Odd request, but please indulge me.

Save a few regulars, you all are very quiet. I've been working on three separate posts, and the entire time I'm wondering if maybe it's all too boring? momish? snarky? to post. Maybe I annoy you, maybe I don't seem approachable, or maybe I'm not all that interesting and you are just really, really bored at work and I help you kill time. *cough-Steve-cough* That's cool. My feelings are totally not hurt. {sob}

But here's the thing. I've been talking with some of my friends, telling them how I would love to do a giveaway on the blog. The only thing that's stopping me is, well, I don't know who you are or what you like!

At first I thought I would offer some writing services for free. Then it occurred to me you all might write as a career or hobby and wouldn't need me to write your grocery bill, let alone anything else.

I thought I would offer a bunch of books I have (read but mint condition) since I have now run out of shelf space in the office. Then it occurred to me you may not like to read, or if you do, have enough books of your own.

I thought about doing a collaboration with my more crafty blogger friends. Then I thought you all might have your own craft businesses and need more product as desperately as you need a hole in your head.

And so on and so on.

Let me cut to the chase (um, 6 paragraphs in): I want to do a nice giveaway but I am terrified to offer to the internet something no one likes or wants, which would result in, like, 3 people commenting. That would be humiliating beyond words. This, sadly, is the price you pay for writing a blog about nothing. And everything. But just not something. All this to say I hate to do it, but I'm going to get all Nietzsche on you and ask: Who Are You?

And, NO, I am not looking for demographic information to show advertisers. If I was, I would just say so. I am just painfully insecure and terrified of rejection. (Because I'm sure you haven't guessed by reading anything I have ever written)

Oh! Speaking of advertisers, if you would like to advertise (for free) send me an email via the link to the right. I have a few spots available and am always looking to for pretty blinking things. Maybe that could be a giveaway? I guess it depends on how many people email me.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go finish a few blog posts you may or may not like.
;)

Favorite Moment

When I was a young child, my parents had hanging in my room a painting, most likely mass produced, of several girls dressed in white playing Ring Around the Rosie. In the moonlit dark of my room, those girls came to life and danced and twirled in their canvas cage. Sometimes they would form a tight huddle and point and whisper in my direction. They terrified me. I went to bed each night with the sheets pulled high above my head, and the sweat of fear mingled with the sweat of poor ventilation. My parents, thinking I was cold, added more blankets to the bed. I was too scared to tell them of the painting, but I can't remember why. Maybe I knew it was silly, maybe I didn't want the girls in the painting to know I was on to their hijinks.

So when I first saw Mikey several weeks ago covered in sweat with the sheet wrapped around his head, I knew the monster he insists lives inside of the ceiling light was keeping him up at night. At four years old, Mikey's imagination is now developing faster than his compact little body.

He is interested in the difference between good and evil, heroes and enemies. His dinosaurs hold elaborate conversations with the cars and trucks in his playroom while they wait patiently for the chocolate cake to come out of the toy oven. Superman counsels the Incredible Hulk on why it's not nice to be a bad guy.

He won't go in his room if the noon sun isn't there to blind him as he walks in. I set up a child's stepping stool next to the light switch so he can climb up and turn on the light, even in the bright light of day.

He doesn't like for me to roar loudly, and never when his back is turned. If I do, he holds up two small hands and admonishes me by saying, "Mama! Don't do that! You're a mama, not a monster."

He always sleeps with his stars on, and when he wakes up at 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning and finds them turned off, he creeps into our room and asks the Mister nicely if he could turn them back on because his room is very dark.

I remember so clearly being his age. I remember being afraid of ghosts and monsters and things that went bump in the night. I slept on my back so no one could sneak up on me. I closed my eyes during most of the Wizard of Oz.

The only thing that made me feel better was having my mom sleep with me or, even better, sleeping sandwiched between my parents in their bed. I remember that feeling of comfort and safety and warmth. And, within minutes, I wasn't afraid anymore and quickly fast asleep.

This is why I never get mad when Mikey comes in at 1:30, 2:30, 4:30 in the morning. I don't see it as a nuisance or as manipulation. In fact, I love it. I love the feel of his small, smooth arm as he pulls me in for a tight hug. I love the way he burrows his toes in the hem of my pajamas, and the way he rests his cheek on my shoulder. I love when he says wants snuggles more than stars.

So my heart did a little flip-flop in my chest when I opened my bedroom door late Wednesday night and found him and Big Bunny asleep under the tidal wave of our blankets. He was sleeping in the middle and surrounded by pillows, like I always tell him to, so he wouldn't fall out of the bed. He just couldn't wait for us to come to bed, and instead found comfort in the sheets and pillows that smelled faintly of us.

I stood there watching him for a very long time as the moon light turned his skin a milkly iridescent and the floor boards creaked softly under my feet.

Twitter

I don't twitter. It's just another one of those time sucks I fall victim to, and I haven't decided whether I need another reason to be glued to my computer. But, if I did, today I would probably post something like this:

When I decide to break my diet with fried zucchini, by God there had better be ranch dressing in my bag once I get home. Because, really? Friend zucchini without the ranch dressing tastes like feet.

How I Met the Mister, Part II

(You can read How I Met the Mister, Part I right HERE)

About a week before I went to T.G.I. Fridays with Kara, my friend, Steve, and I were discussing our requirements in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Having ended a tortuous 4-year relationship two years prior, I was ready to return to the dating scene from my self-imposed sabbatical. I was smarter and more confident in what I wanted. In fact, I had it narrowed down to two requirements:

1. He had to like art and museums.
2. He had to remember I was lactose intolerant.

Steve was concerned my list of requirements couldn't weed out the riffraff, but there was a method to my madness. I felt a museum lover would be reasonably intelligent; less likely to spend Monday nights smashing beer cans against his forehead, if you will. More to the point, we would have something in common and share similar interests and hobbies. Someone who remembered I was lactose intolerant would be caring, attentive, and not self-involved. I was looking for the opposite of everyone I had ever dated.

I thought it was genius; Steve remained unconvinced. One week later, I walked into T.G.I. Fridays with Kara and unwittingly put my requirements to the test.

Kara and I were sitting at the table in the bar area debating what to eat while the Mister served drinks to the regulars sitting at the bar. I knew I had to stick with soda or water since I had class in less than an hour.

“So, ladies,” the Mister asked from his post behind the bar, “what can I get for you?”

I looked at him looking at me, opened my mouth and said, “I’ll take a shot of tequila, please.”

Kara grinned into her menu. A regular spun around in his seat, took one look at me, and chuckled.

“Well, alright,” and the Mister also chuckled. “What kind can I get you?”

I didn’t really care, so I asked for Cuervo 1800, which was on special.

“You don’t want that.” The Mister said firmly.
“Really. Is that a fact.” He had caught my eye, but not my tongue. “And why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s not good Tequila, so you’re just paying for a heavily marketed label. If you want to come over here, I can explain to you the different types of Tequila and how it’s produced.”

And that is when I left my perch in the safety zone and walked over to the bar, trying to ignore the smiles and elbowing going on by the regulars. The Mister placed several different bottles of Tequila on the bar and explained at length the production process. He explained the difference between silver and gold; añejo and reposado; American brands, Mexican brands; and the best climate for the agave plant. All of a sudden, the cocky, backwards-cap-wearing bartender had turned into a nerdy scientist, and I, who spent hours as a child reading the encyclopedia for fun, was immediately and hopelessly smitten.

I had one shot of tequila and maybe another drink. I never did make it to class. But, I did call Steve from the parking lot to tell him I met the man I was going to marry.

I spent the next couple of weeks going to T.G.I. Fridays with various friends, all of them curious to catch a glimpse at the first guy to ever make me gush. I made sure we sat in the dining room, far away the bar. We never saw him, until one night when I was there with my friend, Tiffany. I was walking back from the bathroom to my table, minding my own business when some rude bastard all but screamed in my ear, "MOVE IT, OR LOOSE IT!"

I turned around to watch the Mister rush past me with two arms full of hot plates.

I returned to the table and told Tiffany I saw him, but that it wasn't going to work out. "I couldn't possibly marry a guy with thighs thinner than mine." Tiffany agreed it was for the best.

A month or two later, Kara wanted to go to Fridays. I told her no way. She begged and pleaded and promised we would not go anywhere near the bar. I told her since I was wearing old jeans and a slouchy sweater plus didn't have time to do my hair or put on makeup that I would only go if she went in first and made sure the Mister was not working in the bar. Not that I was interested, but still.

To her credit, she lived up to her part of the bargain. He wasn't working in the bar and she waved me in. Almost immediately we were seated. The hostess handed us our menus, smiled sweetly and said, "Your server, The Mister, will be with you in just a minute." Our chins hit the table. I told Kara she was on her own and grabbed my purse to leave. When I looked up, there was the Mister. I could tell he recognized us immediately. I wanted to die.

I couldn't leave, so we ordered dinner and drinks. He was friendly and chatted with both us in between serving tables. Nerves kept me from eating anything more than the ice in my stiff drinks. I hadn't planned on ordering drinks, so I had to go use the ATM and get more cash. When I returned, the Mister was kneeling next to Kara talking, and it occurred to me he liked her and not me. He left immediately upon my arrival, leaving Kara grinning.

"I think that guy wants to..." Kara never got to finish her sentence because the Mister was back, and this time he sat next to me.

We had the world's most stilted conversation. Then the Mister looked at me and said, "Well, I like you. I was wondering if you would like to meet up someplace and have coffee."

To which I responded, "I don't drink coffee." What the??? That's all I could come up with? WHAT AN IDIOT!

The Mister looked a little surprised, but didn't miss a beat.

"Okay," He said, smiling. "Do you like art? Would you like to go to the LA County Museum of Art with me?"

Why, yes. Yes I would.

The Recluse Goes on a Play Date

I'm the mom who's friendly, easy going, and remembers your child's name. I'll greet you every morning, ask you about the weather, and email links and articles I think will interest you. But, unless I've known you for 20 years and you are part of my inner circle, that's as far as it goes.

I don't do lunch. I don't do parks. I don't do mom groups, Gymboree, Little Gym, or Musical Munchkins. I am a recluse. Imagine my horror, then, when this morning I received a call from a mom on Mikey's soccer team. The team that started just last week. She wanted Mikey to have a play date with her son today at 1:15. Nicholas goes down for a nap at that point, so I told her it wouldn't work...but that [gulp] Mikey would love to do a play date any time this week or next in the mid-morning.

She suggested tomorrow morning. I agreed, and started to feel woozy.

I suggested a park in the area. She said to just come over to her house. I agreed, and then passed out.

Tomorrow the boys and I are headed over to the house of a person I have known for all of 30 minutes on Saturday. Do normal people invite into their home people they don't know? Is this what social people do? I can only assume she's burned through all her friends and spotted me, fresh meat, from across a green soccer field. I picture the worst: me sitting next to a prized Precious Moments collection while 3 of 17 cats weave in and out of my trembling legs. Then, my hostess will remark casually that little Colin was up all night throwing up, but he was so excited for his play date she didn't have the heart to cancel.

Indeed, I fear my hostess tomorrow is:

1. A swinger.
2. A Shacklee representative.
3. A Scientologist.
4. A serial killer.

I called the Mister to express my concerns and remind him where I keep a copy of my life insurance policy. He wasn't as quick to make the connection between play date and fiery depths of Hell. Instead, he had the audacity to suggest my hostess could also just be a nice mom thinking about starting a book club. Yeah, right. What are the odds?

Finally.

Now that the Olympics are over, what do you say we all get some work done? And maybe go to bed before midnight? While normally not a sports fan, my eyes have been glued to the TV for the last 17 days.

Some observations:

Even when happy, Nastia Liukin looks sad. Something about her eyes makes her seem like an old soul.


I will never be mistaken for 2008 Olympic Gold Medal winner (Women's Marathon), Romanian Constantina Dita.


This little troll stud (?!) bugged the crap out of me. Too much frat-boy testosterone coursing through that 5'1'' frame. Oh, and walking hunched over and pushing your shoulders forward does make you look broader, but it also makes you look like you are walking hunched over and pushing your shoulders forward to make yourself look broader.


Watching Michael Phelps win 8 gold medals was awesome.


Usain Bolt was impressive, and has a very convenient last name. But would it kill him to save the showboating until he actually crossed the finish line? I admit I would not have cried tears into my pillow at night had he tripped on his flapping, untied shoe lace two feet from the finish line.

Something tells me he likes the attention.


Did you watch the Olympics? Are you tired, behind on work, and simultaneously happy/sad it's over with, like me? What observations did you make during the Olympics? What do you think of the Chinese age controversy? (Nice collar, IOC young dude)

p.s. Since the Olympics are over, look for How I Met the Mister, Part II tomorrow!

Only the Most Perfect Thing Ever.

I suck at geography. Everyone who knows me admits it is true. In fact, my brothers like to ask me random geographical questions, knowing I will not know the answer, just so they can laugh at me and say, "Remember that one time when Jules was, like, 25 and she couldn't list the seven continents?" Then they'll drop to the floor in hysterics. Oh, and my age? It gets older every time they tell that story. Which is about twice a week.

For the record, I think I was 11. In fact, I know I was 11 because we were flying back from vacation when I innocently asked my dad in a crowded, quiet airplane, "Dad, how many states are there in Europe?" After he picked his eyeballs off the floor and took 3 blood pressure pills, he calmed down enough to be barely yelling at the top of his lungs.

"WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU SAY??? OH MY GOD, MIRTA, DID YOU HEAR YOUR DAUGHTER??? I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO EMBARRASSED IN MY LIFE!!!!"

Really? Not even now, with 150 strangers looking at us?

I spent the next 6 hours on a plane answering geography "pop" quizzes drawn up by my dad on cocktail napkins. My brothers, younger bastards that they are, lapped up my punishment like Cheshire cats.

Mike (9 years old): Haha. I can't believe you thought Europe had states.

Jules: Shut up.

Paul (7 year old): Yeah, Jules. I can't believe you thought Europe had states.

Jules: That's real original Polly-Want-A-Cracker.

Paul: I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME THAT!

Jules: Well it fits, Parrot Boy.

Dad: You three knock it off back there or I'm getting out of my seat!

Mike: Jules, you're so dumb I bet you don't even know the seven continents.

Jules: I said shut up, and yes I do.

Mike: Say them.

Jules: They're the ones that start with A, and I don't need to tell them to you.

{Strategy: Mike is a genius. Freakishly smart. I knew I was skating on thin ice by entertaining any sort of mental battle with him and was avoiding having to directly answer his question about the continents.}

Mike: You don't know them. How could you? You thought Europe had STATES.

And, like most battles, I lost on account of pride.

Jules: Fine. North America, South America, EUROPE...

{Starting to fade}

Asia...Australia...

Mike: I KNEW IT! You don't know them! OhMyGod! DAAAAAAAAD!

And you can imagine how thrilled my Dad was to discover the names of seven continents didn't just roll of my tongue like gum balls. The next three "pop" quizzes involved continents. I think it was fill-in-the-blank.

But don't worry, I know them now. Except that I had to double check in Wikipedia because for some reason I thought there were eight and I was going crazy trying to remember the last continent. Especially since, while scanning the world in my mind's eye for the missing 8th continent, I realized suddenly I ran out of earth.

All this to say I found this on Darla's blog and thought it was the most perfect thing ever for this geographically-challenged, California girl. So perfect, in fact, I just might send it to my Dad and brothers..knowing full well one of those clowns will bring up that stupid continent story.