Last night I dreamed that I was back in high school.  I remember being on “the field” with some of the friends I miss most.  And some not-so-friends that I didn’t like the first time around, so why would that have changed in my dream?

It was actually Torri’s high school campus.  She was a student there, at the same time as me.

And I was lost–for the life of me I couldn’t find building 600.

But then finally I did.  It was an elective: “American Cheese is Going Places.”  We were to learn how to make cheese.  Because those are the kind of elective options schools offer these days, don’t ya know.

And then it was lunch time again.  I remember telling one of my not-so-friends, “that was the longest summer EVER.”

It really was.

Sigh.

Tell me I’m not the only one with completely random dreams like these.

We had some friends over for breakfast this morning.  Friends–or maybe family– I can’t quite be sure.  Maybe a little of both.

Not that it was always that way.  Far from it.

We’ve known each other for more than half of my life.  For seventeen years.

But we’ve only liked each other for, eh, maybe six or seven of those.

The rest of those years were spent first bickering, then battling.  Over something we had in common–something precious to us both: our baby girl.

It’s gotten easier as she’s grown.

Easier to see that we both want the same things for her, even if we disagree on how to get there.

If you’ve never experienced shared custody it’s nearly impossible to imagine how difficult it can be.

But I can attest.

It’s a painful road.  A road littered with blame and contempt and insecurities.  Ugly words and hateful thoughts and splintered bonds.  Shattered dreams and broken hearts–both big and small.

Which makes this emerald meadow at the end of that road all the sweeter.

He came with his girlfriend, to spend the weekend with our baby {who isn’t so much a baby anymore}.

I couldn’t wait to meet The Girlfriend; I’d heard lots of good things.   And she certainly didn’t disappoint.  I genuinely liked her.  Really, really liked her.  Which is saying a lot.  Because those that came before her?  Eh, not so much.

The eight of us crowded around our table this morning.  And we ate and we laughed {while the sickly among us coughed}.  We poked fun and reminisced and smiled.

It felt good.

Not only because her dad is family {once removed}.

But also because she witnessed it all.

She was there–between us–but not a buffer.

She saw us smile, and mean it.  She heard us laugh, together.

She had breakfast with her family–juxtaposed at one strangely-quilted table.

Four years ago I would have dismissed the possibility.

Today I smile.  And know never to say never.

This life is far from storybook.  Far far far.

But it’s real.

And it’s me.

And it works.

More so now than ever before–granted–but still.

It’s good to be on this side.

Good for all of us.

We take an annual vacation in late September/early October.

We go to Walt Disney World, where we walk a cumulative hundred miles around the theme parks.

Unfortunately for my waistline, we also eat our weight in fudge and ice cream and chocolate covered everything.

And our return home is marked by the start of fall food season.  What?  Doesn’t every family have a fall food season?

Our fall food season includes pumpkin bread and cream cheese-frosted pumpkin bars.  Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  Apple pie.  Baked ziti.  And countless other calorie-laden comfort foods.

Before long the calendar flips and so begins the holiday season.  At about this point I often wonder if everyone views egg nog and sugar cookies and peanut butter balls as figure sabotage, or if it’s just me.

But then comes January 1st.  And I pledge to drop the 1.5 pounds I put on at Disney, the 3 pounds I picked up during October, and the remaining {no, I’m not going to share the number thankyouverymuch} butter weight I adhered to my thighs during the holiday season.

And I was on my way, let me just tell you.

But then–dag blast it–they start stocking the store shelves with these little beauties.

And–just like that–I cave.  For real.  Like, stick a fork in me cuz’ I’m done kind of cave.

Worse yet?

Don’t even get me started on the sinful sugary goodness that is the chick {or rabbit as the case may be}.

Now that my local grocery store has replaced all of the candy hearts with these babies, I figure it best to avoid the scale altogether.  At least until, oh May.  Wait.  Scratch that.  Because Cinco de Mayo, with it’s fried tortilla chips and guacomole fresca?  Oh and the margaritas.  Ole.

How about you?  Do you have an Easter downfall?

The other day I was looking at some recent pictures that I’ve taken of the girls and something about them struck me as strangely familiar.  Besides their faces I mean.  Because those are familiar, considering I’ve been looking at them for quite some time now.

But something about their faces was familiar.

At first I couldn’t put a finger on it.

It wasn’t that they resemble any one relative in particular.

It wasn’t an expression.

It wasn’t a certain twinkle in their eye or a a dimple or anything like that.

Something though, something nagged at me.

And I hate being nagged.  So I pulled out my trusty self-hypnosis CD and popped it in, hoping that through the power of hypnosis I would be able to flip through my subconscious like a card catalog and retrieve the memory.

Okay, you got me.  I didn’t really do that.  I don’t even own a self-hypnosis CD anymore.

Turns out I didn’t need to hypnotize myself.

Because it came to me.

My doodles!  Or drawings.  Whatever you want to call them.

When I was young (even younger than I am now believe it or not), I used to doodle.  I know, newsflash right?  My artistic skills certainly weren’t getting me any scholarships, but they were helping to pass the time during Algebra class.  So I doodled a lot.  In addition to passing notes and just generally doing whatever I could to avoid mathematical equations.

In addition to your typical hearts and rainbows and little sperm-y looking creatures (what?  doesn’t everybody doodle sperm?) I doodled people.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I doodled faces.  Because my people were pretty much floating heads.  And, with little variation, they looked like this:

I know.  I totally missed my calling right?

Or not.

What I may have missed, however, was a lucrative career with the psychic network.

Because, um, hello?  The resemblance between my floating head drawings and my daughters?  Un. Canny.

And these drawings are circa, 1990 something.

Yet there I was predicting the trend of teenagers wearing their hair over one eye, some twenty years later.

Which, by the way, is totally hawt.

Much like my mad psychic skillz.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my phone is about to ring; the Psychic Friends Network is going to offer me a job.

You’ve seen pictures of us, right?

If not, you need only scroll down a bit and check us out on the Polar Express. (Pay no mind to the texting redhead who was severely punished for having ruined the one and only family photo on the train).

Yeah, so, my point is to prove to you that we’re not terribly huge people.

Some might even say we’re on the small side.

Petite’ish.

With the exception of Jayce, of course, who is freakishly large.

But as a whole, we tend to run small.

It might surprise you, then, to learn that we can put some food away.

For real.

Our weekly grocery bill is frightening.

The proportions dished out each night are gargantuan.

We shop for produce at Costco.  Because around here quantity is as important as quality.

You get my gist.

Last weekend we dined in Phoenix during our Polar Express trip.  We thought we’d try a new restaurant, based on the fact that I had a coupon, and we were in the mood for something different.

Something Buca.  Which is an Italian joint that serves food up family style, in either “small” or “large” portions.

The waiter took one look at us and declared that we should order small portions of everything.

I begged to differ.

“We put away some food,” I told him.

He motioned towards his protruding gut and then at me in comparison, and said, “no really.  You should order smalls.”

I smiled knowingly at Jeff.

The waiter assured me, “my job is to help you.  To make sure you don’t end up with boxes of food to take home.”

I would have pat him atop the head, had I not been sitting and him standing.

“I really think we’re going to opt for the large portions.  And if we have leftovers, you are well within your rights if you stick your thumbs in your ears and make the nanner-nanner-nanner face at me, all while chanting I told you so.  Deal?”

He may have been just a tad put out by my know-it-allness.  Not that it phased me.  Because when it comes to my family, I sort of a know-it-all.  It’s in my job description.

The food came.

The wine flowed.  (Just for Jeff and I.  Don’t tsk. tsk. me).

We ate.

A lot.

With the exception of the garlic mashed potatoes.  Because they were really rather icky.  And that’s coming from a lover of mashed potatoes.

Platters were emptied.

Plates were licked clean.

And that waiter?  He was left with nothing to nanner-nanner about.

Because we can put away some food.

And then be hungry again a couple of hours later.

I’m not sure where it goes.

Maybe we have tapeworms.

But let this be a lesson to you, should you be inclined to invite us for dinner.

We can put away some food.

Trust me.

We’re a multilingual household.

Betcha didn’t know that about us, did ya?

Don’t be too impressed though; our second language is made up.

I’m wondering if every family has a language of their own.  Like we do.

I guess it’s not so much a language of our own, considering that we’ve basically just cut and paste English words to form our own phrases.

We have the “rich person stool” for example.  The rich person stool is nothing more than a stool placed in our master bedroom closet.  It’s been dubbed the ‘rich person’ one because it is my belief that rich people do not have to stand up and balance on one foot in order to get their shoes on.  They sit.  On fancy stools in their walk-in closets.  Much like we do (on the rare occasions when it’s not covered with my discarded clothes), now that we have the rich person stool.

And then there’s “Monners.”  Monners is not a thing, but a person.  Jayce to be specific.  One of the reasons we chose to name him Jayce was so that he’d ease through life with a one-syllable name and people wouldn’t be inclined to shorten it with silly nicknames.  We have a Kennedy in our family, who answers to “Ken.”  And a Cassidy who rarely is called anything but “Cass” or “Cassie.”  Even Torri has been shortened to “Tor”.  So we figured Jayce would be easy peasy, right?  Wrong.  When he was a baby some brainiac started calling him J Money.  Which eventually became Monners.  So his easy peasy one syllable name is now two.  Makes perfect sense doesn’t it?

Oh and I certainly couldn’t foget BAPs.  BAPs (or Baby Apple Pies) are actually homemade apple turnovers.  The first time I made them Jeff referred to them as baby apple pies, and it stuck.  Only we shortened it to BAPs because, as you read, we like to stick with one-syllable.  Most of the time anyway.

On the subject of desserts, we also have one called Survivor/Apprentice bread.  I used to make it every Thursday night, just in time for the family to sit down together and watch Survivor.  Survivor bread is basically a gooey cinnamon roll, formed into a braid rather than a roll.  And it is a very popular dessert in our household.  Or it used to be, anyway, before it went from Survivor bread to Apprentice bread.  Apprentice bread because at some point it became harder and harder for me to get it finished on time, so instead of the family sharing it during Survivor, Jeff and I split it (after the kids went to bed) during the next show (which, at the time, was Apprentice).  Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, I always gave the kids their fair share for breakfast the following morning.

We also group certain people in categories.  Not every person, mind you.  We only have two categories: HQP’s and stinky people.  A third category is in the works though: LQP’s.  And no.  LQP’s are not the same as stinky people.  It’s a long story.  Maybe I’ll write a post on it.

Anyway.  Those are but a few of the terms of endearment we use around here.

I’m curious what yours are.  Do tell.

You won’t believe this.

I wouldn’t believe it myself had I not been been the one to do it.

I bought something.

Something I never ever in a plazillion years would have thought I’d buy.  Last week, though, I found myself out shopping.

Out shopping specifically for this item mind you.

It was like two universes collided out in the depths of space somewhere and, as a result, all my fashion sense went out the window.

Except for one thing.

Once I found what I was looking for, I felt exactly the opposite.

Like all my fashion sense had been in hiding, and it suddenly came into light.

Like my super-fly fashion potential was unlocked.

Like I should sit by the phone and wait for Mr. Armani to call.

Okay.  Maybe that’s taking it a tad too far.

But still.

So.

You wanna know what I bought?

Okay.

I’ll tell you.

It was jeans.

Of the skinny variety.

Yes.  I’m serious.

And when I wear them I feel like one of those catwalk models.

Only much shorter.

And thicker.

And happier.

But totally hip nonetheless.

Oh wait.  It’s so 1990 (or 1975′ish) to say hip.

Totally sick then.

Sick like hot, not sick sick.

You know what I mean.

Anyway.

My purchase was in preparation for another trip to Walt Disney World.

I’m leaving this weekend.

Alone.

For three glorious nights.

I’ll be representing the Disney World Moms Panel, and meeting a fabulous group of blogging mamas.

And then, collectively, we’ll be meeting one of Disney’s new VIP’s.

As in, Very Important Princesses.

She’s gorgeous, by the way.

Her dress puts my new skinny jeans to shame.

On the bright side though – all I had to do was shell out $80.

She kissed a frog.

Who came out ahead in that deal?  Ahem.

I’m not having a good day.

My family is currently gathered in the kitchen making fun of me.

Jeff had the nerve to google “hissing dinosaur with flaps” in search of an image that he thought would perfectly suit me.

They think I’m a stress fest.

They’re wrong.

But we’re going to ignore their best impressions of a jeckyl (which I SO am not by the way).  And talk instead about the ten reasons why you should not agree to make a fancy fondant birthday cake a la Ace of Cakes for your son’s third birthday party.  Especially when you have absolutely zero experience in fancy fondant.

10. Marshmallow fondant is the most sticky substance known to man.

9. An entire jar of red gel food color will turn your white marshmallow fondant hot pink at best.

8.  You will be required to make not one.  Not two.  Not three.  But four.  Yes four batches of sticky marshmallow fondant to produce the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse cake of your preschooler’s dreams.

7.  Did I mention?  Marshmallow fondant really bites.

6.  All the powdered sugar this side of the Mason Dixon line will not suffice to make your marshmallow fondant less sticky.

5.  Pink hands.

4.  Pink hands that match your pink striped pajama top.

3.  Your family will swear up and down that your pink fondant truly matches Mickey’s shorts.

2.  It doesn’t.  Mickey wears red.  Not hot pink.

1.  By the time the party arrives…your hands will be rainbow.  Which might be festive for a rainbow bright party.  For a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse birthday party though?  Not so much.

Isn’t that a lovely shade of pink?  One might even call it rosey.  Not nearly as rosey as Jeff’s palms will be this time next week though. :)

Calling me a Dilophosaurus (don’t you dare google image it).  That oughta teach him.

I have a confession to make.  But you have to promise not to stone my house.

Do I have your word?

Okay.  Read on then.

We left church today.

And by ‘left church’ I mean to say that just before the pastor’s sermon, Jeff and I plotted an easy escape route before physically standing and quickly departing.

We didn’t stay.

We left.

Before the sermon.

I know.

Stone worthy.

But you promised.

Here’s the thing: we need a new church.

Desperately.

For many reasons.

The first of which is that the church we currently attend is a forty minute drive from our house.

The second of which is that the church we currently attend has two pastors.  One of whom is truly gifted in the ways of inspiring and connecting with the congregation.  The other, well, just not so much.

The second pastor insists on memorizing the Gospel and reciting it aloud.  Instead of reading it.  And I use the term ‘memorize’ loosely because he just really butchers it every. time.

And then there is this praise team leader who seems to really enjoy the spotlight.  She gives herself lots of solos.  Lots and lots of them.  That, in itself, I could almost overlook.  The clincher, though, is that she is sometimes relegated to lead prayers.

Again, the spotlight thing.

I swear she must keep a thesaurus hidden up there somewhere because she comes up with about a gazillion words that all mean the same thing.  And she meanders her way through prayers as if she is trying to win a Guinness record for lengthiest pray-er.

All of it collided today.

And we just couldn’t sit through.

No stoning.  Remember?

After our great escape we discussed the need for a new church.  Not that this was the first discussion.  Oh no.  Not by a long shot.

But finding a new church is hard.

Especially when you live so far from the boundaries of civilization.  And when you happen to be (admittedly) wary of organized religion.

Now is the time to go congregation shopping though.

It’s much harder, you see, to go unnoticed in an uncomfortable situation when you traipse into a service with four children in tow.  The Brady Bunch thing just doesn’t lend itself to anonymity, kwim?

So Jeff and Jayce and I will be dipping our toes in local church waters over the next few weeks while the girls are away at dad camp.

If for no other reason than now we can’t possibly revisit the scene of our shameful crime.

Leave it to me to burn church bridges.

Nice.

Hello Such the Spot.

No.  I’ve not forsaken you.

It may seem that way.  But really, I’ve been busy getting things back in order after our super-fly promotion weekend.

The day started out innocently enough.

Really.  It did.

See.

I told you.  Completely innocent right?

But sitting through not one, but two promotion ceremonies, and the obligatory reading of names, and long, drawn-out slide shows takes a toll on a gal.  Kwim?

So by the time the gang (and by “the gang” oh do I mean the gang) came together for a big celebratory shindig at the house afterwords, we were all ready to cut loose a bit.

I should pause here and explain the gang.  The gang, in this case, consisted of my grandmother, my mother, two exes, a set of ex in-laws, our mightaswellbeadopted daughter, and her mom and grandma.

Quite a motley crew, wouldn’t you agree?

Lots of people questioned whether inviting two exes to an event that included a fair amount of alcohol was a good idea.

Oh ye of little faith – it was fine.  Fine I tell ya.

Especially after Jeff’s house specialty margaritas began a flowin’.

We all got along swimmingly.

See.

I know the picture quality isn’t great but those of you with a keen eye will recognize that yes, that is my husband, piggybacking my ex around our recently vacuumed grass in the backyard.

It’s really rather unfortunate that I didn’t capture the other memorable events on film.

They included:

-my other ex and my grandmother making their way around the patio table as they rocked the “row your boat” dance moves.
-my ex father-in-law serenading my brother (on one knee, as they held hands btw) with a romantic love song.
-my mom calling my dad (from whom she is recently divorced) at nearly midnight to ask if she had permission to stay out past curfew.
-countless rounds of chocolate cake shots had by all, glasses raised in rambunctious toasts every time.
-our neighbors wondering what the occasion was as they were subject to our rowdy “drink…drink…drink” chant every so often.

And you thought I led an upstanding life.  Ha.

In actuality all of the aforementioned instances were part of an uber fun party game that Jeff and I created a couple of years ago.  Because it’s sort of reminiscent of truth or dare (and because I had two exes in attendance) I wasn’t sure that the venue was an appropriate one for the playing of our twisted little game.

With truth categories like, “MILF,” “If This Vans a Rockin’,” and “Caught In The Act,” you can understand my hesitation.

Jeff rocked the ultimate husband role though and insisted we give our game a go.

It all worked out in the end.

Honestly.

Even Grams stayed up till the last baby daddy had left the building.

And we unanimously decided to do it again in four years.  When Torri graduates high school.

No doubt she’ll seek the solace of her bedroom once again when we pull out the game and she shudders to imagine what her parents’ answers will be to those colorful questions.

Who says I can’t keep it real?

And PS.  If you ask really nicely in the comments, I bet we can convince Gram to email me the group shot she took of all of us toasting our third round of shots.  Not that you’d want to see such a thing.