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Man, does it seem like Christmas was FOREVER ago, or what? I’d go into my crazy spiel about how the crappy weather slows down time and makes the winter months drag on and on and how much it suuuucks, but I promised myself I’d try not to talk about that sort of misery on the blog anymore, or at least until next January.
You’re welcome.
Anyway, I just wanted to share a little video that we captured from Christmas morning. We have a tradition of spending the night at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve and then waking up, opening presents, and eating cinnamon rolls together all morning long. Here’s a little sneak peek into what went on this year:
Please note: Avalon’s reaction; Courtney’s reaction; and Mom’s reaction. Pure gold, all of them.
We’ll talk more about this later 
As a hater of the snow (yes, I am totally going there again), I suppose that since having a child my tolerance for winter has been slightly elevated just a smidge up my personal Scale of Hate. The reason for this is – and only is – how adorable toddlers look all bundled up in their fluffy snow pants, gigantic puffy coat, and Napoleon Dynamite snow boots waddling through waist-high snow.
Last weekend we received quite the buttload of snow, a blizzard of sorts, and when it finally decided to let up a bit we bundled Avalon up and took her out in snow for the first time. I couldn’t help but laugh when she first stepped into the deep snow; due to her bulky boots she wasn’t able to keep her balance, so she fell forward and instead of being able to brace the fall she sunk face first right into a foot of snow. Poor baby.
Since it was so hard for her to walk without falling down every three seconds, we decided to plop her into her new sled that we gave her for Christmas and pull her around the yard. It was a hit! Next time I’m thinking I need to rig up some sort of harness for Oliver so he can play Rudolph and pull Avalon around, Santa-style.
And you know what? She’s welcome to go outside and play in the snow as much as she likes…as long as Rob is home to go out with her. Someone has to stay inside taking pictures and preparing hot chocolate.
I know I sound like a broken record every year, but this winter stuff IS GETTING TO ME, MAN. Like, bad. The relentless gray sky, frigid temperatures, and inches upon inches of snow put me in a constantly cranky, depressed mood. Just the other day my new brother-in-law pegged me as “the person who hates winter more than anyone else he knows.” Shouldn’t that be HIM? The person who just moved here from the warm, sunny state of Arizona?
But whatever. I’m taking it as a compliment.
I’ve never been formally diagnosed, but I’m fairly certain that I suffer at least a little bit from Seasonal Affective Disorder. In the past, I would try to combat my blues by hitting the tanning bed every so often. Now, in my older and wiser age, I realize that avoiding the potential wrinkles and skin cancer trumps trying to achieve the bronze glow that I once mayhavebeenobsessedwith. But even without the tan, I thoroughly enjoyed the whole tanning experience during the freezing winter months – the warmth and light was sure to perk me up every time I went.
As a replacement, I’ve been researching light boxes, which claim to help battle the winter blues. I’m wondering if I kept one on my desk and sat by it each day if it would help lighten (gaggy pun!) my mood. Anyone have any experience with this?
My other option is to fly to Florida every other week. Don’t think I’m not seriously considering it.
Technically I’m a month too early, but too bad, I’ve been majorly craving some Thanksgiving grub. From the turkey to the pie to the tryptophan-food-coma-nap-on-the-couch, it’s all I can think about lately. I make my bed in the morning and fantasize about the turkey brine. I fold towels while daydreaming about mashed potatoes drowning in silky, thick gravy. I even accept the fact that I’ll have to unbutton my pants from all the binging.
So instead of waiting until the real Thanksgiving, I’ve decided to take on all of the cooking this weekend so that Rob and I can indulge in not only a piping hot, festive meal, but also the glorious leftovers that we always miss out on (since we’re always guests at Thanksgiving dinners).
For the past couple of days I’ve been hunting down some of the greatest Thanksgiving recipes I can find, and I think I’ve accumulated a delicious array of dishes. Granted, I’m not doing the entire, typical spread that is usually found at family gatherings, but I’m hitting on the big ‘uns.
Here’s what I have planned:
Roasted turkey in Pioneer Woman’s brine
Houlihans’ Cali Mashers (I know, totally atypical, but these are so good and have the same feel as real mashed potatoes…and it won’t make me feel so horrible about eating two or twelve servings)
Spanish green beans (I’ve made these a handful of times, and they’re major bacon-ilicious)
The best cranberry sauce (literally, those are the words I googled, and this is the recipe that popped up, so hey cranberry sauce? NO PRESSURE)
And, obviously, GRAVY. Lots and lots o’ gravy.
Tomorrow I’m going grocery shopping, then I feel like I need to perfectly choreograph the entire day of cooking so that I don’t stress myself out over When To Do What and All The Mess and That Damn Dog Who Is Constantly Under My Feet And In My Way.
How do people do this – AND MORE – FOR REAL – on Thanksgiving day?
Wish me luck and and a metabolism that miraculously kicks into overdrive on Sunday.
I’m having a really hard time coming to terms with myself; similar to that episode not too long ago when I totally betrayed myself and everything I stood for and ordered my first pair of skinny jeans from Ann Taylor Loft. When they arrived on my doorstep and I ran inside to try them on I actually…I…I…liked them. Then I immediately sat down and had a meeting with myself because where’s Kaley and what did you do with her? It’s like I’d been brainwashed by Rachel Zoe only a couple episodes into the new season of RZP. Next thing you know I’m going to be ordering rompers and crotch-high hooker boots.
Only this has nothing to do with fashion. Well, it kind of does, but I’ll get to that. What I’m saying is, after a hotter-than-normal summer with humidity so thick you could do the backstroke everywhere you went, the weather is finally starting to cool off and crisp up. The fact is that summer is coming to a close and all signs are now pointing to fall.
While tailgating last Saturday I was able to wear a new cardigan (and we all know how much I love my cardigans, I mean, if I had to choose between between a pair of underwear and a cardigan…) and Avalon has even been found snuggling up in her new fuzzy Gap hoodie from time to time. When I take Oliver for walks I don’t have sweat dripping down my nose by the time we reach the end of our street. I’m already making plans to pull my petunias out of the flower beds and swap in some jewel-tone mums in their place. I’m mapping out which apple orchards we’re going to visit to pick bushel after bushel of sweet, crispy apples. We’ve opened all of our windows and let the cool breeze blow through the house.
Guys, I’m liking fall.* A lot. And now I’m going outside to pelt myself with stones.
I’m a summer girl, is the thing. Always have been. My birthday is in July, school is out of session, days are spent swimming and tanning and topped off with Miata rides to Ritters for creamy custard sundaes. I mean, who doesn’t love all of these things?
But what I’ve discovered lately is that summer isn’t as awesome when you’re an adult, because adults aren’t able to spend every day at the beach with friends, slathering on tanning oil and munching on Doritos. Adults aren’t allowed to suck out every single delicious second of summer because we’re not on summer vacation, alas, the real world still beckons during the warm sunny months.** Instead, we’re forced to continue on in our daily lives, running errands, working, and taking care of the kids, all the while sweating our asses off in the three seconds it takes to walk from Target back to the car and then having to stand in the blistering hot sun until the air conditioning kicks on and cools off the car enough before we get in so we don’t suffocate and die from the pent up heat.
I know, first world problem. I KNOW.
Anyway, as I’ve grown older each year it’s like summer slowly creeps down the friendship scale day by day, sweaty body part after sweaty body part, slipping from BFF4LIFE to STARTING2H8U.
The number one reason why I’ve never been able to fully embrace fall is that it means the inevitable, dreaded winter is approaching. And dude, winter is totally dead to me. I hate – LOTHE – cold, snowy, slushy, winter. If the planets got all juggled up and earth spun out of its orbit and the seasons got all jacked up resulting in winter never happening ever again, well, I peed my pants just thinking about it. In fact, that’s probably what heaven is like: winterless. Pretty sure that’s in Genesis somewhere, even.
But I’m coming out of the closet right now, blissfully ignoring the fact that winter will be here in just a few short months, and am instead choosing to fully embrace and own my love for the fall season.
Fall, I want to make out with you.
*Remember Courtney, you know, my sister that was married just a few weeks ago? She’s living in the desert now until December and is totally missing our midwest fall. So Courtney? Don’t cuss me out after reading this. Mmmkaythanks.
**Unless you’re a teacher, in which case, I want to be you.***
***But during summer months only.
Having an artist for a mother and an architect for a father, you would think that my blood is technicolor. And while I didn’t inherit so much of their creative gene – I’m a numbers girl and help keep their respective businesses’ (okay, come on, that’s a tricky plural/possessive thing going on…and I have no idea if that’s grammatically correct, oh thank you for your understanding) books straight – I do love bright, bold colors.
Last year when we met with our landscaper to design our landscaping he asked me what kind of plants I like, and being a naive first time homeowner with zero experience with plants I gave him a blank stare and some stupid response like, uh, well, I like color? Colorful things? You know, plants that aren’t just green? I am nothing if I’m not wonderfully descriptive with my words.
Then he asked if I would like annuals, and I was all, annual what? Annual spa days? Annual monetary bonuses? And then he explained that annuals are flowers that are planted in the spring and then die in the fall. So they’re planted annually.
(light bulb goes off in my head)
“Sure!” I replied, having, again, no experience with planting flowers but very high hopes that I can figure this gardening thing out.
So he drew up a design which had several open areas that were meant for me to plant my annuals. And as it turns out, I have discovered my pink, purple, red, and yellow thumbs. I love planting flowers, and taking care of my landscaping has become one of my very precious happy places. I go outside almost every day to putz around, pull weeds, and water my flowers just like those crazy cat ladies in their long, flowing housecoats and Crocs. I, however, do not have hundreds of gnomes and pinwheels and those dressed-up duck statues on my front stoop. You all know what I’m talking about.
But who knows what all of this will evolve into when I’m 80 years old.
I got an itch this Spring to start a vegetable garden. I’ve never had one before, and hello stupid me, never even paid attention to when my parents had a huge garden in their backyard. Suffice it to say that I have No Idea What I’m Doing and a couple of black-ish thumbs. I did know, however, that I needed a kick ace raised garden bed.
I assigned my live-in handyman to the project and wasn’t surprised to later find out that he had completely over-engineering the sucker so that it not only cost us an arm and a leg to build, but could also launch cherry tomatoes up to Mars.
Since this is my first year with a garden, I had no clue as to how many plants I needed. So of course, in an effort not to deprive us all of fresh, homegrown produce, I went totally overboard. See all those plants? ALLLLLLL twelve of them? Those are all tomatoes. Various kids of tomatoes, mind you, but still. A tomato is a tomato, and dude, I think I’ll have a few around here. Good thing I whore myself out to homemade salsa on a regular basis.
Over on the other side of the box I planted a couple zucchini plants, spinach, yellow peppers, lettuce, and basil. I have a feeling that if I’m able to keep all of these babies alive and thriving throughout the summer – which is very debatable, considering my past history with a couple ill-fated house plants - I might be able to open my own personal farmer’s market on the side of the street, though I’m fairly certain they only profit about as much as the neighbor kids’ futile lemonade stand business.
Though it’s not officially here, to me, it’s summertime. The time of year when bedtimes get later, sunscreen becomes part of the morning get-ready ritual, baths get taken at night, and grass clippings continually litter my kitchen floor no matter how often I vacuum.
If there is anything I puffyheart love with every molecule within me, it’s summer, and now that I’m a stay-and-work-at-home mom, I’m able to juggle my schedule so that Avalon and I can take full advantage of all the deliciousness summer has to offer.
Just a couple days ago Rob and I decided to buy a little pool that Avalon could hang out in, along with some pool toys and bubbles. I couldn’t wait to sit outside and let her splash around and, let’s be honest, get Mama a tan. Because the truth is, I’m a total sun whore. I’d stay outside all the ever loving day if I could, so that’s exactly what my plans are for the next few months; take walks, putz around my garden, eat dinner out on the patio, go on runs, sit by the pool, and practically live in my bathing suit.
But really, it’s all for the kid! Just keeping her happy, that’s all!
I think Rob assumes that my life is a complete cake walk because I send him pictures of this:
and this:
It’s easy to see why he would think my life is filled with nothing but sparkles, puppies and fist pumps.
But then I remind him, you get to leave in the morning and not have to deal with the daily poopy diaper. You are free to go out to lunch – every day if you want! – with adults and indulge in ahi tuna salads and sophisticated conversations. You don’t have to do the consistent check to make sure Avalon’s afternoon snack didn’t end up on your shirt.
I wouldn’t say I’m a lady of leisure, no way, but I’ll admit, I love being able to stay home and play with Avalon all day. The trade off is that I find myself working until 10pm, but I’m willing to do that.
(Anything for a tan.)
(What?)
But I will tell who takes his summer leisure verrrrry seriously:
He’s the one who’s really got it made.
I vividly remember when I was a little girl and what happened every year when Easter rolled around. My mom would go shopping for matching dresses for my sister and myself (and Mom, admit it, sometimes you bought a mommy-sized version of whatever we were wearing so that you could match, too. Was that really a good idea?), and though she apparently thought we were cute in our sailor dresses and smocked pastel jumpers, we truly hated those outfits. Even worse, my mom would buy us fancy Easter coats with big collars and buttons, and then to top off the whole ensemble: muffs. MUFFS. Do they even make muffs anymore? Those furry, round hand-tunnels that are supposedly cuter and fancier than plain old mittens?
Because of the deep, emotional scars that those dang outfits and muffs left on me, I have vowed never to make Avalon use muffs or dress up in smocked, pastel jumpers. Instead, I choose to dress her up like a little bunny. Because obviously that will never embarrass or bother her. And because little girls dressed up like pink bunnies are at least cute and sweet and ooey-gooey-squishy-NOM-NOM adorable.
Do you see how nervous and anxious Oliver is? It’s like he thinks I have some extra bunny ears behind my back that he thinks are going on his head next. Bwah ha haaaa.
So yesterday was Valentine’s Day! Here’s one of my Valentines:
She’s so cute yet so devilish in this picture. She got quite a few valentines from her family and friends; here she is opening her valentine from us:
Then of course it went right into her mouth:
NOM NOM NOM.
My other Valentine took me out to a fattening filet mignon dinner Saturday night which was wonderful except for the next day when we decided to work out together and he made me do 700 kettlebell snatches to make up for that chocolate molten cake I ordered for dessert. Seriously, man – kettlebells, they’ll make you repent for all your chocolatey sins.
Know what else my Valentine gave me? Cold-weather running apparel. Gloves, hat, pants, the whole shebang. If I were really intuitive I would think that he was trying to give me a hint. Thank goodness I’m not intuitive.
(Kidding. I actually asked for all that stuff thinking that I would want to run outside in the twenty degree weather. Turns out, I was wrong. I really don’t want to do that.)
How was your Valentine’s Day? Did you eat enough chocolate that you need to come over and swing a kettlebell with me? ‘Cause I’ll be hanging out with my bell for a long, long time.
