The Mall Parking Lot Makes People Crazy

Sunday I went here...and I did a little shopping. The calender has warned me that Christmas is fast approaching. I am completely nervous about it because I am not really ready. It seems like Thanksgiving was just last weekend, but the calender disagrees with that too. All of this arguing with the calender and circling for a decent parking spot like a hungry buzzard has left me feeling like this...Another side effect of this Christmas anxiety is blog withdrawal. Back soon, y'all!

Surely I am Not the Only One...

Please tell me there are others. There must be others like me. I have one Christmas tree that is beautifully appointed in an award-winning fashion. Well, alright it has lights and ornaments, but whatever. Our other tree...the one that graces the sunroom, the one that is visible to the entire neighborhood...is still wrapped in the protective plastic cocoon that Mr. Lipstick devised to keep it semi-dust-free in the attic. And here is where I air my dirty laundry folks: it has been that way since...Thanksgiving. Oh, yes.

I have either been going to work or coming home from work or too tired from work or too sleepy after church or going to Mommy and Daddy Lipstick's house or just bored or playing on the internet or doing laundry or thinking about what to twitter. Of course, Mr. Lipstick has already done his part. Last year he put plastic around the tree and this year he brought it down from the attic.

The two small humans around here are no help at all despite a magnificent amount of enthusiasm. Decorating this tree is actually a covert operation that must be accomplished while they are asleep. Any of you people who decorate your tree with your small children need to give me some tips because I have yet to figure out how having hundreds of small lightbulbs and glass ornaments everywhere qualifies as a safe craft project. Sorry, y'all. Maybe I'm just a little bit of a Scrooge because my tree is covered in plastic.

December 7...1941

Today is the 68th anniversary of the Japanese attack on the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor. I forgot. Until I got an email saying, "don't forget to remember what today is." I felt deeply ashamed of myself. I have never forgotten before, but today I was busy with the things that keep me busy.

JBB had a decorate-the-gingerbread-man project due and Pretty Girl's cot sheet and blanket for preschool were in the dryer. Our minds were cluttered with the minutiae that demand our attention and our energies. My extra synapses were solely devoted to remembering to take the styrofoam box in the refrigerator full of last night's leftovers of gourmet Mexican food to work so that I could reheat them for lunch.

I forgot.
Two thousand four hundred and three Americans died on December 7, 1941.

I remember.
I will not forget again.


Look at this excellent set of photos from Time magazine.Photos: The Attack on Pearl Harbor

For more info check out The History Place.

Forced Contemplation

Today I witnessed an accident. Isn't it disturbing how something as benign as gazing through the window of a restaurant can become the magnifying glass through which you see a gruesome tragedy? You are safely encased behind steel and glass, separated from the action by seconds and space, and yet you are close enough to visually digest the magnitude of the event, the injuries, and the consequences.

Lives are altered at impact. Help does not arrive immediately, and it is in those first few seconds that time seems to stand still. Bystanders are so wholly shocked at what they have seen that some people begin to cry, some gaze with a stone cold stare, some rush away, some continue to scream, and some make a frantic attempt to reach for their cell phones. I was in the stone cold stare category.

It is only a short wait until emergency personnel arrive. They are some of the most efficient people I've ever seen. That is, in an actual emergency. When there is no emergency (that is to say, the accident is too severe), things take on a slow and measured pace. It is the tempo of an investigation and it is eerie. Even in the absence of any emotional involvement, the images are ingrained in my mind, burned there like an old western scene on a leather wallet. It is there, and it's not going anywhere.

Santa Baby...Hurry Down My Chimney Tonight

Just an itsy bitsy teeny weeny little Hello Kitty wish list....
some earrings

a little ring

sparkly necklace


It's seems borderline reasonable, right? Hello Kitty is 35, I am 35. Well, ok, it's a stretch. But I do like those shiny, overpriced, impractical, and basically tacky baubles pictured above and if they were gifted to me, I would wear them with pride.

Twiddley diddley dee, Twiddley diddley dee, Tweet, Tweet

So I joined Twitter. Everybody is doing it. Actually it would be more correct to say, everybody has done it. I am so late to this party, it is just ridiculous. I think six people are following me so far, and this is my heartfelt thank you, hug, and kiss. It is also kind of an apology. It is hard to Twitter...or tweet (?). It is also difficult to select the proper verb.

Since there are a scant 140 characters available to me, I am at a complete loss. What witty and fabulous thing could I say? I have Tweet-anxiety. I think of things like, "Can you believe the price of gas?" and "Ground beef is on sale" and "I have to pee" and "My gum is stale." NO ONE wants to know these things.

Yes, I joined Twitter because everyone else has done it. This begs the age-old question, would I jump off a bridge if everyone else did? Well, let's just examine that. I probably would. I have jumped out of a plane at ten thousand feet and it was freakin' awesome. I think cliff diving, bungee jumping, hang gliding, and base jumping would be equally as exhilarating, so yes, I probably would jump off a bridge if everyone else did. The thing about sky diving though is that it is easy. You just stand at the edge of the plane's door and fall out into the sky. Twitter...not so much. Sorry, I have to end this post right now because I have to pee.

ETA: The great WendyB was kind enough to ask for my Twitter ID. *blush* It is lipstickmailbox and y'all...many thanks! I have been getting emails all day long about new followers! I am just giddy!

What Not to Do When Your Oven Catches on Fire and Other Things Martha Never Mentioned

Thanksgiving can be really stressful. Nonna and Mommy and Daddy Lipstick traveled to Lipstick Manor for the holiday. I'm gonna admit right here before the Internet that I was scared to death. Even though I cleaned and I scrubbed and I planned and I prepared, I am here to tell you that I am no Mommy Lipstick, who is the Queen of Ambiance, the Doyenne of Coziness, the Maven of Homecoming.

Once I hosted Candlelight and The Captain's Wife for a girl's weekend and I remembered to buy every celeb gossip mag the grocery store had to offer as well as liters of alcohol, but somehow I managed to forget to buy any toilet paper. Yep, I said toilet paper.

Nonna and Mommy Lipstick even brought all their giant serving dishes-the sort of dishes that I don't have because I have never hosted Thanksgiving before. I love the juxtaposition of this with the LPC's very regal post about buying the perfect gravy boat for hosting her first Thanksgiving. I ended up with the perfect dishes too, but they were very Cinderella-ish. They were packed away and rode back home at the end of Thanksgiving. It was very klassy. Most graciously, Nonna and Mommy Lipstick didn't mind the inconvenience one bit.

On Thanksgiving morning, Nonna and Mommy Lipstick started cooking while Mr. Lipstick and I went to the grocery for a few last minute items. Oddly enough, we had fun. I think we were the only people laughing and joking and acting ridiculous. Grocery stores can be fun when you are unencumbered by a long list, tired feet, and grouchy kids.

We returned home and settled into a comfortable and noisy routine: Mr. Lipstick attempted to watch a movie with the help of closed captioning; Daddy Lipstick, JBB, and Pretty Girl had Disneyworld-caliber fun with Scotch tape, some markers, and a Styrofoam airplane; and we women-folk made the traditional Thanksgiving dinner in my not-so-Food-Network kitchen.

Before I knew it we were sitting at The Table-our table in Lipstick Manor-eating Thanksgiving dinner. We even said what we were thankful for at the very grown-up suggestion of JBB. It was comfortable and cozy and wonderful. I felt happy and content and complete. The day could only have been better if DeeDa had been there, but you can't always get what you want. After all, he is in heaven now, and I wouldn't wish the problems of earth on a resident of heaven. I suppose that Rolling Stones song is good for something.

After dinner, the merry-making triad of Daddy Lipstick, JBB, and Pretty Girl resumed their chaos. Nonna and I attempted to watch some football, but Mommy Lipstick (who could care less about football) decided that we needed to clean the oven. This is why Mommy Lipstick's house is immaculate. At all times.

She turned on the self-cleaning feature. The oven began to heat. The door locked. Steam began to emerge from the front of the oven. We eyed it with suspicion. "Is it supposed to do that?" "I think it heats up to something like 500 degrees." Smoke filled the kitchen.

Then...it all caught on fire. "SHIT!" I screamed, which, by the way, is what you want to scream in front of your parents and your children on Thanksgiving. Mommy Lipstick and I grabbed onto one another and we stared at the fire. Isn't that what all firefighters teach you in third grade? Just stare at a fire.

Then Mommy Lipstick frantically said, "Get Mr. Lipstick!". Mr. Lipstick sauntered in and confirmed that yes, during the self-cleaning feature, the oven drippings can ignite, but never fear, this whole process is not only self-limiting, it is also not unusual. He calmly opened a window and brought in a fan. JBB (aka Junior Mr. Lipstick) calmly asked, "Mommy, are you burning down the house?". Well, apparently not.

Faux kitchen trauma included, we had a raucously good time. We ate a lot and we laughed even more. Of course, it was all over entirely too soon. Today for lunch I ate leftovers out of one of those plastic Glad containers (which is probably not BPA-free) and tonight I watched the Saints run right over the Patriots. All that dressing and football made me miss Thanksgiving even more. I am so nostalgic that I may have to go set my oven on fire.

Jenny from the Block

Apparently Pretty Girl is a big J.Lo. fan. I know...who knew? Well, I certainly didn't. Neither did Mr. Lipstick. I was all prepared to blame this exposure on her preschool teachers, but they were just as surprised as me.

It all went down like this. Today on the playground Pretty Girl was swinging, happy and carefree. She leaned back, tossed her hair in the breeze, and said, "I want hair like Jennifer Lopez." Two teachers heard it. Naturally shocked, they responded, "what?!". Pretty Girl replied, "I want hair like Jennifer Lopez."

Of course, when I arrived to pick her up this evening, the teachers just couldn't relay this story quickly enough. No detail was spared. Firstly, I have no idea where Pretty Girl heard of Jennifer Lopez and secondly, I am completely mystified that she has an idea (AND AN OPINION) about J.Lo's hair.

The only explanation that I could devise was that J.Lo. made some sort of guest appearance on the Disney channel. Implausible as that may seem, it's the best that I can do. I became convinced that JBB must have some knowledge of this. After all he is rather worldly these days, having had not one but two kindergarten girls express their love for him. Oh, yes, dear readers, two girls have said, "I love you" to my JBB. He still holds a pretty serious flame for his two preschool girlfriends (who both said they loved him as well) so in his mind he has four girlfriends. I asked him if his two kindergarten girlfriends played together. Mystified, he said no. I told him they probably weren't going to start, but I digress...back to J.Lo.'s unwieldy style influences over my Pretty Girl.

Once we were home, I relayed the entire story to Mr. Lipstick and JBB. I quizzed JBB to ascertain his recognition of Jennifer Lopez. He said, "is that her music teacher?". Hmmmmph...well, that was a dead end.

So, is there some underground J.Lo./Elmo duet out there that I just don't know about? Are her highlights and lowlights really that fabulous that minute exposure has ingrained their appearance in Pretty Girl's mind? Finally, I have a serious sense of foreboding that Pretty Girl and I will incur very large salon tabs in the future.

It's Really True

There is an empty Gatorade container in my house. Irrespective of any large, randomized, placebo-controlled, multi-center, peer-reviewed studies published in renowned scientific publications, I make the assertion that I observed a cause and effect relationship between the consumption of the Gatorade and the erratic, ecstatic, hyperactive behavior of JBB.

The decreasing amount of the Gatorade was inversely proportional to the level of energy expended by JBB in the living room, the dining room, and most perilously, in the bathroom. There was singing, dancing, and shadow boxing...and that was just while we were trying to put on pajamas.

All of this chaos caused me to indulge in some well-known, well-documented cause and effect activity of my own. Relaxation and vasodilation now complete courtesy of some nice glasses of wine.

But I Don't Wear Control Top Pantyhose

Have y'all heard that saying about placing jellybeans in a jar during your first year of marriage every time you have sex? (whoa...Lipstick just mentioned sex in the first sentence!) It is a little adage about how newlyweds are SO passionate in their first year of marriage that the number of jellybeans accumulated in the first year outweighs all other years combined.

Well, Mr. Lipstick and I could say the same thing about arguments. Big ones. Little ones. Explosive ones. Petty ones. Valid ones. Historical ones. The kind in which you forget what you were fighting about in the first place. The kind in which you fight about the same thing over and over.

Eventually though, I grew up and Mr. Lipstick grew more relaxed. We grew together. We became US. It was a hard fought and hard won battle. Very well worth it. We have now been married for twelve years and probably one of the best lessons we ever learned was from Mr. Lipstick's grandmother.

We were gathered in a hotel room preparing for Mr. Lipstick's sister's wedding. The normal amount of pre-wedding chaos was in progress and it was nurtured by a mini-family reunion in a micro-hotel room. Mr. Lipstick's grandmother needed some pantyhose. Several family members were going to a store to escape the chaos...er, run the errand. There were detailed instructions about the size and color of the pantyhose, but the greatest emphasis was the following admonition: "make sure they are not control top pantyhose because I don't wear control top pantyhose."

All family members nodded in understanding. For some reason completely unknown to me, the conversation continued. Size and color were discussed again. The height/weight chart on the back of the pantyhose box was thoroughly analyzed. An agreement was reached, but Mr. Lipstick's grandmother randomly and loudly said, "but I don't wear control top pantyhose!"

Because Mr. Lipstick's grandmother seemed to be experiencing some enduring confusion regarding the chart on the back of the pantyhose box, the discussion persisted. I looked for an escape. Finding none, I continued to listen. No one mentioned the words "control top," yet Mr. Lipstick's very spirited grandmother yelled at all of us, "BUT I DON'T WEAR CONTROL TOP PANTYHOSE!!!"

I swear in a court of law this conversation continued and the aforementioned phrase was barked a few more times. It was so damn funny that we still laugh about it.

If Mr. Lipstick and I can't agree or we can't seem to get one another to even comprehend the other's point of view, well, what do you think we say? "But I don't wear control top pantyhose!!!" We can't help but laugh. Too bad we didn't find out about her pantyhose sooner because it sure would have saved us some broken dishes.

OK, so I am George Costanza...with Hair

First of all, my wallet looks like this (and pretty please tell me you remember that Seinfeld episode).I have so many receipts crammed in there. Of course, they are all ragged and different sizes and just a general mess. Why on earth do I retain on my person information as valuable as what I spent at Subway three weeks ago? or better yet, how many Starbucks receipts that I have accumulated...because I would rather just remain in denial about that one.

Even though I haven't watched Seinfeld in years, those episodes are firmly ingrained in my memory. Oddly, I don't remember the plots of anything else and sometimes I even forget movies that I've watched; Seinfeld...I remember. I am hoping that y'all remember this one too. It's the one about George being insulted by someone and his resulting torment at not offering any suitable comeback. He eventually boards a plane, tracks down his insulter in a meeting, storms in, and delivers his perfect comeback to a very bewildered guy in a business suit.

Well, I rarely (make that never) write about work, but here I go...a work post. Have you ever been in a situation in which someone blurted out an answer that you knew like the back of your hand and because of your delay, it appeared that you didn't know the answer at all? And then (drumroll) did you somehow in the craziness of the moment neglect to correct this situation? Did said situation then continue to irritate your psyche?

I am experiencing all manner of grouchiness at myself...why did I fail to mention that I knew the exact answer, why do I allow this minutiae to annoy me so? I think it is because somehow I fear that I may have appeared un-knowledgeable or un-able to help a patient. THAT drives me crazy. Naturally, Mr. Lipstick and Mommy Lipstick have heard the story. Apparently, I needed additional therapy and had to retreat to Lipstick-land. Thank you, dear friends, for listening.

Target Is for Tweens...and Those Who Think They Are

I found this New Moon candy.I thought, "what? really? oh my goodness...this is just mass marketing run amuck...wait a minute...are those alternating pictures of Edward and Jacob?""hmmm, well...it is just $1.99..."

I'll Have a High Fat, Faux Foam Latte...Please?

A couple of weeks ago I was early to work (gasp!) and I stopped in at Starbuck's. Now y'all, I never NEVER do this because I hate coffee. I think it smells nice, so I'm good with a coffee-scented candle and some NoDoz. My only contact with Starbuck's is usually in December when I need to satisfy my annual craving for their Caramel Apple Cider.

On that random day, however, I went into Starbuck's and impulsively bought a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Impulse and I are on very good terms, and when our paths meet, usually good things happen (perhaps after an initial bit of chaos, but that's just details).

Since I do not frequent Fivebucks, I had totally forgotten that, among other menu complexities, "Tall" means "Small." I was in line behind a woman who was so skinny that she could look chic wearing anything (even though she was actually wearing yoga clothes). Paradoxically, she looked very tense. There was a man behind me who was so well-versed in Starbuck's-ese that he was barking out his size/coffee/customization preferences to the other barista with the ease of an accomplished professional. I expected him to then call for a scalpel or perhaps demand order in the court along with denying the need for a receipt. (Am I the only one who thinks it odd that they ask everyone before printing a receipt?)

Since I forgot about needing to step aside while my order was being completed and since the barista kindly reminding me (and she was actually kind...it is the South), I was feeling very stupid and self-conscious. Absent-minded and definitely a coffee fraud. I retreated to the safety of my personal technology (Crackberry) and immediately felt like an awkward teenager. I put away said Crackberry and felt stupid for feeling stupid. Immediately chided myself for all of this ridiculousness. Reminded myself that I am a grown-up and that grown-ups do not let their minds become cluttered with such nonsense. Then I noticed a colleague from work. I wondered if I looked as bewildered as I felt. I was about to tell myself that I was being ridiculous again but then the skinny/chic lady stepped aside with her Venti Chai Yoga Good Chakra Mocha Latte and I got my Pumpkin Spiced Latte. Even though I hate coffee.

I sat down in one of those little uncomfortable chairs that merely look cute and wondered about how many years behind I was on all things Starbuck's...15 years? Probably closer to 20 now. Oh, well. I probably should just think of all the money I have saved because my goodness, that Pumpkin Spiced Latte is so fabulous...I've had three this week already.

They're 22's

This weekend the kids and I made a mad dash down the interstate to The Empty Nest to visit Nonna and Mommy and Daddy Lipstick. Since Mr. Lipstick had two finals this week and took the ethics part of the bar exam Saturday morning, we have been putting houseshoes on the cat all week. I realized on the way home from work on Thursday evening that we needed to flee Lipstick Manor for the weekend. Oh my goodness, did we ever manage to pack some fun (and many blog-worthy moments) in two days. One thing that I just couldn't resist sharing for some instant fun and giggles is a bit of automotive bewilderment to me. Both to and from The Empty Nest, I saw an innumerable amount of theseand they were all headed to Memphis. Now, I can't even begin to speculate about the origin, appeal, or cost of these rides that have been so clearly pimped in varying degrees, but they certainly were...eye-catching.

Don't you just love Google images too, because look what else I found---Themed Cars! I did not know about this trend save for the Lily Pulitzer Jeepwhich I believe was a corporate venture between them both. I think these other rides-with-a-theme may be a little more renegade. Check out Hip Hop Cars for purchase info (Lily Jeep not included).

Turkey Shoot

This afternoon the two small humans that I adore received the coveted (or much maligned, depending on which email forwards you believe) H1N1 vaccine. Like most of my carefully made plans, today went completely awry in a remarkably serendipitous fashion.

Since Mr. Lipstick has three exams this week, I had to leave work earlier than I originally planned to pick up JBB from school. First I had to pick up Pretty Girl from preschool. Then I drove across town to JBB's school to (ineptly) navigate the car pool line.

Then I drove back across town to the pediatrician's office. On the way to the doctor's office, I dropped in the local bakery to pick up cupcakes for my co-workers tomorrow. They are tastier and easier to digest than olive branches. Naturally things got busy as I raced out the door. Thank goodness the goodies were boxed and ready to go. At least one thing was easy. I also bought four petit fors (also called therapy). Now I don't really think I am ruining the work surprise because my At Work Friend who visits Lipstick-land is a real adult (instead of a poseur adult like me) and she is already in bed so this is just between us.

Two red lights down the road and we arrived at the pediatrician's office which was very busy. I got a very, very bad feeling. A few days ago I constructed some carefully made plans to leave work early to get JBB's regular immunizations. Routine. Easy. Quick. Late yesterday I got The Email. The one that said, "We at The Pediatrician's Office have received the H1N1 vaccine. Everyone come." Well, everyone did.

We ended up waiting for over two hours. Thank you Crackberry, stickers, tickling, shoelaces, and baby dolls. You served me well the second hour.

The first hour, however...Pretty Girl had a fit. A big one. She arched her back, laid on the floor, kicked her feet, and screamed. Yep, screamed. Imagine a very large and very crowded room full of adults and children sitting on the floor waiting for hours. Got it? Ok, that's where we were. I had to laugh while trying (unsuccessfully) to truncate the madness. All I could think was, well, this is a nightmare. Then the screaming stopped and she started yelling, "NO!" What a relief because I am sure that didn't get on anyone's nerves. Without any explanation at all, she said, "Mommy, I better." We were so bored that we even got on Facebook and announced how bored we were because we were waiting for the H1N1 vaccine. My goodness.

JBB got 5 shots total. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. Pretty Girl wailed in empathy. We ate a lot of McDonald's to cope. We arrived home much later and more exhausted than we anticipated and of course there was a project for school that had to be finished. It was so, er...unusual that I just had to share. The goal was to disguise a Thanksgiving turkey. Our turkey hid in a Christmas present.
There was much wrapping, cutting, and use of scissors and tape. The best part though was being with JBB. Just the two of us working on this funny little project...it was cool. Actually the best, best thing was that he kept saying, "Mommy, I really like spending time with you." It almost makes we wish that we had to wrap up a turkey tomorrow night.

The ($1.99 Made in China) Devil Inside

Some Christians really hate Halloween. They say it is all manner of sin and shun any celebration of it. Although we don't happen to be those sort of Christians and we co-host a mighty neighborhood block party, I have to confess that I did begin the Halloween weekend with a little bit of coveting. Over some devil horns of all things. Lipstick has been a bad girl.

It all started on Friday when one of the technicians at work came in wearing the cutest-thing-in-the-world little red devil horns attached to clippy barrettes. I HAD to have some. We hit a major slooooooow point at work, and I ran across the street to Walgreen's to purchase their one remaining pair. I even got a spare glittery set.

This is Lipstick on Saturday night...The original inspiration for my costume was Disenfranchised Goth Teen. I think I ended up wearing too much lipstick. Well, imagine that. I even wore black nail polish, which y'all I really liked. The 99 cent Wet 'n Wild didn't even last the night, so I am just jonesing for some black in OPI. Now I am thinking that doesn't even qualify as "mostly preppy." I would say that qualifies for "antithesis of prep." I have no real explanation, but I loved that black nail polish. I even stood in my personal blog photo studio (i.e., in front of the shower curtain) and attempted to take a picture of my nails and my skull rings. I was feelin' all bad ass and Crazy Train.

Saturday evening we co-hosted our neighborhood block party. I began this block party by oversleeping (ever lay down with your two year-old so she will take her and nap and end up sleeping all day? uh-huh, well...that was me), and missing the entire first hour when my two dear work friends were there. By the way, JBB was trick-or-treating during this time with my dear work friends. Don't you know I am still debating whether I am The Worst Mother in the World or The Worst Work Friend in the World.

Well, on to other news. Our part of the party is the hayride. That means that Mr. Lipstick spent the week working on my tractor. I own a 1954 International Harvester Farmall Cub. I inherited it from my dear grandfather DeeDa.Here we are on the tractor circa 1976and then Mr. Lipstick and JBB circa 2008.

On Halloween, Mr. Lipstick resurrects the tractor, attaches a customized trailer, and yet another customized trailer for a truck to pull around the neighborhood. One of our neighbors provides food, a bouncy house, and all the Halloween decorations you can imagine. It is an annual good time had by all.

It's kind of funny though that what I remember most about these Halloween events is really not the actual event itself. The hayrides are a bit of a blur. I always want to be certain that I have talked to everyone that I've invited and that everyone feels welcome. Of course, there's plenty of chasing kids around too.

The week preceding the party...well, that's what I remember because that's when my tractor comes home. Mr. Lipstick brings it home from the land in the country where it is stored. It is a long and laborious process that usually occurs late at night. When they finally arrive at Lipstick Manor, I feel complete.

The tractor is a tangible reminder of DeeDa. I love the loud sound, and I inhale the exhaust as if it were the purest oxygen. I grip the steering wheel until my hands ache-pressing my skin so firmly into that aging rubber that DeeDa once held. Inevitably the tears begin to trickle down my face...slowly at first and then gushing out of my eyes...tears that have been a year in the making. As ridiculous as it is, I always end up with my arms wrapped around that tractor, hugging it to my chest as tightly as you can hug cold metal and my tears mixing with old gas and rust. I love that Mr. Lipstick has decided to make this hayride a neighborhood tradition, but mostly I am so grateful that every Halloween he brings my tractor home and with it, he brings home a bit of DeeDa to me. Happy Halloween, y'all.

A Week....Seriously?!

Hello, dear readers. Well, it may be more like...hello, Mommy Lipstick and thank you for looking at my little website. Oooh, and also, hello to my super-cool pharm-mommy friend who told me today that she reads me. To everyone else, this is not...I repeat, this is *not* a mistake in your Google reader. Lipstick has decided to post.

Life is not bad. Life is busy. I am happy most of the time and only terrified a little bit of the time. I am happy with our lives...I love my job, my goodness Mr. Lipstick loves him some law, JBB loves kindergarten, and our little Pretty Girl loves her preschool "klaas." (I typed it that way in a vague attempt to convey the oh-so-adorable way she pronounces the word "class" in her two year old voice). I worry about the balancing of careers and school and life and how not to get lost in the shuffle. I don't want to miss the good stuff.

 

Sigh...yes, those are Happy Meal boxes (and no, we did not get the apple slices). Additional fun and mayhem made possible by Daddy Lipstick. Brought to you by the letter L and the number 2.

Landscape FAIL

The seventh grader that lives inside of me could not stop laughing.

It may be because after being a grown-up at work today and...
then being a mommy at the pediatrician's office for two (count 'em...two) well-child visits and...
then being a cop at the CVS to make Mr. Lipstick and the little Lipsticks get flu shots and...
then enduring Monsters vs. Aliens,
I needed a little adolescent humour.

Or, it could be that Lipstick just loves a dirty joke.

I Love Hello Kitty and All, But...

This is a bit much.
from People of Wal-Mart (where else?)

Passing Game

Thank y'all for your well wishes! I feel so much better than yesterday...my voice is still scratchy and I still feel achy, but nothing like the edge of death that was Monday afternoon.

This morning Mr. Lipstick was in the hallway of JBB's school, and he introduced himself to the man standing beside him with the "our kids are in the same class" type of introduction. They talked for a minute, and while Mr. Lipstick was signing up for the parent-teacher conference, he noticed a child ran up to this man and asked for three autographs.

"Hmmm, well, that guy must be somebody," Mr. Lipstick thought. When he got home this morning, he had to consult The Google and finally figured out that the mystery dad is an NFL quarterback. This makes us sound way fancier than we are...after all, no one is asking for our autographs.

In other news, I am relaxing by watching Chris Rock:Kill from 2008. I do love Chris Rock. Hilarious. Can not get enough. Oh, tell me y'all love some Chris Rock too.