my new life goal

I've decided that I want to be a figure skater.

No. No, I need to be a figure skater. It's an irrepressible urge. It's like all of my inner life force is drawing me to the ice. The spandex is crying out to me.

I think I've always felt this draw. I remember one of the first times I ever ice skated... there was just something about the way that ice felt against my hind end. The knock of my tailbone against it. The way the spotlights looked from a prone position on the rink.

It's a calling.

It was just as evident the last time I went ice skating. I could tell by the way people stared that they were impressed by my grip on the handrail.

Sigh...

It's gonna take work. It's gonna take dedication. But I know I can do it.

Not really.

Now we all know that I could never do this.

I couldn't even do this wearing very practical and very stretchy pajamas standing firmly flatfooted on my kitchen floor.

Theoretically speaking...

ahem...

...

Now this...

This looks like something I could definitely do.

In my kitchen floor or elsewhere.

My dream may never be realized, but just in case... I've devised a game plan.

1) Learn to skate.

2) Shrink about a half-foot.

3) Saw myself in half lengthwise and then lose another 25 pounds.

Until then... I'll just have to sew sequins on my practical pajamas, shine up my kitchen floor, put on my slippery-est socks, and bruise my behind right here in the comfort of my own home.

Aloha.

---

Away to Pemberley

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hi, my name is megan... and i'm addicted to nail polish

I've had a startling realization about myself.

First of all, I must make a confession:

I bought 5 bottles of nail polish today.

Yes, 5.

Granted, 4 of them were teeny-tiny and in a box together, but still 5.

I'm just sick about it.

But anyway...

When I got home I got out my day's plunder for a quick survey and was quite alarmed to find that one of the colors from the boxed set was remarkably similar to the singleton I'd bought. I knew I had an affinity for pinkish-orangish colors and ye olde hubby is always chiding me for buying the same color over and over... but these 2 bottles really were practically the same color.

Could it be true?

Do I really buy the same color over and over again?

I decided to take inventory... and...

this is what I found...

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... SEVEN bottles of pinkish-orangish-practically-the-same-color-pink.

Gulp... here goes...

I buy the same color of nail polish over and over again.

It's a sickness.

And I have to be stopped.

Send help immediately.

Only 11 steps to go.

---

Away to Pemberley

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another barbie story

After yesterday's angry, frothing-at-the-mouth post about the evils of Mattel, how ironic it was when the Kiddo came to me this afternoon and said, "Can I just play Barbies with Daddy?"

Yes, I have a box of my old Barbies tucked away under my son's bed. I brought them with me when I left home, thank you. It had only been like 2 years since I stopped playing with them, after all.

And yes, my son does drag them out and play with them from time to time. He's secure in his manhood.

The weird part of this whole situation was that from the other room, I could tell by the conversation that his father was indeed taking part in the Barbie playing.

Nothing like male bonding.

After a few minutes, my husband yelled for help. I believe his exact words were, "YOU DIDN'T TELL ME YOU WERE GONNA KILL IT!" a la Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin, speaking to himself or to no one in particular I guess. I hollered from the kitchen to ask what was going on and he informed me that one of the Barbies heads had come off.

"Oh, no! Which one?" I responded.

Silence.

More silence.

"...Barbie?"

Sigh... bless him.

I walked back to the Kiddo's room to survey the damage only to find that my husband had completely broken the head off what had been of one of my favorite dolls.

"Awww! You broke Tracy's head off!" I exclaimed.

And then he started laughing.

And he continued to laugh every time I referred to her by her name.

Yes, I named all of my Barbies.

Off the top of my head, other than Tracy I can remember Julia, Cindy, Reese, Becky, Todd, Kenneth (because Ken just wasn't good enough), Michael, and Nixon.

That's right. I named one of my Ken dolls Nixon.

My own little Barbie soap opera population.

And now Tracy... the heroine of every plot, the one every Ken doll had a crush on, and every Barbie and Skipper doll admired...

has been reduced to this...

Ye olde hubby's only explanation was that he was trying to put pants on her because he thought she looked distasteful.

These are the kinds of things that can happen to a girl when she goes around in nothing but a pair of pink hot pants.

After considerable searching, I located her head under my bed alongside of misplaced baseball.

All of this is just further proof that it never pays to dress like a floozy.

You can end up decapitated and disgraced, lying in pieces on someone's bedroom floor while creepy little critters like this one...

run around the house saying, "I BROKE TRACY'S NECK! I BROKE TRACY'S NECK!"

Even though he didn't.

Who knows where his creative streak could come from...

The entertaining part of this story is that, by the end of the night, our entire household was referring to a doll by her first name. And talking about her rather like she was an actual person.

Keep smiling, Tracy...

you may be past your prime, but you went down in a blaze of glory. Under my bed with a baseball.

And finally got the recognition you deserved all along.

---

Away to Pemberley

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I am not ok with this

Let me begin by saying that I've always sort of rolled my eyes at the people who complain about Barbie giving little girls unrealistic expectations about bodily proportions and that she's killing the self esteem of the female youth of America and blah blah blah...

This has nothing to do with that.

It has everything to do with modesty...

orrrrr the lack thereof.

The family made a trip to ye olde Toys 'r' Us today to take advantage of the Big Trade-in event (and got 25% off of a Sit 'n' Stand stroller, I might add).

P.S. What is it with all the apostrophes in the children/baby product industry. Toys 'r' Us, Sit 'n' Stand... would it really be that big of a deal to add 2 more letters? I don't get it. Anyway.

So we got our stroller and did the obligatory walk through the store. I thought Bebe was probably old enough now to enjoy look at some of the girly stuff on the pink aisle.

...

Or maybe I just wanted to look at it. Sue me.

And so we were just be-bopping along enjoying our mother-daughter Barbie bonding when I saw this...

Monster cleavage.

Maybe I should do a little product explanation here. This busty babe is Desiree. She is part of the Black Label Barbie collection. She enjoys spin class, white water rafting, and midnight walks on the beach.

And exposing herself.

No. No, no... I don't blame Desiree. Desiree is a hunk of plastic with polyester hair. The problem is Mattel.

Now, if I were to sit down with Mattel and discuss the monster cleavage issue with them (not that that would ever happen since Mattel doesn't know or care about my existence or any issues I have with Desiree's bosom), I'm sure they would say, "The Black Label line is a collector line not intended to be used as toys."

To which I would calmly reply, "Well, Mattel, guess where I met Desiree and most of her anatomy? TOYS 'R' US. A place that sells TOYS. A place frequented by children looking to buy TOYS. TOYS ARE THEM! The name says so!"

Deep healing breath.

I have been ignoring the increasingly curvy, navel-bearing, tattoo wearing, pierced, mini-skirted, bodacious babe that Barbie is these days. And it was relatively easy to ignore until I had a daughter of my own and considered the influence even these seemingly small things (bad word choice?) will have on her.

But the monster cleavage was the last straw.

It's amazing what having children does to one's perspective. I have never been what I would call a prude. I've not always been as modest as I've been shown that I should be. But I want better things for my kids. I don't want them to do stupid things that will hurt them in the long run.

Now I know that there are people who would tell me that wearing certain types of clothing isn't going to be hurtful to my kids. But I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that we're supposed to abstain from all appearance of evil. Meaning if it looks like something a hooker would wear, then I should not wear it.

And I sure don't like the idea of my daughter wearing something that advertises her body as a piece of meat and nothing more than a hunk of flesh to be gawked at and drooled over by an evil world.

Furthermore... my body houses something much more precious than flesh and blood and bones. And I pray my daughter's little body will someday be filled with the presence of God's spirit as well. And that she will adorn herself as a sanctuary for that purpose first and foremost.

Sigh...

All that being said... bear with me as I pen (er, type) a letter to my daughter:

Dear Bebe,

It is not ok to have monster cleavage.

Let me rephrase... it is ok to have monster cleavage, but it should remain under you shirt. Your shirt should have a neck line that in no way approaches your navel. When in doubt, wear a turtle neck.

In the event that you're built like your mother... cleavage may be a word you've heard but don't fully understand. Again with the turtleneck.

I hope you always feel beautiful, but I'm much more interested in your inward purity than in your self esteem.

There will be a man who loves you for your modesty and purity. Not in spite of it.

Be beautiful to God first and He will show your beauty to others.

And please forgive your psychotic mother for using the phrase "monster cleavage" so many times in this blog post and for never buying you another Barbie.

At least until I get over this.

Love,

Mama

In conclusion, boo, Mattel. Big time boo.

---

http://away-to-pemberley.blogspot.com

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a list - bridal version (except number 10)

My day consisted of a Bridal Fair with 6 other chicks, lunch with 6 other chicks, and wedding dress shopping with 7 other chicks... we picked up a straggler.

It has left me feeling not only estrogenically charged, but also maybe a tiny bit wiser. Here are some things I learned:

1. How to drive a car with the gauges in the middle of the dashboard. It felt very European. I was tempted to drive on the wrong side of the road, but I thought better of it since I was in someone else's car and there was a pregnant lady riding shotgun.

2. Starbucks 3 times within a 36-hour period is a totally safe thing to do. Except for my waistline and my bank account.

3. Raspberry suckers make your lips blue.

4. The statute of limitations on giftcards intended for other people is apparently right around 2 years. I totally agree with that rule. We should legislate it.

5. If you're the middle person sitting in a group of 5 people, conversation takes extra effort. I was up for it, though, because of all the Starbucks.

6. I've either truly reached adulthood or I just don't have the time/mental capacity to be a jealous chick. Or maybe I just don't care. I'm leaning toward that option.

7. The whole bridal industry has an alarming amount of lingo with which I am not at all familiar and which seems to be 90% French. I'm sure everyone was impressed with my input of things like, "Ooooh, I really like that one with the little bead-y things down on the floofy part and the bunched up stuff up on the boob-ish part!"

8. Lingerie portraiture just seems like a bad idea to me. It's just one feather boa away from being skanky.

9. One word: Elope.

10. Lotion may or may not affect the proper working order of a laptop's touchpad.

Signing off.

So long, Little Joe...

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Written 2 April 2009

I was sifting through my old un-published drafts and happened upon this. Written when I was dangerously pregnant with Le Bebe and none too thrilled about it. I had titled it on making out in public and other things. It's long and rambling and, being unfinished, end abruptly... but maybe it's funny anyway.

I thought it was, at least.

---

I ventured out to the grocery this afternoon since we were running dangerously low on grape jelly and PB&Js are one of few things that bring me true joy these days. Fortunately for me and due to the intelligence of shopping center builders of yore, Kroger is right next door to K-Mart and I was able waddle on over there to pick up a couple of things for less than the take-out-a-loan prices I'd pay at Kroger.

I should take this opportunity to say that I am not fond of K-Mart. I hear that some towns have really nice and even Target-esque K-Marts, but our town is not so fortunate. Our K-Mart is cluttered and dirty and has hideously dim and most of the time blinking overhead fluorescent lighting. Oh, an the general population of folks who shop at our K-Mart have mullets and beer guts... and the men are worse. I really like some of their bedding and housewares and they have great deals on play clothes and baby supplies, but a trip there leaves me feeling, for lack of a better word, icky. And like I need a couple good doses of Zoloft. So, I don't go there too often.

I'm sad to say that I fit in at K-Mart today. It was going to be a quick trip for a few necessities so I opted out of makeup. I picked out one of 4 things that still fit and are reasonably comfortable but decided against the Bella Band since any additional undergarment was only going to multiply my general irritableness, so yeah, the bellybutton was very presently protruding through the t-shirt. I also donned a cap in hopes of concealing my identity to some extent and a pair of years-old brown flip flops since they matched my shorts and showed off my sexy chipping toenail polish. I was already icky, so I figured K-Mart wasn't going to bring me much lower.

So, I hauled myself out of the car and proceeded to weave my way through the other parked cars. Not an easy task when you yourself are the size of a Smart Car. Which may seem like an okay thing since those little guys are so cute, but, believe me, I left the realm of "cute" back in second-trimester land. Or maybe even first-trimester land. It's all a fog at this point...

But I digress...

I passed in front of a little pick-up truck and for whatever reason glanced up into the cab and there was a couple in there who either really liked each other or were attempting to count one another's fillings. Now, since I've unfortunately taken part in my fair share of public displays of affection, I do not feel like a little church lady shaking my head in true "kids these days" fashion when I say JUST DON'T, OK? I'm not one to tell people to 86 the making out altogether (although it probably isn't the best idea for non-married folk who wish to remain pure), but perhaps K-Mart's parking lot is not an ideal place for it to happen. I fought the urge to stop in front of their truck and draw as much attention to my pregnant belly as possible just to show them what can happen if you don't watch it.

In the end, their display made me pretty uncomfortable (yes, it was that grotesque), so I waddled all the faster on into K-Mart.

Onto other things...

I feel that I have reached that point where pregnancy is turning me into a generally unpleasant person. As I said earlier, I've completely passed the point of cuteness and have entered the realm of scary. I can't even imagine that people are looking at me because they're pondering all the magical-ness of pregnancy and new motherhood. I can only assume they're looking at me and wondering where the nearest heat source is for fear that I could pop. Meanwhile, I find myself having all measures of unpleasant thoughts toward non-pregnant women as well as unnatural urges to run up to other pregnant women, hug them, and weep with reckless abandon. Meanwhile, none of my maternity clothes fit the same as they did when I was pregnant the first time around and quite a few of them don't fit at all... leaving me with the same 4 frumpy, tent-like options each and every time I leave the house. I've also found that I feel very self-conscious in the grocery because I feel like if I even pause in front of anything doughnut or ice cream related that anyone nearby is sniggering at me.

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James 4

My heart is heavy tonight and I can't put my finger on any one reason. It's one of those all-too-common nights where I find myself questioning my own thoughts and words and feelings again and again... and feeling overall like a great big failure.

But still God calls me.

I feel that oh-so-familiar tug at my heart that is equal parts comforting and terrifying.

My immediate response is to pray.

God's calling me to my closet, I thought... but no, I found no comfort there as I often do.

God's calling me to action, I thought... but no, the time is wrong for the things I've had on my heart.

Finally, it hits me... God's calling me to His Word.

This is something that's always troubled me, Bible reading... because of the hugeness of it.

Where do I start? I should have a plan first. I should buy some kind of guided, day-by-day Bible or something...

Interestingly enough, this is the same problem that has plagued my prayer life until recently. I always felt I needed a list, an order of operations, a formula in order to pray. When I finally, at long last, allowed myself to be shown that God will (and does!) indeed teach me to pray each time I approach Him, my prayer life became much less stressful and much more productive (and beautiful and amazing and a host of other positive descriptors).

And so, as I was putting dishes into the dishwasher tonight, my last chore of the day, I contemplated what exactly I would read. My control-freak tendencies taking over as always.

Might as well read up for Wednesday night's service, I decided.

James 4.

That brings me to now.

I sat down on the bed (after scooting Le Bebe over), labeled a page in my steno pad, turned to James 4, and read the section title:

Draw Near to God

And then I proceeded to write all of this because I just had to document it.

It truly is as if the Lord is showing me every day here lately that HE WANTS ME!

I can't understand that part of it, but I'm not about to complain.

Because I want Him, too.

(Written 2 February 2010)

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"Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you."

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