Yes, its totally trivial. But I know that someday my children will eventually read this blog archives. And I hope they will find this useful. And I bet this helps the girls weed out the passive-agressive insecure underachievers.

Boys: If you need to know how to dress, watch Barefoot In The Park. Pay attention to Robert Redford. Enough said. (And "blue-jeans, white button-down, dark blazer, great dress shoes".)

Girls: The only thing you may not know by now is how to dress like a boy. I can help you. Even Sam couldn't pull off the "boyfriend" look. I could. There's a trick. NEVER dress like a boy. No boy that you want to date wants to date another "boy". Just wear one piece of clothing that OBVIOUSLY is for a guy, and a whole bunch of clothing that OBVIOUSLY is for a girl. No unisex stuff for this "look".

For example, the most hit on I've ever been was when I would wear my boyfriend's/husband's jacket to class in college. It was a sweatshirt-hoody that was clearly emblazoned "ARMY". I LUUVVVVVED that jacket. I would have lived in it if he didn't keep taking it back (while rolling his eyes and giving me stern warnings). It reminded me of that secret "bad-ass" part of him that most people should thank God that they never had to see. (Military Police are really scary people. Just saying.) Jacket, cute shirt, cute ear-rings, pink lipstick = guy magnet. (It wasn't until later that I realized how it worked. I just liked the jacket.)

Other example: That navy sweater I got from Beth when she broke up with her boyfiend. His sweater could have stopped traffic. Fabulous. SOOOOO totally a guy sweater. Never wear it on a first date, only to GET a first date. And yes, I still have it 30 years later. Its the wool navy one with a burgendy stripe woven into it. Probably on the top shelf of my closet. Maybe in the cedar chest. I don't wear it anymore. Size L.

Still another example: John's white button down, forest green riding skirt with cinched waist, saddle-colored Cole-Haan belt and shoes. Gold hoop ear-rings. I was wearing that when I met your father. (Its my favorite outfit of all time)

After MANY years, here's how I think it works: They like the chase, the challenge. Wearing a single piece of guy-clothing is like waving a red-flag. Its sort of like saying "See? I'm probably already dating a guy, and you probably can't change my mind, but MAYBE ..."

And, remember, if your brothers refuse to share their clothes you can always buy your own.

No more nightmares! Talk (or "write") therapy worked! Who knew?!?

For all intents and purposes, Samantha is dead. Realistically she'll only be "dead" about fifteen years. This is going to be a long dark rambling post and I feel like throwing up but maybe if I get it all out of my head the nightmares will stop. Ironically, the only person who would really get it is Sam.

For ten weeks early this year, I coached a cheerleading squad for Upward!Basketball (which is a Christian league, and yes thats different than "regular" leagues) One night a week it was me locked in a small room with eight EIGHT squealy kindergarteners. And on Saturdays it was me loose in the gym trying to herd eight EIGHT squealy kindergarteners.

Fortunately, a few years ago I was an assistant coach to the BEST coach in the entire world. Stacy is brilliant. She's all about fun with boundries. She's absolutely sparklely, literally. If you can put glitter glue on it, she's there! But the thing I learned from her that changed my life was ... to just let things be. (Thats even more important than ordering extra hairbows and pom-poms). Really? Will it kill me if they're not all totally in sync? Seriously, will I actually die if they don't wear the matching socks? She reminded me, and everyone else, that there is no point if the girls feel bad about themselves or the situation. Just smile and relax and things will work out (or not), and the sun will still rise tomorrow. *happy sigh* I just love Stacy.

And I REALLY tried to make the whole experience as stress-free as possible. Late? No stress. Forgot pom-poms, hairbows, waterbottles, snacks, etc? No stress (I had extras). Broke your ankle? No stress. In fact, our tag-line became "WE don't have stress." I didn't realize how successful I was in getting that message across until a few weeks into the season.

Officially, I started with four girls, but then others drifted into my group for assorted reasons. Once a "new" mother flipped out because they dashed in late to practice. One of the other mothers sort of waved her off and said "We don't have stress here" and the other parents kind of laughed and nodded. The late-mother looked like someone had thrown cold water in her face! She couldn't have been more shocked if she tried! Then it sank in that they weren't kidding and she spent the rest of the season rather ... gigglely. Apparently, we weren't the militant over-the-top squads like some of the others. (But at the end of the season, we knew twice as many cheers and had twice the stamina of any other squad.) And another little girl who transferred from another squad, was overheard announcing to her dad as they left their first night "THIS group is fun!" I felt pretty good about it. So I bought face-paint. (FYI, Elmers acrylic paint pens are not officially face-paint, but they are absolutely the best thing EVER for doing face-paint. They dry super-fast, they have a fine-ish point for detail work, they fit in your pocket so you can do the late-comers as they take the court!)

It sounds like it was a ton of fun, which it was. It sounds like I was happy and relaxed, which I was. EXCEPT for the incident with the shirt ...

None of you should be remotely surprised that I enjoy a good list. I also enjoy good stationary, with lines, because that leads to good lists :)

So, I have put on my list that I will blog every day from 9-10am. Then I can check it off my list!

I know I'm on a diet when I find myself staring out the window at the front flower-bed that needs weeding, and wondering if those green-weed-leafy-things are edible. If so, how would they taste with KeyLime-Dijon Vinagrette?

I've let the boys start watching Harry Potter movies. Sort of ramping up to the release of the next two movies. The boys find them mesmerizing.

Then I was watching Little Bear with Katherine. Y'al know I just love Little Bear, such sweet animation and a lovely soundtrack. And y'al MIGHT remember that my favorite character is often Duck. Watching Duck just makes me happy, and hopeful.

Then I was watching another Harry Potter movie with the boys. The one with that teacher-villian who dresses entirely in hot pink. I LOVE the scene where she's introduced to the school and is seated next to Prof. Snape. The WAY he looks at her like she might be a carrier of plague is abolutely priceless! How can anyone NOT love an actor that can communicate that clearly and subtlely.

Its possible I blurted out, with enthusiasm, that Prof. Snape is my favorite character!

Both boys froze. They stared at me. They blinked. A lot. Finally, Ron managed "You are a very ... confused ... person."

My children looked forward to April Fools Day for weeks, if not months. For some reason, they were focusing on me instead of my husband. I think its because he doesn't squeal like a girl.

In the perfect storm, the boys had also been exposed to some Foxtrot cartoon anthologies. They love Jason, and Quincy his iguana. And the way he uses the iguana to torture his sister who squeals like a girl. See where this is going?

In a stroke of brilliance, I pre-emptively forbid any iguanas in the house. Probably unnecessary, but you never know.

A little back-story: I'm often the victim of April Fools jokes. I have no idea why ;) I remember when I was little my Dad woke me up and told me there was a giraffe in the yard. I ran to look out the window. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? Years later, I told that story to my husband. Right before April Fools Day. (que the shark music) And, yes, when he yelled "There's a giraffe in the yard!" I ran to look. Again.

Admittedly, my husband is convincing. The boys? Not so much. They don't quite have it down yet. "Oh. Look. Mother. There. Is. A. Spider. Oh. Dear. Oh. Dear. What. Shall. I. Do?" That's how its been in the past. This year, they were doing a little better. Not much, but a little.

I was leaning over to unload the dishwasher when Lee dashed up to me and screamed "IGUANA" right in my ear. Oh, yes, I made some noise. Mostly mildly irrate noises (and moderate dancing around holding my ear) about the inappropriateness of screaming anything right in my ear. All baby Katherine saw was that there was definitely a reaction, and it involved a lot of wigglely dancing.

She slips up to me, points behind me, and announces "Bunny!" She looks at me expectantly. I explain that even if I were shocked by something behind me, that it had to be something scary to get a big reaction. Not a girl to be deterred, she thought for a split second and announced, firmly but with a confident smile, "Monster!"

Today I felt ... French. Not in a bad way, exactly. Just odd. Usually, I am the opposite of French. I am neither stylishly petite nor sophicatedly passive (and I absolutely abhor bones in my food!). Today was the shocking culmination of a gradual process.

It started with light sunblock. Then I realized that people here in the desserty area of Colorado have "old" hands. And my neighbor pointed out that HER hands/arms have aged differently because she spends so much time in the car driving. Gah!!! I have enough issues without having aged-crones-claws a minute earlier than absolutely necessary. I also realized I have beige isotoner gloves. I don't CARE if its 80 degrees, that why I have air-conditioning in the car. That was enough, in the beginning. Then it occurred to me that I have the perfect long-sleeved linen over-shirt to protect my arms. Once again, air-conditioning is a key part of my plan. And sunglasses.

And better sunblock, which deserves its own paragraph. Over the past ten days, I've been watching what I eat (yes, there's a point about sunblock) and therefore needed something to ... distract ... me. Thus, the quest for the perfect sunblock.

The non-wrinklely locals all use sunblocks with obscene SPF numbers. I started at 45, and quickly escalated to 110. Seriously. They actually make 110. And I own it. In two forms. Each day I tried a different brand or format. Each promising to be gentle on my face and eyes. (They all lie about the eyes, by the way). Lotions, gels, sprays, mists, baby, sports, anti-aging, extra-moisturizing, water-proof, not-water-proof, organic, chemical-laden. It seems like there are a million different kinds. It seems like I have tried them all.

At first, the only one that noticed was my husband. "Do you feel ok? Maybe you should lie down. You look a little ... white." Nope for that particular sunblock. There's a difference between healthy-pale and actually literally white-ish. The next one grabbed that attention of the children, when Lee asked me at the dinner table "Hey, mom, why are you all ... shiny?" While that one of the better ones, the family discussed it and agreed that I looked like I was a vegetable that had been dipped in WAX. Not a look that I'm going for. After LOTS of tries, for average everyday use, I've settled on JASON sunbrella 85 lotion. Even though it smells like "fake banana". Better than "fake watermelon", worse than Chanel.

So. There I was heading into the garage this morning. Sunblock. Sunglasses. Gloves. Linen shirt. Emu-oil lipbalm. "Chic" up-do only because I was in a hurry. And THEN it happened. I realized I was actually carrying a reusable bag to the market. Did you hear me? I used the word "market" in my head.

All I need now is a floppy-brimmed hat. Don't laugh, I've got my eye on one. Seriously.

I moved to Colorado. I unpacked. I cleaned the garage, several times. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, St Patricks Day, Easter. I coached a kindergarten cheerleading squad (Go, Upwards!) I love the neighborhood. (Note to husband: I think wonderfully mushy thoughts about you everytime I see trees and grass) .I like the school. I don't hate the church. There, caught up. Its all good.

Except for maybe the parts about The Fat Ninja and The Iguana. Tune in tomorrow :p

I thought about you the other day. I had THE most amazing salad dressing on the planet! And the kicker? I MADE it! Yay for me!!!

Yes, I know thats a lot of exclamation points, but I'm in the mood. Then again, I'm ALWAYS in the mood for exclamation points :) And, so, ...

Key Lime Dijon Vinagrette!

1/2 teaspoon dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 Tablespoons Key Lime juice (Nelly and Joe's brand) (order it online if you have to)
2 Tablespoons Safflower oil (Spectrum brand, high heat) (Its a MUFA like olive oil)

Here's the trick: Mix all the ingredients EXCEPT THE OIL. Then whisk like crazy while you ultra-slow drizzle in the oil all the while whisking like crazy! (I mean it about the whisking or it won't come together and emulsify,)

I served it to my family. I loved it. My husband really liked it. The child that won't eat salad tried it and wanted more of it on his grilled chicken, and then flipped out that he had accidentially eaten SALAD dressing.

Really, its so good I could eat it with a spoon! A big spoon.

"OK, here's the Thanksgiving Menu so far: apple pie, pumpkin pie, blueberry tart, and ice-cream roll. What am I missing? CAKE! We need cake."

By Debra Messing as Grace Adler on "Will and Grace"

I don't know exactly where to start. So many parts of the whole experience rendered me stunned speechless. I find myself struggling even now to get my thoughts together.

Lets start with the facts. My husband took the children to visit this particular church a few times. The kids really like the Summer program, so we were kinda thinking this might be the church for us. I hadn't personally been because of a mild cold, pulled back-muscle, ect.

Yesterday we ALL went. The kids went to their classes (which they didn't love as much as the big Summer group programs) and my husband and I went to service followed by Sunday School. Wait. This post is just going to be about MY personal experience at the church. Lets start with the arrival.

We parked. It was paved. So far, so good. The greeter at the door handed me a bulletin and "low-fived" one of the children. So far, not bad. Then the SECOND wave of greeters just inside the door intercepted me as I tried to follow my husband and children to check in Katherine at the nursery. They hugged me. Like I was a long lost friend. I'm not adverse to hugging in any way, but this was a LOT of hugging. I felt a little ... mugged. I broke free and realized my husband had dropped off Katherine and was gone. Great. (That was sarcasm).

The super-friendly greeters showed me where he had probably gone to drop off the other children and I waited at the top of the stairs for him. Eventually he came back. I was staring blankly out the window of the stairwell. He held my hand on the way to our seats in the service.

The seats were not comfy. Not bad, but not comfy. I was too short. But they were cushioned. They sang three short hymns (without hymnals) ("sing along if you know the words") and then the minister preached. For a long time. On varied and assorted themes. I tried to look interested and pleasant because it dawned on me that everyone else looked ... grim. I did not feel uplifted. I didn't even feel convicted. I hope someone got something out of it. I did learn a few new derogatory "wife" jokes. I don't think he meant them badly, and they WERE funny, but still ... I felt a little yucky. We went to Sunday School ...

The Sunday School Teachers wife had called me the previous week. We chatted. She's very nice, absolutely charming. She's from Texas. Her husband is retired military. He's nice too. He looked sharp in a navy blazer, white shirt and navy/burgendy tie. At first I couldn't figure out what was nagging at the corner of my mind. Then I realized that his tie and his wife's dress matched. She also looked great. But still.

Now, to address the pink elephant in the corner of the room. I'll just spit it out. My husband told me they were super-friendly. My husband MIGHT have told me they were slightly older. He just didn't use the right degree of emphasis, because I was NOT prepared to be in a room of SENIOR CITIZENS (all the way up to age 93) because there is only one adult class! Out of about 40 people, there was one 17 yr old, us, and then everyone else was OLD. I mean OLD. Walkers and Oxygen. It was NOT what I was expecting.

But I went with it. Until I heard a shrill cry from the nursery down the hall. Then another one. Then, another one. I whispered to my husband that I was going to the nursery. He nodded and let me out. I slipped out of the room, and down the hall. I didn't really think it was Katherine, but I DID think they might need another set of hands if they had a fussy baby in the nursery.

They had four people in the nursery, and about eight baby-toddlers. But it was just the one crazy-for-crackers baby that was making the noise (when she didn't get the crackers fast enough). They were pleasant and vaguely chatty. Then, I felt a hand on my elbow. It was the Sunday School Teachers wife. She informed me softly that they had enough hands, gently that my child was fine, and then somehow I was lead back to class! She's so charming that I just went along with it.

Thats right. I was captured and returned to class. Like a three year old that has wandered away from the group! My husband was ... surprised ... to see me return to class. I was surprised too. And not in a good way.

Looking back on the experience, I'm still a little stunned. Like ... like ... like ... I still don't know. No part of the whole experience was horrible. Nothing I can point to and say "See? Thats wrong and crazy!". And yet? It still felt wrong and crazy.

We laughed a lot about it afterwards. I'm not sure if my husband was laughing at the situation, or the fact I was stunned speechless.

Blogging will be more frequent in the near future because I have a LOT of words to use up about the move, and because my husband set up "my" computer in my new cute little office which is near the kitchen. It is SO over-the-top-fabulous! And here is how that happened ...

Sometimes I forget that some of my friends don't have boys. Sometimes it smacks me in the face so suddenly that I almost fall over.

(There was the time a friend of mine said that we should save money on the house by not putting a tub in the boys' bathroom because "boys don't like bubble baths, just showers". Just so you know, its impossible to sink a Lego submarine in a shower. ) (Note to readers: My husband does draw the line at letting the boys have scented-bubblebaths and candles. I compensate with epsom-salts and glow-sticks, both very macho. I have skills.)

On the last day in Missouri, friends came over to see us off and help load the last little bit of stuff. They brought lots of donuts and even MILK because she is wildly-fabulous and outrageously-thoughtful.

They only have girls, and brought two of them. I have two girls. The total was four girls and two boys. Two boys who are definitely "all boy" as they race bicyles and catch ... wildlife ... and slam through the house like two twisters.

My friend confided later that she had sent her husband to the store at the crack-of-dawn to fetch the donuts with VERY specific instructions. He was simply NOT to come home without sprinkles on four of the donuts. (And he deserves an extra-sparklely-gold-star for convincing the donut-person to go in the back and dip four donuts in sprinkles since they were sold-out!) Get it? Four girls, four sprinkled donuts?

She confided this with a laugh after she set out the donuts, which were immediately swarmed by the two boys who happened to be in the kitchen. Sure enough, Lee pounced on a donut with sprinkles ... "Oooooo! Sprinkles!" Not that I would know where he gets it :)