I just don’t get it.

Lately, no matter WHAT product I’m shopping for or what review I’m reading online, Amazon.com will not leave me alone about this: Read the rest of this entry »

I actually wrote a post today. Betcha didn’t see that coming.

Today’s post is about mornings at Hacienda del Ritter. Jamie gets up at the crack of dawn every single morning and watches the news while his dad and I dart in and out of the room tossing Pop Tarts at him and looking for clean underpants.

Sometimes this is a good thing, like when I haven’t caught the weather and need to know how to dress the kids or whatever. Jamie is all up in that business. He memorizes the forecast. Except that sometimes he lies about it if it doesn’t coincide with his four-year-old plans for the day, or the Batman t-shirt he was planning to wear to school. You can generally tell when he’s doing that because he starts whipping out extremely technical phrases without fact-checking what they mean first. Generally speaking, if there’s a moisture advection or speed shear involved in Jamie’s report, I probably need to pull up WeatherBug on my Blackberry. He goes out of his way to sound credible on the days when he’s fibbing, whereas on the days he’s telling the truth, he keeps it to just-the-facts, like “sunny” or “windy.” This is helpful. Read the rest of this entry »

Von Trapp Family Album

Posted: October 24, 2011 in General Nonsense

In case anyone was wondering what I would’ve looked like wearing lederhosen in 1983…

High on the hill was a lonely goat turd…

…wonder no longer. Yup. That’s me, lower left. And just in case my mom is reading, I totally love this. Seriously. I think it is my favorite photo to ever come out of my childhood, with the possible exception of any that involve my siblings and potty seats. Because that’s just good leverage. 🙂

Spatula City

Posted: October 19, 2011 in Baby Love, General Nonsense
Tags: , , ,

“She never wanted anyone in her kitchen, so the only way you could get to lick the beater or the spatula was to help her out. All of a sudden, one day I realized I knew how to make all this stuff.”

–Tim Kellogg

So…Jamie has this stuffed toy dog that his grandma gave him when he was a baby. Like many toys Jamie’s owned since before he could actually talk, “Dog” has existed ubiquitously around the house without ever having been given a proper name.

Until last week, when Jamie proudly walked into the living room carrying Dog by one scrappy ear and announced that he’d finally named the pooch we’d all grown to know in anonymity: “Spatula.”

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…and I’m here again.

Posted: October 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

Okay, so it’s been like a year since I randomly started this blog, and then promptly abandoned it after taking a writing job, which I later abandoned to go back to college. Which I am still currently doing, so that’s at least something that’s stuck. 🙂

I’m cold. Really freakin’ cold today. I’d love to write lots of witty thoughts regarding the past year of silence, but I can’t feel my feet after walking across campus in the rain. But I made up my mind to go back to blogging, so I’m blogging anyway. And praying that the space heater under my desk doesn’t completely burn off my outer layer of leg skin before the inside has had a chance to begin thawing.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr…..!

I promise I’ll try harder with the next post if my blood doesn’t freeze in my veins and kill me. Which might happen. Just so you know.

I’m pretty sure I am the world’s Worst Parade Mother.

Now this is different, mind you, from being the world’s Worst Mother. I think I’m safe there. (Probably.)

But beneath that glitzy pageant sash remain countless other flashy titles just waiting to claim young mothers at the heights of our careers: “Worst Shopping Companion,” “Worst Dugout Mom,” “Worst Cub Scout Den Mother of Portland, Oregon,” and so on. So don’t fret ladies — someday you’ll find your tiara, too, and probably where you least expect it.

Last weekend, we decided to take the boys to a local parade. It was fun, it was free – what could go wrong?

We rounded up the kids, saddled on the 12,362 random objects necessary for any trip destination further than our bird feeder with baby Oliver, and headed out.

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Today, I caught myself ironing baby bibs.

You read that right: baby bibs.

I’m not entirely certain how it happens. One minute, I’m plugging away at ordinary weekend chores–dishes, vacuuming, laundry. The next minute, I look down and realize I’m struggling with the Velcro pleat on a terrycloth spit rag with a picture of a muffin and the word “Stud” embroidered right above it.

Someone please call an intervention line. Or a psychiatrist. Or Batman. Whatever it takes, this monster must be stopped.

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