"These are not my shoes"

(10 useless bonus points if you can name the source of that quote) And this was while everyone was gone to the lake. Imagine the abuse this entryway endured during supper.

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The DoubleYou Family Reunion

I haven't slept more than a handful of hours since catching that plane to Utah last Wednesday. Which, incidentally, was my birthday. Happy Birthday to me from O'Hare International Airport.

My father met me at the SLC airport around 11:00 PM; conveniently, he was on his way back from a business trip. We stayed the night at my sister's house in Ogden and then pitter-patted our little way up to Bear Lake the following morning, after a mere five hours of sleep.

(Fun fact: I met my mother-in-law and sister-in-law along the way! As those kids say these days, WOOT WOOT!)

From there on, the party refused to quit and I was right in the middle of it...doing the sprinkler. And thank goodness I was drinking that Kool-Aid, or I would have missed my sister Erin chest-bumping my sister Mamie's unborn child.

I took so many pictures that my hand practically grew around my camera. Hey! How cool would that be! Camera hand! Actually, that would get really old really fast. Eating spaghetti would be impossible. And putting on mascara? Fagetaboutit.

Here're the troops. IN MATCHING T-SHIRTS, no less. That is one big, phat Mormon family. Phat. Yet another word that I need to stop using. This picture is missing Adam and my two brothers-in-law, Newel and Jess. Boooo.

And yes, I'm rocking turquoise jeans. My oldest brother could not wrap his mind around them. So I sang a little Cyndi Lauper, he was transported back to his high school days of yesteryear, and then he was cool with it. He even did a little Thriller to show his support.

Here's a closer view of the tees. That's my dad in his old VW van, wearing a sweatband, and hoisting a peace sign. Thanks for modeling, Joseph. Nothing is wrong with your eyebrow. At all.You should know that this was not your Uncle Ernie's reunion.

We were very freebird about the whole thing. Probably because Mom and Dad were hippies back in the 60s. They deny it though. But I've seen the proof. In my mother's middle part. And my dad's burns. And these fragment sentences.

My mom and sisters fretted about the food, which was plentiful and fabulous.My brother Josh is always good for the entertainment which usually consists of a water balloon launcher, a potato gun, or something involving fire.I, of course, provided the jokes. They're laughing with me. I just know it.
We have enough kids to form our own grade school.And we spent the weekend walking from room to room and interjecting our two-cents into the countless conversations taking place.
There was girl stuff.And boy stuff.And naughty stuff. (I can hear my dad's voice: "DO NOT GET NEAR MY SKID STEER!!!")And reminiscent stuff.And tasty stuff.And stuff involving the police.Little folks slept where they could.Big folks slept where they could.
And the laughter. Have mercy, the laughter. I burned off that second helping of lasagna when my sister Marlowe told us about the meat goats at the 4-H fair. Meat goats. Never in my wildest....Most importantly, we came from all corners of the country to remember why we love each other, remember how much we miss each other, *cough, cough* remember why we choose to live so far apart, and remember how lucky we are to have been shoved together in this dysfunctional fun family.
Throughout the next week, I'll be posting more snaps from this rocking weekend. It should be fun. And if it's not, thanks anyway for humoring me.

You may need to go wash your hands now; this post is sappy.

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Adam Unedited

I'm back from Utah. And I had a ball! Sans the extra three and a half hours I spent in Houston and the additional 30 minutes circling DC. Did you know that sometimes the runway lights just don't come on? I didn't either. Such fun watching my destination come in and out of view at 2:00 in the morning. Like a party. Only not.

I'll soon regale you with stories, my pretties. But tonight, I'm exhausted.

Instead, here's some completely unedited pictures of Adam. I missed that mug while I was gone. He's not a willing subject, but the camera still loves him! It doesn't hurt that evening light and my 85mm are a heavenly duo. Those aviators are boss, too. Boss. Does anybody still use that word? I'm so '99 sometimes.

Oh, and I realize that the title of this posts sounds like you might scroll down to see Adam in some tighty-whities. Don't worry. He's fully clothed. This time. Though that sure would be yummy...for me.

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Momma's goin' home

I'm headed on a whirlwind trip to Utah tomorrow for a family reunion. Me, my parents, my eight siblings, their spouses, buckets and buckets of children, and a big, fat Xanax equals one rockin' good time.

I will miss Adam's mug while I'm gone, though. He very sarcastically sweetly told me that four days without me is like four days without air. Then he held my hair back while I vomited a rainbow.

But before I can board that plane, I have to go play trophy wife for an event with Adam's firm tonight. I'm debating: should I burn my bra right at the beginning or wait until after dessert? I'm kidding. Of course I'll do it at the beginning.

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The Official Snack of Summer

A bushel of green peanuts. Enough salt to zip them arteries up good and tight. Water, a pot, and a stove top. Oh, boiled peanuts. How I've missed you. And thank goodness Adam loves you as much as I do because I could never choose betwixt youins. How does that phrase go? You can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the boiled peanut out of the Southern Girl? Yeah, that's totally it. Nailed it.

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Our day in the hills

I don't camp. In fact, I think camping is a Hampton Inn WITHOUT an indoor pool. But Husband got a hankering for a hot dog. Understandable. It IS summertime, after all. And anyway, who am I to deprive a man of such a simple desire? I mean, tomorrow he might ask me for, I don't know....a king-sized bed!

I researched (which involved a highly technical process of asking around at work) and came across a close, quiet, and inexpensive campground called Sky Meadows State Park. When I called to book a campsite, the lady taking my reservation asked me, "What kind of accommodations will you be bringing?"

I'm like, "Accommodations? What? I'm bring weenies."

She's says, "I mean, a single tent? A double tent? Two singles?"

I'm all, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. You don't understand. I'm coming to hike around for a minute, roast a weenie over a fire, and then I'm going home."

She's aghast: "You're exiting the campground after dark?!?", to which I reply, "Listen, sister. I AM THE PROUD OWNER OF A BRAND-NEW KING-SIZED BED. Why in the world would I sleep on a rock when I HAVE HEAVEN waiting at home for me?!?"

I could have swore she muttered "weak sauce" under her breath.

Regardless, we packed our weenies, bug spray, and camera in a pack the size of Texas (Adam's owned it forever and never used it before. Do you see what I'm telling you? Outdoorsy, we are not.) and took off to commune with Nature.

Did I mention that the camp site was "hike in?"

"A short mile." That's what Ms. JudgingMyWeakSauce had said.

I even repeated it all perky like to Adam, who was the lucky carrier of the pack: "A short mile, Adam!"

I strapped our camp chairs to my back and grabbed the bundle of wood, which I was shocked to find weighed that of a chubby fourth-grader. The bundle was held together with thin twine, so it was squirmy like a fourth-grader, too.

About 10 minutes into our "short mile" hike [RIGHT UP A HILL], I was drenched in sweat, covered in splinters, and thirsty as a dying man.

A couple wearing khaki and linen and smelling of coconut lime verbena passed our dusty, stinky, cranky, sweating spectacle with their iced lemonades. In this syrupy friendly voice, the fellow goes, "Howdy, fellow campers! We're all headed the same way! Can we lighten your load?"

We were so cross at that point, I think we both yelled, "TAKE YOUR KHAKI ARSE AND DO GOOD SOMEWHERE ELSE, NED FLANDERS!"

A bit melodramatic in retrospect, but not completely uncalled for, especially when you consider that I found a tick burrowing into my ankle when we finally threw (THREW) our stuff down at our campsite.Post "short mile" hike. Not a happy camper.
The wood in question. I hauled that mother.

Anyway, the disposal of the tick was the end of the misery (Pulled it right off. I didn't know. All I learned at Girl's Camp was how to make t-shirts with puff paint.). For some reason, from that point forward, our day in the hills was a full-on riot. Like Woodstock meets The Royal Wedding.

We hiked to the top. And Adam did a dance. We enjoyed the view. Which. Was. Ridiculous. My eyes could not take it all in. See that little bit of yellow poking up through the weeds at my feet? Yep. I did. I wore these. I always insist on looking fierce. Then we headed back to camp for the aforementioned weenie. But not before Adam became the cattle whisperer. We've been away from home far too long. Here's why: when I saw these cows, I said, "Oh look, Adam! Nature!" Back at camp, Mr. One Match lit the fire, we roasted our weenies, and ate an embarrassing amount of smores. Camp songs, ghost stories, and lightening bug pictures later, we packed our garb and headed back down the "short mile."

Here's the best part of the entire day.

Stay with me. This is better than Disney.

We're meandering back to our car, high on weenies, fresh air, and life, when we round a bend where the path opens up to reveal a large field. The field is covered (COVERED, I TELL YOU) in fireflies. A soft breeze blows across the field and on it, a tinge of honeysuckle. As if on cue, a mother deer and her brand new twins cross the path in front of us.

Y'all.

Yyyaaaalllllll.

I would not have been surprised in the slightest if Celine Dion and Bono had stepped out of the bushes, singing a duet. Adam was so taken over by the perfection of the moment that he ACTUALLY said, "Maybe we should stay the night...." OBVIOUSLY, we did not. But we did have a smashing good time, post "short mile" and we will absolutely visit again soon.P.S. On the way home, we saw fireworks going off over the hills. My heart couldn't take anymore magical-ness, and nearly stopped beating.

P.P.S. (or is it P.S.S.?) This post is hecka long. If you made it to this point, go reward yourself with something delicious and calorie-laden. You deserve it. And in case I've never said it, thanks for reading.

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Can I get an amen?

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A cached copy of this post will appear on WikiLeaks when I'm president

Yesterday morning at approximately oh six hundred hours, I woke up suddenly with the distinct feeling that my insides intended to become my outsides. I was also apparently using military time.

I laid there praying for The Almighty to take my ghost from me. I promised Him that I would not haunt Adam if He did and that I would man the Heavenly Library with the gusto of Marian Paroo.

Finally, it dawned on me that women in labor find solace in water and, since this felt not unlike how I imagine giving birth to feel, perhaps a nice, hot bath would do the trick.

BONUS! If the Fictional Demon Baby reeking havoc somewhere deep in my loins DID decide to emerge, the water would simulate the womb, making Fictional Demon Baby's passage into existence gradual and gentle. I sound like a hippie, don't I? Don't come any closer! I'll burn a bra. So help me, I'll do it!

The relief of the water was Cortaid to poison ivy: very, very minor.

Oh, and let me stop this crazy train here to add that our last Ibuprofen had gone down Adam's gullet some two night's previous. And aspirin from the first aid kit? HA! Fictional Demon Baby eats aspirin like Sixlets!

After sweating like a skank on Sunday from both the pain and the water temperature, tossing a few cookies, and sobbing at the injustice of it all (I'm a bit dramatic when my guts hurt), I decided that hot water had the same effect of bathroom fans: both do nothing and annoy me.

So, I exited the bathroom to see what Adam could do. He's usually good for a remedy or two. Like that one time he made me drink an entire liter of Mountain Dew to cure a migraine. It worked. Not.

What I found upon my exodus was Peter, I mean Adam, in the spare bedroom. "Could you not watch with me one hour?" I'm sooooo sorry that the sounds from my early morning bubble bath disturbed your peace. Foo.

For the sake of your attention span, I'll just say that a miracle from Heaven eased my pain. Also, four Ibuprofens that I found rolling around in the bottom of a discarded purse. I'm sure those pills had Metro jam all over them, but in the morning light, they looked like a turkey leg to a starving man.

Obviously I didn't go to work. I laid very still, spooned with a heat pack, and watched Bring It On Again. Worst. Movie. Ever.

The good news: my entrails remain intact. The bad news: Fictional Demon Baby quit tormenting me around seventeen hundred hours just in time to make dinner, pick up Adam from the Metro, and go to a meeting. Thanks for nothing, Fictional Demon Baby. Couldn't you at least have gotten me out of enchilada duty?

The end.

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God Bless Manassas

The ultimate patriotic celebration is in our flipping backyard and where did we spend our Fourth of July?

Manassas.

Not that I'm complaining. I had a fabulous time. Those crazy kids out there sure know how to party.

It's just that my one and only husband spent half the day reminiscing about the celebrations of his childhood in Paris.....Idaho. Good entertainment, great food, terrific company, blah, blah blah. (The irony is that those folks from Paris, Idaho would, and probably do, pay the big bucks to come to DC over this holiday.)

He was practically paving the streets of his childhood with gold and I was starting to feel a little second-rate for not playing dutiful wife and instigating equally amazing traditions. Pardon me for not waking up at the crack of dawn to fix a chuck wagon breakfast, direct a patriotic program with the local talent, orchestrate a parade of red, white, and blue clad rodeo queens, and then plan a neighborhood ice cream social just in time for the most amazing fireworks display ever.

Our plan was to enjoy the festivities from the highest point in Alexandria (the Masonic Temple), where one can get a 360 degree view of all the fireworks in the area: the National Mall, Alexandria City, and across the Potomac to Maryland. In fact, I was patting myself on the back for thinking up with such a cool tradition.

But after Adam's moping, the Masonic Temple felt like rewarmed bread pudding.

I'm not sure how it happened, but next thing I know we're in Manassas, toting our camp chairs down streets lined with vendors selling kettle corn, Navajo Tacos, and six kinds of weenies. A mediocre band was playing Johnny Cash tunes somewhere in the distance.

We stopped to watch children pay $2.00 for the chance to bean each other with water balloons, when we noticed a little posse of tweens eating funnel cakes, wearing cut-offs, and grousing about something "Justin said" or "Justin did."

I cut my eyes at Adam, who was grinning from ear-to-ear. With an uncharacteristic twinkle in his usually soulless, black eyes, he laughed (and not demonic, like usual) and planted one on my cheek. "I'm home."

He may look the picture of comfort chit-chatting in the board room, but hand him a fine wife, a fiddle, and cakes on the griddle, and he'll call life a funny, funny riddle. Thank God he's a country boy. The Salt of the Earth. Especially that sister there in the green number.

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Fireflies

You would not believe your eyes

If ten million fireflies
Light up the world as I fell asleep
Cause they fill the open air
And leave teardrops everywhere
You'd think me rude
But I would just stand and stare

Photo by me, 7/2/11 @ Sky Meadows State Park. Lyrics by Owl City. Awesomeness by lighting bugs.

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My skin is so pasty

One of my co-workers pointed out the festivity of my ensemble on Friday. My subconscious must have been feeling patriotic. I'm pretty sure this top, which I paid an entire dollar for thankyouverymuch, is maternity and could hide triplets. Do I care? I do not. But I do. No, I don't. I care lots.

Happy 4th, y'all! I'm going to celebrate Our-merica with a visit to nature. Because nothing screams "Freedom Ain't Free" like a fire-cooked weenie dog. What are your plans?

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It's about darn time

We've put this off for far too long. Many people have been wondering when this would happen for us. For nearly five years, we've have been waiting and discussing and thinking and praying.

Now that it's happened, I'm not even sure how to react. Adam is in complete shock and I just can't stop smiling. It's just so incredible. A miracle.

It happened really fast. Adam came home recently and said, "Emily. It's time." I knew he was right. I had heard so many stories about it taking folks a long time, but for us, it happened very quickly.

Enough jabber.

Adam and I are just so THRILLED to announce that
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we bought a king-sized bed!!!!!!!!! (!!!!!!!!!)In case you've been busy, I don't know, living your own life (I can't imagine why on earth you would want to do that) and forgotten our plight, refresh yourself with this and this.

It was a whirlwind of events. One minute we're sleeping on our butt-worn queenie and the very next minute, Adam's all , "Get in the car, Debby" and off we went to the mattress store, where plastic was swiped, delivery was arranged, and a serious case of IB set in on Yours Truly. In the wee hours on the morning of the scheduled delivery, Adam grunts, "For the last time ever, get your knees out of my back, woman." Such beautiful words had never before been spoken.

I'm ecstatic to report that our eternal marriage is once again a joy instead of a sentence worthy of Guantanamo. Not touching is just so....sexy. Not to mention that I'm sleeping like a dead man.

And ole queenie? She's in our "guest suite" that's currently under construction. Come visit! You might herniate your disc on our sloppy seconds, but don't worry: we'll be in the next room sleeping on a cloud of angels knitting blankets of bunnies.

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