As most of you know, Scotty turned two earlier this month. It's amazing to me that two years have already gone by. It's been two years since I was laying on our couch on bedrest, eating brownies and blathering on about Jillian the Bachelorette (who in turned spurred Jake, who spurred Ali, and then Brad came back, and then Ashley and now Ben. Oh, how ABC turns) and worrying about being a "well-nourished female."

Anyways, two years. Two years since CatheterGate (the horror). Two years since I was able to drink milk without issues. Two years since pumping and pumping and pumping. It's funny, because my dear friend Krista just gave birth to her first, Andrew Michael, this past Sunday, and it made me think of all of the things she's probably going through right now. I feel like a lot of folks are already on to Baby #2, but there's definitely something so special about Baby #1. First-time parents...wow. I'm glad Brian and I got through that hurdle. I'm not sure we want to do it again anytime soon.

Let's talk about the Bear. At the age of two, I am happy to report:

-- he's talking up a storm. He repeats everything - and I mean, everything - and it up to 4 and 5-word sentences. "Apricot fruit leather, please, Mom?" is a favorite. (fruit leather is pretty awesome, in case you haven't tried it. It's sold in giant packs at where else? Costco.)

-- he knows all of his letters and can count to ten. He's got his shapes down, can draw a circle, and put together easy puzzles. He loves to draw but doesn't like finger paint. He's a Clean Bear, through and through. Despite his love of digging in the dirt in the backyard. (yuck.)

-- he's a huge, huge fan of anything with wheels. I'm not sure if I'm watching a future engineer or garbage man, but this kid loves to examine, stare, and manipulate things. He's very thoughtful and deliberate with his actions (which makes his mother very happy), and is not one to dive into situations without careful analysis. I can only hope this personality characteristic continues into adulthood (or at least through college.)

-- he's a little manager of people. He likes to make sure everyone has a toy and is playing appropriately. In music class, he passes out the shaky eggs to the kids, even if they already have one. (he can be like his mother in this respect; he will keep handing eggs to kids even when they already have one. Or twelve.) Just yesterday, we had a play date and one of the kids was put in time-out. Scotty ran with the mom to the timeout room and then ran back to the living room, mouth agape and pointing at us, shouting, "Time-out! Time-out!" Manager or town crier? The jury is still out.

-- he has the best sense of humor. I think a big difference between this year and last year is that Brian and I really like spending time with him because it feels less like us trying to keep him from killing himself on X number of household objects and more like just hanging out. He's silly, makes goofy faces, and tries to get us to laugh. This is a lot more fun than say, cleaning spit-up off of your shoulder for the 100th time or swathing your house in bubble wrap. I'll take Sense of Humor Bear any day over Spit-up Bear. ::shudder::

-- he says "please," "thank you," and my favorite, "'coos me," (when he toots.) I've also managed to convince him to say "ma'am" and "sir," which I believe to be a major parenting coup. The looks on people's faces when he says "Hello sir" is priceless. Oh yes...Etiquette Bear.

-- discipline...we're still getting there. I feel blessed that we've been given an easy-going kid that listens, but he definitely still has his moments. Like, spitting for example. (blowing raspberries). Yuck. I hate this. Scotty has figured out that if he spits in the house, it's right to time-out. But if he spits in the car while I'm driving, I'm powerless to stop him. (car = Switzerland). So he LOVES to blow raspberries as I plow along, and I'm usually rewarded with an arm covered in baby drool. Fun.

-- I haven't even touched potty-training yet. Nope, not going there.

All in all, year 2 was a LOT more fun than 0 to 1. There were just fewer changes, which is a blessing. We don't have to cart around bottles, a breast pump, a floor mat, and worry about his sleep schedule. This is like Wash-n-Wear Bear, and I love it. He does travel with an entourage (bad move on our part; currently in his posse are Bulldog puppy, Blue doggie, Big doggie, Froggie, and Baby Bear. Ever packed a suitcase of just stuffed animals? I have), but that's about it. No special food, no special plastic-molded crap. Just diapers and stuffed animals and the occasional sippy cup.

So...life is good. For all you new parents (Krista!!!), enjoy this time because it does go quickly. For all you experienced parents, keep up the good work. As for Brian and I, we're just happy to sit back and enjoy the ride. For now. :-)

I know, I keep making these blogging promises like, "Oh, I'll write more tomorrow!" and then I go radio-silence for two weeks.

I have good reasons, trust me.

Let's start with The Sage; this is the quarterly Junior League publication that I am (inexplicably) in charge of. It's taken over my life. I didn't know it at the time, but I essentially signed on for a full-time job while still working as a full-time childcare provider/domestic engineer/domestic goddess. It's incredibly difficult to type/take calls/edit when you have a two-year banging on the key board or dropping the "o-Pad" on his foot. (yes, Scotty calls it an o-Pad. I hope Steve Jobs never reads this.) The Sage drama has gotten to a point where Brian actually bought me ground sage from the grocery store as a joke (and I promptly choked when I took it out of the bag). I'm not sleeping well, either. I keep telling myself, "It'll be over on [X] date," but that date keeps getting pushed back.

Quite frankly, with all of the writing/emailing/typing that I'm doing for this publication, blogging is about the last thing on my mind.

And I also inexplicably (second time in three paragraphs I've used the word "inexplicable"...it's been a long day) signed up for the Vegas half-marathon. Not that big of a deal, as I did the Indy one nine years ago, until I realized that I totally winged the Indy one because I was TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD and could do those kinds of things. As my thirty-third birthday quickly approaches, I realized the joints are tad more achy and the legs don't move like they used to. So I started going to 6am boot camp sessions (one word: awesome) and was supposed to run a 5K this weekend. Key words in that sentence: supposed to.

With the Sage drama enveloping me and the fear of a 5K looming, I did the only thing a girl in my position could: I went out.

So last Friday night, I ditched the cell phone and the running shoes and drank Veuve Clicquot at the Cosmopolitan until the wee hours of the night. 'Cause when times get tough, the tough drink really expensive champagne in an attempt to hide from their problems.

And you know what? It worked.

Saturday was spent blissfully playing with bop-bops and Leggos. We left the house only to grab dinner (deep-dish pizza with pepperoni and black olives. Not surprisingly, Scotty LOVES black olives. This is my child, after all.) And by Sunday, I was ready to face the world again. I ran, did laundry, and made some executive decisions about this publication.

So I'm happy to report I am still here. I'm even happier to report that the Sage should be done this week (fingers crossed...), allowing me more time to write about important things, like the big Bop-Bop Bash and why I like Alcide more than Erik. So, stay tuned. I swear, I'll be back this week! 

This entry is dedicated to my mom and my sister.

Because I'm a fall birthday, I started high school at the tender age of 12. While this is an awkward time for most, I was no exception. Braces, glasses, weird hair, and hand-me-downs from my sister did nothing for me. My hot-mess geek status was magnified by the fact I tested out of most of the freshman-year courses offered and was subsequently sent to live among the sophomores. And these sophomores, who hailed from nicer, more affluent suburbs than my own, were smooth, polished, and well-spoken.

It was a disaster, to say the least. And a total nightmare for 12-year old me.

The worst was study hall. Two sophomores by the names of Tim* and Ken* took great pleasure in torturing me for 42 minutes a day. I saw them during 3rd period Geometry and both sat behind me during 4th period study hall. Maybe it was my appearance or maybe it was my age, but they believed I somehow held all the right answers in math class and therefore they had the right to want/need/demand my homework.  Constantly. When I refused, the teasing started.

Like any good bully, they lived for my reaction. It went from mild teasing in study hall to actually seeking me out between classes. They liked to yell my name, watch me blush, and use all kinds of play-on-words with my last name. My heart sunk every time I saw these two. It was like the Gruesome Twosome and I hated their very existence.

Something clicked in my brain, however, when freshman year ended. Relieved to be away from them for summer break, I spent my time earning money by transplanting plants and flowers out of my grandma's garden and mowing lawns in my neighborhood. I earned enough money to purchase contacts. A week late, I got my braces off. My mom paid for me to have a nice haircut, and I started paying attention to the way I dressed.

Now, it's not exactly the stuff that romantic comedies are made of. There was no montage set to music and I certainly was no glamour-puss at the end. My appearance made me simply more accepted in general society and no longer a fashion pariah. But the best was returning to school in the fall and seeing Ken and Tim's faces the first time they saw me. Oh, they still teased - but the teasing took on a much more gentle, almost flirtatious tone.  They weren't jumping out at me from dark corners and cackling my last name for all to hear. And by my junior year, there was no more teasing at all. Just nice smiles and sheepish grins. There was loose talk that both wanted to ask me to prom, and though it never materialized, it was delicious and satisfying and still makes me smile to this day. 

Boo-ya.

I learned an important lesson at an early age:

Living well is the best revenge.

After the disaster that was our wedding in 2006, similar feelings of despair flooded me. I was simply in shock that everything I had worked so hard to do - 22 months worth of planning and tens of thousands of dollars of our own money - was destroyed at the hands of one person in the span of several moments. What was worse was that person took no responsibility for their actions, offered no apology, and actually had the nerve to attack us - again and again. What happened next can only be called the Greatest War Fought Over Email ever, and it tore me apart. I started having panic attacks, I had trouble sleeping, and began to fear for my physical safety. I lived in my head most of the time, wondering when the next howler would arrive in my inbox, and it was torture. Pure torture.

After about seven months of this, again, something clicked in my head. I just got fed up with feeling afraid. I told myself I can't let this person ruin my life or my marriage, and while I can't control their actions, I can control mine. So I quit my government job, repainted our entire house, and opened a private practice. I started working less, cooking more, and enjoying life again. And as I reminded myself during the entire year that was 2007...

Living well is the best revenge.

Now, I'm in a similar place. I thought I was doing okay after my father's passing, but I happened to notice at the gym the other day that I was going twice as fast - at a higher resistance - on my elliptical than anyone else around me. Where was this frantic, frenetic pace coming from? Why was I pushing myself? What am I running from?

It made me think about the last two months. I've had this insatiable urge to purge everything from our house. I want to clean every single closet, organize the garage, and ensure there is not a single weed in our lawn (a futile effort, I'm discovering.) No fork is out of place, no hanger is turned the wrong way, and by god, every label will be facing forward in my fridge. (which is cleaned and polished, thank you very much.)

Ditto for Junior League work. Every day during nap time, I throw myself at the computer and work for a solid two to three hours. I don't want to stop. I want to create a fantastic newsletter. I want to increase community awareness for our projects. I want to make others proud, and in doing it, I'm logging about 15-20 hours a week. I'm exhausted, cranky, but something inside of me is pushing me to go further.

(I'm sure my committee members are just delighted to read they are part of my latent grief reaction. Sorry, ladies.)

When it comes down to it, I'm pushing and pushing and pushing myself because of one reason: I'm pissed off. I'm mad at the Universe. I'm mad that my dad was only 60 when he passed away. I'm angry that forces beyond my control saw it fit to take a kind, loving, generous man from his family while other douche-bags walk around, totally healthy. I'm pissed that my mom is suffering. I'm angry that there are no easy answers to any of this.

In short, I'm just plain old pissed off.

Hell, I painted my toes blue. A tribute to my dad, but also a proverbial middle finger to the Universe. You want to take my dad? Fine; I'll rebel. I'm not going to conform and be appropriate; I'm going to paint my damn toes blue.

(Yes, I recognize this is a very quiet, very geeky way to rebel. Next, I will likely get a tattoo or something. Except I hate tattoos, so that will never happen.)

Most mental health professionals would tell you that anger is the processed carb of emotions - it's quick and easy, but in end, you are left still hungry and vaguely unsettled. I get it. I know there is a short shelf life for this behavior. But at the same time, as I looked around the gym that day, I started tallying up what I've done in two months. I've lost eight pounds. The newsletter is on par to be a great publication that may hopefully increase community awareness of our projects. My house is a testament to organization.

So really, it's not all bad.

Because if the Universe wants to take my dad, I'll fight back.

Living well is the best revenge.


*real names; I will not protect the guilty

I know, I know.

Y'all are mad.

Okay, I get it. I'm sorry. I disappeared for almost two weeks without a word. But I'm back and ready to blog again.

I actually didn't go anywhere (except Minnesota, but that was just for a weekend); I've simply been consumed by THE SAGE. It's a long story and I'll tell it. One day.

(FYI: The Sage is the quarterly publication for the Junior League of Las Vegas. It's a sweet little newsletter that is around 8-12 pages. In typical Kim-style, however, as chair, I've managed to a.) fatigue my committee members to the point of exhaustion and b.) push everything to the max under the faulty belief that the Sage is up for the next Pulitzer. And so at my command, our little newsletter exploded from 8 pages to almost 30. As I sheepishly told the president last week, "I think we inadvertently created a magazine." Thankfully, she laughed.)

(Yes, I'm totally putting a link in the blog when it's published. Word!)

So anyways, no fear. I'm here, just a little swamped at the moment. I have a lot to talk about, too - the Royal Birthday Party, the double birthday party, Ashley picked JP, Ashley's sister is really Kat VonD, Sookie and Eric are actually kind of annoying, in a sickly-sweet way, and oh yeah, I've declared war on the Universe.

Stay tuned! 

Mike Tyson says, "Be sure to read Kim's blog!"

Thanks, yo.

I don't know if you heard, but there was a full moon last night.

In Bon Temps, of course. Not in our world - the real world - but in the world where werewolves, vampires, fairies, and were-panthers exist.

Yes, Charlaine Harris has pushed the boundaries of what most people are willing to accept, and Alan Ball is going along with it.

Spoiler alert: there will be a were-tiger, too. Just FYI.

Enough about the were-animals (as my were-toddler sleeps peacefully) - let's get on with this review. It's going to be short, as I don't know when the were-toddler will wake, so time is of the essence.

Okay...

In this episode, we learned that Tommy gained the ability to shift into another human form as a result of his parents' murder. He became Sam for the day, and enjoyed all of the perks of Sam's life: he fired Sookie, flirted with some girls at the bar, and met up with that werewolf chick (what's her name?) He made her feel crummy and kicked her out post-hook-up, but then fate played a joke on him: he puked. (eek! not more puke! I almost hurled, too.) Sam ended up finding Tommy lying face down on the floor in his own vomit. I'm not sure if this a side effect of human shifting, or that maybe Tommy was just hitting the free liquor in Sam's office a little too hard during the day. Either way, I wouldn't be devastated if the character didn't make it.

Bill has quite the mess on his hands. He interrupted Eric and Sookie's make-out session to arrest everyone's favorite vampire, only to have Sookie call him out on it. Bill also lost one of his guards to Marnie/Antonia's witch-y influence after the guard recognized her in her cell. See, the guard was actually a priest back in the day (a bad priest), and he and Antonia go way back. Way, way back - like, 1610 back. He escaped the true death since he was out of town, but once he figured out Antonia was inhabiting Marnie's body, he went down there to have some words with her. But Marnie/Antonia didn't let him. She (they?) flashed a hand gesture, did some incantations, and - aw, snap! - Mr. Priest-Turned-Bill's-Guard was on his knees. Looks like this Marnie/Antonia chick is getting stronger by the day.

Back to Bill. He was all befuddled about the Sookie stuff. It's clear he still loves her, but she did have a point - he's sticking his fangs into whatever he wants these days, and yet she can't move on? And is Eric Northman really a danger to...anyone? No, not likely. So while Bill had to make the decision about what to do with Eric, Sookie went to help her brother.

I love Jason. I do. I think he's hilarious. This whole "am I a were-panther?" bit was priceless. He's just so darn sweet, and while he didn't want to accept his fate, at least he and Sookie had some nice sibling time together. Jason fled to the forest after Sookie ran to fetch him another beer, but Jessica trailed him, as they now share blood. I don't see this storyline ending well for Hoyt. There are obvious sparks, and considering the state of the Jessica-Hoyt union, I think Jess might make the first move. But how nice was it that Jason actually used his head for the first time in his whole life, and promptly left the forest, as to avoid any kind of temptation with Jessica?

Oh, and FYI: he's not a were-panther. Insert a tempered breathe of relief. (he was kind of hoping to be a little special).

Speaking of unsteady unions, Alcide and Debbie Pelt continue to struggle. She joined a pack behind his back and despite his protests, he agreed to go to the shifting meeting with her. They, of course, run into Sookie in the woods, since she didn't respect the full moon and stay home that night. Debbie utters the best line ever: "I know she didn't just compare us to cats." Big thanks to the writers for making very clear all of the "rules" of shifters - for those who haven't read this books, this show must feel like it's jumped the shark. The explanations were helpful, if not a little overused.

Now in Mexico, Jesus and Layfayette were trying to get back into the good graces of Jesus' abuelo. Like any loving grandfather, he sent them into the woods to kill an animal as a sacrifice. Layfayette was thisclose to being done with the whole abuelo thing when a rattlesnake slithered by. Couldn't they have found a ground squirrel? The pregnant lady locked them in a room, the grandfather let the snake bite Jesus, and Layfayette channeled a spirit. I'm not sure how the spirit saved Jesus, but it did. Uh...okay. Problem solved. But again, I ask: ground squirrel? Far less poisonous.

Tara stayed in Bon Temps and reunited with her girlfriend. After a nice day visiting the local haunts, they were approached by Pam, who based on the previews, attacks them. Again, I'm just guessing here, but I think Lesbian Cagefighter Girlfriend dies, as Tara is now ready to join the witches' side. Can't Tara get a break? Move far away from the South. I'm thinking...Canada. Good luck, Tara.

Arlene and Terry's house blew up, but thankfully, everyone made it out alive. This includes baby Mikey AND the creepy doll. Once again, who started the fire - the baby, the doll, or someone else? And how did Mikey get out of his crib and on the lawn so quickly? I don't know about you, but I have two words for Arlene and Terry: crib tent.

Obviously, I've saved the best for last. Bill, in his mercy, decides to pardon Eric. Pam is also set free (yay for no silly jail break scene!) to wreak havoc on Tara and her girlfriend. And while Sookie is trampling around in the woods - it was a full moon, did you know? - she runs smack into everyone's favorite Viking. Hooray! Cue the smooch and the big love scene. And what a scene it was.

Now I just have to say, my favorite comment I heard after last night's episode was this: today at music lessons, my friend Deana and her mom were talking about it. Her mom says, "Did you notice how hairy Eric's legs are?" And Deana and I both burst into laughter and say at the same time, "We weren't looking at his legs!"

Hahahahaha. Thank you, Alan Ball.

More Eric, please.