Something momentous happened on Wednesday.

I turned 23.

For the 10th year in a row.

(::giggles::)

To be honest, I was dreading my birthday this year. With all of the events of this summer, I was just not in a celebratory mood. A few friends had asked me if I wanted to go out and grab a birthday drink, and I promptly turned them down. The thing was, I just wasn't sure how I was going to be feeling. And the last thing I wanted to do was schedule a big night out only to have me crying uncontrollably and completely ruining the whole thing.

(The Strip lights have been hard to look at lately. My dad loved the Strip, and on the night we were at the Cosmopolitian with Uncle Jay, I had forgotten about this until I was comfortably laying in a chaise lounge by the pool. One glance at the Paris and Bellagio signs and I melted into a puddle of Kim. Not good. Kind of makes for an awkward night for everyone involved. Especially when I forget to wear waterproof mascara.)

So I made the decision to avoid the Strip at night. Except the next General Membership meeting for Junior League was being held at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay.

At night.

On my birthday.

And I had to speak for my committee.

Really?

It was kind of one of the those one-two punches where I was like, "How am I going to get out of this one?" but kept coming up with no answer. I had missed the last GM in June. I didn't want to send another proxy.

And so I sucked it up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and declined every invitation to celebrate my birthday that night. Because who knows how I was going to feel? I figured I would just keep my head down and go to bed early. No harm, no foul.

Besides, my dad has always sent me flowers on my birthday for every year I've been alive. He never missed a year. Ever. The idea of not getting flowers because of my dad's passing was like a total sucker punch, right in the gut. that took the wind right out of me.

Quite honestly, if the opportunity arose, I would have cancelled the whole day altogether.

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday morning only to find my forehead wrinkle to be bigger and deeper than ever. (I've been talking about my forehead wrinkle forever; it's the one right between my eyebrows. If I could, I would Botox that sucker into oblivion.) And on the morning of my 33rd birthday, my forehead wrinkle seemed to be mocking me, making it known that I wasn't getting any younger and future would be filled with fancy creams and injectables. Yay. Break out the balloons.

I was incredibly grumpy by the time I poured myself my first cup of coffee. Brian brightened the morning by giving me three of my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery (Retro Bakery!) with candles in them. Scotty sat in his chair, clapping and shouting, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" The gloom from the rain and my giant forehead wrinkle seemed to feel a little less heavy, though I wasn't sure what I was going to do all morning.

By 8am, I had my answer.

A loud knock on the front door revealed my very silly friend Deana, thrusting a giant cup of Starbucks coffee in my face, shouting, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Her kids were in the car, Courtney was on her way over, and according to them, I was off for the morning. They had booked me a mani-pedi at the local nail place, a blow-out with my stylist, and were on Bear-duty for the rest of the day.

Me? I was speechless.

Let me tell you, that forehead wrinkle didn't seem to be that big of a deal at this point. Ditto for the rain.

With a little convincing, I managed to stay for a bit of a play date with the girls (presents! Cards! Coffee!) and then head to the gym to get my miles in (this marathon isn't going to run itself.) Then it was back home to feed Scotty, put him down, and oh yeah, did I mention they had called the sitter to come an hour early, allowing me to make it to my hair appointment on time?

By 3pm, my nails were polished ("Ibiza" by Zoya on the toes, "Second Honeymoon" by OPI on the hands) and my hair was a bouncy, shiny cascade of curls. I joined Deana while she was getting her haircut, and the two of us sat there, sipping Pinot Noir and giggling. We changed into our nicer clothes for the meeting and headed to Mandalay Bay. I felt like a saucy, glammed-up version of my normal self. The shiny, Spanx-d kind.

Dawn, Deana's co-chair and a member of our provisional class, met us in the parking garage, with Popcorn Girl popcorn for me (swoon!) and champagne for all of us. Seriously? I felt like I was back in college, without a care in the world, as I sipped my Vevue Cliquot, except in college, there was no expensive champagne, no Cole Haan kitten heels, and no leaning against an adorable Mercedes convertible in a giant casino parking garage. But you know what? If this is what 33 looks like, count me in.

The meeting went great, I managed to not vomit on the microphone or trip over my new handbag (a birthday present from Brian, what I can only call "The Purse that Will Never Be a Diaper Bag," since all of my other purses seemed to have morphed into matchbox car-carrying, diaper-stashing bags.) I don't know if it was all the champagne, but I couldn't stop grinning. Even the sight of the Las Vegas skyline, lit up against the night sky, did not upset me. I felt great. I felt happy. I felt...excited.

And so five of us headed to Fleur for a quick birthday dinner after the meeting, and surprisingly, my heart did not hurt a bit. There were no tears on the horizon. Nancy purchased a mini-bottle of Vevue Cliquot to split (again, what is up with all of this great bubbly? Where has it been all my life?) and just as the croque monseuirs were arriving...

...so did a certain silver-haired Bravo TV Top Chef judge and contestant.

Be still my beating heart. It was Hubert Keller.

If you've read this blog, you know that I've been talking about Chef Keller for years. YEARS. And there were a few near missed for he and I over the years. The one time Brian and I were there for dinner, and he was there, but did not approach our table. Or the other time we saw him getting out of the parking garage elevator with his wife and we waved but he didn't hear us. Or the many, many times I've attempted to stalk him at the Burger Bar with my cute, camera-ready child in tow.

And then on all nights, with absolutely no pre-planning or pre-thought on my part, he just walked out of the shadows and up to our table and asked us if we were enjoying our meal.

I have no idea what my face looked like, but everyone started laughing hysterically at me. Apparently the first words out of my mouth were, "Hubert Keller! I LOVE YOU!" and I popped out of the booth and started vigorously shaking his hands.

Yup, that was me. Cool as a cucumber.

Thankfully, he was very good-natured about it and posed for a few pictures. (I even managed to touch his little ponytail...it's as soft and beautiful as he is.) He came back to our table a second time and asked if we had ordered dessert yet. Sonnya told him it was my birthday and without hesitation, he told us he would be happy to have our server make us Fleur's signature dessert, a fogado, tableside. I also told him we had an empty spot if he wanted to join us, but he politely declined.

Bummer.

Honestly, it was such a great night. It was so overwhelming and wonderful and exciting. The a fogado was made with liquid nitrogen (a nod to Richard Blaise, perhaps?) and was totally delicious. It reminded me of Ireland. I don't think I stopped talking about Chef Keller the whole night, either. I was still talking about it by the time I arrived home and Brian greeted me (Dawn had texted him a picture of the two of us.)

Amazing? Absolutely. And the whole day - not just the Hubert Keller part - was perfect, start to finish. For what could have been a really tough day, I'm happy to say my friends made it into something extraordinary. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, I didn't even notice my forehead wrinkle, mainly because the laugh lines around my mouth were so much deeper.

But those are wrinkles I will gladly take.

Editor's note: I wrote this entry on Tuesday morning, the day after this happened. The big birthday celebration of Wednesday will be chronicled in tomorrow's post. I would have written about it today, but I chose to sleep on the couch instead. Mmm, naptime.

Ever feel badly about your parenting abilities?

Pull up a seat. I'm about to make you feel a whole lot better.

On Monday night, Scotty and I decided to hit Town Square for a little shopping and dinner. Brian was working late, we had nothing else going on, and dining "a deux" seemed like the perfect activity for Mother and Bear. So I packed the kid up and we headed out after his afternoon nap.

We did a little browsing, a little shopping. I bought a shirt at the Gap ($11.20! I love a good deal). I considered buying this cute dress. I almost bought some new earrings. Scotty patiently pushed his stroller while I browsed. My game plan was to hit the park in the middle of the mall, grab a quick dinner out, and arrive home perfectly in time for the bath.

Except I forgot the water fountains were still on at the park...which made my carefully organized plan a complete and total mess. A sopping wet mess, actually.

See, Town Square has this great water area that is great for toddlers. All you have to do is hit a button, and water gushes up from the ground. It's great for when the temperature is hovering near 120 degrees and you are in your swimsuit.

I, however, did not pack a suit. Or a swim diaper.

But I really did not think it would matter. Our little Bear has been water-adverse for quite some time. Likewise, I thought the water was turned off at the park since the temp is now in the low 90s (a bona fide cold front for us desert dwellers.) 

Not so.

Instead, I sat on the bench at the park, unleashed the Bear (metaphorically-speaking) and watched a full-clothed Scotty run straight to the water like he was a little salmon. He was actually sticking his face into the spouts, allowing water to gush all over him, and squealing with joy. My friend (and fellow committee member) Leah just happened to be at the park,  and came strolling up with her son and husband. She took one look at me sitting motionless on the bench, and then a long look at Scotty and said, "What are you going to do about this?"

I just sat there. "Not sure," I said.

"Why didn't you take his clothes off before he got in the water?" she asked.

"Don't know." I said. My brain had kind of turned off at that point.

I mean, I had two options: cart around a nude baby or cart around a dripping wet baby. It wasn't warm enough to attempt to dry his clothes in the sun, and it wasn't warm enough to walk around sopping wet. Not to mention, I still had to stop at Whole Foods for a few items (namely, my favorite salad dressing that I can only find at Whole Foods), so we couldn't even make a mad dash to the car, wet and/or naked. 

So...I chose option #3:

After allowing him to splash to his heart's content, I pulled Scott from the water, attempted to dry him off with my hands, did an impromtu diaper change right there on the bench, and then swaddled him in my new Gap t-shirt.

Best $11.20 I've ever spent.

When I told Brian the story, he wasn't especially pleased that our child is cross-dressing at the tender age of 2, but what's a mom to do?

Personally, I thought he looked rather handsome in my shirt. All he needed as a snakeskin leather cuff and maybe some feather earrings. He was like the Lafayette of toddlers. I half expected him to shake his wrist at me and crow, "Aw, snap!" as we drove along, but thankfully, he just pointed out all of the construction trucks on the side of the road.

...and so it begins.

Brian and I took our first tour of a potential preschool for Scott this morning.

Overwhelming was not the right word.

Intimidating? Exciting? Awesome? Kind of sad for me, since my days with the Bear will be coming to an end? (in like 12 months, I know, but that will go by in a flash.)

It was just a lot to take in. And despite the fact that we are still a year away from any kind of real schooling, I feel like we're already behind.

The lovely administrator we met with, as we walked the 35-acre lush campus, was quick to point out their admissions are highly competitive. Scotty will have to pass an assessment prior to admission and (gulp) will need to be fully potty-trained. I have no doubt the kid will excel with Playdoh sculpting and reciting the alphabet, but going poo-poo in the potty?

We're still months away from that.

Mainly because I haven't started yet, but now the clock is ticking. Twelve months to go...

The whole scene felt like that episode of Modern Family where Cameron and Mitchell look at schools for Lily. One of the reasons that show is so entertaining to us is because Brian and I are Cameron and Mitchell, right down to Cameron's love of flower arrangements and bossiness about event planning. We treat Scotty the same way they treat Lily - like he's going to break - and have that same parental-neurosis that happens when there is only one child in the home.

The only problem? We're not a gay couple, and our child is not adopted, which means we need to find an angle to work to ensure our kid gets into a good school.

I mean, this school was awesome. No child ever brings their lunch, as a professional chef is on staff. The cafeteria boasts real silverware, a salad bar, and nary a vending machine or soda machine in sight. The students are exposed to Spanish, French, Latin and Mandarin Chinese in fourth grade, and then pick a language to "major" in for fifth grade and beyond. The grounds were immaculate, the children were adorable, and in the three-year old class, all of them sat still as statues as snacks were passed out. Did I mention the computer lab was lined with giant, super-sleek Macs?

I'm not sure this is the right school for us (Brian and I would likely have to sell a kidney just to cover tuition), but it was fun to see how the other half lives.

We have another tour at another school set up in October, and then a third one after that. I'm hoping between the three, we will find the right school for Scott. Because despite the opulence and grandeur of this school, our Bear is still our Bear. And at one point during the tour, I looked over and found him licking a park bench.

At least he didn't swear, talk about the "pimp car," or poop during the tour.

Small blessings.

Spoiler Alert!! Do not read if you did not see last night's episode!

How in the world is True Blood already over for this season? I feel like it was just yesterday that Lorena was trying to kill Sookie and Sookie didn't even know she was a fairy.

Now, Lorena is nothing but a distant memory and Sookie finally saved the day with her fairy powers. Well, together with a little Morton's table salt, but at least she redeemed herself.

I know, I know, I kind of lost everyone in the middle of the season by not blogging about the last few episodes. So in order to catch us up to speed, let me offer this summary:

Eric got his memory back during the Tolerance Vampire-Meeting thing, just as he was about to kill Bill. Marnie had crashed the event with a couple of fangers that she had put a spell on, after trying her hand at necromancy for several days. The vamps knew about it, though, and had chained themselves to their beds during the day time. Jessica almost wasn't so lucky and came thisclose to meeting the True Death, but Jason was on hand to save her. (swoon.) It turns out the creepy baby plot was all in an effort to let us know what Lafayette is really a medium, and the woman whose house Hoyt and Jessica used to inhabit (before they broke up) was her house, and she had lost her baby, hence why she was wandering the earth aimlessly. She stopped bugging Mikey (and Terry and Arlene) as soon as Lafayette and Jesus cleared up the situation, leaving Tara plenty of time to hang out with Marnie. Problem is, Marnie kind of lost it somewhere along the way, and decided to hold all of her witch apprentices hostage in the Moon Goddess Emporium, even after Antoinette (the witch within) said "Sayonara, Marnie." Sookie, of course, got caught up with this, necessitating a rescue by Eric and Bill (working on the same team for once), while Sam and Alcide took care of Marcus. And speaking of bad dudes, Marcus managed to kidnap his child,  cheat with Debbie Pelt, and kill Tommy. So that means Luna, Alcide, and Sam all had a bone to pick with the pack leader. It was Alcide who delivered the death blow, leaving little Emma without a father, but at least Sam and Luna can now date, free of worry.

Oh, and Terry got Andy off of V.

Did I miss anything?

Whoops - Marnie was shot and killed when Bill and Eric rescued the apprentice witches. She then promptly moved into Lafayette's body, and that's where we meet the characters for the season finale.

Lafayette, with Marnie at the helm, then proceeds to stab Jesus with a fork over breakfast. Ouch. That's going to leave a mark.

Marnie/Layfayette then tortured Jesus (big frownie face here) to the point of stabbing him in the gut. Yup, that's about it for Jesus. He had kind of grown on me over the season, and I was sad to see him go. Marnie/Lafayette, fresh with Jesus' "dark magic," got to work on tying up Bill and Eric with the idea of burning them at the stake. She almost succeeded, had it not been for the quick-thinking Holly, armed with her "witches' first aid kit," complete with an entire shaker of salt, to conjure up the dead and draw a protective circle around Bill and Eric. Sookie shot a few lightening bolts out of her hands, and pretty soon, Marnie was being pulled from Lafayette's body by Adele Stackhouse, Sookie's deceased grandmother.

As I just typed that last paragraph, my only thought was, "What kind of crap am I watching on TV?"

But yet, it's so good. Salt, witches, lightening bolts be damned.

I like True Blood.

Back to the plot. I loved the few pop culture references Alan Ball and the writers wove in ("Zombies are the new vampire, didn't you hear?" a clear reference to AMC's 'The Walking Dead,' and of course, Arlene's daughter dressed up as a girl from MTV's Teen Mom 2. Love it.)  Rene came back to warn Arlene about "the ghost of Terry's past" after a fellow solider came back into Terry's life. Isn't that dude from "Felicity"? What's his name? And he is way too pretty/clean to last very long in Bon Temps.

The only thing I'm going to say about Jessica and Jason: I predict the sale of Little Red Riding Hood costumes is going to sky-rocket.

Sookie had a heart-to-heart with Bill and Eric after the whole fire pit thing, and I felt like for a second I was watching the Bachelorette hand out the final rose. Is it Bill or Eric?? But alas, after telling each one what she loved about them, along with what she didn't, Sookie took the Brad Womack approach (the first time around, not the second) and said "No thanks" to both. Maybe because Alcide (swoon!) was hitting on her at Merlotte's earlier? He and Debbie were dunzo, after all. And if the TV show follows the books at all...well, there should be some sparks on the horizon.

Alcide had to go take care of a situation in a parking garage (Russell Edgington is back!), Eric and Bill finally staked a very whiny Nan, and Sookie headed home for the night. Except....she was not alone. Confronted by Debbie Pelt and a very large shotgun, Sookie looked like she was toast...until Tara pushed her out of the way. Tara took a rather large shotgun blast to the head (nooooooooooooo!) before an enraged Sookie turned the gun on Debbie and blew her head off. Violent, much?

Geez.

Anyways, that about sums it up. Does Tara survive? Is Russell really back? How long are Eric and Bill going to remain buddies? And what is in store for a potential romance for Sookie and Alcide?

'Til next season, friends.

A strange thing is going on today...

...I'm not quite sure what to write about.

I thought about posting pics from the (many) birthday parties in August, but with 9/11 on Sunday, it just doesn't seem right. I thought about talking about the Category 5 Tantrum that Scotty had this morning while at a craft show, complete with kicking, hitting, and screaming, but I really don't want to. (I'm still exhausted from dragging the little Bear out by his hand while suffering the many, many looks of disapproval from the older women in attendance. It was a like a Critical Grandmother Convention).

So while I tend to my physical wounds from this morning, I thought I'd share some interesting ideas I heard on the Today Show from earlier this week.

Thomas Friedman, the columnist for the New York Times, recently came out with a new book with co-author Michael Mandelbaum titled, "That Used to Be Us." The title is taken from one of President Obama's speeches in which he was commenting on the fact that China now has the fastest super computer in the world, and Singapore's infrastructure is now superior to the United States. "That used to be us," he said, and I think it echoes with familiarity to all of us. We used to be the leader. We were top of the heap. Big Dawg.

What happened?

I have not bought the book (yet), but Friedman and Mandelbaum go on to describe the five tenets that make a country a superpower - the same five pillars that this country was founded on. Things like excellent transportation systems and government-funded research. Education for everyone to the highest level attainable. That kind of thing. And then, in Friedman's interview with Ann Curry, he went on to talk about sustainable values (lifelong, inherent, and applicable regardless of time and position) versus situational values (flexible, fluid, and only applied when necessary). Due to the rise in situational values, we've seen this country make bad decision after bad decision (adjustable rate mortgages, anyone?), leaving us saying, "...that used to be us." 

This caught my attention because the sustainable values are ones that I'd like to aspire to, and ones that I believe others can as well. So I want to share them with you, and let me know what you think. I feel as though it is good food-for-thought on the 9/11 weekend. Happy Friday, everyone.

1.) Think like an immigrant.

It's a new world out there - you need to learn, listen, and expect adversity. Adversity is not a bad thing; it will help you grow. But expect hard times while working toward the good ones.

2.) Nothing is owed to you; you need to work for it.

I LOVE THIS ONE.

This makes me think about marathon training. No one is going to just give me stuff -- it's my job to work for it. Miles are not going to run themselves. My legs aren't going to suddenly develop muscles overnight. If I want to run and finish a half (or maybe full, one day) marathon, it's up to me and me alone to train. If I skip a training day, the only person who suffers is, well, me. And that kind of sucks, so I'm not skipping any days.

3.) Think like an artisan: create, craft, develop and master.

This makes me think about Junior League. There is literally SO much going on in the organization, and so many places to make a real impact. So far, the reception for the Sage has been really positive. I feel as though my committee managed to take what was a tedious, time-intensive task and re-frame it into a much more positive, productive light, and something with real value. We had - and still have - the ability to really develop and produce a fantastic piece of literature for members and donors alike. The first issue is done; three to go. And I hope the each one continues to top the previous.

(and no, I did not get arrested at the post office on Wednesday, but I did make some new friends and learn a lot. I am also instituting the first ever JLLV "Bulk Mailing Training Program" to avoid bulk-mailing snafus in the future.)

4.) Bring something extra to the table; carve your initials in your work and be proud of it.

This is something that is definitely a sustainable value. Whether it's marathon training, Junior League, or just making dinner, I really do want to bring something extra to the table. It makes me think about my committee member Jessica, who hand-delivered the final copy of the Sage to my door at 9:30 at night. She didn't have to; she did it because she wanted to and she had pride in her work. These kinds of values have deep roots, and I just know Jess is (and continue to be) a total super star.

5.) Average is not good enough.

Now having been a new member in several different groups, it's fascinating to watch group dynamics. I think about the runners on Hill Day and how people tackle the (insanely hard) work-out. The go-getters take on the hills without so much as a peep, and the rest sit there and guffaw and moan. Part of me (having been in the guffawing group more times than I can count) thinks I'm spending more energy whining about the run, than actually running up the hill. I'm trying to stay focused on the idea that just getting up the hill is not good enough; I need to do it better than I did last time. I don't care what the guy next to me is doing; I'm only concentrating on my performance, and improving on that. And you know what? Hill Day is becoming something I enjoy, mainly because I'm getting better at it (slowly). With achievement comes self-confidence and worth. And if I can tackle hills at 6am, who says I can't tackle (metaphorically-speaking) a Category 5 Tantrum Bear?

Just please, no whining.

Our little Bear has turned into a parrot.

This is good and bad. Good because he is talking up a storm and cracking us up on a daily basis. Bad because...well, clearly Brian and I have some serious work to do regarding our own clever choice of words.

It started on Sunday morning as Scotty and I traversed down the stairs. He wobbled a bit on the top step, steadied himself, and then exclaimed, "Dammit!" My mouth dropped open. He then made his way down all seventeen stairs (and two landings), cursing each step with another terse "Dammit!"

I immediately shot Brian a dirty look that said, "I blame you for this."

He shrugged and plead innocent.

Then on Monday, Scotty was putting together one of his wooden puzzle. When the piece didn't line up correctly, he threw the piece down and shouted, "God dammit!"

Oh holy Jesus.

I can't tell if he's feeding off our reaction of complete and total horror, or he simply does not know what he's saying, but Scotty is up to swearing about 15-20 times a day by now. I'm trying really hard to not react when he starts cursing, but it's so hard. On one hand, it's one of those cringe-inducing parenting moments when you're like, "Don't let the neighbors hear him!" On the other hand, it's downright hysterical. And then there is that lingering thought in the back of my mind of "How do I stop this without making it into a big deal...all out of earshot of the neighbors?"

Haven't figured it out yet.

These new curse words add to a litany of additional "OMG he's going to get kicked out of preschool before he even starts" fears. For example, Scotty has this little car; it's purple and gold with flames on the side. Quite rightly, Brian and I call it the "pimp car." We thought we were being silly well out of hearing distance from the Bear, but nope. Just other day, he ran up to me with that car in his hand and shouted, "Pimp car! Pimp car! Momb, pimp car!"

Um...

And don't even get me started on how he pronounces the name of Thomas the Train's best friend. His name is Percy, in case you don't know.

Just let your mind wander for a minute...roll the 'r'...soften it...

Yup, that's how he says it.

We're totally getting kicked out of preschool.

I attempted to have a little talk with our Bear, but it didn't go so well. I told him very calmly, after he had sworn 'God dammit!" for the up-teenth time that day, "No Scotty, we don't use that word. We don't say that." He looked at me with his big blues and with total sincerity (and confusion) said, "No dammit? No dammit?" I tried to not laugh (again), but man, this is rough.

So now he walks down the stairs saying, "No dammit. No dammit."

::sigh::

I figure I'll do what every good parent does: if I can't extinguish the behavior, I'm just going to spin it.

"Oh, what? He said what? No, no...see, we had a leak in our sink. I called the plumber and asked him to dam it...that's all. Dam it. Dam the leak. Nothing sinister going on over here. Haha, where is your mind going?"

...please know the suitcase was just full of paper.

Approximately 236 newsletters, to be exact.

3,304 sheets of paper, 472 staples, and who knows how many pounds of glossy, fabulous, Junior League information.

Today is Bulk Mailing Day, and I fear I'm going to be arrested.

Can you even bring a suitcase into a post office?

I don't know what else to do. I don't have a box big enough, and whatever I use, it needs to have wheels. I had originally thought of stuffing the baby stroller (sans baby) with the newsletters, but then Brian suggested a suitcase. We both kind of looked at each other like, "Well...I guess that would work."

And so we stuffed the Samsonite and called it a night.

I just really don't want to get arrested. Brian was joking with me that his role as First Man of the Communications Committee does not extend into free legal work, so he should not be my only phone call from the Big House. That leaves my mom, Deana, and maybe Courtney. A little help, ladies? Who's going to post my bail? Please?

Yes, I'm delving into WCS (worst case scenario). But after the ordeal that was the Sage, getting arresting for dragging a highly suspicious item into a government building is on par with this publication.

At least I look nice in orange.

Editor's note: I would like to point out that after this picture was taken, I re-read the directions for non-profit bulk mailing and realized we had to organize every piece of mail by zip code. This necessitated pulling every single newsletter out of the suitcase, reading each label, and organizing accordingly. It's okay, it only added an additional 90 minutes to our night. But I really love my husband and he's definitely earned his title as FM of CC! :-)

# of miles in a half-marathon: 13.1

# of days until the Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll 1/2 Marathon:  88

# of dollars it costs to run in the 1/2 Marathon: 140

# of miles I ran on Saturday: 4

# of minutes it took me to run 4 miles: 48:11

#, in degrees, of the average temperature in Vegas this time of year: 98

# of times I thought to myself, "Dear God, what have I signed myself up for?" in total panic: 27

# of years it's been since I bought new running shoes: 4

#, in minutes, the sales clerk at the shoe store spent telling me, in fairly graphic detail, about the dangers of ill-fitting running shoes and how runners are prone to lose toe nails due to this:  6

#, in seconds, it took me to decide to buy new shoes after hearing about toe-nail loss: 1.2

# of pairs of shoes I bought, in an effort to avoid losing my (still blue-painted) toe nails: 2

#, in minutes, I've spent thinking about toe-nail loss since Saturday: 45

# of people I knew running the 1/2 marathon 4 weeks ago: 0

# of people now I know running the 1/2: about 12

# of times I've asked Brian to run with me: 5

# of times he's emphatically said, "No, you are crazy, woman!": 5

# of miles I've run since Saturday: 10

# of times I've played Lady Gaga, J Lo, Ke$ha, or Britney on the iPod while chugging along: 3,000

# of "Hill Day" boot camp sessions I've attended in an effort to cross-train: 3

# of hills employed on Hill Day: 2 (aptly named, "the Big Hill" and "the Little Hill")

# of times we run up and down these stupid hills on Hill Day:  15,000*

# of times of times I think to myself, "I can't do this, I can't do this" while huffing and puffing and trying not to throw up last night's dinner: 15,000*

# of times I've failed to complete a run or finish Hill Day: 0

# of times I've finished a run or Hill Day and felt strong, powerful, and like I could take on the world?

Too many to count. :-)

Editor's note: With that said...

#, in terms of slices, of coconut cake I'm about to consume having successfully completed Hill Day this morning:

1.

Yum!

*approximately

So that thing I've been talking about now for weeks? That quarterly publication for Junior League? Guess what?

It's almost done.

Like, 99.9% done.

Short of a fire burning down League headquarters or the entire postal system shutting down by next Wednesday (which as I type this, I realize both of those situations are distinct possibilities...eek...), it looks like this issue of the Sage is on the books.

Done. Dunzo. Finished.

Which means I can resume my life again.

Well, until October when all of this starts again.

I don't know how many of you have ever produced a newsletter, but the process is similar to pregnancy and birth (not Motherhood, since I will actually be able to sleep at night again, versus the sleepless nights with a newborn.) It's so true though - I mean, prior to all of this Sage drama, I was like, "What's so hard about putting a newsletter together? I can do it!" which is exactly the same thing I said about getting pregnant and having a baby.

Famous last words.

Everything is easier in theory. Likewise, the first time of doing anything is usually the hardest. Combine those two ideas together and you get my month of August.

There was the initial excitement about getting the articles together. Then meeting the designer and his team (i.e. the ob & L&D nurses) brought home the reality of the situation - we really are doing this. There is no backing out. Excitement, fear, anxiety, and delicious anticipation - no turning back now.

Then, of course, came the mood swings. "It's not working right!" "No one is listening to me!" "This is great, I love it!" I actually found myself repeating, "It's a marathon, not a sprint. Pace yourself, Kim," over the last few weeks. I got grumpy when I heard of friends going out and grabbing drinks, knowing that I didn't have enough time in my schedule to go, too. I felt left out. I felt like my life was passing me by as I labored over this publication.

I dreamt about the newsletter. I wouldn't stop talking about it to anyone who dared ask me about it. My intense sweet tooth came back and I actually devoured a plate of Rice Krispie treats in a single setting.  (I'd like to thank Boot Camp and marathon training for not allowing me to have Newsletter Weight Gain through this whole fiasco.) I started having Newsletter Envy when I read through newsletters from other Junior Leagues, wishing we had their budget and professional design team that they had. I got really, really mad at the design team (how familiar does that sound?) and wanted to fire them mid-way through the production. They weren't listening to me.

Hmph.

I could go on and on, really. How disturbing is this? Yet, this is my life.

Anyways, as of yesterday, fellow committee member Jessica swooped in and saved our little newsletter at the last minute. In what can only be described as the Worst Play Date Ever, she and I, along with our toddlers, spent four and a half hours finishing the publication. It started out fine, but as soon as the kids got cranky, all hell broke loose. Poor Jessica had Grace by the leg at one point, bouncing and jiggling her, while the other hand was frantically clicking on the mouse. Scotty, Ye of Independent Play, decided to be an absolute pest for 4.5 hours that day and fussed, whined, and cried when all of my attention was not on him.  I crawled on the carpet and barking like a dog in an effort to entertain the children. Scotty missed his nap window by 2.5 hours and by the time we got home, I literally threw a cookie at the kid and tossed him in the crib. I knew he was exhausted and wouldn't eat anything else, so I opted for the path of least resistance. Mother of the Year material, I know.

But...at least it's done.

I took our little newsletter to be printed today, and watching those glorious, glossy pages emerge from the copier made my heart swell with pride. Printing a newsletter is a lot less messy than labor and delivery, and far less painful as well. I think we're over the big hurdle, so now we're just going to sit back and wait for others to enjoy our baby just as much as we do.

Well, until October comes. ::sigh::

(Big thanks to my committee for all of their hard work! Way to go, ladies!)