Mackey, Always Mackey...Unless It's Calvin

Sigh. Picture if you will all the kindergarteners running excitedly to see their moms after a long day at school. Not Mackey. Not today. He has the dejected look of a boy who got in trouble at school. Which makes me sad. So I hug him and reassure him that things can't be that bad while we wait to talk with his teacher (yeah, this is really me talking about one of my kids...spooky, isn't it?). In the course of waiting, it becomes evident that Mackey accidentally (that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it) used an inappropriate word in class. (How red am I?) Mid-choke, Mrs. Cole is ready for me.

So as not to embarrass the poor fella (which is code for 'not embarrassing me'), we walk off to speak in private. It goes a little something like this:

Mrs. C: "Did he tell you what happened?"

Me: "Uh...yeah. He did. And, frankly, I'm a little surprised. We don't use that phrase. I mean, well, maybe the word, you know, in, like, a Biblical sense."

Mrs. C: "I can see that. This wasn't Biblical. But I don't think he knew what he was saying when he said (wait for it...wait for it...) 'What the hell?' to a friend."

Let me tell, that is NOT a proud parenting moment. I know, I know. A lot of you were nominating me for MOTY anyway, but this might be a deal-breaker. And you know what's so lame? I don't even say that. Ever. But I have my suspects as to who does.

Please note that this is coming off the tails of a 'shirtless' fiasco at the end of primary yesterday. Sweet. He storms the primary room where I'm finishing up with JUST HIS SWEATER VEST ON holding his button-down in his hands. After putting my eyeballs back in my head, I tell him to go put his shirt back on RIGHT NOW. To which he responds, "...but mom, I was hot." Smiles (very proud of himself) and walks off.

That kid.

Charlie Brown's Mardi Gras

I was a bit under the gun for deadline this time...for no other reason than procrastination. So, this is the stuff of very little sleep and about 2 and a half hours punctuated with 'mom, can I...?' or 'mom, Lucy did...' or 'honey, does...?'

This week, we need not rely on my style musings. Alas, there have been inquiries about accessories. Most notably, these: “How about accessories? What is going overboard and looking like Mardi Gras?” and “I'm unsure about how much to wear, matching vs. coordinating, and being afraid I look like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree.”
Well inquired, ladies. First, let’s define accessories: jewelry, hair adornments, belts, purses, small dogs, etc. In the interest of space, let’s chat jewelry. Thanks to home jewelry parties and rap videos, people over-accessorize. Please don’t. There’s a better way. One need only consider two things about jewelry: placement and scale.
Think of jewelry as belonging in three distinct places: ears, neck, and wrists. Not ankles. Not toes. And certainly not belly buttons (no matter how great your abs are). As in rock, paper, scissors over stinky diapers, I usually apply the ‘two out of three rule’ for jewelry. (Though, pierced ears should always wear earrings.) Go for all three if the pieces are understated. And then we have fingers. Like children on a playground, rings should take turns and not go on all at once.
Jewelry should compliment an outfit not steal the show. Too many big pieces don’t make a statement – they make a billboard. Especially with earrings and necklaces in such close proximity. And big pieces will age you. Something my wrinkles are doing a great job of without any help. Remember that opposites attract: large in one place will be complimented by small in another. Big earrings, simple necklace. Chunky necklace, delicate earrings.
Generally speaking, my jewelry is simple. I have trays of fun jewelry – a la Target and even Sam Moon – but I don’t wear it often. Tops on my list of “must have” basics are: little hoops, humongo hoops, and biggish, round diamond (-ish) stud earrings. For the neck: a short gold or silver seed chain with modest-sized pendant – no dollar signs or clocks, please – but I love the Sundance catalog and local artisan, DromDesigns for necklaces. Clinking on the wrist: a few bangles or stretchy bracelets. Fingers: out here in the ‘burbs, likely a wedding ring and possibly a simple band for the right hand.
So, avoid looking like Charlie Brown’s Christmas Tree at Mardi Gras, and wear this, not that.

Wear This, Not That Inaugural Post

So...I did it! I posted a style article on our local paper's website. Which, if you could see what I'm wearing right now, is pretty ironic. The editor seems to like it and will submit for hard copy. The link is high-lighted if you want to get the whole local paper experience, but I also pasted the content. See below. Now, if I can just figure out how to get PAID for shooting my mouth off...

Wear These Jeans, Not Those Jeans
The inaugural post. No pressure, right? But at the end of the day, all of us bloggers are exhibitionists and/or voyeurs. I’ll post mine if you post yours. So, here I post…
Well, since I’ve had sick kids, I haven’t been able to go out to take pictures of what not to wear and practice using little black bars to protect privacy. Ok. No. I PROBABLY wouldn’t really do that. Though I’ve had a good laugh thinking about it. But do we really want to find out? Nod, nod, wink, wink… Because I have indeed been buried up to my eyeballs in Kleenex, Advil, and cough medicine with Hydrocodone in it (don’t be jealous), I’m gonna take on a light-weight style subject: jeans.
Although finding the perfect pair can SEEM as allusive as finding the perfect swimsuit – one exists, the other does not – it’s really kind of simple. Not easy, but simple. For the sake of argument, let’s break down jeans into five basic categories: bootleg, flare, trouser, skinny, and please don’t. With those styles come ‘rises’…which refers to how high up on your belly the waistline hits. I’m a mom; I no longer refer to my midsection as ‘abs’ or ‘stomach’…just belly. ANYWAY…I digress. Which I do. There’s 3 essential rises in my oh-so-humble opinion: varying shades of ‘low’ rise (beware the backside and dunlap), ‘mid’ rise (most flattering), and ‘please don’t’ (high-waisted) which is trying to be trendy right now. Ew.
So! If you don’t have a passion for fashion and don’t feel like reading the rest of this, do one thing: buy bootleg jeans. They’re the best thing to happen for the female form since the bra. Anybody can wear them, and everyone should own a pair. Puh-lease, please get a mid rise. They can be fitted or relaxed from hip to knee with a gradually wider shape from knee to hem. They balance out hips as well as add shape to the less shapely. Like I said…a denim miracle. The flare is the trendier BFF to the bootleg. Imagine a bootleg with…wait for it…wait for it…more flare. Not for the overly curvaceous…too much flare can make you look like a reflection in a circus mirror.
For those of you still reading… The trouser leg, maneuvering well from casual (with flip flops) to a little more dressy with the right accruements, is also very flattering. The front pockets are slanted and the leg is easy and slightly wide. Avoid going too wide if you aren’t very tall or if you aren’t built like Heidi Klum.
The skinny leg. It is as it says: it’s fitted and skinny. And, don’t hate me for saying it, they’re also for people reflecting their namesake. Nuff said. You know who you are.
Lastly, the ‘please don’t’ aka ‘mom jeans’. Perhaps I should have led with this. Put simply…these are the jeans that are too high in the rise – I prefer 2-3 fingers below my navel, and frankly speaking, your navel, too – and create a kangaroo pouch no matter how much you weigh. They do this other thing: taper. The only things that should taper are song lyrics and candles. I can’t differentiate between sausage links and tapered jeans. Even my mom, style icon at the ripe ol’ age of she won’t let me tell you, has a pair of old tapered jeans that she wears in the garden. She, weighing all of ‘not much’ even soaking wet, puts on 10 lbs when she busts out those relics.
So, if you’ve got a pair of sausage pants, burn them (Mom, are you reading?). And, hey, it’s better that you know.

Fantastic 5 to Super 6

Props, accolades, awe-inspired worship...bring it. I had twelve 5 and 6 year olds over yesterday to kick it old school and have a birthday party at my house. Please, please. Hold your applause. Lucy was the designated party - Jedi Training Center - assistant. She did a fantastic job. Next year, I'll just put her in charge and kick back with a giant beverage from QT. Minutes before padawan arrival, I begged Jon to run out for the aforementioned 'fod-ee fo' to fuel us for the party. Needless to say, the party went down quite differently from the one I had imaginacted in my head...I'd conjured up all these (in my opinion) really cool training games. All they wanted to do was wrestle and shoot stuff. It was soooo weird! Although, I'm not exactly sure why I expected any differently. It was still fun and nobody had to go to the hospital. Success. Here's some pics. Happy birthday Mack-D.

How Calvin Rolls (in Bed)

If a picture is worth a thousand words...what is a video worth?

You No Yell at Me

You know that part in The Incredibles when Syndrome is talking about something - surely he's monologuing - and he's all, "lame, Lame, LAME, LAME!, LAME!!!!!"? In a crescendo? That's me lately. I haven't read a friend's blog in...ummm...I don't know how long. I barely watch any t.v. Sadly, I'm two weeks behind on Chuck, Heros, Life, and Lost. Wow. That's a lot of one-word shows. But I never fall too far behind on Burn Notice. (And, btw, that 'up 18% in popularity' on that site? All me. My new theme song? "Drag" by Placebo. Playing a LOT of catch up these days...but if I'm being honest with myself (and Jodi and Allie) it's really cuz I'm a gym rat. Ha ha ha!!!

But apparently, the one thing I'm NOT dragging in is my ability to yell at Calvin. With an aside: whenever he gets in trouble (no matter WHAT tone of voice is being used), he's getting 'yelled at'. So, I'm in my bathroom getting ready the other day when I hear that most sweet above all sounds sound of my child singing to himself. He's been singing "Popcorn Popping" a lot lately so I thought it was that. Silly me. So I stopped what I was doing and moved closer to the family room so I could hear him better. Silly me. I made out these strains to a Calvin original (sing-songy voice and everything):

My mommy yell at me...

My mommy yell at me...

I say, "you no yell at me"

My mommy yell at me

And she no say sorry

Ah...the sweet sound of children's song. So I had to immediately pre-empt his visit to school that day and tell his teacher that we do NOT spend the better part of the day yelling at this child. And then I reminded her of my yearly teacher pact: "I'll only believe half of what they say about school if you promise to do the same about home."

3 Lessons

I feel like I've been unfaithful to my blog...cheating on Phisherobilias with Facebook. I'm sorry Phisherobilias...it's just that Facebook dumbs down my whole "social" life into these easily digestible, mono-syllabic thoughts...

But I've been neglectful.

And since this will probably be my only written legacy to my posterity, I should probably catch up.

1. I am the new (but not THAT new anymore) primary president for my ward. In not Mormon lingo, that means that I chair the children's 'ministry', for lack of a better word, for our congregation. Which is no joke. There's what...? 130 kids? I should know that answer without looking, but I don't. Ok. It's actually 139. That happened the week before Christmas.

Lesson learned? The following should occur when the bishop asks you to take over primary 2 weeks before the new year: "yes, I would love to...after January 1." I'll know for next time.

2. I ran a marathon. I, of course, posted this on Facebook (shhhh...don't tell Phisherobilias) and am loathe to repeat myself. Here's the lowdown: we trekked to Houston. Ate GREAT Italian food that night. For a woman who usually abstains from white pasta, this was a HUGE treat. I ran a good clip, but I missed a Boston qualifier by 5 minutes: 3:51. Which I've come to terms with. I injured my right knee and will be seeing an orthopedic surgeon on Tuesday. I hope to train for another marathon in mid-February to qualify for Boston. That last part is a little optimistic. But what is life without optimism?

Lesson learned? It's possible to overtrain.

3. I was invited to a birthday party for a personal trainer friend of mine that occurred in a lounge. Which still cracks me up...but I couldn't pass up an opportunity to watch people in a setting so unique to me. Especially people I know. Suffice it to say that I don't have a ton of nightclub experience. Jon and I only stayed about 15 minutes - at like, 11 pm, but they were sociologically fascinating minutes. My friend was very gracious, and it wasn't the college bar scene I was expecting. And when I reference a college bar scene expectation - I am clearly referencing all of my tv/movie-watching experience as BYU didn't offer a lot of background for that! Having said that, there was one occasion where a woman - CUH-learly inebriated and not very pleasant about it - offered to kick the hind section of my posterior. But that was definitely the exception and not the rule.

Lesson learned? It was interesting to go and flattering to have been invited... And contrary to what my husband says, I'm not too old and the music wasn't too loud. But I was having somer personal space issues. Ugh. Late night card games and parties at my house and lounging in Starbucks with my girlfriends is probably more my comfort zone.