The Powers of Observation Have Arrived.

Dear Diary, 

     My three year old has reached the point where her intelligence and powers of observation are ruining our lives. 

     She and I had popped in to a lab so I could have some blood tested. I was filling out some papers when the lady helping me on the other side of the counter began to talk. It was clear to me that she was a tomboy, and possibly a lesbian. She had pixie cut hair, tattoos crawling up her neck out of her scrubs, rough jargon, and a picture of a woman in a frame on her desk. This did not bother me, but I am fairly observant by nature and happened to notice these things.

    My daughter, who is a whopping 36 inches tall, could not see over the counter top. So she yhistered (this is a mix between a yell and a whisper, something that 99% of children have down to a science) to me, "MOM. I want to see that lady!" The lady said, "You can come around and see me if you want!" So my daughter took a peek around the corner and got a glance of this mysterious woman. As she came back to me, she looked up and yhistered, "IT'S NOT A LADY, MOM. IT'S A MAAAAAN." 

                       This was my face...

     Once the moment of shock had passed, I gathered my chi and replied to her, "That's not a man, silly. She just has short hair. She's smart to have short hair, because it's toooooo hot for long hair in Arizona." -***Says the girl with Rapunzel hair. I've been known to take a few risqué selfies and text them to my husband during the day because my hair is long enough to cover my breasts pectoral muscles. But that's a story for another day. 

     The next day, this same child and I were finishing up our weekly trip to the grocery store. As I was mulling over regular, low fat or no fat cottage cheese, I hear a man wheeling a large pallet of inventory to the back room behind the dairy section. This man was Hispanic, had perfectly combed over hair and was quite obviously short. I look over at my daughter, who was driving the cart. (***See Exhibit A)

          

                    ***Exhibit A. The carts that feel more like Greyhound buses. The ones where, if you aren't a perfectly excellent driver, you will get wedged into the edge of the aisle where you'll basically need a crane to pull you out of your terrible situation. 

     I watched her as she followed him with her eyes when he walked by, craning her head out the window of her fancy car(t). Then she yelled, "YOU'RE SOOO LITTLE!" 

     I wasn't sure what had happened, but I found myself both shocked and entertained all at once. I turned around as to not face the man my 3 year old human had just insulted, and I stared down the coffee creamer (I don't even drink coffee) making a face similar to this one, I'm sure of it. 

                       "Are you kidding me...?"

     So to all of those who will one day come in contact with my daughter, just know I will be working on that brain-to-mouth filter thing everyone talks about. But she is my child, so I can't make too many promises. 

Sincerely, 

Me. Embarrassed Mom. 

Pectorals.

Dear Diary, 

     As I'm sure has been discussed in previous posts, I'd like to publicly announce that I am flat chested. In a recent visit to my parents' home in Texas, my dad lovingly looked my way and said "Lauren is like a pirate's dream". All puffed up and wondering what I did to receive such a random, sweet comment from my dad, I asked what he meant. "Because you have a sunken chest", he said, as he went back to eating his breakfast. It was one of those lip pursing moments where I nodded my head and squinted my eyes simultaneously as the room erupted in laughter. Thanks a lot, Dad. 

     Because of my frequency at the gym, I've been shedding some body fat. Unfortunately, my body is not an equal-opportunity fat loser, and though already a 34AA, it still feels the need to siphon the fat from the breast area. Thanks a lot, body. 

     
     My husband bought me a gift card to Victoria's Secret for Christmas. This was my opportunity to FINALLY find a bra that fit me correctly. (I've been known to shop in the tween section for bras.) The bra fitter confirmed my suspicion: My boobs were about as small as they come and therefore she brought me all of the absolute smallest bras she could find. Thanks a lot, bra fitter. 

     In trying on my bras, one of them pushed up the little fat that is left lying on top of my pectoral muscles and made this cute little hill of boob fat on both sides of my chest. Suddenly, I felt like a real woman. I could not believe I had cleavage. Was it real? Was I seeing things? This was a game changer. I bought the bra. 

     A couple of nights later, my husband and I went on a date. I made sure to have one extra button undone on my shirt. When he would talk to me, I'd say, "Excuse me, my boobs are down here..." showcasing my cleavage to him as if I was Vanna White. It was a proud moment for this flatty. 

     
     THEN, while we were belly-to-belly in our birthday suits, he gives my non-pushed up boobs a squeeze. This squeeze was a good one. It was firm. It was longer than normal, and it was extra squeezey. With a face full of excitement he says, "You've got some muscles in there, babe! No, really! You have some good pectoral muscles!" I felt defeated. Nothing screams "sexy" like your husband discovering muscles you've worked tirelessly to build in other areas, then finding them under your already nearly non-existent boobs during a moment of intimacy. Thanks a lot, lover. 

     Anyway, I turned into The Hulk, ate everything in sight, including my husband, and he lived happily ever after...in the bottom of my belly. And my pectoral muscles continued to grow into rock solid awesomeness as my boob fat melted away. The End.

Sincerely, 

Me. Flatty McGee.

Mary Floppins.

Dear Diary, 

     A few months ago, I decided to take charge of my health by doing more vigorous workouts at a local gym. Unfortunately, longer hours at the gym equals more exposure to the naked elderly. WHY, you ask? HOW, you ask? (Now don't get me wrong, I love me some old people. But naked old people...that is a different story altogether.)Two words: Water. Zumba.  

     I'm not sure what it is about old age that makes one feel liberated in every sense. They can quite honestly say (or yell) whatever they want to in public and people just "ooh" and "aah" as if those feisty silver slickers are cute little newborn babies. They can fart while they walk and not even care about the crop-dusted victims. (Stone. Cold.) They can drive like drunk teenagers and somehow come out unscathed. They can get their hair done to look like a cute, fluffy cotton candy topper and get praised by their entire Jazzercize crew for the new do. 

CLASSY.

And the most important of all: they feel like walking around stark naked in a gym locker room is completely acceptable. Now, I'm a mature adult here. I don't really care that much if one desires to flaunt their birthday suit (I mean, when you got it, you got it.) It doesn't mean I WANT to see them naked, but I can definitely get over the fact. No big deal. However, this is not one old, fluffy, pasty, feisty, crop-dusting woman we are talking about. When I walk into the locker room after a nasty long workout, it's as if someone has popped the cork off of the old lady naked bubbly and all the old lady bubbles are spilling out. There are naked Golden Girls lined up at the lockers in absolutely no hurry to dress themselves. They are hauling (soft, pizza-doughy) buns to the bathroom stalls and stepping out of the shower. Curse you, Water Zumba. Curse. Youuuu. They are dripping their wetness all over the place while they roll their suitcases all around with their dry clothes inside. It is a full blown naked elderly soggy-bottom slow motion truffle shuffle traffic jam in about 800 square feet of space. 

The most frightening part of this whole thing is that there is no solution. Water Zumba falls smack dab in the middle of just about the only hours in my day I can exercise. Let's all have a moment of silence. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Nakedphobic.

Zippity Doo Da.

Dear Diary, 

     A few days ago, I was helping my son zip up his pajamas. They are old and hideous, but absolutely his favorite. We chopped off the bottoms and the sleeves (bye bye high waters) and naturally, he looks like a pirate when he wears them, but hey. YOLO. He came up to me, having already put on his underwear, and got excited to zip up his jammies by himself from the very bottom to the very top. Only problem was, he didn't get far before he zipped his wiener up. My eyes grew to the size of golf balls and I gasped at an ungodly decibel. Excuse the language, but this is how it went for a second.

     My husband quickly rounded the corner and asked what was wrong. Then he looked nice & smug as the realization set in. He said, "Son, it's happened to me before. Hurts, doesn't it" and went back to what he was doing. 

     My poor little man cried as I went back and forth from a sad face accompanied with an "awwww" to a laugh that I failed miserably to cover up with feelings of sympathy (I could obviously not relate to this feeling of pain). I told him to be sure that he closes his private part into his undies nice and cozy and then "shuts the doors" to the "wee wee pocket" (it's been called a wee wee pocket for quite some time now. I'm not the mother that uses technical terms, people. Sue me.) My husband and I could no longer control our laughter at that point. I can only imagine how confused our poor four year old was. Here he was, in pain, and his parents are laughing. I feel terrible. I feel even worse that I had zero control over it. 

     The next morning, I saw him fiddling with himself while eating breakfast. I said, "Hey. Don't play with your wiener at the table." Immediately,I stopped,looked up,  and thought about all the weird things I have said as a mother. Behind me, my two kids were having a conversation. It went like this: 

Two year old daughter: "Hey. Member last time you zip up your BUTT?" He-he-he. (Yes, she did a very exaggerated fake laugh at the end. Facetious little creatures, those females.)

Four year old victim of wiener zip: "NO! I didn't zip up my butt. I zip up my wee wee." 

     Life is tough. I'm glad he doesn't yet realize that having his wiener zipped up into his favorite European cut-off jams is amongst the smaller problems he'll face in his lifetime. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Laugher.

Mortified Mom.

Dear Diary, 


     Yesterday, I was happily sunbathing in the backyard while my kids splashed in the water of our kiddie pool. I had Pandora Radio playing the Disney station, lunch for the kids on their picnic table, and overall I was in a state of total relaxation. Even though my legs weren't neatly shaved and I hadn't showered in a few days, I thought, "Eh. No one will see me back here in the privacy of my own backyard, right?" So I got even cozier and hiked up the bottoms of my bikini so that my hips would get a tan as well. Earlier that day, I had even contemplated wearing a thong so that my booty would see some sunshine. (But that would've had to be done when the kids weren't present, thankyouverymuch.) As I had settled in to my comfy lawn chair, sunglasses on, eyes closed, music playing...I heard an unfamiliar voice. "Hello?", he said. My eyes shot open, my eyebrows shot upwards, I pulled my sunglasses up to my forehead, and saw a twenty-something-year-old male in a bright green polo. Suddenly, I remembered. My pest control man was here to service the house. How did I forget? "Oh, CRAP!", I yelled, "Hold on!" as I jumped out of that chair faster than a rocketship to space. I'm certain I should've pulled a muscle with how quickly I leaped out of that chair and I can only imagine the view he got of me pulling pieces of my swim suit down so that I no longer had a man-made wedgie while hustling to the back door. I am fairly certain I looked like this guy: 

     And while I was mortified, I guarantee he laughed all the way to his next appointment when he finished. I'm still trying to process that whole episode.

Sincerely, 

Me. Mortified Mom. 

Come Fly With Me.

Dear Diary, 

      Flying with kids is a full-blown, patience-testing ordeal aside from anything else I've ever done with them. Because of the ages of my kids, we must lug around two very heavy, awkward, bulky car seats to strap them into while we drive around our final destination. Thankfully, my husband is a burly man who has no problem jimmy rigging his suitcase by putting his arms through each handle, wearing it like a backpack. Simultaneously, he has a car seat on each arm. My two little minions each have their own rolling suit cases, which is always a recipe for "ooh's", "aw's" and smiles (thankfully). Since the car seats are not carry on items, we have to check them in. And wouldn't you know it, the line was stretched from Arizona to Idaho and just the sight of it made my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. 

     Surprisingly, the line moved quickly. As we hit each switchback (yes, I just compared waiting in line at the airport to hiking a mountain or waiting for a Disneyland ride), my son would look up at me with a face full of panic, hand on his crotch in a pinching manner and loudly proclaim, "Mom! I have to go poooottttyyy!" Mind you, I asked him right when we walked into the airport if he needed to go. The answer was a resounding NO. Go figure. This little guy needs to work on his lies. 

     
     While he was desperately trying to pinch his wiener through his denim, my daughter came up to me with her suitcase and said, "It's too heavy!" My husband now has his body covered in car seats and luggage, my son is whining that he has to pee "like, yesterday", and now I'm stuck with double bags and a line full of people. All I could do was laugh. 

     We finally made it to the counter and the printer broke as the airline employee was in the process of printing our boarding passes. Eventually, it worked itself out and we were on our way to the gate. 

     The flight was set to leave at 6:40 PM. The ticket-checker asked people to line up, only to tell them to sit back down ten minutes later because the plane at our gate was indeed not the plane we were going to take. That particular plane needed to head to another gate. Our flight crew was still in the air and it would be at least another 30 minutes until their arrival. Well, an hour and a half later, we finally boarded. Seat belts on and cleared for take off, we thought we were finally free of waiting. Our plane began to smell like smoke and as inappropriate as it was, I sang a rendition of Alicia Key's Girl on Fire by singing, "This plane is on fie-yerrrrr". Another half hour later, we were cleared a second time for take off. Two and a half hours later, we tried to land at the airport of our final destination and the fog was too thick for the pilot to see anything. He pulled back on the throttle and up we went, yet again. We circled around, hit some turbulence and landed a vicious landing at 1 o'clock AM. My kids were awake the entire flight. It was a flight to remember, and I honestly thought we might die, but we made it. It also might be the last time I take a late night flight with two young kids. Thank heavens for jelly beans and strange people. They kept my kids entertained. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Entering a New Era.

Dear Diary, 

I am beginning to think there is a shift happening around this joint. My newly turned 2  & 4 year olds have been acting peculiar. For one, they are finally starting to get along. (Can I get a hallelujah!?) And for two, there have been odd songs and sightings going on. 

Last week, I attended a party at a friend's house. This party had quite a few kids in attendance. The kids happily played in my friend's backyard, where many Roly Polies abounded. Somehow, my 4 year old got a hold of a paper cup, filled it with soil, a tuft of grass (sorry for the bald spot on your lawn, Susan) and about 10 roly-polies. It sat on our kitchen countertop for a day or two while I tried to convince my little man to set them free in our grass. He would have none of it. 

That evening, I was scrubbing away at a dish, when all of the sudden I see this Roly Poly (a.k.a. "Skiddy Bug" as my 2 year old calls them) cruising across the edge of my sink. Puzzled, I had my eyeballs trace his route backwards and found that the cup had been knocked over and there were some escapees. Simultaneously, from over the countertop, I heard my son singing "Old Mac Donald had a poop, E-I-E-I-O" and giggling while my daughter laughed along with him. I have only heard stories of the Bugs & Poop stage. I believe I have arrived. 

I peeked inside that cup a day later and found a few of them were dead, so I took matters into my own hands and set them free at the disapproval of my son. Rest in peace, Skiddy Bugs. I am sure you were only the first of many more to come. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Raising Awareness.

Dear Diary, 

     Recently, I was reached out to by a nice woman named Heather Von St. James, who hoped to raise awareness of an illness that goes by the name of Mesothelioma. Heather was diagnosed at the young age of 36. Please take a moment to watch this touching video and support another of our amazing readers. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

My Little Pony.

Dear Diary, 

     There are many times in one's parenting journey where they catch themselves saying something absolutely ridiculous, yet illustrative of their role as a parent. For example, the other day I heard my husband go on and on about how insanely irrational My Little Pony had become. When my ears perked up due to the nature of the conversation, he continued on with the details such as the fact that these ponies have turned into humans. They now walk on their back legs and have fingers. Those were my husbands exact words, actually. And it wasn't until I witnessed it for myself that I thought our previous conversation was silly. Now, I'm as puzzled as he is. I suppose they'll need to change their theme song to "My Little Human, My Little Human, Ah, Ah, Ah, AH, My Little Human..." 

The original version of the My Little Pony characters.

The updated version of those same characters.

I failed to mention that the most interesting part of this entire thing is that our almost 4 year old son is the one addicted to My Little Pony. So here we are, defending our son's rights to watch "realistic", colorful, ditzy ponies dance around the television screen. Geez, the least they could do is make them walk on all fours again. 

*Sigh* 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Cootchie, Cootchie, Coo!

Dear Diary, 

     Kids are gross. Awesome...but gross. Lately, when I take off my daughter's diaper and reach for a new one, she quickly stacks something on her lady part. A couple of days ago it was a binky. This afternoon it was a strawberry. It doesn't matter the item, she will place it there and that is that. So this morning, she was trying to go potty in the training toilet. (Also affectionately known as The Turtle. See below.)

I look over, and see her rubbing her bottle against herself. Out of desperation, I sighed and said, "Hey! Don't. Stick. Things. On. Your. Cootchie! It's yucky!". She proceeded to giggle, look over at her brother and say, "Watch. Baba on cooootcheeee," and continued to repeat the word cootchie until she felt like she got it all out of her system. 

     A couple of days ago, I had a friend coming over to visit in the afternoon. I realized that my house smelled like the eggs we had eaten earlier that morning, and I decided to whip out the air freshener spray. My son popped his head out of his bedroom and looked at me with bewilderment. I told him I was spraying the house so it isn't stinky. Then he tells me, "Mom. Our house smell like a big fart." Nice. Thanks, son. 

     Between my farty house, my overly honest son, and my cootchie stuffing daughter, I'm thinking I need a girls night. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Giveaway Time! And a Tribute to Ruby.

Dear Diary, 

     

     A dear friend of mine and I shared similar pregnancies. We got married at the same time, had our baby boys at the same time, and were both pregnant with our baby girls at the same time. The only difference was that her baby, Ruby June, was diagnosed with Hydrocephalus, or "water on the brain". Ruby spent the first weeks of her life in the ICU, and passed away on October 26, 2011. Although she returned home to a loving Father in Heaven, she is missed by many here on Earth and everyone in Ruby's family's circle of friends hopes to keep her memory alive by continuing to celebrate her short time here. 

     Ruby's mother, Kristin, has been hosting a "15 Days of Giveaways" event on Ruby's behalf and I'm honored to be a part of it. The items I am giving away are a white & ruby bracelet and necklace set, along with a white & ruby hair clip. They were all hand made by me. Making jewelry is a hobby I have on the side. :) To enter today's giveaway, you must go to The Diaries of a Wimpy Mom's Facebook page and "like" it. Once you like it, leave a comment on the page regarding what you've done this week to lift someone up. The winner will be announced at 10 PM Central Time on October 30, 2013. If you do not have a Facebook page, go to www.thediariesofawimpymom.blogspot.com and become a follower of the blog. Then leave a comment just as the Facebook followers would. The winner will be announced on both the blog and the Facebook page. Good luck! To learn more about Ruby and her beautiful family, you can view Kristin's blog here.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Jum-peeing.

Dear Diary, 

     
     This weekend, my family and I went to my hometown of Albuquerque, NM to attend the International Balloon Fiesta and visit loved ones. While there, we were at my uncle's house, who happens to own a trampoline. The inner child in me, full of pent up energy that needed to be exerted, kept being powerfully drawn to that dangerous black sheet of bounciness and wires that has been known to chip teeth, crack skulls and snap necks. I gave into my temptation to jump, and snuck outside without my kids and husband. I jumped once, and immediately felt the insides of my entire lower abdomen start to come loose. I jumped again, and I was pretty sure I had just peed my pants. That, or given birth to one of my lady parts. With a turned up lip and head cocked to the side, I jumped again...just to see. Another droplet headed south. Two more jumps and I was positive I had Lake Tahoe in my underpants. I waddled back inside as carefully as possible. My mom, who was also at my uncle's house at the time, asked me why I had been so quick to get off the trampoline. Everyone in the kitchen was listening. I told them, then made the walk of shame to the bathroom with voices of laughter behind me. Although in the end, it was no Lake Tahoe, it was instead a sobering reality of my aging body. I wish I could say that was the end of it, but I was in denial. At the park that afternoon, I hopped onto a high bar and tried to do a flip. I ended up with half-blistered hands, a newfound realization that I was indeed no longer the flexible person I once was, and a goal to get rid of my skintertube. And I have one last goal: it starts with a "k" and ends in "egel". I better get cracking.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Rise & Shine.

Dear Diary, 

     Last weekend, I beat my husband to the punch in asking him if I could be the one to sleep in on Saturday morning. He's an easy going person and gladly said, "of course!" Moments later, I plugged my ears (with the free ear plugs I stash from the gym, hehe) and away I went into a deep slumber. The next morning, my bedroom door opens and in comes my three year old. Only he isn't walking in. He is backing up by way of a shuffle, pants around his ankles, bent over forwards, hands on his bum cheeks and spreading them wide as he declares, "Dad! I need you wipe my bum!" I was glad I wasn't the one to wake up to that. Cheers! 

     In other news, I found myself scissoring a two pound block of Colby Jack cheese out of its packaging way too often. When I began to think about it, I came to the horrible realization that we are eating around 10 pounds of cheese a month. I'd love to say that this is for a family of 4, which can then be broken down to around 2.5 pounds per person per month, but truth be told, I'm the biggest offender here. Last night's trip to Costco resulted in 6 additional pounds of cheese that are guaranteed to be eaten within the next 30 days. 

     Lastly, and ironically, my terribly behaved one year old loves to sing Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" by singing "GOOD GIIIIIIIIRRRRLLLL" really loudly in the car when it comes on. I was hoping she'd say the phrase "Good Girl" enough times that it would begin to change her behavior, but to no avail. My kids have been wild beasts lately and I can't tell what the deal is. I feel like I live with one of these creatures at least 3 days a week. 

     Last week it was so bad, that I threw in the towel and ate a brownie for breakfast two days in a row. Only I ate it in a deep bowl, and away from the kids so no one would see it and steal it from me. Being a mom is like nothing I've ever experienced. I love it. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom.     

Vital Information.

Dear Diary, 

     Yesterday, we went to the store purely because we had a bad case of cabin fever. Despite the whining from our mini-monsters and the 114*F temperature outside, we took off. We walked into the store, grabbed a cart, and then a few minutes later, my 3 year old thought it was vital that everyone in the store knew exactly what was on his mind. He stood there on the tile in the middle of the store and yelled, "I! Got! My! Lightning! Uh-Queen! (McQueen)" and held it up for any and all shoppers to see. Then he moved right on to, "Hey, Everyonnnnneee!!!! My WEE WEE! Is! Hiiiiiding!" 

     With eyes wide open and a dumbfounded look on my face, I beckoned him my direction and we bolted into a fitting room. I'm so glad we have many many years to learn how that whole mind-to-mouth filter works... 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom of a Candid Speaker. 

Laundry Roulette.

Dear Diary, 

     I'm a minimalist. I try to make as little work for myself as possible, and I try to stay 5 steps ahead in life as often as I can. Unfortunately, things don't always work out the way I plan them to. I'm not one of those people who carry around a ball full of luck dust. Like Pig Pen...kind of. Anyway...

     Every time I do laundry, I feel a little more accomplished. Pour the soap, load the clothes, add the softener, start the machine, walk away. I know what you're thinking, and no...I don't forget to put the clothes in the dryer. My problem comes after that step. I leave it in the dryer for days. What can I say? I love cold, wrinkled clothes. 

     Because I do this so often, I always cock my head to the side and wince while opening the dryer door as I'm about to put in a wet load of freshly washed clothes. It's kind of like playing Russian Roulette. Only, instead of 1/6 times, it's more like 5/6 times there are clothes behind that dryer door that I did not anticipate giving my attention to. I'm thinking that maybe living in a nudist colony is not so bad. Less laundry, that's for sure. In the mean time, I'll just to have to hope my unanticipated dryer full of clothes doesn't come on a bad day. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Mom Who *Loves* Laundry and Is Working On Looking Good Naked. 

It Was a Mild Pinstrosity...

Dear Diary, 

     Last week, I tried doing my nails all cute-like. You know how Pinterest has so many fabulous ideas on how to make you look glamorous? Well, I gave it a shot. I went with the style below, since I was heading to California to relax on the beach. Very lovely nails, am I right? 

     

     Here's how mine turned out: 

     Not so fabulous. Can you even tell my middle finger has an anchor on it? (Don't answer that.) Not to mention, about ten minutes into this nail makeover, two of my nails chipped. Fifty points goes to the first person who can tell me what the secret is to not chipping your nails. More polish? Less polish? Clear top coat? HELP. I'm going to go ahead and classify this project as a Pinstrosity. For those of you who don't know what Pinstrosity is, you have to check it out. It's a blog that takes submissions from fellow Pinteresters (like myself) whose projects don't *quite* turn out the way Pinterest portrays them. It's very entertaining. 

            As for our vacation, I learned the following: 

*Life in general is easier when you have a wiener. Yes, a wiener. My toddler had to use the restroom (while driving) more times than I could count and I was just grateful it wasn't me instead. I imagined me squatting there, at the edge of the running board, parked on the shoulder of the I-10 with both the passenger and backseat door open to hide my nakedness, balancing a squat, yet still having a stream of urine heading southward down my legs as a police officer pulls over and arrests me for indecent exposure. The horror. 

*People living in beach homes like to use sheer curtains. Even to cover the bathroom window. The one right next to the shower. Maybe I need to be more like Tobias Funke; I'd worry less. 

*Wheels don't roll in the sand. Hauling a wagon full of 53 pounds of human flesh, a boogie board, a Camelbak, and a gym bag full of beach toys/towels is a full blown workout. I kind of felt like this. Notice there is no horse. I was the horse. Some of you are asking, "Where was your husband?" Oh, he was just dropping our car off at the shop. (See below). 

*Life is not that fun when your air conditioner goes out 2 hours into your 6+ hour drive. 

*Chick-Fil-A doesn't taste as good in CA. 

*Polaroid moments are not as Polaroidy when you try to whip out your camera phone to take a picture only to realize the camera part doesn't work because it previously took a dive into the toilet. 

*Sand will find it's way into every crack in your body. We spent many minutes cleaning out sandy hineys. (Where was this stuff when I went last weekend? And more importantly, what's it made of...?)

*Without the MAP app on our phones, we'd have eaten the same thing every day and only gone to the beach and back. 

*CA has more interstates than anywhere I've ever seen. 

*There are more ugly parts of CA than pretty parts. (Sorry, Californians. The people are super nice, though!)

*The Goodwills in CA are not as good as the ones in AZ. ($2.99 for a VHS? Come on.)

*Private parts are not very fond of 50 degree ocean water. 

*And last but not least, driving with a feisty infant is extremely masochistic. My daughter is the embodiment of a shaken two liter of Diet Coke with a Mento dropped into it, strapped to a rocket and taken on a roller coaster. 

     But all in all, we had a blast and our first family vacation was a success. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Road Tripper. 

Hotter than Tar.

Dear Diary, 

    
     The summertime is so wonderful, isn't it? The birds are chirping, the grass is lusciously green, and the extra vitamin D from the sun leaves you feeling fabulous. However, I do believe there is a threshold (for many) in the heat department. We all like to try and one-up the other by saying our heat beats yours because it's 126* in our car when leaving Target, while others say their heat beats ours because it's 126* in their car with humidity thrown into the mix. We go back and forth until everyone realizes that we all suck at living in extremely hot temperatures and suddenly the homes in San Francisco begin to appraise for twice the amount they were in the winter. Go figure. 

     I do believe I have found the ultimate winning punch line for the hotter-than-thou argument that bounces around the mouths of individuals everywhere from May to September. (Or in the case of Arizonans, from March to December.)

     Yesterday, my little family was leaving our church service at 11:00 AM. So...not even lunch time yet, right? You'd still consider that "morning". As we were driving off, I heard a rattling sound at my back right tire. You know that noise you hear after you've driven your car through the mud all weekend, then it dries, and for the next few days you hear dried mud chunks getting kicked off of your tire and up onto the frame of your car? Yeah, that noise. Only, we haven't been off-roading in muddy terrain. We pulled over. Hubby got out to check the wheel. After some quick evaluating, to our amazement, we realized our car had been sunk into the tar of the parking lot and strips of tar had been glued to our tire by the sun. We had to peel the gummy tar off in chunks before we could continue on. 

     So...your place is hot. But your car doesn't sink into parking lots like quick sand because the ground beneath you can no longer withstand the satanic temperatures. One point for me, no points for you. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The hot momma. No seriously, it is way. Too. Hot. 

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Dear Diary, 

    There is nothing quite like getting farted on during Body Pump Class. Imagine a bunch of women around you doing squats with fans spinning overhead at full speed. Once that puff of smoke has left the hiney from whence it fled, there is no taking it back...and there is definitely no UNsmelling it. After about 3 very rancid gas leaks, the Pump instructor says, "It stinks in here. Do you guys smell it?" Oh I smelled it. And then he pulled a Positive Polly on us and said, "It smells like SPIRIT! Let's GOOOOOO!" and proceeded to do his squats to the obnoxious Lady Gaga music blasting through the speakers. Needless to say, it was a long hour of Pump. 

     In other news, my 17 month old daughter learned the word "boob" yesterday, my dog is still menstruating (But in style. I stitched her up a pair of pink panties. Go ahead, call me crafty. Whoever said you can't menstruate in style was probably a male politician), and it's still as hot as Hades' living room outside. But life is good; no complaints here. Happy Summer!

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Body Pumper/Panty Stitcher.