Excuse Me While I Loosen My Belt

It dawned it me that the most avid readers of this blog are in fact, my relatives and more than hearing about the finer points of candy, they want to see pictures of the trick-or-treaters.

Because of cuteness and all.

So here we have Indiana Jones and Dorothy:

Jackson is still working on his mean face. I thought he would look tougher if he had a beard, but he wouldn't let me draw one or use coffee grounds and honey to get an authentic rugged look.

Now here, we have my niece, Belle (not her real name) and Dorothy, skipping gaily through the neighborhood.

I love this view from the back because Dorothy's braids looked mighty wonderful, if I do say so myself. 

Judy Garland had more hair than humanly possible for a 4 year-old to grow, but we did our best given the fine hair and short attention span.

This next picture is one of my favorites:

I love a princess who hikes up her skirt and takes care of bidness. Well done, Belle.

Now I have to talk about candy. I'll start with the disappointments, because there were a handful this year.

I have never IN MY LIFE known a child who just craves, begs for, and desires above all else, hard candy.

To my knowledge, it is darn near impossible to bite/chew/enjoy Jaw Breakers, Now & Later, and Those Gross Strawberry Things.

And Cinnamon Brach's Whatevers?

Whatever.

Honestly, I don't even know if Sixlets are still in production. I have a feeling those "candy coated chocolates" (so original!) are leftover from a Halloween Basket of Olde. 

And this makes me scratch my head:

A Snickers Almond that contains peanuts? I feel like the peanut is the signature nut of the Snickers and downright essential to its composition. 

Putting almonds in it like Hillary Clinton waking up one day and deciding to wear a dress instead of a yellow pantsuit.

I would be totally confused.

This next pile is my C+ batch. If I were stranded on an Isle of Subpar Chocolate and had the choice of Average Chocolate or Death, I would indeed choose the Average Chocolate.

I know some people swear by the Nestle Crunch (and I hear there is a new caramel version that is very tasty) but the Milky Way and 3 Musketeers are just give-ups. 

They really seem like the beef jerky of candy bars; leftover nougat and marshmallow shrapnel from the factory floor are bonded together and coated in chocolate, then labeled and sold. 

Ew.

These are also average students in my grade book:

I'm just not a big wafer fan unless they have one-inch layers or peanut butter between them.

And if you can eat these without gagging, please leave your name in the comments and I will send you ours.

Because really?

Kids and coconut? 

Not so much.

Someone clearly collected these over a year's time from their insurance agent's office:

And they got these from the bank:

Now for the crime of the year. This is all of the dark chocolate we received:

ATTENTION PARENTS: I thought we all agreed that since it's a known fact we send our kids out to trick-or-treat to collect candy for us, we would put lots of dark chocolate and upscale goodness like Dove and Ghirardelli in the baskets.

YOU ALL FAILED ME. 

ALL OF YOU. 

THERE WAS NONE.

But these did help mend some wounds:

(Although if anyone wants to donate a big jar of peanut butter and some spoons next time, that would be fine, too.)

This is the other Pile O'Weight Gain from Lilly's stash. Like a good bear cub, she gathered up all of the Peanut M&M's she could find. Bless her.

The Baby Ruth is another favorite due the intense nuttiness and chocolate.

I thoughtfully and intentionally bought a gigantic bag of Double Dark Chocolate Twix to bless the other moms in the neighborhood, but exactly ZERO came back my way. 

The only other minor tragedy was that we received exactly one Butterfinger and Brad and I were forced to Indian Leg Wrestle for it.

Now that we're through the season of candy, I can focus on heart healthy and light fare like pies, cakes, dips, and spreads.

See you at the gym!

We Interrupt the Candy Breakdown to Say GO RED RAIDERS!!

I think I read in a parenting book somewhere that you're actually supposed to develop some sort of bedtime routines with your children.

That way, you can ensure that they do things like brush their teeth, take a potty break, and OH YEAH, get a good night's sleep.

Last night got a little ugly with some hardcore trick-or-treating and the neighborhood party.

And tonight?

 

Oops.

We'd been prepping for the Texas Tech/Texas game since ESPN Gameday at 8 a.m. 

Jackson immediately pulled on his Red Raiders jersey and taunted his friends about Tech winning, even though they had no idea what he was talking about.

(To be clear, we don't teach taunting, but we may model top shelf trash-talking on very important occasions.)

(Like tonight when Tech sawed off those 'Horns.)

(And I may have taught Jackson the "down 'Horns" gesture. Maybe.)

Clutched in Jackson's sleeping hand was evidence of the great sportsmanship he's privileged to witness on a daily basis.

Sorry if that's a little hard to read.

Here you go:

My favorite illustration is the upside down longhorn.

And if you were the lady wearing the Texas shirt at the gym today, I apologize for his "down 'Horns!" outburst.

(But only because I have to.)

Field of Poppies Re-enactment

There is some exhaustion at our house due to all the trick-or-treating.

Dorothy crashed in the one minute and thirty seconds it took to heat her hot chocolate.
As usual, she trekked through the neighborhood, slowly freezing to death, and vehemently denying it so she could continue to fill her candy back to the tippy top.

(Mission accomplished).

It reminded me of two years ago, when Violet Incredible trouped through the 'hood for so long that we thought she had frost bite.

(Did you see that hand?)

This just shows that our family has a healthy view of candy and doesn't elevate the pleasure of eating above death.

Oh, and we let her have M&M's for breakfast.

Is that a problem?

I am working on a thorough candy analysis and will be back with the delicious details sometime soon.

I Really Want To Write About Seeing the Starbucks RED Cups But Instead I'm Going to Talk About Dirty Teeth

Yesterday I went to the dentist for the first time since 2004. I am on the Olympiad schedule, so when Michael Phelps hits the pool in London, I will know that is my personal signal to call and make another appointment.

It's not like I try to never go, but there are always things that come up and it makes me CRAZY that they usually want to schedule the appointment for six months out.

Call me flaky, but I am unwilling to commit to anything six months in advance except continuing to be married and eating chocolate.

Also, I have dentist-commitment issues.

Growing up, our dentist was a close family friend and lived right down the street on our cul-de-sac. I knew him, his family, and that he went to Real Dental School, and didn't just take an online course giving him permission to snoop around in my mouth and put "DDS" after his name.

Then in Texas, the mom of one of my students was a dentist and she took great care of me. She knew I had the power to give her son a "P" instead of an "S" on the all-important First Grade Report Card and threw in some teeth-whitening freebies and didn't charge a ton.

Obviously, I loved her.

But since we've been in Denver, I haven't found a dentist with whom I feel a connection or any strong desire to spend time with more than once in six years.

And I am blessed that my teeth really don't need that much attention (they are still recovering from being showered with love and affection in high school) so my motivation is ZERO.

Well (and this is going to be a lot gross) my lower teeth were getting to the point that when I brushed them, they didn't feel clean anymore.

I scrubbed and scrubbed and they just wouldn't take off their ever-thickening wool sweaters. In fact, they were starting to dress in layers and sleep in sleeping bags.

And I couldn't have that kind of behavior going on in my mouth.

A good friend of mine is a dental assistant, so I finally caved and called the dentist she worked for to make an appointment. Of course, they got me right in and I bribed myself with visiting the Starbucks next door to the office after the exam.

Well, this Dentista is great and think I made a new dental bond. (had to)

Do you know what I loved about her?

She didn't make me feel guilty about:

a) being AWOL from the dentist for 4 years

b) Brad being AWOL even longer

c) having an almost 5 year-old who sucks her thumb

d) drinking enough coffee and Diet Dr. Pepper to have a perma-stain on my teeth

e) flossing only as I feel led and can actually find dental floss that hasn't been used to tie up stuffed animals

f) using a "handheld" aka regular toothbrush instead of a fancy one I've secretly been wanting to buy at Costco

As if all of that wasn't great enough, I got to watch "Elf" while she investigated my mouth.

It was really hard not to laugh at all of the lines I've heard a thousand times and committed to memory, seeing as we already own this movie. But it did get me in the mood for Christmas.

And candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup.

Unfortunately, Dr. Steph (she hasn't given me permission to call her that) and I are going to become better acquainted next week when I have to go in for a little follow-up procedure. And NO, this is not due to recent negligence...just some upkeep.

Although I am not motivated to keep up with the regular visits, I AM motivated to get to watch the rest of "Elf."

So I guess she has tricked me into coming back with reverse psychology and Will Ferrell as bait.

Hey, whatever works.

 

Giving New Meaning to "Guns Up"

Well, hello there.

We flew safely (and PRAISE THE LORD uneventfully) home from Dallas on Sunday. If my math is correct, the kids watched between 7 and 9 episodes of SpongeBob without blinking one single time, and I ignored them completely while finishing up "New Moon."

(Just FYI: I am ready for Francine Pascal to write her Sweet Valley High Soccer Moms series so that I can see what Jessica and Elizabeth are up to these days. Plus, after I finish the Twilight books, I'll be running low on brainless "literature.")

The children of the neighborhood literally came running with arms open to Jackson and Lilly and were swarming the car before we could even unlock the doors.

It seems that I am their main source for cookies and snacks, so they were a little hungry after a week away.

We had a great trip; we relaxed, shopped, and ate some amazing meals at all of my favorite Dallas restaurants. Well, not all, because that would take more than a calendar year to go through the Mexican restaurants alone. But still, we did our best with only a few days.

After the police rescue, Lilly managed to stay mostly out of harm's way, except when she face planted at the park. To no one's surprise, she fell on her mouth and managed to gush blood and ding those front teeth a little more.

Good stuff.

Also in the good stuff category was haunted Halloween houses decorating. Every day, my mom and I tried to plan a craft/activity that involved food. 

We decorated cookies, made toffee, or just plain ate cookie dough. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as a craft.

Anyway, the kids got really into decorating the haunted houses. 

Without Brad to actually read the instructions and attempt to do things in an orderly fashion, the construction was a little shoddy, and I had some significant structural issues.

However, it was still fun and we got remarkably little shocking green, safety orange, or permanent Sharpie black frosting all over my mom's house.

Part of the structural issues were due to Jackson's desire to place the pumpkins on the roof. That put a lot of stress on the walls that I didn't attach quite right in the first place.

The entire time, my mom and I cracked up because Jackson identified each type of candy as either some kind of artillery or weapon.

In case you weren't sure:

Milk Dud = bomb

Candy Corn = missile

gumdrop = grenade

gingerbread bridge = Hummer ramp

chocolate chips = rifles

I'm just glad he's learned that it's important to have a haunted house armed and ready for whatever the trick-or-treaters may bring.

Brad and I are always careful to explain how important it is to have heavy weaponry available on the roof and by the windows at all times.

At the end, Jackson asked me to draw a man on the side of his house.

Which, of course, I did with great detail and precision. I even added some grass at his feet to give the home a warm and comfy feel.

Every arsenal should look lovely on the outside, you know.

And then Jackson armed that man with "double guns."

Just like we always say, "Be ready at the door with your firearms, kids!"

Did I say "drama"? I meant DRAMA!!!!

To make an incredibly long story (some might say "saga") short, let me tell you what happened on yesterday's lovely fall morning.

Three police cars pulled up at my parents' house in search of...

Yeah.

Dressed in her blue Snow White pajamas and wearing black leather driving gloves, the babe was lost.

If you have kids, you know the drill...turn your head for TWO SECONDS and the child is out of sight.

So there we were.

Lilly was riding her bike up and down Grammy & Papa's street.

And in the likely case that you've never seen Lilly ride the bike, she has one speed: bat out of hell. Her posture is like the Wicked Witch of the West--hunched over, pumping the pedals, and cackling.

And typically, while impersonating Evel Knevel, she is practicing riding with one (or no hands).

So pedaling at light speed, she flew right past the house and turned the corner, heading for the alley to bring her bike around to Grammy's driveway.

Apparently, that's when all of the driveways and alleyways started to look the same. Lilly rode only a few streets before the most amazing Samaritans of our time, Jeff & Michelle, found my sweet thing crying.

They asked her name and where she was from. When she responded, "Colorado," they briefly thought she was a 4 year-old hobo. But then she calmly explained she was visiting her Grammy who lived in "Texas."

That really cleared things up.

Scooping up a teary Snow White in driving gloves, they walked her back in the direction of Grammy and Papa's house, where a team of squad cars was already canvassing the area.

"All the alleys look the same here!" was her detailed explanation of the Ten Minutes of Terror.

And in typical Lilly style, she is already begging to go on a bike ride by herself.

Um, not happening.

So we praised Jesus for bringing our baby back home, carried on with the morning, and went to church.

And then out for Mexican food. I have yet to find a life obstacle so large that it cannot be fixed by a plate of enchiladas and a heaping scoop of guacamole. (I hear it is good to eat when you are stressed.)

And in my heart I whispered all day, "Thank you, Jesus, for taking care of my baby."

Nothing About This Will Be Shocking

Would you believe who has been wearing around my glasses?

And taking pictures of herself?

Of course you would.

Seeing as these glasses are not fake (although I wouldn't put it past me), I have no idea how she's avoiding headaches of great magnitude.

But she wears the glasses around whenever they're not on my head.

She has also been borrowing my deodorant and favorite spray fragrance every morning.

Maybe this is an identity crisis as she approaches five.

(We ARE saving for braces.)

(And some sort of prestigious theater school.)

(And counseling.)
You cannot even imagine the amount of intensity and drama she brings to every situation.

Lately, I've been trying to teach the kids the value of empathy.

Of course, it's backfired.

After she had an incredibly minor finger injury the other day, I apparently wasn't doling out the empathy like she wanted.

How do I know?

This is what I heard: "Mommy, how would you feel if you were the kid and I was the Mom and you were bleeding all over the place and hurting worse than you've ever hurt before and all I said was, 'You'll be okay'?"

To which I lovingly responded, "I would appreciate the uncompromised truth."

"No you wouldn't! It would hurt you deeper than you've ever been hurt before."

*sigh*

And then I turned around to keep from laughing.

Someday I'll Be Asked to Author Organizational Books

To Do List:

1. laundry

2. pack

3. remember all of the things I'm supposed to take on Fall Break trip

4. write sweet notes for Brad to scatter around the house so he'll know he's missed

5. make meals and freeze them for the same reason

6. email Jackson's class about his Halloween party (apparently someone lost their head and left me in charge)

7. plan for J's sleepover tonight

8. pay bills

9. check my voicemail from the last week and hope no one had an emergency

10. return calls if necessary and people can't be texted instead

What I've Done Today:

1. extra-long workout (due to some recent slacking)

2. extra-long browsing at Costco (read: sampling)

3. bought Christmas gifts for teachers

4. printing and formatting recipes for my recipe book

5. looked for shoes online

6. scheduled a Starbucks date for later this afternoon with a friend to get my SCSHC fix. (they sent me a coupon for a free one, so I don't want to be irresponsible and not use it.)

((Now that I found out how many calories it boasts, I am slightly horrified, but considering it tastes like a melted Snickers, I'll consider it a good deal.))

Then, while I was typing this very blog entry, a friend sent me this.

Really?

I am supposed to pack while there are brownies to be made?

I think not.

It's going to be a long night.

Can't Wait to Flash My First Aid Card

Oh man, I was going to blog all kinds of fantastic (!) thoughts until I just turned on "The Biggest Loser" and do you know what they were doing?

This poor girl, Amy, was thirsty right after a workout--all sweaty, tired, etc.--and do you know what Bob hands her? A GLASS OF MILK.

That makes me want to vomit. Bob was talking up how great milk is and then Amy chugged it all sweaty and gross.

I hate milk anyway, but thinking of it as a post-workout snack makes me stomach do things usually reserved for the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Didn't mean to gross you out, so sorry.

In lieu of a main theme or point to this post, I'm going to go with the trusty list.

In general, I'm not a list-maker, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Although it's not as much desperation as it is trying to blog while flipping between "Dancing with the Stars" and "Biggest Loser," making lunches and eating peanut M&M's. 

So all in all, it's a quiet night.

1) Today I took the most boring First Aid class of my life. And that is no exaggeration, especially considering I've never taken first aid.

(And I'm not sure if "First Aid" is capitalized or not. But I think I will capitalize it to reassure you of its importance and value. And my unparalleled skill as a "Rescuer.")

Because I don't like to hoard information, I'll let you in on a few tips I gathered after watching the American Heart Association video (thrilling) and practicing my newfound Rescuer Techniques on my friend, Erica (who was also a studious participant).

We went over about 28 rescue-worthy scenarios and before you do anything here is what you do: SECURE THE SCENE.

A kid's finger is bleeding?

SECURE THE SCENE.

Your grandmother is choking?

SECURE THE SCENE.

A middle-aged guy drops on the basketball court with chest pain and shortness of breath?

Do NOT call 9-1-1.

SECURE THE SCENE.

Whatever. I'm totally going to call 9-1-1.

It reminds me of the Scary Scenarios way back in Driver's Ed.

Rule Numero Uno, DON'T PANIC.

You lose control of the brakes at 75 miles an hour.

DON'T PANIC.

The hood flies up while you are on the interstate and you can't see a bloody thing.

DON'T PANIC.

Whatever. I am totally going to scream and probably try to find and then dial my cellphone while, in fact, I am panicking.

2) The kids and I have been reading Halloween stories under the cover with flashlights.

This is the most excitement they've experienced in their lives.

Ever.

Including Sea World or Christmas Morning.

And this is their favorite book. 

And...um...I'm having fun, too. (Lots of fun.)

3) I have a tapeworm.

It loves pumpkin cake, M&M's, pizza, and chicken paninis.

But not jeans.

Problem.

4) We have the best friends in the whole world. I've been saying this for years, but have fresh evidence.

They worked like dogs on Saturday in the freezing cold and rain to help Brad fulfill our goal of Grass in the Backyard by '09.

It was bone-chillingly cold and drizzly for hours while they moved sixteen yards of topsoil from the driveway to the back 40. 

I should also mention there is a bear of a hill they traversed with wheelbarrows.

About eleventy million times.

And it was cold. And rainy. 

They are REALLY great. Really great.

5) The upside of Cold and Rainy is that after I lost feeling in my extremities at Jackson's soccer game (while the guys were giving their pulmonary system for our backyard), I rewarded him (me) with a trip to Starbucks.

He got the kid's hot cocoa.

I ordered the Salted Caramel Signature Hot Chocolate that Will Make You Slap Yo Mama.

The sweet/salty combo is a classic and this drink reminded me of a melted Snickers. There are not words to describe this fantastic concoction.

Mix it with a heated seat in the 'Burb and you're golden.

I Have No Idea Where She Gets It

Next I'll Be Watching Wheel of Fortune

Something about my computer/USB cord/camera is making me want to cry. Like the rest of the world, I have a love/hate relationship with technology and right now it is HATE.

I wasn't going to post about that, but this post will be picture-free due to what is probably my fault, but I'm going to take the low road and blame it on inanimate objects like cameras.

There.

I feel much better.

So I realize I've already dedicated a few blogs to the touchy topic of aging.

Not aging in the sense of sagging skin and wrinkles, but in the sense of "oh-my-gosh-my-life-now-consists-of-more-than-eating-queso-and-watching-late-night-TV."

As you can tell, serious stuff.

Brian Williams and the Nightly News never report on the things I'm going to discuss, but frankly, I feel these are just as relevant to growing old gracefully.

Do you know what I had to buy this week?

{insert picture trapped on my harddrive}

A pillbox.

No, not a cute pillbox hat in which you might mistake me for a modern-day, blonde, Jackie O, who picks up her kids from school in a smart pink skirt and tailored jacket.

But a For Realsies Ugly Blue Plastic Pillbox with the days of the week on it.

Earlier this week, I had to get a prescription refilled. I only take one medication and I looked at the date of the last refill when I got online to order another round.

July.

And the container held exactly one month's worth of pills.

So you might deduce that I skipped a day or twelve somewhere in the last three months. 

And from what I hear, the medicine doesn't work unless you actually take it.

But here's the problem...I am supposed to take the drugs both morning and evening. That is a heckuva lot of remembering to do for someone who has to sniff her armpits each and every day to remember if she applied deodorant (or not.)

(I also keep a backup in the glove box because some mornings I don't remember to remember until I am on the road.)

(And you know what they say: Deodorant applied sloppily at a stoplight is better than not applying any at all.)

To dig deeper into my memory issues, the problem wasn't that I just forgot to take the medicine altogether.

I'd stand there at the bathroom counter trying to remember if I merely thought about taking the medicine or if I actually did take the medicine.

And if I came to the conclusion that I did take it, I worked up a sweat attempting to recall if the memory of taking the medication was of it today or yesterday. Was I remembering taking it a few minutes ago? Or last night? Or yesterday morning? Or in August?

Out of fear of overdose (which clearly, isn't likely, but I don't want to die prematurely) I skipped it altogether.

For weeks at a time.

So all that to say, the blue plastic pillbox is both ugly and lame, but (and this is the important part) MIGHTY EFFECTIVE!

I've already taken three pills in a row. You might call it a Memory Trifecta.

Brad saw Baby Blue sitting on the counter and started making fun of me right away.

And then I gave him even more ammunition at dinner.

Because you know what else I do that is apparently for the aged?

Reuse and wash out Ziploc bags.

{cue photo of storage drawer with tons of used Ziplocs}

{cue laugh track}

The snack and sandwich sizes do not affect my senioritis;  it's just the gallon size that I can scarcely bring myself to throw away.

My mom passed down this geriatric sickness. I clearly remember seeing Gallon Size Ziplocs that had similar properties of crumpled tissue paper all over the kitchen. And without a doubt, they were good for one more use.

There is no rational reason for this behavior, but it feels painful to throw one away.

I don't even know how much money this practice "saves", because I get the big pack at Costco once every few years. But subconsciously, the bags must have similar properties to gold and I can't let them slip away before they have holes in them or no longer zip and lock.

The pillbox and the Ziplocs are just minor signs of aging, but when I start getting my hair set once a week at the beauty operator, please stage an intervention.

Only 159 Miles Short of an Ironman

After watching Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt for a couple of weeks this summer, Jackson had visions of grandeur while picturing himself as a world-class athlete. 

So when the local Try-athlon for Kids came up, Jackson was in. His biggest concerns weren't related to the actual swimming, biking, and running, but to the amount of frenzied fans in the "stadium" who would be cheering wildly for him and chanting his name.

Despite learning that he would have exactly three cheerleaders (all of whom share his gene pool), he still decided to go for it.

Y'all, I left my telephoto lens at home, so you'll have to deal with the blurriness that is officially my trademark. 

Although when you consider that my number one quality in a digital camera (size) had nothing to do with photos, that might shed light into the lackluster--but entertaining!--final product.

The swim was one length of the pool and Jackson thought his shark swim trunks would put fear in the hearts of the other 6 year-olds. 

I might have been reading too much into it, but I felt some of them trembled when they looked his way.

There were no official times, no clocks, no prizes for placing. Just a certificate for finishing.

I loved that.

My precious child has inherited the curse of perfectionism from someone and I was just hoping Jackson would have fun. Honestly, a morning without tears would incite as much excitement as Michael Phelps outreaching the Other Butterfly Guy whose name I've already forgotten and am too lazy to google.
The kids started in the pool, which I thought was smart because diving off the starting blocks makes me nervous.
J got to race with his buddy and here they are motoring down the lane together. Apparently kids get an adrenaline rush just like adults because I've never seen Jackson hustle down the swim lane like he did this morning.

For those of you who've never seen Jackson Live and In Person, let me tell you something: He does nothing quickly. Nothing.

But today? He was on the move.

After putting on shoes and socks in record time (a task which takes upwards of 20 minutes before school each morning), he channeled Lance Armstrong and hit the bike.

If anything, he was more heroic than Lance, who to my knowledge, has never ridden through the Alps in shark swim trunks.

The race was for kids age 6-12 and Jackson was in one of the last heats. The greenbelt trail (or more accurately, sidewalk) was pretty crowded with runners, bikers, and misplaced cones by the time Jackson began his leg of the Tour.

Jackson even showed some uncharacteristic aggressiveness when he passed the girl.

And I showed some uncharacteristic restraint when I didn't shout: TRY NOT TO CHOKE ON HIS DUST, CHICKY!

Pedaling up and down hill for a mile didn't take much time at all, and Jackson transitioned to the run.

The lack of focus in the next pictures will give you a sense of the great speed with which he ran.

Don't these pictures remind you of the quality usually reserved for faraway shots used for blackmail?

Which reminds me: If I am ever going to blackmail someone, I should definitely get a new camera.

Also, there've been a bunch of John Grisham movies on TBS this weekend.

Every time I shouted "WHOOOOO HOOOOOOOO! Who is the fastest runner to ever pound the pavement?! Jaaaaacccckkkkkksssoooooonnnnnnnnn," he would throw his arms in the air and get a little spring in his step.

He was a champ--high-fiving his buddy on the homestretch.

For the final 25 yards, Jackson had his very own Chariots of Fire moment, when some friends from the neighborhood (and their parents) ran along with him.

That was as close to the rabid cheering he envisioned, but based on Jackson's smile, it was all he needed.

Jackson wanted to hang his certificate in a prominent spot in the kitchen so everyone would be sure to know that a "Triathlete Lives Here."

Do you know what Lilly said her best part of today was?

Cheering for Jackson.

Sweet baby girl.
No matter how hard he tries, J just doesn't have a tough/angry/intimidating look down.

That's what the sharks are for.
The boys will have to work on their chest bump before they're ready for the NFL.

Or pee-wee football, for that matter.
This is the entire coaching staff of Team Jackson. Brad deals with actual skill, motivation, and gear organization.

I pretty much provide the snacks and blurry pictures.

J, I am so proud of you! I knew you could do it. 

I would watch you over the Olympics any day.

P.S. Jackson has "gone for a run" four times since the actual event. He laces up his shoes, puts on a jacket, and heads to the park and back.

Hilarious.

Tomatoes, Leggings & Politics--More Related Than You've Ever Thought

In my wildest dreams, I had no idea leggings would stir such emotion in the hearts and souls of you people. I interpret it as a cry to focus on the truly important things in life instead of politics and bank bailouts.

I hope to see all of you wearing them sometime soon. 

And I think my interest in politics would skyrocket if the presidential candidates took a few more fashion risks themselves.

Sarah Palin could definitely pull off the leggings and I'd love to see Obama in a pair of cords with a fall sweater. In an attempt to visualize McCain as laid back and loose, I think he should bust out a vintage track suit. 

That would really give us something to talk about.

(Insert awkward transition HERE)

Remember back in August when I fantasized about being ALONE with my Mac in Panera (hopefully eating), just enjoying some solitude?

Six weeks into the school year, the day of my fantasy finally arrived.

Brad had a break during the day, so we met to have a fun fall lunch, then I quickly ushered him back to work so I could be alone with my very own thoughts, which include (but are not limited to) pumpkins, Halloween costumes, and The Cubs: Toying with the Hearts of America.

(I am the picture of focus and concentration.)

I had the tomato and mozzarella panini, which was unbelievable beyond words. Especially when dunked in the french onion soup. 

In fact, I'm going to try to recreate it today using my waffle iron. I've heard you can do such thing, but there is some worry that my tomatoes will taste like syrup. Not that it wouldn't be good, but there's probably a reason that Syrupy Tomatoes haven't made the menu at too many restaurants.

Even though I only plowed halfway through my email inbox, it was still great to just have a few moments to breathe in and out without getting up because I feel guilty about not doing more laundry/dishes/vacuuming/cleaning/whatever.

I even documented this occasion with Photo Booth:

I really have no magical thoughts to tie all this randomness together. We have a busy weekend ahead and I'm already focused on working in a Starbucks run to keep me awake.

So in conclusion: John McCain should not wear leggings while eating tomatoes and waffles.

Now All I Need is a Perm

The day my grandma bought me a pair of turquoise stirrup pants in the fourth grade stands out vividly in my mind to this very moment.

I paired those beauties with an oversized shirt and bangs coated in so much hairspray they had the sheen and durability of a beautiful varnish. Understandably, the boys were not flocking to my locker.

There is no doubt in my mind I looked terrible, but yet my 10 year-old mind felt like I conquered the fashion world.

Which brings me to today.

Twenty years(ish) later, after SWEARING and taking a solemn oath that leggings would NEVER, NO NEVER been worn in my household again, I forked over $4.50 at Forever 21 for not one, but two pairs. 

That was about 2 weeks ago, and I've been mustering the courage to wear them. 

There are several issues that arise:

a) the shape of my legs

b) my age

c) potentially matching Lilly (and thus looking like a 4 year-old)

d) if I should put Umbros over the leggings

e) do I need legwarmers?

f) do I look like I secretly want to be in 7th grade?

g) butt coverage

h) breaking the sacred fashion mantra: "if you wore it the first time around, don't wear it the second"

i) looking like I am in a Halloween costume a month early.

But just like I was in fourth grade all over again, I threw caution to the Fashion Wind and wore the leggings all day long.

I did get several compliments, but I wasn't sure if people were pitying me (nothing else to say?) or if they just wanted to see my Trapper Keeper.

This summer I bought what I thought to be a cute geometric print dress. After taking off the tags and wearing it once, I realized that it was best suited to standing. Not sitting.

But it's not like I could tuck it in (which I haven't done since freshman year of college) and call it a shirt. (On that note, I hope that tucking in never comes back, but if--or should I say when--it does, I'm sure I'll mock the trend, then jump on board with the same vigor I once had for my Esprit book bag.)

So take a deep breath and here goes...

(You can open your eyes now.)

(And truly, this photo option was a million times better than the one Lilly took.)

(Shocker.)

If you weren't blinded by a) the dress, b) the leggings, or c) the actual flash, than I'm curious about your opinion.

Sort of.

Before even seeing the outfit, my mom emailed and said, "I'm sure you looked adorable."

Really?! Coming from you, Mom?!

I decided to debut this ensemble at Bible study. Not sure if that was smart or not, but it did make me feel (momentarily) better when another girl in our small group showed up wearing her leggings, too.

Of course, she is all of 5'2" and petite and adorable, two things I am seriously lacking. But I'm sure she that while she worried about looking like a Christmas elf or a Mini Peter Pan, my 5'8"-self worried about looking like The Jolly Geometric Giant.

(Which I actually may have.)

I'm not sure that I'll ever wear the leggings again, but here are some things about which I am positive should you decide to wear leggings:

a) NO floral prints

b) NO Umbros over them

c) please do not tuck anything into them EVEN IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HOME

d) your butt should not be visible

e) do not pull your socks over them

f) men do not get leggings

g) I realize this is a lot of guidelines for already questionable clothing

h) which is why I am a slave to fashion.

While I'm at it, here are a few other confessions:

a) I've been wearing lots of scarves

b) with flip flops

c) and plum

d) which I used to hate

e) but now love

f) because I am a slave to fashion.

The End

Somebody Stop Me

I just wanted you to know that I am wearing leggings today.

In public.

And I am over the age of 30.

I'll let you know how it goes.