Last Saturday I was a tagalong. Not a luscious peanut butter cookie, though you may call me that if you would like. I went along with Nonnie and Chicken for breakfast and toga shopping. Yeah, you read it right. I eat breakfast. It’s true. We ate at the Chik-Fil-A along with the rest of the town apparently. They offer a breakfast buffet, though I was the only one to partake, as Nonnie and Chicken were having a Thrive breakfast. The Thrive breakfast at CFA consists of scrambled egg whites, Double Fiber wheat bread toast, grits, and tomato. I’m not sure where that tomato came from.

We all ordered and waited. I didn’t realize that having ordered the buffet I could pretty much go eat at any time. Then the food arrived accompanied by the waitress and I kept waiting for the buffet line to go down. I finally realized that the line was never going to be completely empty so I had to go. There weren’t a whole lot of options but what they had was surprisingly good.

Afterwards we journeyed to the fabric store. This is the part where I prepare you to enter a fabric store. Leave your humor at the door. Put it in the coat check with your energy. Both are highly frowned upon, quite literally, in this store. We were there to seek out white fabric with which to fashion togas. Togas for Rome’s upcoming 175th anniversary, which apparently is a banner year of sorts because they’re also going for a world record. That would be for the most people in togas, I guess.

We walk in and see a lovely white satin type stuff. It’s something like $11.00 a yard. We need six yards per person. There are three of us. Even without doing the exact math I can tell that is more than we want to spend. Especially when only one of us is paying. So we walked up and down the rows of cloth bolts going straight for every white we found. Somehow along the way I managed to completely unravel an entire bolt of white polyester-like material. Luckily, there was only about a yard on it. I stuffed it between some brocades and kept walking.

Nonnie went to discover that the lock on the bathroom door was somewhat poorly affixed, having been nailed to the wrong side of the door. Meanwhile, The Chicken and myself looked at rickrack and the other absurd types of trim. What is the trim with the little pompoms on it for, I ask you? I continued on while The Chicken went to roll in what appeared to be genuine Muppet skin hung up in a big bunch. Again, what are these things for?

By the time Nonnie found us we were wearing a pink foam rubber visor (me) and a little princess tiara (Chicken). Needless to say, the other shoppers and employees were none too thrilled with us. Then we took a picture. We removed our hats and kept looking for a white fabric that wouldn’t make us or our (Nonnie’s) wallet chafe. There weren’t many. However, I did find a lovely white leather but if $11 is too pricey you can bet $18 is as well.

We moved around the other side of the store to the décor/clearance section where we found ceramic birds. Then there were the clearance chickens. They were what they sound like. Little ceramic chickens that were about a foot tall, and on clearance. Christmas is just around the corner. Don’t you wish you knew whose name I drew?

While Nonnie was getting the chosen fabric cut and explaining 43 times to the octogenarian clerk what it was for, The Chicken and I perused patterns and decided that we are going to learn how to sew. Even though it was said lightly, I think it was serious. Then we saw the $899 price tag on the sewing machine. Ha! $18 a yard doesn’t sound so bad now does it? Either way, be prepared in the coming weeks for pictures of amateur couture. That rhymes.

In hindsight, I’m not really very sure what was so funny. Perhaps it was me. I am the human equivalent of a two drink minimum. And it was good.

Next we went to Paula’s on Broad Street. I don’t know what we were looking for, but The Chicken got new sunglasses. Then we went to a place called Ginger’s Dollings and Caddywags. Now, I’m not sure what a Caddywag is and no one there is eager to tell you. I was hoping someone would point me to one in the hopes that it might be what I was looking for. Alas, no. But there is an extra creepy baby sounds/yowling cat soundtrack being played on a loop through the sound system. It is disturbing.

We ate at Harvest Moon who has a Thrive menu and then went to look in Honeymoon Bakery who does not have a Thrive menu. Actually they do, but I prefer all the stuff that is not on it. So with cream horns in hand we left.

The whole day went from 9:30 am to 3:30 pm. That’s a lot of time to look for toga gear.

And I still don’t know what the crap a Caddywag is.

I am by no means an expert on writing. I have my opinion and my opinion, to me, is right. That’s what I go by. Surely, you have noticed that there really is no theme to this blog. And despite the catchy title, yodeling has not, as of yet, made its debut. Sorry about that. I don’t know that I want to confine myself to a subject. But I’m pretty sure that I don’t. Because what happens when I want to share about my expedition to Trader Joe’s or proclaim my love of fried pickles in a predetermined Mommy theme blog? Both you and I are out of luck. Though it does kinda seem that pickles and Mommy do go together.

My point in this case is not actually about my blog. It is about the blogs that I personally like to read. First up is one Mr. Neal Pollack, author of Alternadad: The True Story of One Family’s Struggle to Raise a Cool Kid in America (yes, that’s the actual title). Neal Pollack is an urban hipster kind of guy who digs Star Wars and has a serious aversion for sweets that feature cartoon characters. I stumbled upon Alternadad as I was perusing the Epi-log on Epicurious.com. Between the post about some Bacon Festival and Retro Food Nostalgia there was Pollack’s amusing entry detailing his son Elijah’s affection for frozen green beans. From then on I checked back daily to see what was new.

Then I went on maternity leave. When I came back. Neal Pollack was no longer writing for the Epi-log but his previous posts remain on the site. Luckily, I then found him writing a blog for Parents.com. No longer food related, his writing was now primarily about Elijah. So Parents.com replaced Epicurious.com in my website rotation.

Then I went on maternity leave. Again. Can you guess what’s coming? That’s right. When I came back Pollack was no longer writing his Parents.com blog. He does have a website, but the steel bear trap that is this firewall won’t let me see it, filing it under ‘Web Logs/Personal Pages’. God forbid. You can probably see it on your computer. Easy to remember NealPollack.com. I like it, I think. It would help if I could see it, but I like Neal Pollack and his writing so I’m pretty sure it’s a winner.

My very favorite blog writer, though, is Christine Coppa. And not just because she keeps her writing in one place so I don’t have to chase it through the blogosphere. Christine Coppa is the creator of the blog Storked! which is found on the Glamour.com website. I found her blog while I was pregnant with Connor. She herself was also pregnant, hence the blog title Storked!. Her baby daddy ran out on her and left her to navigate the choppy waters of single motherhood. Luckily, though, she has a slew of family and friends supporting her.

I love the way Christine writes. She parlayed her blog into a book and named it Rattled!. It is available on Amazon and was recently made named a Breakout Book at Target.

See how excited she is about it here http://www.glamour.com/sex-love-life/blogs/storked/2009/08/target-names-rattled-a-breakou.html

There is a new post to her blog just about every week day, chronicling her life as single mother to the two-year-old Jack Domenic (J.D.) who is an absolute doll. Coppa has a new post almost every day and as a mother and the writer of a blog, I can say, that is no easy feat. Sometimes I think she’s doing a better job as a single parent than I am as a non-single parent. She seems like she’d be a lot of fun to be friends with. Check out her blog on the Glamour.com blog page.

I know I usually don’t review things, but this was more of a check-this-out-cause-I-like-it kind of thing. My initial paragraph was my way to segue into that. I know I took a brief break from the funny, but stay tuned and there will be more. While you’re waiting go check out the aforementioned blogs!

Have you ever been to a Mary Kay party? Well, I can now say that I have. Mary Kay and Avon are the sell-it-yourself-companies for bored yet enterprising housewives. Mary Kay has the pink stuff (well, all that’s pink now is the Cadillac you aspire to, but the cases used to be pink) and Avon has, well, “Avon calling!” I don’t know if Avon has parties or not, but I’ve never heard of someone going to one. Mary Kay parties are my topic at hand, though. My sister, the Chicken, sells the Mary Kay. That was the party I went to.

I don’t know if one could really label this a party. There’s no dancing, cocktails, or pin the tail on the donkey. At least not at this one. My family has had a few Mary Kay parties over the years, one of which yielded at least one picture. Nothing says ‘buy this cleanser’ quite like a bow-bedecked 80’s headband, right Susan? (I can’t guarantee that the picture won’t be posted.)

This party was the first for Mary Kay Super Seller Chicken. We were not only consumerist prey, but cosmetic test bunnies of sorts. Someone alert PETA! Now you would think, the pitch would be pretty easy; “Hey, buy this makeup stuff. It’s good.” But the good people at Mary Kay don’t trust you to be able to say much more than your name so they provide you a script. It even includes such helpful hints as ‘point to your hostess’ and ‘entice with promise of a free gift.’ That last one’s kind of unwritten, though.

Also in this script is the life and times of Mary Kay...Ash. I had to look it up on the website. The only name coming to mind was Schnitzel and I was doubtful that it was right. If you are selling the Mary Kay and are a by-the-book type of person, by all means go ahead and tell everyone about the company’s founder. If you are normal, however, maybe pick out a few highlights, otherwise, skip it. If you haven’t inferred yet, the script is really goofy. I say goofy because stupid may be a bit too harsh. It almost seems like there should be a skit involved. Though, thankfully, there’s not.

So the seller, in this case The Chicken, has all the makeup and the master containers of the face goosh (moisturizers, makeup remover, and such). You have a lovely little palette and mirror before you and everyone gets a squirt of stuff. At this time I think it’s best to say that you’d be better off not wearing any makeup to a Mary Kay party. I say this because while it works well for some, the eye makeup remover sizzled and smoked upon my lids and I would have cried if my tear ducts had not already been protesting from the chemicals. I’m just saying. Perhaps I have overly sensitive corneas, who knows. Well, they’re sensitive now.

So everyone (Nonnie, aunts Dodie and Donna, and myself) has to determine what shade of foundation they are. Everybody had a pretty normal color...until it got to me.

This may be a good time to mention that my skin has not seen prolonged sunlight in twelve years or so if not longer. So you can imagine just how pale I am. When each of my kids were born they were darker than me already. I’m so pale I am almost see through. Not only am I avoiding skin cancer as best I can, I think that classic old Hollywood look is better than the crispy St. Tropez burnt sienna skin tone of people today. An entire generation whose spokesperson is George Hamilton. So long story short, I’m white.

Now, back to foundation shades. When my time came to find my shade, I couldn’t find one. I had to resort to the palest color they have because there isn’t anything lighter. I feel so unrepresented. It’s almost like Mary Kay doesn’t want to sell to vampires. Not that I’m a vampire but that’s the closest skin tone to mine.

So then we all do our best to apply makeup samples with our fingers. Finger painting for adults. There were the little cards with sample eyeshadows on them that are supposed to coordinate. Most of them did. But let me just say that NAVY and BROWN do not go together! Oh, it was terrible.

Everyone picked out something to order and it was on to the food. Conversation touched on several things, including Nonnie’s flower garden, as we were at her house. Nonnie informed us all that her peonies are enormous. Well, now we know. Don’t ask. It was dark already but she wanted someone to go and look, to confirm.

Dodie and Donna, having eaten their fill of Mary Kay food, said goodbye and departed. As I was polishing off the last of the cookies and such, Donna called. Before they left she had gone to peruse the garden. She was calling to agree that Nonnie’s peonies were, in fact, enormous.

This entry was purloined from my Runner’s World blog. This happened in May but it should enhance the humor of my falling at the Y.

This is a public service announcement for anyone who may end up running near me.
If you happen to run near me, do be careful. Here's why.
Walking home from work yesterday afternoon I had an incident (accident?). I was walking along, bag over my shoulder, sunglasses on. The sidewalk I was treading was apparently uneven. It wasn't so apparent at the time. One minute I'm walking and the next I'm sprawled all over the sidewalk, aviators slid down perched on the end of my nose. I quickly assessed the damage as I put myself upright. My jeans were torn at the knee and I had already bled through the fabric. There was rocks and dirt embedded under the skin of my palms. Luckily no one saw so I got up and continued as though nothing had happened.
When I got home I changed into shorts to discover I was missing the skin that previously covered my left knee. Hmm. Perhaps I should check the inside of my jeans? Well, it wasn't there. It must've slipped out through the new hole in my jeans. Maybe I left it on the sidewalk. Oh well, it's probably stripped and sold for parts by now.
To add insult to injury, my husband told me if I did all that just walking then I probably didn't need to run, as my one year old gleefully slapped my bloody knees. Thanks, kid.
So I am evidently not coordinated enough to be trusted holding a bag while I walk. God knows what might happen if I had a fuel belt. So beware running near me; I don't wanna take you down with me.
I drove to work today.

I am like you. It’s true. Like so many of you, I have family. In fact, a select few of you actually ARE my family. And like so many families we celebrate birthdays as we did this past weekend. (This is the part where my actual family is saying “Oh, no” because they’re afraid they did something I can make into funny.)

(Aren’t ya?)

The standard practice for the celebration of family birthdays consists of a meal at a restaurant and piling up at Granny’s house where we have cake and do our best to bribe someone into turning down the thermostat before one of us spontaneously combusts. It’s a little warm. When you have to go OUTSIDE in August to cool off, it may be time to bump down the temp a notch or two. Anyway, that’s what we do for adult birthdays. Kid birthdays usually involve a few hyperactive hours at the bowling alley or some establishment that specializes in blow-up playgrounds. Then of course the adults will accompany the children to the top of the massive bouncy, rubbery slide under the guise of helping them. However, in my family that ends up being my father, aka Great Uncle Pow-Pow aka PeePaw, and my uncle Dean ever-so-gently knocking the kids at the top down the slide as they line up one by one to be pushed. That’s also my mother, Nonnie, bouncing down the slide with one solitary yip, not unlike a Chihuahua, as she hits the surface the first time. Every time she slides.

This birthday, though, was an adult birthday. My aunt Dodie was turning 34*. We opted out of the meal, but did make a cameo afterwards at Granny’s. As soon as we got there Sully got passed off and Connor went in search of the bowl of cat food and/or Daniel, which could be either of his cousins. (To his credit, though, one of them is actually named Daniel; David is the other one, but we think Connor is calling for David when he says Daniel.)

Ordinarily, most of the men break off to watch whatever sport may be on. Everyone else, which I guess would be the women in this case, sit and chatter about whatever comes up. Some of our topics this past Saturday included but were not limited to who’s pregnant, the inappropriate words we may have inadvertently taught our children, class reunions, local goings-on (this time, Rome’s 175th anniversary/toga party), and the occasional bawdy topic that may sneak in. (I don’t wanna say.)

My very own blog was also mentioned. (Tell your friends.) Shortly thereafter, the lightbulb popped up over a few heads that anything good that was discussed may just make it to the internet. So even with the knowledge that no one wants to tell me anything interesting now, I continue to write. Damn you. See, I can even write about what you DIDN’T say to me! Ha ha! You’ll never keep me down. (Link to my blog.)

Two things remain true at these gatherings. Even with so many conversations going on at one time, you can still hear your name if it’s said across the house. And then you will yell and ask what is being said. The other thing is, again with so many conversations going, if two people lower their voices in an attempt to speak privately, everyone else will stop talking, look, and try to hear what is being said. If you’re lucky, you’ll notice in time and stop yourself from continuing. How my family can notice the quietest conversation amidst the chicken coop’s worth of talking, cluckery if you will, is beyond me. For the record, that was me and Kelli, and trust me, you don’t want to know.

We also began the Christmas season. We start early so we can get done early, but we don’t. Everyone buys for the kids, the adults draw names. It is a time-honored tradition. Forgetting whose name you have is another part of the tradition. It’s supposed to be a secret whose name you’ve drawn, but we pretty much all have it figured out by Thanksgiving. Just in time for the day after Thanksgiving shopping trip. Yes, we’re one of those families. We are not, however, one of those families who gets neon yellow shirts printed up saying “The Jablonsky Family Black Friday 2007.” I hate those people.

Yes, the day after Thanksgiving we trek to a shopping mall, usually Town Center, before daylight to buy three presents before noon and eat at whatever generic restaurant is in the mall, only to find out that they don’t have the quiche that I like. Man, why do we always eat there? Outback, for once, I’m just saying. We are not a ‘bistro’ type family; we don’t wear berets.

If you find yourself at Town Center this year, ask for Tomasi. And remind my aunt Diane that’s the name we’re under; she’ll be the one standing there looking around for someone she knows.

Also attending the birthday soirez was a dude that I don’t personally know, as it was his family debut at Granny’s. He was quiet, he was sitting, he was my cousin Sarah’s boyfriend. Now, I never caught his name and I believe he may be a mute, but for all intents and purposes I’m going to refer to him as Ace. Ace learned a very important lesson that day; my family is loud and intimidating. He also learned that from now on he needs to reciprocate when someone waves at him. It’s all right; my husband had a panic attack when he met the whole family.

So that’s how we roll. And to whoever got my name, don’t let this blog sway your purchases in any way.







* I don’t know how old she actually is, but I thought 34 was a good number to go with. Unless you’re actually younger than that.

Body modification has become a popular and mainstream concept. Where once only bikers, sailors, and ex-cons had tattoos (though, often, those were all the same people) now it’s not unheard of for grandparents to sport them. Body modification is, of course, tattoos and piercings mainly.

I’ve had my fair share of piercings, though I have no ink at present. Recently I decided that it was time for a new piercing or two. I loaded up the boys and met my mother, Nonnie, and sister, the Illustrious Chicken, at the local mod shop, Body Canvas. Incidentally, I highly recommend Body Canvas over other similar businesses, if you’re looking here in Rome. You can tell immediately upon entering Body Canvas that it is a quality establishment and doesn’t have a three-person-per-needle policy. Ew. Now, I’m not saying that other places are unclean, but I will say that it is definitely off-putting to go into a tattoo parlor that smells like blood and rubbing alcohol. I’m just saying.

Moving on...

I invited Nonnie and The Chicken to my piercing party so that they could cull the babies for me. As we walked in we were met with a whole herd of people in the waiting area. The girl behind the counter stuck her head around them to ask what I was wanting done. I told her and she gave me a waiver to sign as she took one of the flock into the back for a tongue piercing. I signed the paper, declaring that I was not a hemophiliac nor had I had hepatitis in the last 12 months, and left it on the counter.

So we all waited in this room. Looking around we noticed that all the people ricocheting from one counter to another were children. Big children, but children. The Chicken, who was holding four month old Sully, was perusing the tattoo pictures when one of these kids informs her that she shouldn’t be letting him look at such things. Now, as I was not standing there, I could not comment, but seriously? This child is doing good to know what an arm is, let alone a drawing on one.

Then it registered that there were no adults with these kids. The only two adults had meandered down the hall, one to be pierced and one to watch. Perhaps it’s just my opinion but I’m pretty sure that that woman’s tongue would take care of itself; the baker’s dozen of children would not. As it was I had to tackle Connor twice as he was making a break for the hallway. Then he started walking in circles around a counter and I had to chase him back out one side. Then a couple of the heathen kids started to kind of follow him and once I swear they were trying to pen him behind the counter. I guess parenting really is overrated.

I think I may have made this sound somewhat calmer than it was. To me, it had the ambiance of an ant bed that had been stomped.

Shortly thereafter, though not shortly enough, the two adults emerged and all the kids began to file out of the shop. Connor almost went right along with them, but I caught him and stuck him with Nonnie. The piercer girl came back to the front and took the form, asking for my driver’s license. I told her not to get too jealous of the picture. She laughed when she saw it. The best way I can describe the look on my face is a disgusted smirk. She said all I was missing was the finger. I was six months pregnant when it was taken, not looking my best let’s say. She gave it back to me and told me to follow her. Yes, Connor could have come back but I don’t know how he would react to seeing a needle shoved through his mother’s flesh. So Nonnie and Connor went for a walk while Sully and The Chicken accompanied me to the room.

Sitting on the table, I asked if it would hurt. I have had two kids and I’m asking if a piercing would hurt. She said not really. All I could do was take her word for it. I laid down and gazed at all the posters plastered on the walls. And, no, it didn’t really hurt but for a second. Although, the second one hurt more than the first. It’s always like that when you get a pair. I wonder why that is. Piercer Girl didn’t know why either. So it was done and I laid there a minute before attempting to get up, because passing out after a piercing is not what I would call the height of cool.

I successfully got up and headed for the door. Nonnie and Connor were just coming back in. So, with my new piercings, we left the building. We all loaded back up in the cars to leave.

At this point, I’m sure you’re wondering what it was I got pierced. I could keep it a secret, but it’ll be seen eventually. I have a new set of...earrings. Yeah, boring, isn’t it? But I’ll bet now you know of all the pairs of body parts you can pierce, just from wondering.

I had my ears pierced once when I was eight, at some place in the mall called the Earring Tree. It’s not a real tree, I checked. They used a piercing gun. Later on, with another piercing that I am not going to elaborate on, I was informed that no self-respecting piercer would ever use a gun. It’s needles or nothing. So I have adhered to that ever since, not that I am a piercer or anything.

Earrings at eight weren’t right for me. There’s photographic evidence. Apparently I had a penchant for long, dangly earrings. With anything. Even contrasting striped outfits. Somehow in my mind a shirt with wide blue and purple horizontal stripes paired well with red and gray pinstripe shorts, especially with the blue and silver feather earrings. Dear God. Add in that bowl cut and you’ve got a fashion hangover, my friend.

I wonder where those earrings are.

Any one with children can tell you precisely how difficult it is to take them to a restaurant. Before you have kids it’s different. Some people, if there are kids dining nearby, turn a blind eye. Some roll their eyes and act disgusted in general. Then you have things and kids change. You can no longer order margaritas to go with your steak. Because the kids might think it’s juice, insist on having some, get told no and a tantrum ensues. Also due to the fact that you can’t order steak anymore because you have to order chicken fingers or something else that your child won’t spit out half-chewed.

If you aren’t watchful, when you redirect your gaze, you will turn back to find a naked salad because your child has managed to suck the dressing off of all the lettuce and thoughtfully replace that lettuce. You really have to pay close attention. If you don’t, you may end up battling for control of the fork that your kid swiped from your plate, inevitably getting stabbed in the arm.

Regardless of all the pitfalls of taking kids out to eat, it could be worse. It could be near bedtime and they could be tired. Then it really gets fun. That’s what happened the last time my family went out.

We went to eat at your ordinary bucolic steakhouse. While we were waiting we realized that it was about 15 minutes until Connor (16 months) was to go to bed. I wanted to leave but Dave insisted that we stay and eat. He did regret saying this, mind you.

Once we were seated, Connor began voicing his dissatisfaction with the high chair. While I would have liked to have heard “Mother, I am not comfortable sitting on this stool being restrained by a seat belt. I would like to run and frolic”, that’s not what came out. What came out was not English, but whatever he said he definitely meant it. He then proceeded to try to snatch the tablecloth off the table.

Desperate for a distraction, I opened the child’s menu/coloring book. I pulled out the crayons and handed one to him. At this point I disregard the fact that Connor has never come in contact with a crayon before. I place the red crayon in his hand and curl his chubby little digits around it, moving it back and forth on the paper, scribbling. And true to form, he promptly took a chunk out of it and proceeded to chew. Dave stuck a finger in Connor’s mouth and raked out the wax.

Drinks were ordered, drinks arrived followed by bread. Dave is touchy about Connor drinking from his glass, even though he has mastered the straw. The issue here is a little phenomenon we refer to as baby backwash. This is not normal backwash. With children this can contain entire bites of food and, in Connor’s case, usually does. This makes Dave squeamish apparently. It doesn’t bother me so I have to share my drink. Not to say that I enjoy getting grains of rice mixed in with my tea, but I won’t make a big deal of it.

I pulled off little bites from the bread and rubbed them on the accompanying ramekin of butter. Connor’s mouth was open before it had even gotten to him, bits of red crayon still stuck in his teeth. After putting the bread in his mouth, I perused the crayon wrapper looking for the magic words ‘non-toxic’, which I found.

It was about this time that Sully, previously quiet and docile in his car seat, decided that he wanted to be held. Right then. Dave picked him up as he started to cry. Connor then began to get upset. He no longer wanted anything to do with bread or tasty crayons, and began to come unhinged. We had already ordered but the food had not yet come. Dave, Sully in hand, trekked back to the kitchen to find our waitress to tell her to box up the food. On the way, he passed the guy carrying our food. So we had to try to keep everybody happy as we waited for the boxes.

Half an hour past his bedtime, Connor was freaking out. Then Dave started to lose it. I told him to load up the babies and I would take care of everything else. So Dave, with Sully and Connor in hand, exited the building, somewhat relieved. The boxes and check came at the same time. I sent the payment with her before she could even leave the table. I scraped all the food into the boxes, eradicating the plating and sighing. Oh, to eat a whole meal in a restaurant with no crayon appetizers or baby backwash.

The things we take for granted.