In which I attempt a real "journal" entry. Remember those?

Well, big surprise... it's been six months since I updated. Again. I'm really good at that. Is there some sort of prize or sponsorship for being the most lazy updater ever? I mean, it seems like that's all blogging is anymore. It's kind of sad. I mean, I love a giveaway as much as the next gal, but what happened to pouring your heart out or just posting about the minutiae of your day? Back in the day of "online journals," there was no incentive to post anything except the catharsis of getting it out there in black and white. No one does that anymore... and I guess it does make a difference now that everyone and their grandma knows how to use the Internet. Your jobs, relationships, your entire livelihood can be in jeopardy if you keep it real.

I felt pressured to define this blog when I started it, just because it seems like that's what you have to do now. There are fashion bloggers, home bloggers, recipe bloggers, mommy bloggers, blahblahblah bloggers... that's starting to not look like a real word anymore. Anyway, I don't want this to be a niche blog. I just want a place to write every once in a while.

I'm going to force myself to do a little exercise. I'm going to bust it out LiveJournal style and write about my day. With Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, it's too easy to update everyone in short, concise bursts. This is a real freakin' journal entry, people. Behold.

Kyle let me sleep until 9:30 this morning, which was nice, since Hank decided that 2:00 and 4:00 AM were excellent times to wake up screaming for no discernible reason. I think he must be going through a growth spurt. He's been eating like a horse lately, and his sleep patterns always get jacked up when he's hitting another milestone.

After some chai and several readings of "Penguin Says Please" (Hank's new favorite book), I still wasn't awake, so my dear husband was kind enough to let me go back to sleep for a while. I finally pulled it together around 2:00 and went for some ice cream with my mom (with Hank in tow) and then came back to the house to do some yardwork while Mom chased after Hank.

No, I couldn't get my parenting game together today, in case that's what you were thinking.

Anyway, I used some old bricks I found in our shed to edge around the front of our house. Previously, it was just old mulch and then grass... not all that attractive. The edging is a little crooked, but I think it'll look nice once I get some new mulch down and the grass fills back in. I got one side of the house done and then it looked like a serious rainstorm was headed in, so I went down to the fence row on the north side of our house and attempted to dig out the chokecherry that I had sprayed weed killer on last week. A lot of it was still too stubborn to get out, so that got doused with weed killer again. I also managed to finally plant two variegated hostas in the area where we got married a couple years ago. There are two large cement foundations and a little shaded garden area which gets extremely weedy extremely fast. I need to put more mulch down there as soon as possible.

I really do not enjoy being outside that much, but I have gotten into gardening this year, so I go about it like I'm killing snakes on days when it's not ungodly hot.

After a much-needed shower, I dropped Mom off at home and we went over to Kyle's parents' house to eat dinner with his dad, who was flying solo this evening. Burgers, baked beans and macaroni and cheese filled us up, then we all went outside and watched Hank run up and down their huge deck. He got a bath there and then we employed the car method of getting him down for the night.

And now, it is getting on towards 11:00 and it's time for bed.

A little upcycling for your rainy Sunday.

The last couple days have been unseasonably warm for January, so I decided to work on a quick project that I've been meaning to do for quite a long time.

The previous owners of our house (which was built in 1840-ish) left several of the original windows in the shed. Since I am totally at a loss for what to do with our mantel for winter and spring, I decided to clean one of the windows up and use that as the focal point. It's kind of a popular trend right now, but I like it.

Here's what it looked like when I pulled it out of the shed. I liked this one because all the glass was still in tact and it was 9-pane, a little different than the typical window. It was covered in dust and spiderwebs and who knows what else, so I used our Dustbuster to get the big stuff off before starting the cleaning process.

First I sprayed this GreenWorks stuff all over both sides of it and let it sit for about 10 minutes or so. Then I rinsed it off using an old rag dunked in water and a little dish soap. I also lost a pane in the process (the topmost right one).

Then I rinsed it with a bleach and water mixture and used a toothbrush to clean out the nooks and crannies. This is the opposite side of what I've been posting, but you can see how much cleaner it is at this point. It's also lighter, because another pane fell out (the middle left one). It adds character.

I let it dry overnight and then cleaned the windows on both sides (very carefully, I might add) with vinegar and water using coffee filters to cut back on streaking.

And here's the final product!

I am totally at a loss for how to finish out my winter mantel. I love the two little bundled-up birdies perched in the empty spots, and I placed a birdhouse my dad made next to them on top of a book called "A Daughter of the Snows," but everything else is sort of thrown together. I kind of wanted to do an all winter-white theme, since I found a bunch of white milkglass for super cheap at a local antique store, but I don't know. Suggestions are always welcome, of course. I think I'll keep the window up for spring and then put the crane painting that my grandpa did back up for summer.

Another letter to Hank.

Oh, Mr. Baby.

You are now nine months old, but I started this entry back when you were right around seven. I hardly ever get a chance to sit down and write, but with the time change, you're going to bed earlier and giving your dad and me some much-needed free time in the evening.

So yes, as I said, you're now nine months old, but you're under the impression that you're about two years old or so. You've been pretty much anti-crawling up until recently, when you started pulling yourself along with your arms, folding one leg underneath you, and using the other foot as a rudder. You can get pretty far using this method. Your favorite thing to do is walk by hanging on to our fingers and pulling yourself up. You've even tried to pry our fingers loose from your hands to attempt standing on your own. It's especially exciting to go for walks (or stomps, as it sounds) right before your bath, when you're barefoot and down to just your diaper.

You haven't officially said your first word yet, but you've transitioned from screaming "DA DA DA DA DA!" to "Ma ma ma ma ma" and now have been working on "Wooowww... wow" at various pitch levels. You also love screaming with ear-splitting delight at cats, dogs and Elmo. Whatever it takes to keep Yo Gabba Gabba and Spongebob out of the house.

You're starting to discover the joys of feeding yourself. It makes a humongous mess, but sometimes I'll spoon out a little soft food onto your high chair tray and let you go to town. You also do a good job with your mesh feeder and the mess is significantly easier to clean up. You haven't been too excited about kiwi or avocado, but you love cottage cheese and bananas. I've also let you try things from my plate - this morning you had some biscuits and gravy - well, just the gravy. Your favorite seems to be tomato soup. You absolutely hate the pureed meat from a jar. I guess I can't blame you on that one.

What else? I'm proud to announce that as of November 1st, you officially have a tooth. You didn't seem to be too bothered by its arrival. You're also getting a lot more hair. Your eyes are more or less blue, and you go back and forth on who you look like. Your new favorite games (in addition to the old standby "Where's the Baby?") are "This Little Piggy" and "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." You've finally started to show an interest in books, although "Goodnight Moon" seems to make you angry for some strange reason.

Hank, there's just so much you've done over the relatively short time you've been here with us that I can't even sum it all into one blog entry or even an entire baby book. Your daddy and I - and the rest of our family - can't wait to see what you'll do next. We all love you so much that it's hard to even type those words without tearing up. You are our funny, ornery, sweet, smart, stubborn little boy.

Baby-Snarking Club: Kristy's Big Day (#6): Chapters 1 - 3

So if you're new to snark, this is where I basically dissect books/TV shows I loved as a kid and critique them with my adult bias at the helm. Today we will be snarking the first three chapters of Kristy's Big Day, my favorite Baby-Sitter's Club book.

The cover:

The tagline reads "Kristy's a babysitter - and a bridesmaid, too!" I guess it's not unlike go-getter Kristy to wear lots of hats, mostly of the collie-bearing baseball variety.

So Kristy is all bridesmaided out in her yellow empire waist dress with a white sash and some snappy slingbacks. Oh, and a wreath of flowers on her head. She looks roughly like a teenager, so good for Hodges on that one. He makes some major missteps later in the series, like losing his grasp on what Japanese people look like. 

Kristy is adjusting a similar flower wreath on stupid Karen’s head. To her credit, Karen does look pretty cute in her flower girl dress (also yellow with a white sash), ruffly socks and patent leather shoes. She has straight bangs and wavy, shoulder length hair, a far cry from the crazy top-of-the-head ponytails and Sally Jesse Raphael glasses she rocks in her own series.

Then there’s Andrew. Andrew is wearing a little blue blazer, creased khakis, a yellow tie and untied brown oxfords (a nice touch). However, instead of a normal-looking four-year-old boy like in the picture above, Andrew has Reese Witherspoon’s hair circa Sweet Home Alabama, ears like Jeep fenders and the face of Donald Trump. Seriously, did you click on the link to the cover? Here's a close-up:

Also, is he tying his own tie? I guess when you look like The Donald, you learn how to dress like him pretty quick.

Chapter 1:

Like most books in this completely unpredictable series, Chapter 1 begins with a quote. It's Karen, running her mouth about Ben Brewer, the ghost of one of her relatives that resides in her attic. Andrew's having an internal meltdown, which Kristy notices and tells Karen to STFU, even though she admits to be a little freaked out herself. "Why was I letting a six-year-old get away with this?" she asks. I've been asking the same question for years, Kristy. Every one of you in this series lets Karen get away with whatever the hell she wants and I can't figure out why no one's put their foot in her ass yet.

Kristy begins to give us the rundown on her family situation, which should be imprinted in your permanent memory bank if you've ever read more than one BSC book. Blahblah Bradford Court, Watson, mansion all the way on the other side of town. Then she says something that never really made sense to me: "Watson is okay, but sometimes he can be a jerk." Watson never came across as a jerk in an arrogant dickhead way; maybe Ann just wasn't familiar with the term "douchebag," which is more of the impression Watson gives me. Or maybe it didn't exist in 1987. At any rate, I just subsitute "douche" for "jerk" and it makes me like this book a little better.

So Kristy's mom interrupts her pondering to call her, Karen and Andrew to dinner; they're having pasketti. Kristy remarks that "ever since Mom got engaged to Watson, she's been in a great mood." 

We get a brief introduction to Kristy's younger brother, David Michael, and their two stereotypical teenage brothers, Sam and Charlie, who do stereotypical teenage boy things like eat a lot and drive cars. There's a random paragraph about David Michael transferring to Karen's private school, a reportedly "messy" situation that never comes to pass in any subsequent books.

Blahblah brothers and sisters discussion, Charlie wants some wine, wedding date is set, and we reach the point of the book: Elizabeth asks Kristy to be her bridesmaid. Then all canon jumps the rails as Kristy craps her drawers over wearing "a long fancy dress with flowers in (her) hair." Sam tries to remind Ann that Kristy is dyed-in-the-wool butch - "Since when do you like long fancy dresses and flowers?" - but Ann's having none of that. Kristy is EXCITED to be a bridesmaid. Andrew, of course, has to be a pansy-ass when his role in the wedding is announced - escorting Karen down the aisle. But as we know by the cover, Andrew puts on his big-boy khakis and does it anyway.

It's a weird place to end the chapter, but there it is.

Chapter 2:

Shockingly, Ann saves Chapter 3 for the long-winded explanation about the club's inner workings and its members' one-dimensional personality traits. This one is a long-winded exposition of how this wedding was only made possible by the Baby-Sitters Club. In a nutshell, because it's really boring:

• Kristy's mom's company (just referred to as "the company") springs a two-week business trip to Europe (also rather vague) on her, scheduled to overlap with the wedding. I really had no idea that Elizabeth's job was that lucrative.
• Someone already wants to buy the Thomas house. The guy is even willing to pay more than the asking price to be in there by July. This was the 80's, you know.
• All this mayhem has forced them to have the wedding in two and a half weeks. ZOMG PANIC TIME
• There are a lot of a lot of recipes for crab crepes on Google. I looked this up because I'd never really heard of using crepes as hors d'oeuvres as Elizabeth mentions, but maybe they're going to cut them up.
• "Mom went to her bedroom and called Watson privately."

• Kristy claims to be too old to whine about this inconvenient situation and the unfairness of it all. Oh, Kristy. You're never too old to whine, I promise.
• Kristy retreats upstairs to wax nostalgia about living next door to Mary Anne, then lets guilt overtake her and goes downstairs to help Elizabeth make wedding to-do lists. The forecast calls for lots of children. HOW EVER WILL WE DEAL WITH THIS!?!@

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 is the new Chapter 2 in this particular book. We do get an "outrageous" Claudia outfit description that sounds pretty moderate compared to most of them:

She was wearing a black leotard and skintight red pants under a white shirt that was so big it looked like a lab coat. Claudia's a wonderful artist and she had decorated the shirt herself, covering it with designs she had painted in acrylic. She had pinned back her long black hair at the sides with red clips.

We know you can do better than that, Klawdeeuh.

The only other thing worth mentioning is that Sam prank-called the club before Kristy got there, saying, "Hello, this is Marmee March. I need a sitter for Amy tonight, someone who has experience with little women." I'm amused and at the same time annoyed, because really, what 15-year-old boy would make a Little Women reference in a prank call?

The rest of the chapter goes something like this:

 Fin.

Since these take so long to do (and to read, I imagine), I'll only be doing three or so chapters per entry.

I feel stupid (and contagious).

I've been playing SongPop on my new phone, and it's pretty obvious by now that I'm terrible at it except when it comes the 90's Alternative category. (Seriously, if you want to win, challenge me at Modern Rap or Today's Hits.) I know nearly every song and can even remember what year of junior high or high school I was listening to it. Now I understand why my parents were always listening to Dan Fogelberg and Ann Murray in the car.

How I wanted to look in 1995.

Speaking of which, Hank and I were driving home the other night and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came on the radio. That song will always and forever remind me of a very important night in my freshman life that just didn't quite work out...

It was early 1996, maybe March or so, and I had started hanging out with this kid, David, whose personal hero was Kurt Cobain, much like a bunch of boys at that time, I'd guess. There were a group of juniors at our school who decided to form a band, Endless Nameless, and made plans to put on their first concert at a local venue normally reserved for 13-year-old girls' birthday parties. Everyone who listened to that kind of music and fancied themselves "grunge" was planning to be there.

With my ribbed turtlenecks and tapered jeans, I was so far from grunge it was laughable, but I so wanted to fit in with that crowd. (Interesting side note: Kyle, my future husband, was part of the most notorious group of grunge kids in the school.) But being a cheerleader and completely insecure, that wasn't going to happen. Still, I got dressed in what I'm sure was my best flannel shirt and Airwalks and walked over to the Frazee Center from my house with David and my friend Jackie, who had dated one of the guys in Endless Nameless.

How I actually looked in 1995.

When we arrived, the music had already started and kids were still flooding in. I balked. Flat-out refused to go in. I had an internal anxiety attack I had to fight to keep from becoming public. There was no way I was going in there with all those people who knew how to mosh and dyed their hair with Kool-Aid. I was sure I'd be labeled a poser, which was a huge insult to a 15-year-old in 1996.

Mercifully, the sky turned navy blue and a huge storm started to roll in. I convinced David and Jackie that it wouldn't be a good idea to be packed into the tiny building if a tornado were to touch down. The storm ended up being big enough that the show was called off.

I had looked so forward to that show, so I guess even if I had sucked it up and gone in, I would have been disappointed when the weather shut the party down. Still, being that insecure kept me from really being comfortable with how I looked for a long time, and I still struggle with it off and on even today. At that time, I was so afraid of disappointing my friends and my parents, who most likely would have loved me even if I'd decided to start shopping at Goodwill instead of Gap. I don't have many regrets, but not letting myself be myself is a major one. Someone get on that time machine business.

Too much booty in the pants and other hazards of childbirth.

(This post was inspired by my friend Mandy of This Girl's Life.)

At 5'2" and 115 to 120-ish pounds after giving birth, I feel like I have little room to complain about how I look. With regular clothes on, it's not immediately obvious that my figure has changed. But it has... quite a bit. I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security a few weeks after having Hank, because stress, depression and being unable to do anything besides cater to his every whim let me get down to a weight I hadn't seen in years. I lost about 40 pounds in two months and was fitting into jeans I wore in high school.

But then I stopped being miserable and started eating again and realized that crazy weight loss was too good to be true.

While I weigh more or less the same after having Hank as I did before, things have settled in some not-so-flattering spots. For one thing, I have a C-section scar at my bikini line. That means the skin doesn't really have anywhere to go around it, so I have two weird rolls that balance on top of it. It makes things like low-riding pants and underwear uncomfortable and unattractive, and tight-fitting tops completely out of the question.

I have no idea what size jeans I wear now. I had to go through three pairs the other day to find ones that fit. The Levi's that I'm wearing right now? Size 3 Short, super comfortable and covers up Roll #1 (the larger of the two, situated under my navel) nicely. But jeans whose tags bear the same size, jeans that I couldn't keep up without a belt before, are now so tight around my middle that I can't bend over without some serious regrets. "Busted can of biscuits" is an accurate description of how I feel on the regular.

Unfortunately, my bustline didn't get the message that things were supposed to expand. Prior to Hank, I measured at a weird, but appropriate size - 35A/B. I wore 34B bras and they fit the way they're supposed to fit. After deciding to stop nursing (at which point I made it to a 36C, yowza), the girls shrunk. A lot. I am now a 34AA. For the first time since high school, I've resorted to padded bras to make up for the loss. Not a fan.

While the remedy for the bra size is way too costly and painful for me to consider right now, I guess the logical solution to the pants situation is to work out. Just typing those words made me involuntarily sigh heavily. I absolutely despise working out. People who update their Facebooks with their exuberance about their morning run or daily trip to the gym... I just don't understand how their brain works. I'm not sure that it's wired correctly, because I don't know how any logical person could find anything so tedious to be fun. Believe me, I've attempted it all. I've bought the shoes, I've tread on the mill, and I still just hate everything about it. I'm thinking about attempting a local cardio class next week, which doesn't involve (a) picking up anything heavy, (b) moving without going anywhere or (c) attempting dance moves that my body was not meant to do. We'll see how that goes..

I have a husband who compliments me regularly, and not in a cheesy, forced way. He genuinely thinks I'm hot, which is sweet of him, but at the same time... I mean, he loves White Castle and peanut butter on his waffles, so it's not out of line for me to question his taste. Maybe he can picture me the way I was before.

I think this is just one of the many unexpected (or under-emphasized) things that come along with children that you have to accept as part of the package. No, you can't smoke that cigarette. No, you can't order that glass of wine with dinner. No, you can't go out for sushi for 10 months. No, you can't bend over to tie your shoes. No, you can't sleep in. No, you can't get the whole house clean in one day. No, you can't fit into your old jeans without a fight, and your jeans will probably win. No, you can't keep them tiny forever, as much as it breaks your heart to know that they're already becoming independent...

...but that's another entry for another time.

The Wardrobe Project, Day Whatever

It's been a minute, hasn't it? I haven't felt very inspired lately. I've been wearing scrubbies to work because I've been cleaning out our basement storage units, so there's no need for getting fancy. But I thought this outfit was semi-cute, so it seemed worthy of a quick WP photo session in the bathroom.

Black Converse Chuck Taylors: I've had these since 2004-ish. I remember buying them on sale at Urban Outfitters when I lived in Boston.
Green apple locket: Claire's, $1 (!!!).
Chambray-ish button-down shirt: TJ Maxx, $10. I've been wanting one of these forever. This one has some shiny thread mixed in.
Skinny jeans: Old Navy. I totally forgot I had these until I was switching winter and summer clothes out last week. It's amazing how many fall/winter things I have to wear now that I'm not hugely pregnant.