You have a little spinach in your teeth.

As I was having a little "me-time" in the bathroom this morning after my shower, I noticed a few things.  I stood looking in the mirror, lifting this and stretching that, thinking... if I could only hold this pose all day.

I ran with Julie - the shaved ice magnate - this morning.  We discussed how it's nice to be in our 40's and it's important to find balance in how we view ourselves.  We must let go of the firm bodies of our 20's and 30's, embrace the softer version of ourselves, and not feel badly for desiring to be attractive within our age group.  That's the new disclaimer - "Oh, I don't want to look younger, just as good as possible while aging."

We had one of those "You're so pretty," "No, you're so pretty,"  "Noooo, YOU'RE so pretty," conversations.  We like those.

I'm an honest person, and I like to think helpful.  If someone asks for my opinion, I'll try to give it diplomatically (not always successful there) and honestly.  If I notice something askew on someone, I'll politely and discreetly tell them. "You have a piece of dried, flaky skin on your nose."  "Let me get those long, dark hairs off of your cream-colored sweater."  "Oopsies.  You missed a belt loop."

I was mortified during my "me-time" this morning to discover a giant chin whisker.  Giant.  It could have wrapped around my curling iron.  Twice.  It was dark, course and flanked by two very short, and very white whiskers.  I can understand the white whiskers going unnoticed.  I forgive myself for not seeing them, and I forgive those around me.

Because of the length of my chin whisker, it's been there... awhile.  Friends, you have failed me.  Chris, have you not felt my beard when we kiss and high five good night?

This evening the boys will go trick-or-treating with Chris.  [I'll post pictures of kids in their costumes like every other blogging parent very soon.]  My job will be to pass out candy... and maybe compare beards with the teenage boys.

Boo.

Blogs, Tags and Memes 101

Many of my friends and family don't know what blogs are and have questions about the blog community and culture.  I was tagged by Connie, a woman I met via blogging [yes, you can meet real people who aren't criminals or stalkers while blogging], with a photo meme a week or so ago.  Before I post my photo, allow me to define a few terms.  Em. Don't click away, this is for you.

Blogs
According to Wickipedia:

A blog (a contraction of the term "Web log") is a Web-site,
usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary,
descriptions of events, or other material such as graphics or video.
Entries are commonly displayed in reverse-chronological order. "Blog"
can also be used as a verb, meaning to maintain or add content to a blog.

There are many kinds of blogs.  Some people use them as a family scrapbook, not intended for public consumption.  Some blogs are very poetic and creative - a writer's blog - and others showcase photography.  Some are gritty and raw - very fun to read, and many are completely anonymous, which is helpful if you want to stretch your gritty and raw muscles.  Anything a person could have an interest in or desire to do with a blog - exists.  I like them all (well, many of them), and there's a place for each voice. 

What is my blog?  I don't know.  I'll let you know when I figure it out in a few years, when I also figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

In summary, Em, a blog is anything the owner of the blog wants it to be.  You should start one.  It's fun.

Tagged
When one blogger tags another, they've simply identified them within their post and are requesting or urging that person to participate in the meme or writing/photo exercise.  Sometimes you don't know you've been tagged unless you read the actual blog, sometimes you get an email notification or the blogger leaves a comment on your blog.

Meme
In the simplest of terms for a non-blogger, a meme is like a chain letter.  Someone starts something and tags other bloggers, who ideally continue the process. I pronounce it with a long "e" like "dream", although I've heard people say it like "mem" in "memory".

Wickipedia says this:

A meme (pronounced /miːm/)^[1]
consists of any idea or behavior that can pass from one person to
another by learning or imitation. Examples include thoughts, ideas,
theories, gestures, practices, fashions, habits, songs, and dances.
Memes propagate themselves and can move through the cultural
sociosphere in a manner similar to the contagious behavior of a virus.

1. ^ "meme" at The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language: Fourth Edition, 2000

Moving On
Connie tagged me with a meme where you post the sixth photo found within your sixth photo album.  I'm organized in many areas of my life, but not the photo area.  I looked through many photos currently on our computer and landed on one to share.

We were trying to take a photo of all three boys for our 2005 Christmas letter and Toddler Child - who was three months old - would not smile.  I did whatever I could to over-stimulate him and make him smile.

This was the closest we got to a decent photo, then the camera broke.

We finally got a shot with a standby 35mm camera, and a different pose.  I would post it if the new scanner we recently purchased wasn't still in the garage in it's box.  Chris.

Anyone who wants to participate in the "Sixth of the Sixth" meme - please do!

Weekend Update

It's really not that exciting.

Friday afternoon and early evening.
I was thrilled to have been invited to a "happy hour" of sorts with a handful of other mothers and their kids.  We were to meet immediately after school at a friend's house and visit for a bit while the kids played.  Although I still felt sick and was exhausted, I desperately wanted to participate.  These are women I've wanted to get to know better, but logistics have prevented me from accepting invitations in the past.

Because I don't socialize too often, I suffer from temporary arrested development.  I say temporary, because I have hope that I'll get my groove back with a little more practice.

At the "happy hour", I pointed out my newly emerging nose herpes [I get cold sores in and on my nose.  They come once or twice a year when I'm stressed and generally run down.  It hurts and it's gross, and I'm very self conscious.  I prefer to point it out when it happens, making everyone around me uncomfortable.], I used foul language too frequently and maybe in the presence of kids, told inappropriate jokes, talked about RELIGION (idiot) and people who WEREN'T THERE.  Do it.  Say it.  Get the laugh.  Get the raised eyebrows.  Feels gooooood.

These are things many of us do, but usually around people we have history with and the knowledge that we're not going to be judged because we're already accepted.  Not when we're speed dating new friends.  Water under the bridge.  Moving on.

Friday late evening.
Chris arrived home.  He'd been out of town all week, so it was wonderful to see him.  He showered and climbed into bed.  I said, "I've missed you, but please don't touch me.  I have a nose herpe and my head is pounding from the Valtrex and red wine.  I acted like a 14-year old boy at the happy hour thing.  I'll give you details in the morning."  He said, "I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

Saturday ALL day.
We stayed in pajamas.  We cleaned the bird's habitat.  We ate weird food - anything we wanted - anything we could find.  No rules.  I showered early evening and changed into fresh pajamas.  It was great.  The boys' hair was sticking out, even Oldest Boy's, who prefers a pseudo Alfalfa hairdo.  We were a frat house the day after a party - minus the lingering drug/alcohol high, the hangover, or the feelings of sexual triumph or regret.

Sunday morning.
I was still fighting my cold and my nose herpes. Toddler Child woke up and said, "I'm sick."  We had another "day-after-the-party-at-a-frat-house" morning.

Sunday afternoon.
I had some errands to run.  Middle Boy wanted to tag along which surprised me.  We hit Cabela's [we don't hunt, but I wear overalls], a few housewares stores, Nordstrom's, Costco, and Target.  He was tough.

At one point in the car I told him my neck hurt, that I must have slept on it funny.  I asked him if that ever happens to him.  He said no but he has pain "right here", pointing to his chest.  I asked if this happens a lot.  He said no.  I asked, "When does your chest hurt?"

"It's not really my chest.  It's more like on an insect.  My thorax.  It doesn't happen very much."

"Let me know next time your thorax hurts."

Sunday evening.
Middle Boy and I got home after 6:00.  We all unloaded stuff, ate a late dinner and got ready for bed.  Chris and I hit the "reset" button on the house and went to sleep ready for a new week.

See.  I told you it really wasn't that exciting.