Mindy

Table Topic Tuesday. 11/12.

Here’s the question:

My perfect day looks like 80 degrees—from 8am-midnight. There’s sun, breeze. There’s a bottomless cup of sangria next to my pool or beach chair. Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby is on repeat. In between turning over to keep my tan even, I get up and dance. I read a book from cover to cover.

Well, that’s a dreamy day.

On a perfect day, I get to laugh with them.

I get to kiss him.

Hug them.

Be silly with her.

Big-sister him.

On a perfect day, I believe in Disney magic with friends (and their kiddos) who love it as much as I do.

On a perfect day, I realize how perfect life is—when you stop to notice.

My buds have perfect days, too.

My sister, Lindsey, says:

Any day I spend in Disney. Especially if it means pizza at the Italy pavilion and a trip on rockin roller coaster.

And Lindsay says:

This is an easy one. These are the events in order that define my perfect runnaroundd day:

-Get up really early and run a half marathon trail race.

-Hug my mom and dad and sister real tight {assuming they’ll be there cheering me on}.

-Drink lots of coffee.

-Eats lots of trail mix.

-Spend the day walking around Disney.

-Get on all rides in 10 minutes or less.

-Eat pizza for lunch at Via Napoli.

-Watch Magic Kingdom fireworks with happy tears running down my face and a Plaza Ice Cream Parlor cone dripping down my hand.

-Order dinner at my parents’ house from our favorite Chinese place.

-Watch Harry Potter on the big screen with a side of kitty cuddles and peanut butter M&Ms.

-Repeat {can I just have one more day, please??}.

And Javi says:

My perfect day begins with me waking up in a white tuxedo, walking out of my cabana overseeing my gorgeous island paradise, and being met by my tiny friend and employee, in his equally matching tiny white tuxedo. My little friend looks up into the sky and wildly exclaims “look boss! De plane! De plane!” and I wait to greet my guests on my grand Fantasy Islan – no, no. Sorry. That’s not right. My perfect day begins with me waking up in an island paradise. Check. The sun shines down across the beautiful estate which I call home. And, as I run my hand through my thick and luxurious soup strainer mustache, I ponder the gathered facts surrounding an illicit crime that I, along with help of my trusted friend who flies helicopters must solve. A beautiful woman is depending on me to help crack the very sinister plot she knows is unfolding within her family… and there will probably be some quality mustache make out action if I do close the case. So, without hesitation, I ask groundskeeper Higgens for the keys to my Ferrari and speed away for clues. Such is the life of Private Investigator Magnu – Shoot! Ok, wait. My perfect day. I wake up, ready to fight crime as part of an elite justice unit where direct acton might provide the only feasible solution. And, I still drive an awesome car. Oooooh yeah. But, this car is no ordinary car. It’s an all black on black, murdered out, Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. And, it’s got insaaaaaane technology and engineering built in. As well as an artificial intelligence that allows the car to drive by itself and actually talk to me, the driver, Michael Kni – C’mon! Get it together, man. Focus! My perfect day is back to me, solving crimes as a detective, with a partner. But, this time, my partner is a woman. A formal model. Yeeeeaaaahhhh. And we work at a detective agency together called the Blue Moon Detective Agency. And together we’d be Moonlightinnnnnoooooooo!!!! NO! NO! NO! What is wrong with me? Alright… My perfect day would be complete if someone just brought me a sandwich, as if from no where, without me even hinting for one. And, it would be extra perfect if I overheard someone described me to friends as “adorkable”.

Okay, kids. What does your perfect day look like?

Table Topic Tuesday. 11/5.

It’s Table Topic Tuesday.

And the question?

WHAT’S YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING PHOBIA?

Okay. I love thrill rides—the whoosh, the rush, the tummy flopping. You can flip me upside down, sideways, backways or hurl me down the steepest hill and I’ll want to get right back on.

But, when it comes to a free fall straight down, I am neurotic. Shaky, sweaty, crippled with the irrational fear that I’m definitely going to fall to my death. Enter the Tower of Terror in Disney’s Hollywood Studios. Now, this attraction is imagineered to perfection. I love the frozen-in-time façade of the hotel, the spooky queue, the ghost-child who beckons you to join her twilight zone. But I can’t deal with the actual fall—especially now that it’s randomized for even more fun terror and you never know how many times you’ll be yo-yoed up and down the spine-chilling shaft. No thanks.

It all may stem from my aversion to elevators. But I’m forced to face that fear every day on my 35-floor flight up to my office. Once, I was stuck in one of the office elevators for 2 ½ hours—pregnant, in the corner, with 11 other people—in the “worst entrapment in building history.” Did that help cure my hang-up? Nope.

Other notable mentions:

Birds. I love birds in flight. They nudge my eyes and attention to the heavens. But, when birds are still, they completely freak me out. Is it their sharp beaks and pecking potential? The shifty eyes? No. I think it’s their spindly, scaly legs and feet and, ew, toes. Ahhhhhhhhhh!

I’m (still) scared of the dark. Silence. People not liking me.

Now that I’ve out-ed myself, my friends can do the same.

Ashlie says:

I really only have a one word explanation for this one…aliens. There…I admitted it.

Javi says:

I don’t bring drinks into trendy clothing stores at the mall because I’m afraid that in the midsts of the distracting strobe lights near the dressing rooms, the blaring trance music, and the store clerk wearing the Brittany Spears microphone strapped to her head, who obviously took a double dose of molly to get through her shift, I’ll put my drink down and be roofied. I’m afraid that when babies point and coo at me, they are casting an adorable baby curse on me. A baby hex, if you will. I’m afraid that dogs and bees can smell social awkwardness as well as fear, which causes more social awkwardness and then more fear. I’m afraid that my biggest regret in life will somehow involve the “Reply All” button. I’m afraid, Australia. That was the end of that sentence. I’m afraid… Australia. But, what really keeps me up nights is a fear that has been deeply rooted in my subconscious for a few years now. I’m afraid that one day it will be my turn to date Taylor Swift. I won’t have a choice. Obviously its only a matter of time, and everyone has to do it. It’s like a war draft. But still, I’m so frightened of when my time will come. Will I be brave and accept my civic duty, or will I flee to a foreign land and change my identity to some sing-songy French name? Jean-Louis LePetitte-Bottom, perhaps. Will she hunt me down across the social media, like some kind of Facebook bushwhacker, using her innate ability to deliver passive-aggressive posts to hunt my movements and stalking me like a red-lipstick wearing jungle cat through an elaborate web of photo friend tags? Will the song she writes about our relationship be short of a billboard top ten hit!? If our breakup resulted in a song that was just considered album filler, I’d be mortified. I don’t know that I could live with that.

Alrighty. Fess up. What’s your most embarrassing phobia?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #17.

It’s a Halloween episode of Thursday Thanks–coming to you live from my Thanksgiving Chair.

Today, I’m thankful for the plumpest, perfectest gourd on earth and all of the gems in its glorious guts (I ate my weight in roasted pumpkin seeds last night–anybody with me?).

I’m thankful for chocolate candy, hard candy and any candy that’s not candy corn.

And I’m beyond grateful that I work for a company that lets me be a mom–especially on holidays. Like most good companies, mine encourages a healthy “work/life balance”.

That said, I think the phrase “work/life balance” is bunk–harder to grab and hold than a fistful of slinky pumpkin guts. Work is part of life. And balance is only real in math and budgets and beams, of course.

I worked at a magazine for a skinny minute where I went from a senior writer to managing editor overnight. The business manager offered up some advice. “This is a lot more responsibility, obviously, and probably a lot more stressful. I just want you to remember that this is a magazine. It’s not brain surgery. No one is going to die.”

I’m still thankful for that perspective–and never more than today. In (superficially) crazy times, I’ve always used his line: “it’s not brain surgery.” Until it is. Like this last week, when someone I love more than my life had a second brain surgery. That will wake your perspective. Shake your core. Make you feel anything but balance.

Then you find footing in gratitude, and new sweetness in every breath.

What are you thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/29.

Happy Table Topic Tuesday, y’all.

Here’s today’s question:

Okay. Before I go Captain Sappy on you, there is one thing that absolutely makes a house your own home: it’s the place where you don’t have to line the toilet seat or flush with your feet.

But what really makes a house a home?

In my home, it’s the travertine the boys both learned to toddle over–the floors that caught their first steps.

The walls that heard their first words and their first prayers. The pencil marks on the door frame that hold their height safe. The bedspreads that soak up stories.

It’s the kitchen sink that keeps of the tune of the lyrics I over-sing. The junk drawer that guards glue sticks, broken crayons and bits of memories. It’s always having a space in the closet where you can throw stuff if someone is coming to your home on short notice.

Home is the smell of love.

It’s knowing exactly which fire truck left that inch-long scuff mark on the baseboard.

It’s knowing yours is the third couch cushion to the left.

It’s knowing the biggest respite on earth is in the crook of his left arm.

Home is your happy place.

For me, home is a collection of hallways and rooms and roofs–all cozy inns, beds and breakfasts, until I’m really home.

Now, my friends are up.

Javi’s definition of home is just as true and a lot more funny.

One can pinpoint the exact differences between a space, a house, and a home using one simple tool. Breakaway pants. Just walk into any room of a sheltered area wearing breakaway pants. Now, stop for a second. Assess your emotions. How you feel, physically. How those around you may be feeling. Detect the mood in the air. Now, take a hard note, because your following actions will be critical to assessing the difference between a space, house and home. Next, using two hands, in one fluid motion, with some semblance of authority and a touch of grace, rip those breakaway pants off and toss them aside with the fearless recklessness of your drunk uncle trashing all the hotel pieces on the Monopoly board after owing the bank money for some “socialist garbage.” Now, feeling the breeze against your milky thighs, do another assessment of your emotions and surroundings. If you immediately feel scared, confused, embarrassed, or the cold pressure of handcuffs on your wrists, this is neither a house, nor a home – it is a space. Chances are it’s a bank, a yoga studio, or a Burger King. The mood in the air, as you may note by the screams and crashing noises taking place around you, may now have a palpable tension to it. These are all strong indicators that this is not a livable place. Nothing “homey” about it at all. You might be hard pressed to find anything “housey” about it. However, if upon breakaway-pant release, you feel an air of freedom, euphoria and titillating delight, then you, my all-shirt-no-pants, Winnie-the-Poohing friend have entered into what could very well be classified as a House. WARNING: BECAUSE IT IS A HOUSE, IT DOES NOT MEAN IT IS YOUR HOUSE (please refer to indicators of space). The mood in the air may be one of childlike wonder and endless possibility. Chances are highly probable that you are alone either in a cheap hotel, a studio apartment above a Thai restaurant, or somewhere along the Appalachian Trail. The difference between a house and a home is a subtle yet serious one. Making a home is less about area and more about acceptance. If, upon hitting the eject button on your breakaway pants you feel a sense of pride, arrogance, and all around hubris then this is a strong indication that you are indeed home. But, the special difference in this moment is that you won’t be alone. There will be a person, or perhaps persons in the room with you who will be completely accepting of your behavior. They may, in fact, even expect it. What’s more, if it truly is your home, even if said people are completely against you Donald-Ducking your way though their line of vision, they wont be able to do anything about it. Those people may ask, or even plead that you put pants on, uttering phrases like “Dad! Come on! We eat meals on that table…” but the reality is, their cries are in vain. This is your home. You hold all of the authority, and none of the pants. And that is where that transformative home charm lives. In the ether between being pantless in a place where no one is around, and a place where you’re surrounded by people that have no real choice other than to take in your Porky-Pig fashion sense and embrace it. A home takes the offensive sight of a pantsless person and turns it into a symbol of majestic beauty. It’s a feeling that can only be described as magic. I will leave you with one very important precaution when home testing. If, upon removal of your breakaway pants, you are met with cheers and applause, please take heed. This may feel like a monumental achievement and you may be lulled into a false yet amazing sense of security, but this is NOT an indicator of a home. This is a strong indicator that you are in a male burlesque show and or review. I made this exact mistake and once lived in a male strip club for three years. Looking back I am amazed that I never noticed the signs, but they were all there. I learned a lot during my time there. These were formative years indeed. It was an experience that dare I say has molded me into the learned man of science that writes to you today. But I’ll leave those regal lessons, and the hundreds of other uses for break away pants that I took with me during that time, for another time and another post.

And here is Lindsay‘s take:

I believe that a home is where you feel most comfortable. I also believe that Javier couldn’t have said it any better. You’re not home until you can safely and comfortably drop your pants.

My friend Ashlie and I share a lot of family traditions:

I have learned no matter if you live deep in the south, down in the heart of Texas, or up in the northeast, you can be at home if you are with the people you love. As sappy as it sounds, it’s true—home is where the heart is. My heart is my family. It is important for me to create memories and traditions with my family that will instill in them a sense of “home.” It’s the simple things like having Friday night family movie night, sitting down for dinner, and taking family adventures together. It’s also the annual traditions like our pumpkin carving party, frying turkeys for Thanksgiving, or opening up Christmas pajamas on Christmas Eve. We try to make our daily life and the special days important and memorable. I know if we focus on spending time as a family, it won’t matter where we live, because as long as we are together, we will be home.

And this is what home looks like to Lynda:

For me, my home is my protection, my comfort zone, my place to relax and decompress from the day. But what makes it truly a home for me? My home is a Sunday night, curled up on my couch, watching the sunset turn the clouds into brilliant shades of pink and orange until eventually darkness has overshadowed it all and the twinkling lights of the city catch the corner of my eye. It’s a glass of wine in hand, a snuggly kitty on my lap, and my sweet cinnamon candle burning away as I soak in hours of Masterpiece Theater and thrilling British drama. It’s the contentment I feel at the thought that everything is right with the world as I start a new week. It’s what I look forward to every day, and when I sit there and take it all in, I know I am home.

Your turn. What makes a house a home?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/22.

Let’s cap off this Tuesday with a little Table Topic.

Survey says:

Well, when I rocked bodacious bangs back in the day, a few folks thought I looked like Candace Cameron. Any Full House fans in the house?

And during season 3 of Idol, I heard that I looked like Diana DeGarmo weekly. I don’t see it, but I do love her affinity for big earrings.

And then there was the time that I saw a my-height Minnie, signing autographs and posing for pictures. She wasn’t quite 5 feet, even with her ears, and her legs were identical to mine. Carbon copies. Might be fun to be her when I grow up.

For now, I’m happily unfamous looking.

My friends chimed in, too.

Lynda says:

Back in my younger days (read “thinner” days and/or “blonder” days), I heard people compare me to two different celebrities on a rather consistent basis – Calista Flockhart from Ally McBeal fame and Cameron Diaz. These days, most likely due to my pudgy cheeks, I get nothing. But that’s okay. Don’t get me wrong, neither of those actresses are bad to be compared to, but I’m still dreaming of the day when I grow up to be Jennifer Anniston or Sandra Bullock. Until then I’ll go along happily looking like no one but myself.

Lindsay says:

Unfortunately, I don’t get mistaken for celebs very often — or at all. I’ve never once gotten a ‘oh-you-look-like-so-and-so’ comment. But when I was in middle school, I was convinced that Hilary Duff and I were born from the same mother. I loved her in that Disney show, and the more I watched it, the more I believed we were separated at birth. These days, not so much. Back in college {back in my non-injured running days}, I thought I looked a little like my favorite runner, Paula Radcliffe. Maybe if Hilary and Paula had a baby {someday, technology will make that happen}, it would look like me. Let’s go with that.

Do you resemble any celebs? Tell me who?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #16.

Happy Thursday, y’all, from my Thanksgiving Chair.

Today, the spotlight’s on the little things. Cause, you know, I’m sensitive to little things.

And, sometimes, success is getting to baseball practice on time and remembering sunscreen.

Sometimes happiness is asking the big boy if he’d rather go through the car line or if he’d like you to walk him in. And he picks you.

Sometimes pretty is mascara-free.

Sometimes freedom is a bare-footed bike ride to the mailbox.

Sometimes a peace offering is pumpkin pie ice cream.

Sometimes a worship service is a solitary conversation with God in your driver’s seat, in the middle of rush hour, in the middle of the highway, in the middle of a song.

Sometimes medicine is a Disney movie.

Sometimes you have to remind yourself to be thankful for the sometimes. All the time.

Any little somethings you’re thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/15.

Hi there, Tuesday. Feels like a good day for a Table Topic.

Here’s the question.

What do I miss? The 80s. In general. Scratch-n-sniff stickers. Ballet buns built with DEP & dippity do. Requesting songs on the radio. Sweet Valley High. The Babysitter’s Club. Lisa Frank Folders. Trapper Keepers. Double Dare. Mall Madness. Girl Talk. Heads Up 7-Up. My red & yellow Barbie Dream House.

Handwritten-note origami. Memorizing phone numbers. Memorizing choreography in my muscles. Letting a new music beat seep to my blood cells. Oh–and skate night! Teasing and coy with couple-skate partners on the outside. Fretting on how to hold their hand on the inside. Lock palms or lace fingers? Decisions, decisions.

I miss lifting my feet off of my bike pedals and flying down the hill on Hogan’s Run. Putting on matinee performances with my brother and sister in the Living Room Little Theatre. Spending blocks of hours–all-my-own hours–reading, writing and yaking on the phone.

I miss the best ride in Fantasyland.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride — Disney Digression

Childhood is pure and easy and magic. And it’s more fun when you get to do it all over again.

My friends are up!

Lindsay says:

Better question: What don’t I miss about childhood? Even though my sister and I grew up in a couple different zip codes, our neighborhoods were always packed with kids, especially the cul-de-sac in Raleigh, NC. Not to brag, but we were sort of the cool house on the hill. It didn’t matter if it was before school, after school, in the blazing sun or under blankets of snow, all of us neighbor kids got together and played for hours. I also miss the amazing summers spent at my grandparents’ lake house in New Jersey. Morning tennis and swim lessons, my grandma’s famous waffles for lunch, playing Shark or Dibbles in the water all day long, getting ice cream at the Soda House, going to Song Service on Sunday evenings, then hanging out at the beach for hours afterward. Those lake days were the best days. That’s what my childhood was made of — as well as my mom’s and her mom’s too.

Javi misses 6. Here‘s why.

Lindsey says:

I have so many fond memories from Childhood…I think it is the ability to try so many new things in a carefree perspective. Changing activities was as easy as changing clothes. Adulthood seems so much more restrictive. It was dance lessons in the fall, playing softball in the spring. Cheerleading year round. Participating in choir, band, drama – you name it, I’m sure at one point I did it. There was no real worry in childhood. And making friends was so easy. Share your lunchable – instant BFFs. I guess it’s the simplicity of it which I miss. Oh – and nap time. We should totally bring that into adulthood with us. 🙂

Your turn. What do you miss about childhood?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/8.

Happy Tuesday to you. Ready for today’s Table Topic? It’s a good one.

What doesn’t make me laugh? I’m easily amused. Zero to Teary (with a chance of tinkle) in 2 seconds flat.

And, when it comes to jokes, I have a four-year-old’s humor. Want to hear a few of my favorites? Yay!

Why was the bee flying through the air with his legs crossed? He was looking for the BeePee station!

Ba-Dum. Chhh.

Why was the little strawberry crying? Her parents were in a jam. Awwww.

Why doesn’t Snow White have an iPhone? She’s afraid of apples! (C’mon. This one’s a keeper).

I laugh hardest with people. As long as a person has material to entertain with, I’ll keep feeding them giggles. If the people in the car next to mine are laughing, I’ll help myself and smile right along with them. And is there anything more fun than being in a room full of chortling, tittering strangers? Nope. Even though I’ve sat through the same bits dozens of times, the audience participation always makes for brand new comedy on the Laugh Floor.

Funnies in written form are a taller order. Unless it’s Erika Botfeld’s wit, this piece by David Sedaris or Cake Wrecks.

Funny. Every. Single. Time.

My pal Lindsay weighed in, too.

To be honest, there are few things that don’t make me laugh. It’s my thing. I laugh really easy, and I cry really easy. Both can get me in trouble. I’m one of those that’ll bust a gut over just about anything — a silly cat video, a competitive game of Apples to Apples, bad things happening to other people, memes that make me go, “THAT’S SO TRUE!,” and friends who have no shame when it comes to a wide open dance floor. I, however, wouldn’t go near one without a drink in my hand for fear of others laughing at me rather than with me. I speak from experience. But laughter that brings me to tears — face-to-face with my favorite emotion — comes from being around confident, genuine people who can have a great time doing anything, anywhere. Those people are born with the gift of funny. I’m lucky enough to have people like that in my life. They keep the tears flowing and the good times at an arm’s length.

Your turn to spill it. What makes you pitch a silly?

Octoberfestive

Tis the season for class parties, little league snack duty and office trick-or-treaters.

When we were kids, didn’t the grown-ups throw some candy in a cartoonish tin and call it a day? Or, if they were really feeling fancy, they made ghosts out of lollipops. Do y’all remember these? A tootsie pop, draped in a tissue, tied with a ribbon right at the bottom of the sucker, finished with black magic marker eyes and maybe a round little mouth? Pre-Pinterest gold.

I don’t think that I’m supposed to admit this out loud, but I love the Pinterestification of the holidays–this crafty revolution that makes an ordinary girl think she has scissor super powers. Until she tries to bring a pin into real life. That’s when the original idea and my attempt at it usually ends up looking like reverse before-and-after photos.

Anybody with me? Well, there are a few things I’ve tried that almost resembled the picture I started with. If you’re DIY-challenged like me, these autumnal yummies are fun, festive and nearly foolproof. You only need 3 things to make each of them and none of them require any baking or cooking. Woot!

Owl Cupcakes: my favorite. You can bake the cuppies yourself or buy store-baked (YES!) and top them off with Oreo cookies and Reese’s Pieces. The kids can make their own funny faces. (We also made a batch of snowy owls).

Pumpkin Favors. These guys are fun to hand out. You just need tulle, pipe cleaners and candy. They do take more candy then you might think, so I’d go big on the filler. Like jelly beans. It was hard (for me, at least) to achieve a perfectly not-round-but-round shape, but they’re pretty forgiving. There’s something charming about lumpy punkins, right?

FrankenFaces. There are a million different ways to make these puddin cups and you just need a marker, Oreos and pudding (homemade, instant, store-bought–whatever you fancy). You pick the height of the cup, the color of the dye–or lack of dye–and the kids can have fun sketching Sharpie expressions.

And Monster Donuts! These are awesome for the ball field. You may have to open up the center with a biscuit cutter or round cookie cutter, depending on the size of the fangs you find.

Screen Shot 2013-10-06 at 10.38.06 PM — Disney Digression

Do you have a favorite easy peasy fall treat? I want to know.

Thursday Thanks. Helping #15.

Sitting here:

Thinking this:

& a grateful heart.