Mikey took this picture. He also styled this shot and all the others we took this afternoon. I’ve deleted the ones with me stretching my leg behind me, squatting, and looking down into the camera (hello, multiple chins).

Today I went to my first media event (look at me! fancy!) at etnies in Lake Forest. I was invited thanks to Suzanne Broughton of Alive in Wonderland, but I’ll go into that later. Right now, I am recuperating from the stress of being social, leaving the house, and worrying about what to wear in a room full of people I was sure would be far cooler than I.  Yesterday I spent most of the day preparing outfits like they were exhibits for trial.  I had four: 1-A, 1-B, 1-C, and 2-A.  2-B and 2-C (outfits 5 and 6) were eliminated early on in the process without the help of my jury, which pleased to no end The Mister and the people I emailed last night in desperation.

Might I recommend everyone buy an inky-blue velvet blazer this season?  I received many compliments on mine today, which is always nice to hear when you are worried about the size of your thighs.

I check every link from every person who comments on my blog.  That’s how I found Mystery Person, a person who does photo announcements and sends you the digital file to print on your own (my favorite cost cutting measure).  I thought they were really cute, and made a note to use them for our Christmas cards this year.  Of course, I can’t remember the site, which is unusual for me because I really do have an incredible memory for that sort of thing.  Dental appointments–not so much.

The plot thickens.  I took some really cute pictures of my new niece last month.  Since then, I have done everything possible to create an announcement that is cute and affordable without much luck.  The pictures print super saturated on card stock, to the point my blue-eyed niece looks like a Sleestack wearing a fur cap.

So.  With the holidays approaching and the months since her September birthday whizzing by, I have reached Def-Com 5 emergency status.  I need an announcement to go out immediately, preferably one where she doesn’t look like a reptilian-insectoid prehistoric creature.  Are you the shop owner I am thinking of?  If not, CAN YOU STILL HELP ME?

In keeping with tradition, we continue with our series of WORST HALLOWEEN PICTURES EVER.  The Mister and I love the peacock costume and when Mikey wore it, he loved it, too.  But Nicholas?  You would have thought I was poking his testicles with hot pokers the way he was protesting–and if you ask my brother in law, putting a boy in this costume isn’t much different.

Lucky for Captain Testosterone, I had Mikey’s old puppy dog costume shoved in the back of the closet underneath a pile of swim suits and beach towels.  After I shook the dust off, I crammed Nico’s near-three years of toddler into a costume sized for an 18 month old.  Have you ever seen a terrier wear capris?  You have now.

In other news, if you are old enough to, I don’t know, claim dependents on your taxes, don’t trick-or-treat at our house because The Mister and I will call you out on your douche-baggery.  Just ask the twenty something year old guy who strolled up wearing jeans and a sweater.

“Trick or Treat,” he claimed as he held open a bulging pillow case.  The Mister was not impressed.

“Dude.  What are you even supposed to be?”

Twenty something year old guy delicately extended a foot in The Mister’s direction to show him his worn Vans.  “I’m a skater dude.”

“Well, skate or die, bro.  Happy Halloween.”

Want more proof of our hostility?  Track down the Suburban filled with twelve families that would stop at each block, walk a few houses, and then drive 20 feet to the next block.  I’m sure they will advise you to heed our warning.  Hey, we all know I’m the laziest when it comes to exercise but, really?  You can’t walk on Halloween?  If you’re feeling a bit weak, start gnawing on the Smarties bouncing around in that Santa Claus-sized sack of candy and chase it with a Jolt or whatever it is you have rolling around under the seats of your Halloween Chariot.  In other words: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.

So, The Mister gives the lazies their candy with a healthy dose of stink eye.  I can almost see the slides of power point presentation on juvenile diabetes escaping out of his ears like steam.  Even then, there was no need for them to worry until the forty year old matriarch of this band of sedentary travelers moved towards The Mister like a barge heading into the Panama Canal.

“Now, come on!  What?  Who?  What are you?”

“Nah, I’m not trick or treating.”

“You’re not?”  At this point The Mister could only look pointedly at her outstretched bag of candy.

“Nope.  I’m collecting.”

“Collecting?!”  Collecting?  Like a bookie?  Is this the mob?  Was she planning to shake us down for some bite-sized Snickers and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?

“Yeah, for her.  She twisted her ankle.”

Her.  I see.  Just one quick question: WHO IS HER?!  Is Her in the Suburban?  Is Her a child?  A dog?  A figment of our imagination?  Whoever Her is, we know she has a bum ankle.  I can only assume the weight of two hundred pounds of candy collected in 3 hours over 20 city miles crushed Her’s bones like dry twigs.  Much like you, you behemoth woman, have crushed our hopes and dreams that there exist people out there who won’t go to any means necessary for some free candy.

Don’t even get me started on the young couple who were trick or treating with the sleeping 6 month old…

I know I have many readers who don’t have children.  I can only assume my adventures as a less than perfect stay at home mom provide some sort of birth control, wherein I promptly shrivel ovaries quivering in anticipation after reading, say, Amanda Soule.  Well, allow me to be of service once again by dolling out little pointers here and there that other moms may neglect to dispense.

There is a proper way to get on and off an escalator with a stroller.  Actually, there are two proper ways to get on and off an escalator with a stroller, one better than the other.  Not only are there two ways, the technique also varies with the type of stroller in use.

But first, the rules.  There is really only one rule, and that is that you should not do this if the escalator is even a bit crowded.  As you will see, the process is fraught potential for disaster.

Technique No. 1 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

The Heavy Stroller

If you have a large, heavy stroller you can approach the escalator head on.  The choice to pop a wheelie as you get on is your choice, but definitely do so once you and the stroller are securely on the escalator.  As you approach the bottom of the escalator, keep the front wheels up.  Drop the front wheels onto the floor once the back wheels hit the escalator return (I have no idea if that’s what it’s called, but I’m talking about the part where the escalator disappears into that little tunnel thing) and start walking.  Sometimes the back wheels will get caught in the return (enough–that’s what I’ve decided to call that thing) and if they do, your stroller should be heavy enough that you can plow your way forward.  If not, lift the back wheels slightly and move forward on the front wheels.  Easy.

The Umbrella Stroller

An umbrella stroller is the cheap, hammock like device your parents stuffed you in as a child.  They are ugly, cost less than $20, and frequently used for travel.  A rookie mom would never touch an umbrella stroller because they are, again, cheap, ugly, and cheap.  Then, one day, rookie mom goes on vacation or Disneyland or someplace similar.  Loath to take her $400 behemoth, she buys an umbrella stroller to use, “just this one time.”  Uh-huh.  Whatever you say, Lindsey Lohan.  Because once you do the one-handed fold and toss in 2.3 cubic feet of space, you’re done.

Now, as handy as these strollers are, they are light and flimsy.  They don’t have the weight behind them to plow through a crowd, let alone an escalator return.  So, for that reason, you should get on the escalator backwards.  You get on the escalator first, umbrella stroller second.  You will naturally pop a wheelie in order to do this.  When you reach the bottom of the escalator, you disembark first and pull the stroller (with both hands) behind you, wheelie style.  Only when you and the stroller are both completely off the escalator do you put the front wheels on the ground.  Easy.

You don’t ever want to try going down an escalator with an umbrella stroller ahead of you, at least not with a 27 pound toddler in the hammock.  You’re just asking for trouble, which is why I muttered an expletive when I found myself doing exactly that a couple of weeks ago.

A complete and total rookie mistake made while I was trying to kill time before I could pick Mikey up from school.  I watched the return approach and appraised the situation.  Thirty pounds of Nicholas, a 3 year old umbrella stroller, and an escalator from the 70s.  I was screwed.

I did the best I could.  I popped a high wheelie and pushed.  Hard.

A reader once asked me how I could admit to so many embarrassing stories on my blog; how I could confess doing things she wouldn’t admit to anyone.  Well, I have three reasons.  Number one, I think most of the stories are pretty darn funny, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, you can’t laugh at anything.  Number two, I’m not perfect, and I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my life is a pile of love notes and freshly baked bread.  Number three, there is no way on God’s green earth that you can convince me that I am the only mom who has done something really stupid like take an umbrella stroller down an escalator.  So, knowing this, I know that you know exactly what happened when I popped a high wheelie and pushed the stroller hard.

That is, absolutely nothing.

It didn’t move.

Maybe the front wheels  moved.  In opposite directions.

So I activated the emergency landing sequence.  I kicked the ever living heck out of the undercarriage in an attempt to lift all four wheels off the floor.  And, like most emergency sequences, it worked to a certain degree.  One half of the stroller moved forward, meaning I then had to repeat the sequence for the half that remained behind.  Unfortunately, I was out of time and I had to hop a bit to avoid the stroller.  So I hopped.  Or, rather, I did the famous dog leg.  You know.  I’ve seen other moms do it.  The dog leg is when  you have to kind of hop/step over your stroller so that you are alongside the stroller.  It’s not unique to escalators.  I’ve seen it used in public restrooms, restaurants, and Gymboree stores nationwide during Gym-Buck time.

It was my last chance at getting off the escalator with any sort of dignity.

It was an epic fail.

Things were looking good until the toe of my right sneaker got caught on my enormous hobo bag hanging off the stroller.  Stupid hobo bag.  There I am, at the bottom of the escalator, hopping up and down on the landing pad with the toe of my shoe caught in the strap of my purse.  The purse was like quicksand, by the way.  The more I moved my foot, the more I sank into its leathery depths.  And!  Remember!  (Not you, rookie mom.  You, the one with the umbrella stroller.)  Think about where those stroller handles hit.  Exactly.  Now I am hopping on an escalator landing with my foot in a bag and my “particulars” practically straddling the right stroller handle.

This all happened in the course of 10 seconds, as disasters often do.  The only thing happening faster than my eminent demise was the rate at which my brain fired neurons.  I activated Emergency Sequence 3.5A, which as any seasoned mom knows, this means it’s all about to hit the fan.  I knew I had to propel the stroller off the landing or Nicholas would, once again, find himself nose to the ground and strapped in a stroller.  With the strength of 40 Dr. Kegels I hopped, pushed, and propelled myself off the landing.  Of course, it wasn’t pretty.  I had one foot in my bag, you see.  So, like a boat with a broken rudder, I moved forward in circles, donut-ing my way onto the store floor.  Starksy and Hutch would have been proud.

Now on the open floor, I had enough room to easily extricate my foot from the bag.  But, first, I looked up to see my score.  I was expecting to see employees holding numbered cards (all 10s, please!), perhaps a few managers laughing in their coffees.  But, no.  The store was deserted and no one witnessed my ingenuity.  Thank goodness.

Technique No. 2 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

Take the elevator.

Some people long for wealth.  Or fame.  Or true, everlasting love.  I just want to face a camera head on without fear of double chins.  Granted, even thin people have double chins.  My best friend was once married to a man with a chin so weak that no amount of diet or exercise could chisel that jaw line into anything more defined than a turkey wattle.  It turns out his weak chin reflected an even weaker character, so the fact his face resembles a plate of flan pleases me to no end.

I, on the other hand, have no desire to look like custard.  So after years of study, I have perfected the art of hiding my double chin.  A talent many of you have witnessed first hand.  The techniques are simple, but work best when you are either taking the picture or comfortable enough to tell the person taking the picture what to do.

Technique #1: Lose weight.  This technique sucks, is rarely any fun, and is impossibly  hard.  But, it’s also the most effective.  Le sigh.

Technique #2: Hide it.  This is where you hide your double chin behind any number of props, including, but not limited to, hands, cameras, turtlenecks, small children, and your husband’s shoulder.

Technique #3: Crop it. Seriously, pull the camera in tight. Conversely, take a regular picture and then crop it with photo-editing software. Either way, get in real close and get rid of that wiggly beast.

Technique #4: Lift it. Stand next to tall people. Lift your chin up just so, as if you are trying to help out the composition of the picture by positioning yourself more in line with the rest of the subjects in the photograph. You’re not, of course. The only composition you care about is the adipose tissue dangling from your jaw.

{Me and The Mister, at my brother’s wedding, before I lost 40 pounds.}

Technique #5: Position it. This is a hard one, but one that when done well, can fool a lot of people. If you do it often enough, you can even fool yourself, a disappointing truth that becomes apparent when you see candid pictures of yourself at a baseball game and all you can think is, really? Damn.

So. If you are taking the picture of yourself, with or without a tripod, position the camera at slightly above eye level. Forehead level is best. Then, every so slightly point the camera down so that the aperture of the lens is pointing at the spot right between your eyebrows. It will be a subtle shift, but necessary if you want your entire face in the shot. Next, more positioning. Drop your chin slightly, push your shoulders back just a touch, and elongate your neck as best you can without looking like an invitation to vampire. All of this is easier to do from the side, by the way.

These techniques are guaranteed to swipe ten pounds off your face. When you consider the camera also adds ten pounds, it’s a bit of a wash, but let’s not think about that. Occasionally, the techniques don’t work, or aren’t enough to combat your natural tendency to look ridiculous. Case in point:

Problems: Hair is wonky. Shoulders scrunched from trying to contain wild dingos. Chin tucked very, very low in an effort to position face closer to said dingos. Smile is plastered on, and looks every so slightly defeated. Camera is positioned dead center, aimed at nose.

Solutions: Edit the crap out of it on Picnik. Increase the exposure. Take down the highlights. Add a 1960s effect to the image. Try taking picture again.

Problems: Hair. Still wonky. Teeth appear bucked thanks to talking through smile at person holding the camera. Camera still pointed at nose, which is looking downright bulbous thanks to your habit of scrunching it up when you smile like a bunny sniffing the wind for predators.  Still wrangling dingos. Grip on dingos too tight, pushing up hovercraft boobs high enough to create two additional chins.

Solution: Edit, edit, edit. And laugh. And realize with trepidation that you will one day look at this picture and think you look young, and that in the end a little double chin isn’t that big a deal.

Every night The Mister takes Mikey and Nicholas on a walk around the neighborhood.  The walk is ostensibly to enjoy the great outdoors and instill good exercising habits, but really it’s to exhaust little boys into nightime submission.  One good run around the block is enough to make their pillows sing like sirens down the hall–a fact we take advantage of eagerly.

I sometimes go on the walk with them, depending on how behind I am writing my posts for The Bright Side Project.  Today The Mister had a last minute dinner meeting and I finished my post in the early afternoon, so after dinner I  grabbed the boys, the dogs, and my camera.

We began where we always do at the “On Your Marks, Get Set, GO! Starting Line.”

I know cul-de-sacs are less than revered by city planners, but you can’t get me to complain about the slow traffic that allows my boys to run through the streets with (minimal) cares in the world. The boys usually grab random found objects (that almost always happen to be fossils or discarded weapons left behind by victorious Clone Troopers). Today Mikey was content to stuff dinosaur eggs in his pocket (acorns) while Nicholas used a discarded light saber (palm frond) like a rudder.

Our neighborhood is full of older homes from the 50s. We absolutely love the homes from this period.

Nothing flashy or showy, just cute homes with well taken care of yards–among the families with older children. The homes with children five and younger (ahem) don’t have nearly as nice a front yard.

I always like to see what thrives where people live. In my area, agapanthus and roses as far as the eyes can see. Agapanthus are actually builder’s plants around here. You couldn’t kill them if you tried.

At the end of the cul-de-sac is the boys’ favorite part: The Secret Forest. The Mister and I find this name curious because the area is neither hidden nor shrouded in trees. We’re talking about a chain link fence and four palm trees.

You can thank these two rascals for the blurry pictures.

The Secret Forest is as good a spot as any to take pictures of boys who haven’t brushed their hair since morning.

Then we turn around and walk back home. Nicholas makes sure to follow step by step every move Mikey makes.

Although not always with the same five year old grace and dexterity.

As alarming as his screams and feigned attempted at paralysis may seem to strangers, I’m not impressed. He’s still clutching his Agapanthus bud and his palm frond/light saber.

Less than 2.6 nanoseconds after falling, a passing airplane confirms my suspicions.

The real tears come a few minutes later when I tell him it’s time to go inside.

Which stop as soon as he sees the pile of cars he left in the kitchen.

The way my egg cracked for today’s breakfast was strangely appropriate.  I held the egg as I normally do, an egg similar in shape and size to the ones I normally use, and tapped it against the chopping block with the same force as always.  Still, the egg in my hand formed an odd vertical crack until the two halves lay in my right hand like an open silly putty container.  I blinked in surprise and, as the egg slid broken into the bowl, stared at the shell trying to figure out what went wrong.

That’s how I feel about my diet lately so, yes, it was strangely appropriate that my egg cracked as if it had a mind of its own.

My diet.  My stupid, confusing, mind-screwing diet.  I continue to eat correctly.  I don’t cheat.  I follow the rules and do everything else as usual and, yet, I am wallowing under a blanket of malcontent.  My grains are low glycemic, but I have yet to recapture the verve and vigor I had the first month.  I just don’t have energy.  I frequently feel cloudy and unmotivated.  I procrastinate more than usual and am loathe to get up from my desk chair and make myself lunch.  And, of course, I haven’t lost weight.

Diane warned me that the addition of grains would cause a water shift of about three pounds.  Three pounds that I would lose within a week or so.  It took me nearly three, and that’s only because I cut out two of the daily grain servings.  I have an appointment with her soon, so I added back the missing two grains in guilt.  Along with the grains, I regained the three pounds in water weight overnight.  This means I have not lost any weight this month.

Diane has a very normal, centered approach to food, so she is quick to remind me that a platueu is normal and healthy.  I am neither normal or centered when it comes to food, so a still scale is all but killing me.  I remind myself that my clothes seem a bit looser.  But then I consider that I wear the same jeans almost everyday because they are the only clothes that fit me.  For all I know, they are loose because I am wearing them threadbare.

I’m not obtuse enough to miss that my dissatisfaction with my diet coincides neatly with my plateau.  In fact, I am painfully aware of the coincidence and want to gnash my teeth in response to being so obsessed with the numbers on the scale.

When?  When will I have a normal response to food?  When will I pick up a simple banana and not recite in my head the calorie count and major vitamins and minerals?  When will I objectively watch my weight creep up three pounds and acknowledge it healthy and temporary?

When pigs fly, I suppose.