We got back from our trip to New Orleans in just enough time to play in the 7 or 8 inches of fresh snow. Mommy doesn't own a snow suit, so she was the designated photographer. The girls shoveled, made snow angels, and tried to bury Daddy in the snow.
Izzy was very excited to make her first snow angel.
In some spots, the snow was really deep!!
Thank goodness Daddy knows how to work the snowblower! Hooray!
**You are reading (another) re-post. This originally ran a year ago. Enjoy & Happy New Year!
So, in my continuing quest to be attractive to my husband and make an effort with my appearance, I put on a retired lace bra this evening. I think although I purchased this bra with aforementioned bust intentions (ok, bad joke), it has rarely, if ever, actually been worn. Instead it has been hibernating in a drawer, crammed underneath lots of other more reliable/comfortable/practical underthings.
Not long after I donned said bra, I began itching furiously. There is nothing more un-sexy than a woman scratching her chest and constantly adjusting herself in hopes that it will stop.
Scritch. Scra-a-a-a-atch. Itch. Scritch scratch. Itchy itchy. What are there, bugs in my blouse?
"What is wrong with you?" Hubs asked, staring at me in utter horror. Even the dog looked at me curiously. I peeked down my shirt and noted that a red rash was quickly spreading over my skin.
I explained to Hubs that according to Issac Mizrahi, if you start with beautiful underthings, you will begin to feel more beautiful and radiate confidence, etc. And that there's nothing more sexy than a confident woman. He rolled his eyes at me. I stormed into our bedroom, yanked off the offending article of clothing, replaced it with my boring, everyday brassiere and here I sit relating this tale.
This is precisely why I have such a hard time sticking with this sort of thing, this "making an effort." I just end up with a rash and a husband who thinks I'm one sandwich short of a picnic.
**You are reading a re-post. This is from last August when I had maybe 6 followers. I am running low on energy & inspiration lately, so here you go!
Sometimes I can't help but think there's no greater indignity than standing out in the pouring rain holding an umbrella over one's doggie while he has diarrhea.
I suppose many people would just let their doggies have diarrhea in the rain and not worry about it, but I felt bad for said doggie and moreover I just paid a small fortune for him to be groomed and bathed yesterday.
And then, of course, the resulting futility when one tries to scoop up the doggie diarrhea from the yard.
Why scoop, you may ask. Well, I have little children who like to frolic in the yard. And I think if someone stepped in doggie doo (fresh or otherwise), I'd feel compelled to throw away that tainted pair of shoes. So gross.
I often wonder what Monster, our mini poodle, thinks of me as I hover over him while he poops, checking my plastic bag for holes as I pull it over my hand. Surely he must imagine himself some sort of deity as I bow down to handle his droppings.
I also often wonder what the neighbors think of me.... do they peek out of their windows while I'm traipsing about in the yard with a handful of plastic bags, muttering curse words under my breath like some crazy lady?
**I must preface this by saying that my dad and his partner, Kory, visited Japan a while back and fell in love with the toilets there, which normal people like us would describe as bidets. They loved them so much in fact, that when they recently moved to their new home in Mississippi, they installed several of them. Pictured is the control panel for said toilets. Sadly the flash impairs your ability to read the orange button, but all you need know for the sake of this guest post is that it reads, "STOP!" Read on for my brother Kevin's review of these novel items. Yours truly was too afraid to try them out, but I knew I could count on Kevin. While you all know I love being green and this contraption eliminates the need for toilet paper, I just can't seem to climb on board. Would love to know your thoughts. Thank you, Kevin!
Gross. Disgusting. Revolting. Repulsive. Trained from an early age to confine bowel movements to prison cells of embarrassment built with bricks of shame, it’s no small wonder that some people - mainly dudes - actually grow to appreciate the art of defecation. Being such a dude, I relished the opportunity to refine my excretory experience during the Christmas holiday.
I arrived at my dad’s house in Hattiesburg as the obnoxious nuclear explosion of morning light settled into a far more acceptable afternoon radiance. Waking up before noon weathers away the soul, sure and steady as the wave conquers the rock. But Christmas Day would provide a pleasant (mostly) distraction from such negative morning analogies in the form of my squealing, smiling, crying, and giggling twin nieces. Their youthful exuberance kept everyone busy throughout the day until dinner. The piping hot, butter-rich holiday meal was devoured and little four-year-old girl toots signaled its satisfying conclusion.
At this point, the 27 year-old man gas in my stomach foreshadowed a momentous and potentially impressive waste evacuation. As if she sensed the impending destruction, my dear sister, awestruck by the complexity of the control panel, nay, command console, in the downstairs water closet, double-dared me to test drive the Japanese mechatoilet. Why not use a regular toilet the reader might ask? A lesser man might have done just that, but I am my father’s son and his sense of adventure and exploration is now my own. I would see that inheritance done proper and magnificent justice.
I number two’d in the classical manner and it was indeed of substantial consequence. Let me describe the aftermath and the toilet’s role in the ensuing reconstruction.
Things do not always work out the way in which one would expect. For example, I would expect a smart toilet to understand the delicacy of my chode. Perhaps some men and women are born with steel perineums and are referred to as Japanese. Mine, however, is constructed of mere flesh and sensitive nerve endings. Therefore, a default setting of maximum warp for the built-in bidet is not recommended for the average American user. Furthermore, the rear cleansing button showed a small one legged and armless man’s flat ass being softly sprayed by water droplets. Dots signify droplets. Perhaps the manufacturer failed to find clip-art for relentless fire hydrant-style butt-shower of pain. To be fair, one can adjust the pressure, but I wanted to experience the full measure of this device. One should keep his or her finger firmly planted on the STOP button when testing its limits. As for “Front Cleansing”...what is it for? I assume it’s only for girls because it wasn’t comfortable and I would prefer not to elaborate. The dryer, however, was the saving grace of the contraption. Like an angel whispering into your butt, the terrible memory of the abusive fire hydrant and its subsequent disastrous flood was all but erased by this angelic voice. The experience came to a conclusion and I exited the lavatory a cleaner and wiser man.
I'm a writer, a reader, and a stay-at-home mom of twin girls. Makeup is my enemy, but Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay is my best friend at the end of a long day. I'm not afraid to say what I think anymore. I believe in being green and giving lots of hugs. I believe in apologizing when I'm wrong. I believe in love. I believe that one person can make a difference. I'm working on believing in myself. I'm on a powerful and arduous journey here. Are you up for the challenge? Join me!