The Bear is sick.

He woke up with a 102.7 fever on Saturday morning. He was coughing this wet, mucus-y cough and looked downright miserable. I immediately called the pediatrician and got an appointment that day at 10:45am.

Which meant I was now unable to attend the Holiday Coffee.

Boo.

This is an annual Junior League event, and one of my favorites. A sustaining member opens her (giant, impeccably-decorated) home to members, and we sip coffee or tea from real china while balancing our catered appetizers on crystal plates. There is no alcohol or men, and it's quite lovely. It's like women acting like proper women while teetering on four-inch heels. I had selected my outfit months ago with great care, thinking, "What is conservative enough to wear around my grandma, but stylish enough to wear around my friends?" These types of questions keep me up at night.

But alas, my gorgeous grey-and-black lace sweater dress, complete with black tights and my favorite sha-booties, remained in the closet. Instead, I found myself swathed in an old sweatshirt, no make-up on, driving 90 miles an hour to make it to Scotty's doctor appointment.

Why was I driving so fast? And where was I coming from? Good questions.

Oh, just the Health District.

In a story that can only be described as never-ending, RaceGate continues. As mentioned on Friday, the Health District contacted and asked me for a stool sample. Ever agreeable, I said yes. After picking up my poop kit (with horror, mind you), my friend Deana asked me if I wanted to come over for a play-date. Since I felt the need to discuss the poop kit with another human being, I readily agreed. She was just as horrified as I was and promptly decided to open a bottle of champagne, since the idea of pooping in a bowl the size of a Cool-Whip container was too much for both of us to handle.

So now I'm going to test positive for parasites and Prosecco.

Great.

Anyways, the directions said you can take the sample in immediately, or it can be refrigerated for up to 24 hours. After doing the deed on Saturday morning, I was so aghast at putting this thing in my fridge (despite the multiple levels of plastic wrap) that I told Brian to take the Bear to the appointment; I would meet him there.

And so, that's how I found myself dropping off my Cool-Whip container to an unmarked warehouse on MLK and the 15 on a Saturday morning, and then turning around and driving like a mad woman back to Summerlin. Brian claims his car was stinky, but I think he's just messing with me.

The Bear's fever went down on Saturday night, but I still didn't feel good about leaving him. Our sitter still came, giving me time to get some other things done, and when he went to bed, she offered to stay at help me polish the silver. My mom had just sent me this giant chest with strict instructions to polish it before use, so again, instead of donning my new grey and silver dress (grey is still in, right?), I wore rubber gloves and chatted with our part-time nanny (who is lovely, I might add.)

I've never felt like such a Junior League member before. Here I was, polishing silver with the help. I felt like I was in The Help for a second.

Sunday, the Bear continued to fuss and cough, and this morning, his cough - and overall demeanor - was horrible. Another visit to Dr. Awesome yielded us a choo-choo train-shaped nebulizer and directions to use it every four hours for the next five days. Including nighttime.

And with Brian in arbitration all week and me on sick Bear-duty, I cancelled the Christmas party I am hosting on Wednesday.

I.

Am.

So.

Bummed.

The food will still be eaten, but the three Christmas trees, cool Costco garland, and new stockings will remain unseen. The lights on the house and on the bushes will not be appreciated by anyone except neighbors. Instead of drinking cranberry bellinis with friends, I will be wiping snot and attempting to nebulize a toddler, which is akin to wresting a slippery, angry pig that bites, kicks and screams.

I am sad.

Such is Motherhood, I guess.

The weather in Las Vegas is perfect for how I'm feeling: dark, unsure, and a total 180 from Tuesday.

With the wind and thick clouds rolling over head, the drizzle seems to be foreshadowing trouble.

I'm trying hard not to freak out.

The storm front moved in last night, complete with rain, high winds, and lots of dust in the air. Most people probably thought, "Hmm...definitely need to wear a coat tomorrow." Marathon people thought only one thing: "How the hell am I going to run if the weather stays like this?"

I've never trained in the rain. Worse than that, I've never trained in the wind, and if you know Vegas wind, you know what I'm talking about. And the dust? It'll coat my mouth as I breath heavily for 13.1 miles. I'll die of asphyxiation long before I finish the course.

All of this is compiled with the fact I woke up this morning with a sore throat and an overall feeling of aches and pains. Instead of hunkering down in the warmth of our house, I still have a million things on my to-do list, the first of which is The Sage, the JLLV newsletter. Yes, the two events - the marathon and the completion of the this issue - overlapped, and I'm trying to field phone calls, emails, and texts from various people to get this issue off the ground.

Who knows how this is going to turn out...for someone who doesn't "work" (I say that sarcastically), I sure as hell feel busy.

Help...

The Chicken Tomato Crapshoot was...well, okay. I can't tell if it was too tomato-y or what, but I would give it a solid 6 out of 10. It was just kind of "meh." And as we all know, "meh" falls squarely between "hmm" and "blech."

It should be noted, however, that I was on my last ounce of patience with the small child yesterday, and that may have contributed to my annoyance and overall feeling of blah. Thursday was not a good day for me or the Bear. Lots of butting heads and whining. Fun stuff.

Today's recipe comes to us all the way from Hobbs, New Mexico. A very, very, very nice person by the name of Kori Z sent this to me yesterday, and it was just in time, too. We tend to not cook on Friday, so I wasn't sure what I was going to do today. But Kori was prepared and very thoughtfully sent me this recipe for Italian Beef in the crock-pot. It's from her friend Beth, and apparently, Beth's nickname is "Beef." And so, the actual name of this is "Beef's Italian Beef." Very clever. :-)

Personally, I don't care what it's called - it just sounds delicious.

I'll definitely have to try this one next week, but while it makes me happy, it makes me sad, too. See, Kori was supposed to take over next year as President of Junior League. She had been waiting in the wings for several years, and but in October, her husband accepted a new job in New Mexico. I didn't know Kori very well before she left, but I had a feeling she and I would have probably been good friends. That bums me out. But here's hoping she starts a chapter of Junior League in Hobbs!

Best wishes, Kori, and thanks for sending the recipe!

Beef's Italian Beef

1 packet au jus gravy mix
1 packet Good Seasonings italian dressing
1 beef rib roast (2-3lb)
2 cups water
12-15 pepporchini peppers, plus more for garnish

Mix au jus and dressing mix with water and pour over roast in crock pot. Add peppers.  Cook on low for 8 hours.  Remove cooked pepporchinis & shred beef.  Serve on toasted ciabatta rolls. Garnish with chopped pepporchini and a slice of provolone.

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.

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.

...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! :-)

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!)

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

How in the world is it only 1:30pm? (PST) I fee like it should be 8pm. Or Wednesday, at the very earliest. Since waking up this morning, I feel like I've lived three lifetimes.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but it's been a crazy seven hours.

It started with the financial guy ('m just going to blame him for everything.) He scheduled our medical exams for this morning at 7am - you know, the one where some pseudo-medical professional takes some bodily fluids and ask you a million questions, all to make sure you are not going to expire within a month of opening a multi-million dollar life insurance policy? (That would be Brian. My policy is for exactly $14.32. Monthly premium? Three cents.) 

Some very nice woman showed up on our doorstep at 7:15, marched into our house, and weighed both of us. Right there in the kitchen.

Now, this would put me in a bad mood any number of ways, but it was especially offense since we weren't allowed to drink coffee, as it would "raise our blood pressure." Let me tell you, my blood pressure did not remain stable when I saw that number. Nor did it when the woman, some matronly grandmother-type, launched into an attack on our parenting skills and informed us sippy cups are dangerous and unnecessary.   Her twin 2-year old grandsons do not use sippy cups, and they are amazing, smart, and courteous two-year olds.

I love it when other people into your home and tell you how to raise your children. 'Cause after all, nothing has changed in the 30 years she raised her daughter, and she obviously knows best.

::cough, cough::

Scott sat there, blissfully ignorant, sipping his strawberry milk and eating his pancakes and strawberries. He wasn't looking his finest, since his little nose has been a faucet of boogers since Thursday night, and everything (mostly dirt and food particles) was sticking to his face as a result. He looked like a Wal-mart baby at best, but it was a.) not even 8am yet, b.) he was still clad in his jammies, and c.) who cares? All kids get sick. She just happened to catch us at a bad time.  I just hoped it didn't go in her insurance report.

I, however, attempted to manage my irritation by eying the coffee pot with longing and making faces at Brian.

So the woman finally left (after poking me exceptionally hard, I believe, during the blood draw since I did not take to her advice kindly) and Brian tootled off to work. I continued wiping Scotty's increasingly yellow, sticky snot from his face (day 4) and checked Facebook. It appeared that some kind of bug managed to dismantle our entire play group. At least six kids were sick. It was like the Seal Team Six of Germs came and attacked our little village of toddlers. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

As I played nursemaid to the Bear, I glanced outside and noticed a large piece of broken off piping in our backyard. Upon closer inspection (read: me gingerly stepping over the rocks while still in my own jammies), I realized an entire chuck of our underground sprinkler system had been broken off. There was a giant, gaping hole in our backyard where it used to be.

Like any good wife, I immediately called Brian and yelled at him.

While he swore he had nothing to do with it, we weren't sure how to fix it, either. This situation had happened last summer during Scotty's fraternity-boy-I-mean-bears-and-balloons-themed birthday party, when one of Brian's friends began tinkering with the system and broke a head off. Gushing water resulted. As well as a giant bill from the sprinkler people, and four days of me hand-watering our lawn in August. In Las Vegas.

The whole thing left a very bad taste in my mouth.

So looking at this chuck of black plastic only made me really, really frustrated. Brian swore he hadn't touched the sprinkler (and I believe him...he's not one to tinker), but that only leaves an unknown assailant, breaking into our yard, not stealing anything, yet damaging our sprinkler system? It didn't make sense.

So we yelled at each other for about twenty minutes (with Brian declaring, "Well, if you want me to fix it, I'm going to have to dig up the whole backyard!" while I seethed, "That is NOT an acceptable solution!") until I finally just hung up. I grabbed some needle-nosed pliers and attempted to dislodge the remaining plastic pieces until my hands were dirty, cut, and practically bleeding. 

Then I threw in the towel and called a new sprinkler company.

You all know how I feel about workmen. I don't like men I don't know coming into my home, carrying large weapons, er, tools. It creeps me out. And then, imagine my surprise when 20 minutes after calling this company, two of the largest men I've ever seen in my life show up at the door, carrying a giant wrench. I'm fairly certain I worked with one of them when I was on the mountain, although I couldn't get close enough to read his neck tattoos.

Yay.

Turns out it only took them about 15 minutes to fix the whole thing, which is approximately 5 minutes less than Brian and I spent discussing it. (hooray for college educations.) And it only cost $10. I was so excited I tipped them another ten, and promised to call if our unknown assailant returns to create more damage.

Then finally, after all of this, I notice Scotty is pulling at his ear as the snot flowed freely. We jumped in the car immediately to hit Dr. Awesome's office (breaking the streak! Ugh, it kills me. Eight months, three weeks, and one day without a sick visit), only to sit there for a full 60 minutes as they processed our new insurance. After dropping off his prescription (ear infection, 10 days on antibiotics) we didn't get home until well after 12. The Bear went down at 12:30 (two dill pickles, some watermelon, and milk for lunch) and here I am, freshly showered and very tired. We have two errands to run this afternoon before I head to a Junior League meeting, and quite honestly, the meeting can't come fast enough. Because all I am supposed to do is sit there and think, right? Offer my opinions, take notes, and not fall asleep. I don't have to wipe boogers, use needle-nosed pliers, or attempt to keep a toddler from licking toys in a waiting room.

And there might even be wine involved.

Sign me up, folks. 

Happy Monday to all of you, too.