This gal learned a little in 2011

OK, strike that—I've learned a helluva a lot this year. Like when I was actually in school again for a few months. And when I had to buck up and learn how to raise an ornery 1-year-old, and decided to switch jobs, and thought it would be fun to put our house on the market for cow plop and chuckles. 

So what exactly did the fabulous year of 2011—my 32^nd year of life—teach me amongst all this chaotic silliness?

1. Don't move around your bedroom furniture by yourself on the first morning of your staycation. Because when you go to bend over and pick up your kid that evening, you'll throw out your back and then pass out at 4am in the kitchen from the pain, landing you in the ER on day #2 of staycation. Staycation ruined.

2. When traveling abroad, turn off your phone and never, ever turn it back on until you are safely back in the US of A, unless you call prior and get on an international plan. Within five minutes of playing on Facebook, I was charged over $50 by our fine friends at Verizon. And believe you me, my roaming was turned off.

3. When traveling abroad, "all-inclusive" does not always apply to the resort's top-shelf alcohol. Oh they will make you think it does, but later a nice lad will bring you a bill for a $108 bottle of craptastically gritty Mexican wine as a night cap. And of course at that point they don't understand a lick of English. ¡qué fastidio!

4. Dog's have a cute way of forewarning you when they are sick. Well, at least their bodily functions do. If your dog's flatulence is surprisingly debilitating for your family for a few days straight, chances are something not-so-pretty is going to happen. So put the pup in a cage or keep her outside until she erupts. You can thank me later.

5. If your kid doesn't like sugar, don’t push it on them at their first birthday party. We all want the cute photo of them diving into the cake and making a huge mess, but the mess they will leave you in the crib at 2 am is just not worth it.

6. If you are given a chance to get back to Athens, Ohio—do like Sir Mix-A-Lot says and jump on it! We traveled to OU for both my sister-in-law's graduation and a friend's wedding, and felt 10 years younger, instantly. Pub, Junction, Pawpurr's—then some sweet D.P. Dough. Oh, oh, yes please.

7. Planning a 10-year college reunion with girlfriends in Vegas is the Best. Idea. Ever. Screaming out Jersey Shore quotes while drinking on the strip? ...Well, that may not be.

8. Now this is a super-duper important one (ladies). Save the food section at Target for last. If you are anything like me, most Target trips take at least 1.5 hours. Thus, if you put a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie in your cart at oh, say 8:15 pm, by about 9:30 you've got quite the little mess for yourself in the shoe section.

9. No matter how much I try to be a loyal fan, my Ohio sports teams will always disappoint. Except when their players complete front-flips into the end zone.

10. Just as soon as I think Mac has a well-fitting (enough) wardrobe to get him by on weekends and at daycare for a few months, his pants all go Pee Wee Herman Harman on him.

And that's about all I've learned. Plus 1,534,968 other things. But that's the great thing about us human being peeps—we never stop learning. And I will never stop learning to make fun of my dorky self along the way.

Happy New Year 2012, friends! I'll see you on the flip side.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

Yep, you smarty pants guessed it. I'm here to share a few of my favorite things. Well, for this festive season, anyway. Because could there be a better way to jump back into blogging than to bore you all with the junk I heart? ... Didn't think so!

So here I am. Back again like Slim Shady. I'd love to say I've been MIA because I was chosen for some fantastic reality TV series that I was flown to Maui to film. Or that I won the lottery and had to figure out how to divvy up the money. (Your check is in the mail, trust me). But in lame fact, I had just been lost in a nightmare of graduate study homework and continuous home-showing cleaning (yup, it's still for sale - bummer). So, I've decided to catch a breather, gear up for the holidays and share some of the great finds, fun decorations and silly purchases we've made this season. Some simply for the exclusive fact that they will make our son smile. ...Such as these fancy Elmo PJ's for Brian.

Real nice, Clark. And just $17 at my favorite late-night hangout, Target. "Elbow" is Mac's main squeeze right now. And look - they indeed made him smile! ...And even drool a little. That's amore.

So I thought it would be funny to tease Roxy with something soft and feathery, just far enough out of reach for her to contemplate pouncing each day. Thus, this purchase of a $3.95 ornament was made @ Kohl's. PLUS I had a 20% off coupon. I could have made this myself, but I'm lazy and can't imagine I would have spent less than $4. And as of today, it is still intact.

Since I have not used some of my typically birthday-only trimmings, I matched some teal ribbon with pink and red paper, and found a new love affair. This one is for Aunt Lulu, from H&M. She picked it out; I want to steal. Should have let you see it before wrapping! 

Outside lights shout, "I swear I'm no scrooge!" no matter how many times your neighbors hear you yelling at the dog. Or your husband. Or your child. Or your old computer. And I love the candy cane feel of both white and red lights. Notice I'm too lazy to place lights anywhere above waist-level.

Old-school ornament. Or at least from when I was in college. Super sad that this reminds me I joined a sorority in 1997. I'm ancient, yo. Can I get a nice round of "A-oh, A-oh, the only way to go!" please? Word to your sista.

And since we're reminiscing, might as well add in a shot of one of the most awesome gifts Brian and I have ever received. Nearly makes me tear up. Who doesn't want an illuminated glass block that is a constant reminder of only the BEST days of your life?

OK, so to round things out, here's my own take of "Brown paper packages tied up with strings." I shared this on FacePlace last week, but it's just too cute to not repost here. It's fun and wintry without being too overtly Christmasy. I likey a lotty.

Owl paper found at World Market; Ribbon at Old Time Pottery. I'm down with OTP, yeah you know me.

So I lied. One final photo then I promise I'm done. I think this may be my most favorite thing. ...Our mini-maid, cleaning the floor with his wipes. Only my child.

This old, odd, outstanding house

On Tuesday, our house will officially be on the market. From that point forward, it's up to us to keep the home clean and smelling like an Old Yankee Candle, while the bricks and mortar attempt to strut their 20's-era charm and mojo to win over onlookers and ogglers.

Let's cross our fingers that they oggle... and linger... and ooh and ahh and fall in love, like we did a little over three years ago.

But just like Buttafuoco and Fisher, relationships lose their luster. And although we still really, really, really do love this home, it's time to move on. For many a reason. Let me show thee...


Laminate faux marble counter tops. These designer-imposter surfaces speak all for themselves. And right now I hear them whispering, "We're not fooling anyone!" 

People in the early 1900's apparently had no shoulders. Because I have to turn every one of my hangers to a 45 degree angle in order to fit my clothes in my closet and shut the door.

One, yes only ONE, sad porcelain throne, people! 'Nuff said.

This is a random, second-story porch only accessible through Mac's room. If we move his bed out of the way first. I'm sure he would appreciate this perfect escape route as a teenager, but right now it's littered with leaves and the stares of our neighbor's children at eye-level since their father built a large tree house on our property line. Speaking of which...

Ahh...so nice of them to give us this beautiful view from our peaceful backyard. And so appropriate in the city. Because we really do appreciate your 7-year-old daughter perching 12 feet directly above us to throw orange peels at our dog while she watches us grill steak.

I know, I know. All old homes have their quirks. And I do appreciate most of them. But what is this light fixture? I've tried finding a replacement globe in stores, online, in the trash (kidding), but nothing fits this prehistoric contraption. We even bought an entirely new sconce, but the old knob and tube wiring is too complicated to figure it out. So granny's etched berries it is.

Something in this room just doesn't fit. Oh, maybe it is the 1994 after-market octagon window that was shoved in adjacent to the bedroom closet door. Makes sense. No need to put it in a more desirable, aesthetic location. The corner will do.

And I digress...for today. Enough of poking fun at this nearly 90-year-old abode. Because as I sit here in this still, cozy home writing and posting, I'd rather reflect on the one million reasons why it will be hard to leave this house. That post is for tomorrow.

Standing tall on the wings of Jaime's dreams

In a few months, I must don the following glittery Charlotte Russe shoes as part of my bridesmaid ensemble for my fabulous to-be sister-in-law's slow demise -- I mean, wedded bliss.

Six-plus inches of razzle-dazzle is all that will lay between my steadfast soles and the unforgiving, compacted hard earth come mid-November, folks. And I'm scared. But please do know that I looooove these blingy shoes; I heart sparkles and paired with the flowy, black tea-length dress all us gals will be wearing, the wedding photos are sure to turn heads. If my stumbling down the aisle doesn't first.

Thus, to help absorb the potential for disaster within that wobbly six-plus inches of additional height, I need to learn to walk like a super-model. And fast. So I bought some "professional" super-high, high-heels in which to practice. Daily. At work.

(Yes, I totally took a photo of my own foot. Ewe.)

Let me just say ... Blisterfest 2011. I mean, how do women walk in these things? There's no "heel, toe" when you are this high up in the air. I feel like I'm bouncing down the hallways like a little girl trying on her mother's shoes for the first time. Is there some secret I never learned as a pre-teen girl? Some magical trick that my junior high friends forgot to teach me in order to now walk strong and "own it" like other women I see out on the streets in fantastically tall shoes? (Thanks a lot, Sharon.)

I may be crazy, but I'm going to lay part of the blame for my swollen tootsies on the fact that I have abnormally small feet for my height - I wear size 7 shoes and am nearly 5'8". Less square inches on which to steady myself. And, I'm convinced that smaller-sized shoes will have a greater incline between where your toes go and the heel.

...I really think I'm right on this one.

Anyway, practice apparently makes perfect, so I will do whatever I can over the next two months to ensure that I'm not the dorky old mom getting the "OMG" stares as I attempt to strut down the runway...errr, aisle. But until then, I will continue to curse that perfectly lady-like Shania broad. Because man, I DON'T feel like a woman.

Smorgasbord

Smith's Deli. Noodles. The Elevator. Bar Louie. Barrio. Gumby's.

We can't stop eating out. It's an epidemic in our household, and I just don't know how to curtail the issue.

Pizza? At least once a week.
Take out? Routine.
Sit down and eat and spend way too much? Every weekend.

Why? Because it is just so darn easy. And relaxing. And we don't have the time to cook.

Well maybe we have the time. We could certainly try to make the time. But it takes some prime time to prepare a meal, and when I finally get home after working and picking up the kiddo, the last thing I want to do is throw on an apron. And I'm hungry now. Like really, really hungry. N.O.W.

Brian insists that I keep granola bars in my bag at all times so I can take the edge off of my hunger as needed. Because I will turn into a super grouchy Gremlin as the night wears on, if dinner is postponed. If you are sitting with me in a traffic jam on I-71 past 6:30pm, you better hope that Mr. Quaker has a yummy chocolate chunk treat within arm's reach. Or I will shut down.

I thought that having a child would push us to gather around the table more often. And we do; the table is just among a few dozen others at some local eatery. We are also very lucky to have some great, healthy options around town. Or if we feel like being bad, we at least bring something nutritious for Mac on the side.

Which is a funny thing. Because we prepare nearly gourmet food for Mac daily. We have to take his lunch to school (daycare) each day, and I ensure all food groups are present in his home-made meals. Sometimes Brian and I will be in the kitchen together at 10pm for an hour pulling together the boy's meal for the next day. Food just for  him. And let me tell you it is a lot of food. Mac eats more than the preschoolers in his building. The teacher's all laugh about it. He's a garbage disposal already, at the tender age of 15 months.

So would we save time by going to the grocery store once per week, planning out meals for each day, making them as soon as we get home—for all three of us to enjoy—and then using leftovers for Mac's lunch the next day? Quite possibly.

But it's not nearly as fun as grabbing some Jeni's ice cream after enjoying a meal together on Shoku's front patio. 

I like to dance, dance, dance, dance

So I think I can dance. Even better that the average bear. And this has gotten me into trouble numerous times.

The problem is that, in fact, I am super white and cannot dance to save my life. But when I hear that bass line pumping, it doesn't really matter where or who I'm with. I'm gonna dance.

And it's bad. Really bad.

I think I was "ok" back in college. Because at any given time I was dancing around five to 10 to 50 other people. I blended in. Usually. Except when I grabbed a few friends and we pushed ourselves through the dance floor mob to climb atop the  club stage or other steady platform, front and center. As if we were the professional entertainment. Or the multiple times when my jerky motions knocked cups clear out of the hands of others. Yep, I was that girl at fraternity parties. Be sure to keep your drinks high and tight around me.

Then there was the one time I got a full beer dumped on my head by some girl while dancing in Chicago. I don't think it was due to my bad dance moves; rather, I think she thought I was somebody else. And apparently she didn't like that somebody else. That was great. I got her kicked out, and I continued to dance. Of course. Damp hair doesn't stop me. Although I'm sure many were wishing it would have.

And in Vegas this past spring? Let's just say I noticed even my closest of friends giving me the awkward smile and "Melissa, calm your moves down" look at The Bank at Bellagio.

The situation was particularly disturbing this past weekend, as I joined a group of unsuspecting ladies for a trip to Put-in-Bay for a bachelorette party. After a few drinks, I was feeling pretty loose and knew that my stellar moves were about ready for the dance floor. We all felt it. Like magnets we were drawn to the rhythm (it really does get you) and the seven of us began to groove. Now, PIB may just be the least classy place on earth, so I felt no judgment for my discombobulated gyrations. Or maybe I felt safe because there was a 45 year old lady wearing jeans and a knee-pad (or was it a knee-brace?) who kept doing ballet moves, including falling into full splits on at least three different occasions. I knew she was stealing the "OMG, no she di'nt..." spotlight, so I continued on my merry maniacal way.

(This is her...for real)

And my back majorly paid for it on Sunday. I'm not the nimble gal I once used to be. Or perhaps I need to start working out.

Thankfully, the opportunities for me to completely embarrass myself are now fewer and farther between. Although, we do have a few weddings coming up this fall. And the opportunity to chaparone one of Mac's school dances seems right around the corner...

Stop and smell the river water

Anyone who knows me well knows that I despise when people say they are "exhausted." To me, it is a phrase you should only use if you are about to fall down and pass out due to complete and utter fatigue and debilitation. Maybe you just ran a full marathon without much training; ok, you are probably exhausted. I believe you. Own the word. But if you had to work one hour late yesterday and then got stuck on the phone talking to your mom and didn’t have a chance to run the dishwasher and your barking dog woke you up at 3 a.m. for 10 seconds, well that's just life.  

And that's the point—it's just life. We are all busy. There are not enough hours in the day. We get tired through the week. We don't get things done. We over-commit. We totally forget to feed the dog. I mean, I'm serious, we realized at 11:30 p.m. last night that Roxy hadn't eaten all day, we were out of dog food, and we wouldn't be able to get to the store until after work tonight. I'm stopping by Giant Eagle here in another 20 minutes. Last time this happened I had to give the poor thing freezer-burned hot dogs to tide her over.

(I promise we do feed our child...regularly)

But life does get complicated. We all experience it it many different ways. And I many times have to remind myself to just stop and enjoy what is going on at that very moment and push all the craziness aside. Because my brain is always going 100 m.p.h., thinking of "to do" lists, worrying about what I haven't accomplished yet in the day and planning ahead to what's next. But I need to become better at living in the present. I really am trying.

During my lunch hour today, I walked along the new Scioto Mile park. It's a new Columbus gem, and it was so great to see people out enjoying the sunshine, ornately landscaped walkway and water fountains. And as I moved passed the random whiffs of smelly river water and the cross-dresser attempting to walk in unmatched heels of completely different heights, I looked across to COSI and could see its Farm Days exhibit. I immediately thought of Mac and his new obsession with tractors—he says "tractor" and it is THE cutest thing in the world, IMHO—and I watched as kids of all ages ran around the large farm equipment. I took it all in; it was a very simple moment. But I realized it was the first time—in a long time—that I just stopped and ignored the crazy side of my life for once. It was amazing. And a little sad.

So now I can't wait to get home and give my full, complete, undivided attention to my little cutie pie and repeatedly ask him to say "tractor." Because right now, I unequivocally feel exhausted. And I need to snap out of it.

(note: I do not mean to trivialize true personal distress that some may be going through; only to poke fun at those (including myself), who routinely interchange "kinda tired" with "exhausted.")

Mom, where's my new car? Check your dreams, honey!

I took this entire past week off. Being the nerd that I am, I threw all options of having fun out the window and tried to get our house ready for the market. All our little place really needed was a good ole’ basement clearing, garage scrubbing and random fourth bedroom staging. Now, I think we can throw a sign in the yard and see what happens.

Sounds so easy, right?

Of course we don’t need to move. Something just a bit larger will do; I don’t want too much to clean. And a new space will definitely need to have the same high level of charm and character we currently enjoy (i.e. old and goofy). The drawbacks in our current home include the lack of multiple bathrooms, and both closet and garage space. So, if we can beef up those areas in a new place, we’ll be set. Because I can’t spend one more day applying mascara in front of a 6” wide round mirror perched up in a linen cabinet. Ghetto.

So if we are able to sell our little nugget on Arden, where do we go next? Therein lays the debate.

Schools. Where do we want our son starting kindergarten, continuing on through middle school and then ultimately graduating? Obviously, he is just 13 months old and only cares about Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and Handy Manny. But if we move, it’s for good. For a while, anyway. And undoubtedly the next few years will go by fast and he soon will be begging for a Cars 7 back-pack and a new, sassy Gymboree outfit for the first day of school.

Oh wait, I have a boy. They don’t end up caring about clothing ever, do they?

Anyway, Columbus has a crazy amount of options when it comes to neighborhoods and school districts. A part of me would be just fine with finding a cool Craftsman in one of the nearby ravines and trying out the public schools for a few years. Can’t hurt to try. We love how diverse our downtown daycare is, so let’s continue the trend. And if we check the public schools out and they are iffy, we look into private options. Because a year of private elementary school most likely will only be half of what we are paying now for infant care. Savings (and Target), here we come!

Or… we could move to Worthington. Or Upper Arlington. Or Grandview. A bit more in property taxes, but schools are included. Although, I haven’t seen a house for sale in Grandview since Gibby’s on Third shut down. Must be in protest. They had the best chicken sandwich.

Essentially, it all boils down to Diversity vs. Central Columbus location vs. Extra-Curriculars vs. Quality of Education vs. What kinds of cars Mac will have to park alongside in high school. Because seriously, even if we win the lottery, the kid is not getting a BMW when he turns 16. But, since I’m a cool mom, he can go all out on a fancy new back-pack.

I’m sure wherever we end up, we will find the right schools once our kid(s) is/are ready to start getting edjumakated. Until then, join the debate and give me your thoughts.

Clean slate

I’m about to start a new job. I’ll still be working downtown, and I’ll still be doing pretty much the same thing I am now. But regardless of this comfort zone, I couldn’t be more scared.

What will people think of me? What if they think I’m a horrible writer? What if I show up three hours late on my first day, naked and with nothing else but Roxy on a leash?

I’ve had this dream; multiple times. And each time the crowd laughing at me grows larger and larger, and inevitably someone’s wearing a panda suit.

All this fear aside, I am looking forward to the one grand opportunity that comes along with beginning something new, with starting fresh—the opportunity to reinvent oneself.

Now I don’t mean showing up with black hair and a pierced lip. What I’m eager for is the chance for people to get to know me as who I am right now, today. Without the baggage that eventually piles on at any job. Because you soon become known only by your office interactions and relationships built while with that business. Not that this is a bad thing, but starting over somewhere else immediately changes the playing field. It changes who you are as a player. No one knows you from Eve. And to me that is exciting.

I can be the legal marketing equivalent to Maria Sharapova. Without the Pantene-perfect hair.

Ok, I may be pushing it. But at least no one has to know right away that I'm horribly incoherent in the morning, or that I despise OSU athletics, or that I enjoy potty humor. That can all wait until I have them hooked.

In the meantime, I will show up at the new job with a clean slate, industry perspective, thick(er) skin and a wide smile and start to apply anew what the past 10 years of professional work (or maybe 5^th grade) has taught me: Stay close to just a few people, avoid the rumor mill at all costs and treat everyone with the respect you hope to receive in return.

I’ll let you know if I make it past lunch.

I swear I'm cool

It’s been 10 years since I graduated from college. My birthdate includes a decade known for bell-bottoms and disco. I can’t stand it when comedians lean on bad language to come across funny. And, I shake my head in disbelief when one of my sisters gets another tattoo (They are up to seven between them…that I know of).

I’m also a mom.

But foul language-hating moms born in 1978 can still be cool, right? I’ll have you know that I have a very robust Facebook profile. I mean, people sometimes “Like” what I have to say on there. For real. And, I believe I can still get away with wearing a few things from Forever 21. At least the jewelry and belts, and a few things from the small but trendy “work attire” rack. OH, and on the random occasions I find myself in a bar late(r) at night, I still know all the new music that is being played. And I know the words. So there!

I don’t know why aging is already hard for me, but it is. There are some great things that come along with being older and more mature, like the doctor allowing you to go home with a helpless three-day-old constantly pooping human. And having a great job for the sole purpose of supporting my severe Target and Rue La La addictions. But can I coolly grow into my mid-30’s without donning the unspeakable mom jeans, placing stick figures of each family member on the back of my SUV, or insisting that Mac watch my old marching band videos?

I’m not sure. But earlier this year, we were (loudly) listening to “We no speak Americano” at my cousins’ house. My youngest sister—still in college— leaned over and said, “This is the kind of music they play at all the frat parties these days.”

Me: “Honey, the frats played techno music when I was in school, too.”

Yesssssss… I still got it.

What am I doing?

It's late.

I think it's about midnight, and I've decided to create one of these fancy blog things. I thought it was going to be easy; just jump online and start typing. But I've already spent hours playing with fonts, background colors and layouts. I'm starting to wonder if this is worth the time. As a marketer, I know that one of the keys to having a good blog with attentive followers is posting regularly...with relevant content. And since I'm positive I will never be able to uphold the latter, I better find the time to pin my prose online at least routinely. I'm hoping for some sense of accomplishment with just that.

This may turn out to be quite the chore, but I figure it has to be more rewarding than watching that obnoxious British guy married to Katy Perry. He's on Conan at the moment, and his voice is making my skin crawl.

Wait - he is British, right? I'm bad with accents...he could be Australian.

Ok, now the largest Kardashian is on. Time for bed.