sentence? Karen doesn’t even read my blog. Which is sad, because I just gave her a cool medical condition she could research. Anyway, I pretty much sucked at tennis, so giving it up was not exactly a loss. In October I had said pacemaker switched out for a flashier model because the batteries in my first one finally ran out. Which begs the question, if they can come up with a pacemaker battery that lasts 8-years, why is it so difficult to come up with a cell phone or camera battery that lasts longer than 4-hours?

2. February 3rd was my own Happy Adoption Day. Because of this, our eventual adopting has always been a foregone conclusion for me, my own experience being so fabulous and all. The question has always been more when than if…until lately. Our oldest child turned 5 on February 7th, and our youngest is 18-months. This is the longest time I have gone between pregnancies and if we want to catch any sleep in this decade we either need to reload now or start filling out the paperwork. So what is holding me back, you ask? Before I delivered our first, I hadn’t taken into account how much I would:

A) Enjoy the whole breeding and nurturing process. I pretty much lactate on sight of an infant.

B) Discover how significant and meaningful it is to me that my biological children look like me. Some of them anyway. But that’s more people in the world that look like me now than before we started reproducing.

Hence the conundrum. Worse, Jeff is relatively ambivalent about the matter. He cares only about numbers. He’ll go one more round of our own, or two if we adopt - because we can potentially get what amounts to a 2 for 1 deal if we adopt internationally. I'd have to ask the genealogy experts on my husband's side of the family to be sure, but if experience is any indicator, the meaning of the word, Freshour, is can't pass up a bargain. Please, world, I beg of you, put more thought into family planning than we have. Really contemplate your options. Don’t just look at your checkbook or into the mirror.

3. Prior to getting married in July of 1999, I was a prolific singer. I sang in the choir at my church, I frequently sang on the worship team, I sang with a small group, I directed a children’s choir, and even did studio work on occasion. For years, performance (though I hate to call it that since so much of it was so very worshipful for me) was an immense part of my identity and a part that I adored. Then I got married and cold turkeyed it all pretty much on the spot. While I've successfully reentered the teaching zone recently, I sometimes I wonder if I’ve still got it. I wonder so much that I'm going to try to get to this conference in June and see if I can resurrect whatever is buried deep within. And then do what with it I'm not sure - especially since the conference is mainly for writers and speakers which are among the lesser of my talents. Way lesser.

4. In my heart of hearts I believe that I am an above average speller. Yet you’ll note the word I confidently wrote with a permanent black marker on the coffee bean canister below.

Someday, we’re going to take the leg out of there so we can drink it.

5. I am selectively empathetic. During my illustrious college career, I majored in psychology. In one of our last senior seminar classes we had to state to the group what we had learned about ourselves. I stated that I realized that I had no empathy. If it hadn’t been the very polite crowd that it was, I believe I would have garnered a standing ovation. My professors visibly breathed sighs of relief that I wasn’t considering becoming a therapist…or a counselor for you early ‘90’s college graduates. It wasn't exactly true. I have an extraordinary amount empathy, just not for people who are distraught that they did not manage to find their soul mate while they were in college. And when you earn your degree at a conservative Christian college, that’s a real problem. It is, after all, the primary reason you all are there. Or so they would lead you to believe with the multitude of carefully organized dating activities.

6. I am passionate about onions. The other night I was making macaroni and cheese and the recipe called for ¼ cup of minced onions. I picked out the largest onion I had, sliced it, sautéed it in olive oil, and tossed the whole thing in there. I thought it was downright delicious. Jeff thought it was a little heavy on the onion. He actually had the gall to accuse me of doubling whatever onion the recipe called for. I found that insulting. Mere doubling is soooo below me. Quadrupling is where I’m at. And he should really know that after 8-years of marriage.

That's it for me. I mean, I could probably think up some more, but there is a fine line between quirky and creepy. I tag Donna, Marit, Lori, Hannah, and Becky.

This Is How You Run Your Blog Into The Ground.

2008-02-14T19:34:00.003-05:00

I actually wondered when I started my little blog back in May of last year exactly how I would manage to find the time to post when tax season rolled around and I started drowning - yes, actually drowning - in piles of paper. I believe now that question has been suitably answered. I will neglect it terribly.

Suffice it to say, I fear that while I am profitably employed this can only be a seasonal effort for me. I'll see you all back after March 15th.

Don't Try This At Home

2008-01-08T22:50:00.001-05:00

Carter and Griffin take naps in the afternoon. If it were solely up to me, they would maintain this habit well into adolescence. Griffin is a relatively compliant child. He sleeps when we tell him it is naptime - for several hours, usually. Sometimes he even asks to go to bed. Carter, on the other hand, has been a holy terror since he exited the womb. For a while he refused to stay in bed, much less his room for the designated hour of rest. When he did stay in his room, he would be possessed by the right-hand side of his brain, whereupon he would compulsively decorate the place with whatever medium was available to him. Since his room is basically void of any and all art supplies, this required him to manufacture and then produce his medium of choice. And that, dear friends, is where I will end this part of the story. Except that to say, the stars in my crown one day are going to be GINORMOUS.

When Carter wasn’t playing slave to his creative juices, he would wait until he heard us downstairs thereby confirming the coast was clear. He would then silently creep from his room into another upstairs room and wreak havoc. It was the silent part that was the concern because although our house is for the most part child-proofed, there are some areas that would require us to install a gigantic metal locker in them in order for them to be completely safe that’s just not practical. One of those is our master bathroom. Every child safety device we’ve tried in there, he has defeated within days. Yet, that was seemingly his favorite room. We'd hear him up there only if he accidentally dropped or rattled something. Not much inspires panic as effectively as a child in your master bathroom.

We tried all the usual tricks to get him to stay in his room; threats, bribes, Jeff would even sit outside his door for 30 minutes at a stretch waiting for him to open the door. But Carter even got wise to that. It was not unlike him to pretend to be asleep just until Jeff checked on him and left. Then he would sneak out. It was about that time that we had another family with 3-kids over for dinner and were able to ask them what they were doing that was working. Parenting, for me, is a unique blend of strategizing and blatantly stealing other parents’ ideas. I’m sure prayer should be in there somewhere too, but in this case it did not have the desired outcome - that being an angel with a sword prepared to smite Carter down if he dare even touch the door. Because that is specifically what I requested.

Anyway, the much smarter parents we dined with happily said they were locking theirs in. That sounded ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT to us. So the next day we went out and got a couple of locking doorknobs and Jeff installed them. Worked like a charm. Nap time resumed in our home without incident. Until today.

I put all three kids down for naps at 1:30pm and headed downstairs to work for a couple of hours. All was blissfully quiet for about 45 minutes, but then out of the corner of my eye I saw a little person trying awfully hard to sneak past me down the stairs. I probably wouldn't have noticed him, but he was wearing a Tennessee orange jacket that's not exactly subtle. Here, I'll give you a visual.
Yeah, I know. Bright huh? And stealth is usually his strong suit. I'm sure it was just an ever-so-brief lapse in judgement.

Obviously, I had forgotten to lock Carter’s door. What normally happens at nap time is that we set a timer for an hour or so. When Carter hears the timer, regardless of whether or not he has slept, he knows he can leave the room and come downstairs to play. But if he makes noise, or we hear him running around, or he needs to come out of his room for any reason before the timer dings, we start the timer over again from the beginning. He knows the drill, and for the most part it is fairly effective. In this case, the timer had not gone off, so I marched him back up the stairs, pushing in on the lock as I entered the room to make sure I didn’t forget to lock it on my way out.

And then I closed the door behind me.

To be continued… as if it’s even necessary.

(For those of you concerned about fire safety, I promise we just keep the doors locked until we know without a shadow of a doubt that they are truly asleep. This usually requires a physical manifestation such as drooling.)

Ever Have A Dream That Featured 6 Million of Something You Don't Have, But Desperately Need?

2008-01-01T14:32:00.000-05:00

This is what our Dream looks like on paper. It came from Kenya by way of diplomatic pouch last week. I thought it an appropriate way for a dream of this magnitude to arrive.

I'm so emotional about finally being able to have a tangible picture of our cooperative vision that it's rendering me completely helpless to write anything even remotely insightful, or witty, or profound. I've tried, really I have. For a couple of hours. But I just can't seem to produce coherent thoughts. All I can think is if I was a desperately struggling, orphaned child left destitute for whatever reason (the list of possibilies in a third-world African country is seemingly endless), and someone told me that I would from this moment onward be living here, I would think the impossible had occurred. That heaven had actually sought out and found me. And then, increduously, I would run all over exploring the place - being first and foremost a kid. But I would stop short when I came to a bed with my name on it. Because I've never had my own bed. If I even had a small foam mattress on the floor, I shared it with several other impoverished children in my same predicament. And if there was no mattress, which is the more likely scenario, I slept right on the cold ground. But here not only do I have my own new bed, I have new clothes, and shoes, and a school uniform, and books, and toys and...I get dinner even? And then breakfast, and lunch, and then dinner again, all in the same day?

I'd worry for a while that it wouldn't last. That eventually someone would tell me that I had to leave. That I would have to go back to a life of destitution and despair. Wondering where my next meal or drink of clean water would come from. Working from sun-up to sun-down every day despite hunger, thirst, and extreme exhaustion. Sleeping at night under a cloak of fear. But in time I would gain confidence and come to know this big stone building as my home. A place built specifically with me in mind. Where I would not only phyiscally grow and mentally thrive, but I would begin to re-experience the joy of childhood. Ultimately coming to understand what it means to be the cherished, beloved child of the King. Dear God, if even for one small child let it be so!

As I write this, I cannot help but humbly praise God that my own three children have lived thus far under the exceedingly generous, gracious, and protective hand of our Lord. They lack for nothing - a state I am alternately proud of and embarassed by. That they are not reliant on so human a couple as Jeff and I (or any member of our small team) to pull off a 6,000,000 Kenyan shilling miracle on their behalf. That is perhaps their greatest blessing of all.

Joyeux Noel!

2007-12-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

For all 4 of you that are still rushing out to your mailboxes each day in hopes of finding our usual Christmas card there, I implore you to go back inside and make yourself some warm, soothing eggnog. I had high, high hopes of getting them out this year, but when Jeff got home from Asia last Saturday, it became readily apparent that we were not going to be able to take a decent family picture. By decent I mean one in which he had his eyes open. And considering I can count on at least 66% of our brood to be staring the other way, violently squirming, or grimacing from the sheer pain of being asked to look happy 20,000 times, I think at the very minimum that both adults should have their eyes open. I know. It's a lofty goal. I do wish I could lower my expectations.

Also, there was a teeny, tiny little problem with the cards. I ordered them at the end of November back when I fully believed in my ability to independently move our Annual Holiday Salutation to the Masses all while enduring an extended absence of spouse. My card selection represented that unshakable optimism, hence instead of buying cards that read, "Happy Holidays", or "Season's Greetings" or something reasonable that implies one has at least until January 1st to get them in the mail, I went with a cheery, JOYEUX NOEL! It was proclaimed four times on the inside of the card, so obviously it really wanted the recipients to have a MERRY CHRISTMAS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! MERRY CHRISTMAS!, as sincerely do we. But alas, Joyeux Noel has come and nearly gone and even if I sent them all out tomorrow no one would receive them by today. It's a pitiful predicament, isn't it? Always practical, Jeff suggested that we just save them to use next year, but not only did I purchase cards clearly intended to arrive before Christmas, they also have 2007 plainly inscribed within. Now that is some smart shopping, if I do say so myself. Prudent procurement if you will.

As an aside, when my sweet husband proposed to me almost 9-years ago, he read Proverbs 31: 10-31 (aka: Hymn to a Good Wife) aloud as part of his, hmmm...wind-up, let's just call it. Suffice it to say, if my inability to deliver on vs. 13's requirement to "shop around" is any indication, the poor guy really got gyped. But I scored, so all is well. Maybe had he sung the hymn...sadly, I guess we'll never know.

I leave you this fine Tuesday evening with a few festive photos that will undoubtedly bore everyone but our childrens' grandparents to the point of...oh, who am I kidding? The entire blogsphere no doubt LOVES to scroll through pictures of the most beautiful, smart, kind, loving children in the world making Christmas cookies. That's why all 14 of you so frequently log in, right?

Griffin is pretty excited about the whole frosting prospect, as you can see.

Carter, like his father, takes a very thorough, methodical approach to cookie decorating. He'd be better at it if his own mother would remember that he's left handed and put the frosting bowl on the other side of the table for him. He's like a lefty we've unintentionally mainstreamed.

Griffin, like myself, is more about efficiency. He just grabs a handful of sprinkles and loads the cookie up.

We've been known to take the two-fisted approach if one hand isn't fast enough.

Whereas Carter's mission is to cover every square milimeter of the cookie so that the yellow frosting is completely void of light. But I believe the payoff for him might be a tad greater.

This is what ecstasy looks like to a 4-year old. And in case you didn't get that...

Now if you will all pardon me while I go find the DustBuster.

High Fashion

2007-12-19T21:48:00.000-05:00

She's smiling because she doesn't realize how silly she looks.

It's a Kind of Love That Frequently Requires a Ladder

2007-12-08T22:01:00.000-05:00

Say Hello to Larry.

Larry is my Father-in-law. I believe my Mother-in-law would prefer I refer to him as my Father-in-LOVE, but I just can't. get it. out of. my mouth. Without kind of smirking that is. But I do love him, really I do. And I have reason to believe that he loves me in a way that reaches beyond that of my own father, my brothers, and certainly that of my husband.

It's a kind of love that says, "I'd love to hang your Christmas lights, Melanie." And you know I've never heard those words out of Jeff's mouth.

Well, in all honesty, Larry didn't actually say them out loud either, but he got right up on the ladder and therein lies the difference. Also, as you can see here, he looks genuinely happy about it. And that was after he replaced a critical outdoor electrical outlet in order that my high voltage dream might live. Action with a smile. Now that's love. My female readers know what I'm talking about.

This is Griffin. When he wasn't trying to use the drill, he was trying to reorganize all the hooks, and bolts Larry needed to hang my lights. He was helpful in a way only really energetic three-year olds who refused to take an afternoon nap can be. Okay, he wasn't helpful at all, but he was enthusiastic.

Here Griffin is wondering why Babu didn't hang the wreath higher...or where his mother hid the drill.

Here Larry is just being thankful that we didn't buy the McMansion we were considering earlier this year. And contemplating why he didn't just say no to his Daughter-in-Love's ridiculous request for illumination so merry and bright. (Oh, I know. It's because I didn't grow up at your house and you're afraid if you deny me my electrical wishes I'll stop filling my freezer with ice cream when you come over.) I plan to milk that barest hint of uncertainity for the rest of my married life.

This is Griffin. He's scratching himself with a rake. And Carter. He's wearing every piece of headgear he owns at once. Per usual. This picture pretty much sums up my life with the two of them. Thank God for Peyton or I'd probably be scratching myself with a rake too by now.

See how Larry loves me so much that he races to LEAP up on the ladder with his hands full of lights. (It's an action shot, ya'll. That's the only thing my old Canon S30 takes these days.)
And here is his finished product. Finished for today that is. We went on a drive to see lights after dinner and the boys mutually do not feel that we've put up enough. And since they mutually agree on so little these days, I may have to accommodate their wishes for a few more.

But probably not this many more. Although, just out of curiosity, I'd like to know how much ice cream this would cost me.

Larry? Larry? Where did you go, Larry?

Our 1st Annual Day-After-Thanksgiving Event

2007-11-23T21:26:00.000-05:00

We opted to stay home for Thanksgiving this year, one of the reasons being that we thought it was time to start some of our own family traditions, and oh baby, did that decision ever pay off today.

Just as an aside, we did the usual turkey blow-out yesterday. I have little hope of ever being able to completely ditch the turkey on Thanksgiving, but the cornbread dressing I did manage to fight off. I am, however, killing the turkey repeat for Christmas. I'm shamelessly stealing another family's tradition and making curry on Christmas. Somehow it just has a better ring to it.

But back to our Spin Around the Speedway. For the past decade or so, Lowes Motor Speedway, which is only about a 15-minute drive from our house, has sponsored a day-after-Thanksgiving fund raiser for their own children's charity. What they do is open up the track to the public and in exchange for a small donation, you get to drive your own personal vehicle 3 laps around the 1.5 mile speedway. I've wanted to do it since I heard about it last year because we do not have a Porshe or a Corvette or a Mustang. We have a Toyota Sienna mini-van and the thought of racing it around a NASCAR speed track sounds to me like a whole lot of silly.

It was a blustery afternoon so we bundled up the kids and loaded them into the moti...only to discover that the battery was dead.

But you will note from this picture that even the reality of having to jump start the van did not diminish Jeff's enthusiam for the fun that lied ahead.

This is our "ticket". You'll also notice that the gas light is on. But the "race" is only 4.5 miles, so we figured we could make it. That's right, our battery is having issues and we are nearly out of gas. Probably getting ready to drive 70 mph around a banked turn is the last place we should be.

But having come this far, we were not going to get out of line now - especially because we were in FIRST place following only the pace car. Obviously, we're going to WIN! You'll note, some of us took care to wear our crash helmets. And our Buzz Lightyear costume.

We were very, very, very, oh so very, very, very, excited. And when we weren't being excited, we were wishing we had race tires on our van like the ones behind Jeff. Or wishing we had a Dodge Viper like the guy in the group in front of ours.

I did pretty well on the straight aways.

But not so well on the banked turns. I get the concept of centripetal force mentally, but it's a completely different story when my mini-van is driving on what feels like 2-wheels on at least a 45 degree angle. All I could think was, "Please Dear GOD, don't let us roll the van with our three kids inside."

But by the third lap, I had developed a renewed appreciation for my 11th grade physics class and was even enjoying the turns myself. And, we didn't run out of gas. The gas light actually went off while we were out there driving laps.

Anyway, it rocked. We are totally going again, and again, and again. This year an event, next year a tradition. You may all consider this your official invitation to join us.

Finally, An Activity They Can All Enjoy

2007-11-23T20:51:00.000-05:00

Hi Mom. What took you so long? We've been unloading this cupboard for like, 30 whole seconds.

I think this is the last of them, Carter.

Okay, now everybody play at once. Hey, it's where the Hansons got their start.

McDonald's, We Bid You Adieu

2007-11-14T20:19:00.000-05:00

Okay, so. The granite. You will remember that our kitchen previously had a kind of fast food appeal in terms of color scheme. Which was fitting since that is basically what I cook. Nothing really earns you that round of applause at dinner time as when you serve fish sticks and tater tots on the fine china.

A while back Griffin had pushed a kitchen chair into the corner of our klassy mottled green laminate, and with his mighty, 2-year old strength managed to take a big chunk out of it. Additionally, the laminate had some stains and burn marks on it - a few of which were made by us. We have a hard core caffeine habit here and are apparently pretty messy in our haste to inject it in the morning.

For some reason I feel right now as though I have to justify dumping our ugly old laminate. Okay, that's the real reason. We just thought it was ugly. It had some problems, clearly, but it was the ugly factor that drove us to it. But we lived with it for 4-years, so I think that's laudable. Especially considering that we took down the hideous wall-paper almost immediately. This is why (It's a very small picture of the corner of our kitchen, but I believe you will get the drift.)

I think we can all agree that Fast Food Kitchen is better than early 90's Country Kitchen.

So after Jeff and I went through our brief bout with lunacy, we realized there were a lot of things to like about our current house and that we should just fix some of the stuff we don't like...such as the funky green countertops. The following is what has transpired over the last couple of days.

Say Hello to Julio and Jose. They look like they genuinely like working at our crib, don't they?

Until they encountered a minor problem. Yeah, our cheap Taiwanese supplier had cut the backspashes a whole 1/8 of an inch too short. How do you make a gross error like that?

Needless to say, we suffered backsplashless for a few days, but now our granite installation is complete and, as predicted, I indeed feel more like a chef than a short order cook.

One moment while I just turn on the oven so I can put the chicken nuggets rosemary-olive oil foccacia in to bake.

Doesn't my new faucet look fabulous? I wish I could say that I did an extensive amount of research to pick the one that would best suit our current and future needs, but I shamefully admit I was reeled in by Delta's latest ad campaign. I feel compelled to support levity in the world wherever it happens to be. Even if it involves a talking sponge.

(Also, for those of you out there planning a kitchen remodel, www.vidavici.com has really competitive pricing on faucets. By competitive, I mean about 25% less than our friends at the Home Depot. Additionally, it pays to marry a plumber like I did because you can save at least $200 in installation costs. Though for some of you that little tid-bit may be a hair too late.)

And would you take a look at my cavernous new sink?!! I think I spent more time hunting down a decent sink than I spent picking out granite. My one non-negotiable was that it be big enough that I could soak this giant frying pan in it.

(Yes, I realize my disposal is full of yuck. I promise to run it just as soon as I publish this post. And to never take a picture of my full disposal again. Or to at least make sure there is only one meal of grossness sitting in it before I take a picture of it.)

What's that? You'd like to see another picture of my whole kitchen rather than a bunch of pictures of my new fixtures?

If I must.

Old News

2007-11-09T10:21:00.000-05:00

I have been so busy lately that I have allowed my poor blawg to languish. But today I plan to pay retribution with one spell binding post after another, because not only is our INTERNET CONNECTION AT WORK DOWN THIS MORNING, even if it comes up no one can call me to tell me to get back to work because I've UNPLUGGED THE PHONE. Wait, it gets better. The little bandits are all off tormenting the seraphs at Wachovia's back-up care site, and my really hot husband is home today. Oh Lover Boy! (Wait, did I just say that?) Sadly, as enticing and irrestible as I am, Julio and Jose are also here because we are having new kitchen countertops put in today. Truth be told, any sort of willy nilly would probably give me performance anxiety, assuming I didn't giggle myself to death for fear of discovery. I'll dedicate an entire post to it (the granite installation), but in the meantime, here is a little of what you've all been missing. I originally thought I would try to be creative and compose a song to encapsulate it all, but I think I've taken one too many sniffs of the epoxy.

We went to the NASCAR speed park a couple weeks after Griffin's birthday to putt-putt golf.

Here is Jeff explaining the finer points of the game which, if I remember correctly, amounted to, "Carter, your ball is green. Griffin, your ball is orange. The end."

Putting is Griffin's forte. He totally got the concept that he was supposed to get the ball in the hole (which is pretty easy when you are teeing off only a foot away from it).

I think Carter missed this shot. He's a sore loser. As a matter of principle.

Overall, I believe Jeff was pleased with their progress. Personally, he double-bogeyed every hole, which explains the big 5 he's standing by. And to think when we met he had a 12 handicap.

In other notable events, I had my pacemaker replaced on October 23rd. I'm on the 8-year plan. We had to call in the grandparent reserves to help see us through.

Griffin and Peyton are not friends, as you can see, but it's a great shot of my mom, don't you think?

And this is a purely gratuitous picture of Peyton. Because I am about to post some Halloween pictures of the boys and I couldn't pull it together enough to find her a costume too. I was busy undergoing potentially life-saving surgery, remember?

Here is Buzz Lightyear getting his suit zipped up.

And Woody getting some help with his boots.

Voila. Carter remains in costume and character even 9-days later.

I think there was probably a better picture of the three of them together, but look! In this one I actually combed Peyton's hair. I'm such a good mom, caring for all the little details and such. She's going to be really proud years down the road when she uncovers all 40 of these 2007 Halloween pictures only to find she is not only sans costume, but her hair was only combed for one of them. This is what the rest of them looked like, poor thing.

Lastly, we bought a new car. New to us, that is.

It looks surprisingly like our old car, doesn't it? But the price was right.

Now if we could just get someone to come clean out our garage so we could get it in there.

See, we really have been busy. And now Jeff and I are off on a romantic excursion in the new car to go look at hardwood. Oh be still my beating heart.