Metaphorical Beehive

I’ve been using the same lipstick palette for over 10 years.

I didn’t even occur to me, until I was on a girls’ trip and my friend pointed it out.

“I remember that from high school, I can’t believe you still have it.”

“Um. oh this? It’s new. I just bought it a few months ago.”

::nervous laugh::

“No…I remember because we would use all the hot pink and dress like sluts.”

“I don’t think that was me. I would never do that. I don’t even like hot pink anywa….” My voice becoming soft and trailing off.

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She was right. The ugly truth had been exposed. I had been using the same lipstick for ever. I hadn’t evolved. I haven’t even felt the need to buy a new one. It wasn’t like I just gave up the search for a new lip palette because there is nothing else out there that could compare, instead I didn’t even consider that I needed something new.

How long is lipstick supposed to last anyways? I used to wash the brush, now not so much. How come the shades haven’t turned green and grown a fuzzy mold around them? That thing is probably a petri dish of staph infections and influenza viruses. On the contrary, I feel great, and my lips look fantastic. Especially when I mix the 4th and the 5th shade together.

A thought occurred to me: there’s not much separating me from those ladies that go decades without changing their hairstyles. It’s basically the same as a metaphorical beehive. I have been wearing a beehive for the last 12 years. And every time a swipe a shade on that lip brush and apply it to my lips, it’s the same as poufing my hair and shellacking it with Breck hairspray.

And I have to go now because my lips are starting to feel itchy…

 

Interview with Hudson

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My interview with Berlyn, went so well, that I thought I’d do it again with Hudson.

Hudson, What is your favorite color?

Green!

What is your favorite animal?

Giraffe! It says grruunnantt. An elephant go, eeeaaaahhh, like dat. It’s very loud.

Do you know of any other loud animals?

A wion! A wion says, rrroooaaarrrhh! Like that.

What was the yuckiest thing you’ve ever eaten?

Um…a marker!

You ate a marker?

Ya.

How did it taste?

Um…good.

Wait, you just told me it was yucky.

Ya.

Alright, well, don’t eat anymore markers. What’s your favorite thing to play with?

My cars track

Why?

Um, because so big.

What is the first thing you want to do when you wake up?

Um, cars. Play cars in the playroom.

What’s your favorite thing to eat?

Eggs and toast. and pizzah with daddy!

(Aside, Daddy took Hudson out just the two of them to pizza about 6 weeks ago, and apparently Hudson has not forgotten)

Who is your favorite person to play with?

Um…Upstairs.

No, Hudson. Who is your favorite PERSON to play with?

CARS!

PERSON, Hudson, like Berlyn. Do you like to play with Berlyn?

(Blank stare) Ya! Berlyn my friend.

Where is your favorite place to go?

To see train in daddy’s office. It go really fast, and honk honk, like dat. It really loud. I want a snack. Somping up der. (points to the cupboard where mommy hides the cookies).

Nope that’s for mommy.

But I want it, up der. Somping up der. 

Nope. Here Hudson, have an apple.

NOOOOOOOO!

And there you have it.

Hudson loves cars, eating markers, playing with Berlyn and trying to leverage his adorableness for some cookies.

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And Now it’s Time for Gratuitous Kid Photos

It’s been a while since I’ve plastered the interwebs with my children’s faces. And because it makes my mom so angry, I’ll indulge you.

They’ve been super cute lately, and Berlyn just announced a breakfast yesterday that Hudson is in fact her best friend.

Awwwwhhh.

I think the feeling is mutual, Berlyn.

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I was really proud of my Pinterest inspired hairstyle. Berlyn was actually sitting still enough for me to do two wrap around french braids without complaining that I was moving her head too much. Most times she as compliant as a wet noodle when I style her hair. So this was a major win for us.

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And lastly, this is how Hudson goes to sleep. No less than three pacifiers, two stuffed animals, and his car blanket. He can go with or without the marker stains on his arm/shirt. But everything else is a non-negotiable.

Night-night, Hudson.

What I feed my kids: a field study in the color beige.

If it’s beige, crunchy, and bland, chances are my children will eat it.

And while I can see the appeal of the beige, crunchy and bland variety, I have to wonder, are my kids eating a well balanced diet?

So I did what any mother would do, I took pictures of all their food.

No?

You wouldn’t do that?

Well, clearly you don’t have a blog.

Maybe this will give me peace of mind that there are other mothers out there that have children that won’t touch their veggies, or eat anything that’s “saucy” or “slimy” “once living” or “touching other food.”

And maybe you can relate.

Or maybe you think my children are being malnourished.

Whateves…

They don’t eat a lot of processed food, we try to steer clear of sugar, and cheese is a staple that I use to feed them sprouted bread. They don’t drink milk and hardly eat meat. They seldom eat yogurt, but when they do it’s plain Greek with a touch of agave.  They actually ate fish the other day, which was kind of a big deal, and Pat and I were high fiving each other because it felt like a victory of sorts. They apprehensively eat pizza, which I think is weird. I mean, who doeses’t like pizza?! GAH. What’s wrong with you, children?! Don’t you know that pizza tastes like a party explosion in your mouth!?

So here we go:

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Breakfast: plain oatmeal with a teaspoon of agave. Or most often it’s Gorilla Munch which is just like Kix only with a gorilla on the box.

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This was Berlyn’s lunch today, a cup of edamame, some triscits and string cheese, and a jar full of applesauce, which kinda looks like baby food, because I put it in an old baby food jar, and I really hope she doesn’t get teased today. That would suck for her.

Sorry B.

It will make you stronger. Promise.

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Next is a series of snacks and lunches. Above is a cheese sandwich on sprouted bread, some peanuts and carrots. My kiddos love to graze, so I always try to put out a variety of snacky food for them to grab and go. Hudson’s favorite is to chomp and walk. Which is coincidentally our dog Zoey’s favorite too. Mine? Not so much. Super! A moldy cracker stuck between the couch cusions. I was wondering what smelled so aweful. 

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Graham cracker cookies, edamame, apple slices and snap pea things that have absolutely no snap pea nutrition. But hey, the kids like ‘em.

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Banana, frozen blueberries, triscuts, and peanuts.

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Apple sauce and a PB and J.

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Dried oranges, pretzel thins, and pistachios.

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The next two are known in our house as, “kid dinner.”

This one is quesadilla on corn tortillas, guacamole, carrots, and raisins. They get very excited for kid dinners because it means they don’t have to cry and push their plates away when I expect them to try some curried lentils with summer squash. Dinners are a massive struggle when I don’t make a kid dinner, there is usually a tantrum or two, angry parents, a ruined dinner time, and hungry children. But I think it’s important that they know that I’m not going to make something different for them. I’m not a short order cook, and if you don’t like what I’ve made, then it’s your loss, because it’s probably really good. Because I’m an excellent cook, if I do say so myself.

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This is my most embarrising kid dinner. It’s so wrong. But they loved it. Chicken nuggets, whole wheat pasta with butter, and carrots.

And are you noticing a carrot trend? Ya. Me too. It’s the only vegetable they willingly eat.

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And everyday I try to juice some vegetables for them. That way I know that they’re getting something nutritious. Hudson is my biggest juicy fan, Berlyn struggles, but manages to get most of it down.

So that’s it. That’s what my kids eat. Lots of beige, right?

What about you? What do you guys feed your kids?

Tell me I’m not the only one who struggles with feeding them.

seven.

I look back on my wedding day seven years ago and I remember seeing a flash of white. The flash belonged to the flower girl’s dress as she was darting around outside in the grass, waving her basket of flowers in the air, completely free and peaceful and perfect. I remember watching her as I bit off pieces of flesh from my fingers and waited for the cue that my life is ready to be forever changed.

SNAP!

Just like that. The music started. The people stood. And I walked towards my new life as a wife.

There were flowers, poofy dresses, and beautiful ocean views. But I didn’t need any of that.

We recited the words. Slowly, chewing on each one before grabbing a bite of the next.

“I will love you all the days of my life.”

“Forsaking all others.”

“I thee wed.”

We kissed under a canopy of fragrant flowers, shared our most intimate and prized moment with 200 of our closest friends, and then rode away in a blur of magic and glitter from the sun.

I don’t remember too much of the wedding day. It was pomp and circumstance. There were people there we didn’t know. There was food that we didn’t eat. Choices about that day that we didn’t make.

It was like when you eat at a fancy restaurant and you grab the wrong fork, and you spill your water, because you put it where your wine glass should go, and now there’s water on your bread plate, and it’s dripping down your ankle and filling your shoe.

Our wedding was uncomfortable, everyone was looking at me and waiting for us to put on dazzling display of love and affection. But that wasn’t us.

Put your hand here.

Tilt your face this way.

Turn around.

Smile for pete’s sake, it’s your wedding day!

We were tiny babes. Only pretending to be adults.

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We fooled them all. Signing our names on legal documents and kissing during the sunset only made us feel taller and mature, but really we were children.

The night of our wedding was where the true magic was.

::wink, wink::

No. Well, that was good too.

But I’m talking about the easy, soft way the day melted into night, because there was no more pressure, no more people to please, it was just us.

Together.

We ordered pizza from room service that cost $150.00, we walked on the beach hand in hand, we talked, we laughed, we made plans that involved our big ideas on life.

Those plans later dissolved and life happened instead.

After two babies and a whole lot of life happening, we still remain. We still laugh. We still walk on the beach, our hands still meet in the middle, and we still make plans. Big plans. But I have a feeling life will get in the way again, just like it always does.

But in between the big stuff, lies the tiny details, the parts filled with driving down the highway, and “Girlfriend in a Coma” comes on the radio, and we both sing softly, maybe humming, and my hand chases the breeze out the window, and you smile at your reflection in the side mirror, and then I make a fist to catch the wind, and our eyes meet briefly. It’s in those moments, that I feel like that flower girl.

Free. Peaceful. Perfect.

With you.

Happy Anniversary Patrick. I love you more than the day we married, because you are so much more than the day we married. I look at this life we created and it’s all pretty astounding.

It’s a post about my best friend…

I have this magical friend.

And today is her birthday.

I don’t have a gift for her.

I don’t have any wisdom to pass on to her, although I am I’m 5 months older.

I don’t have one of those fancy cards where you fold up a 20 dollar bill and stick it in the pocket of the card, and when you open the card money pops up.

But I do have a lot of photos and everybody likes photos!

We’ve been friends for about 15 years. And sometimes she thinks she can shake me off, but I’m like a dingleberry stuck to a lamb’s wooly hindquarters. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.

So happy birthday Mel.

You’re a gem.

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Every time I’m with you I have the most fun in the world.

You’re a super-fantastic lady.

Happy birthday.

Womanhood (with more sprinkles)

I was raised Catholic.

My mother comes from a long line of strong Catholic women, and therefore she is a rosary slinging, Hail Mary praying, Mass going, Ash Wednesday ashing, Advent calendar opening, light a candle for those we love kind of lady.

Which consequently meant I had to be too.

For years she would cart my brother Jason and me around to church no less than three times a week, one for Sunday Mass, second for catechism on Wednesday afternoons, and lastly, the worst one ever for an 9-year-old, confession on Saturday.

Those sessions would usually go like this:

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

Yes, my child, go ahead.

I was mean to my brother and flicked off my mom when she wasn’t looking.

Anything else, my child?

I fed the cat my boogers. And I don’t like Stephanie Beatleman anymore, she’s a rotten whore. I mean, she’s not nice.

I see. Well the Lord absolves all of your sins, go now in peace, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

And so I did, until we got to the McDonald’s across the street, and my reckless behavior would show itself once again. “MOOOOMMM!! How come Jason got the Grimace toy and I got the Hamburglar??! I wanted Grimace. Make him give it to me!! I’m going to hold my breath until he gives it to me!”

That tactic never worked.

And sometimes my punishment would land me right back in that confessional booth.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

You again?

Yes father. I got in trouble at the McDonald’s across the street.

Go ahead my child.

I stole my brother’s Grimace toy and then ate all his chicken nuggets…

The crowning moment of my Catholic experience happened when I was 12. I just finished my Wednesday afternoon CCD class, and I walked to the room down the hall because my mom taught a kindergarden class there. Right before CCD I drank a massive cherry Icee and my bladder was about to explode imitation cherry flavoring everywhere, so I quickly ducked into the bathroom that was in the classroom that my mom was cleaning up in.

When I came out of the bathroom, I had this puzzled look on my face. My mom was picking up over turned chairs and paste globs off the carpet, and hardly noticed me.

I just stood in front of her with a ghostly white face until she paid attention.

“What’s the matter?” She finally asked.

“I…uh, I think I started my period.” I managed to say. My feelings about my first period were numerous and hard to describe. I was embarrassed, confused, proud, angry, on the verge of tears, and hungry. So basically the same thing every single woman in the human race feels when she gets her period.

She finally stopped what she was doing, and said, “Oh. Well, I guess we’ll have to stop on the way home and pick you up some Kotex.”

That was it.

No fanfare. No awkward sex talk. No celebratory ice cream sundae of womanhood.

I guess I half expected her to throw confetti in the air and exclaim, “WELCOME TO FERTILITY! YOU ARE NOW A WOMAN!”

Or maybe explain to me what I would be happening inside my uterus every month for the next 35 years.

But no. Instead, my reward was a giant pack of 68 count Kotex pads.

Extra absorbent.

When I became an adult and popped out a couple of kids, I finally asked her why she never made a bigger deal about it. I kind of thought she’d answer in a hushed voice, It’s because we were at church, dear. And the only blood we talk about at church is the blood of Jesus Christ.

But instead she said, ”I didn’t want to embarrass you. I don’t know, Beck, what did you want me to do? Take you out for an ice cream sundae?”

“YES! Yes, mom, that’s exactly what I wanted you to do. But I’d like you to call it, a Celebratory Ice Cream Sundae of Womanhood please…with extra sprinkles.”

February Photos

If you’re not on Instagram yet, I can’t help but think that you’re weird, and it’s probably better if we’re not friends anymore.

So please stop reading.

No really, stop.

Phew, that was awkward, I hate break-ups.

But if you are on Instragram, you’ve likely heard about the photo a day challenge.

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It started in January, and while I don’t like to be the first do do anything, I thought I’d sit January out to see how it fared, then join up in February.

And February 1st came, and I was a go.

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This one was “my view today.” It was Berlyn’s birthday, and we celebrated with her with a loud and abrasive dinner at Farrel’s. She’s doing her best to look unaffected and nonchalant. But there is a giant marching band drum banging next to us, and she’s about 3 minutes away from a farm sized trough of ice cream and sprinkles being delivered directly in front of her face.

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This one is “words.” I scrambled to find some words, and at 10:00 p.m., I looked around my room and saw a flickering candle. It’s a little half-assed, but so is most things I do.  It’s a Malin+Goetz cannabis candle. That’s right, cannabis. It’s the best smelling candle in the world, and no it’s doesn’t smell like bong water and day old pizza, it smells grassy, and citrusy with warm spicy notes. It’s basically my favorite.

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This one is “hands.” Berlyn was playing with paper party cups.

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This one is called “Stranger,” and it was pretty intense, because I threw caution to the wind and snapped this photo right in his face. I was banking on the chance that since he was at the bar he was probably drunk, and therefore didn’t mind. Judging from his expression, I think he was kind of okay with it. Maybe even intrigued…? No sir, I am not hitting on you. Please ignore the flash of my camera phone and go about your business.

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This was what was happening at “10 a.m.” one morning. I think it was a weekend. Because I’m usually doing this much, much earlier. No, wait, I take that back. I’m not applying lipliner early in the morning on a weekday. I’m lucky if I have concealer on my zits and chapstick on.

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Brown rice with stir fried veggies was “dinner” one night. We eat mostly vegan and this was just a typical weekday meal for us. And no, my kids don’t eat it. They cry and scream at the sight of a vegetable…kind of like their dad.

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This is Hudson’s massive outie belly “button.” It’s a hernia. Doctors say it’s not a problem…and I have one too, so we’re basically hernia twins. YAY!

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This is what my “front door ” looks like. Not that exciting. I got the wreath at Anthropologie, naturally.

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Self portrait.

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If a goat isn’t something that “makes you happy”, something is seriously wrong with you.

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Blue.

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This is a peek inside my closet.  And this is where the photo challenge started to get weird for me.

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Berlyn’s Valentine’s for her class. “Heart.”

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A pay phone outside the library.

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And lastly, “something new.” Pat bought me See’s Candies after our dinner plans went catastrophically wrong.

So that’s where the challenge ended. 16 photos.

I found it odd when asked to see inside my closet, but I went along. But then it was asking for samples of my handwriting and the contents of my bathroom cabinet. What’s next Instagram? You want me to take a picture of my poo and hash-tag it with the last thing I ate?

I can blame my quitting the instragram challenge on the breech of privacy, but we all know that I have no problem with over sharing. The truth is I’m lazy. And it felt like a school assignment. And school assignemts were basically the worst.

Because I never learn my lesson, I’ll start it up again in March…

Only if don’t have to take a picture of my poo.