Heads Up!

Let's clear one thing up before we get started, shall we?

This isn't a real post. This is a thinly veiled attempt at "blogging" but it is really just a way to get pictures that I really enjoy to people that mean something to me, rather than bored FaceBook browsers...

But I plan to post that I blogged on FaceBook so...

It's a wash.

Bottom line, don't expect much witty blog banter or deep mothering thoughts from this one.

Moving on...

I have recently checked off one of my bucket list items.

Actually, I haven't made a bucket list, but if I were to do such a thing, this would have been on it.

I, modest mouse that I am, gathered my courage and sat for a pinup photo shoot.

I LOVE the 40s and 50s style. One of my new friends in Arizona has often lamented that I was born in the wrong era. After my experience with this photo adventure, I am inclined to agree.

There are a couple things you should know about that were weighing on my mind prior to the event:

1. I am not terribly fond of being photographed. I am inclined to enjoy my appearance as I see it in the mirror, and more days than not feel satisfied with the way I present myself to the world. But somehow, when I look at photos of myself, I look nothing like what I see in the mirror. In a very disappointing way.

2. I, along with most women, fear bathing suits and much prefer fancy wraps and floaty cover-ups when dressing for the beach or pool.

3. I have never worn red lipstick.

It is a very good thing that my brave friend Robyn flew to visit me, expressly for the purpose of a journey back in fashion times. She was a great moral booster and cheered me one while I held endless poses that I'm ashamed to say made my legs shake from exertion. I would have hate to have posed with out a year of Crossfit under my belt!

If given the chance, I will gush about the sitting. Everything was delightful. Thrilling really. I'm warning you, don't give me the chance!

But let's cut to the chase.

The pictures.

Look at the colors!

Look at the lips!

Look at my legs!!

Actually,

when I picked up my prints

I confessed to the photographer

that I had a hard time believing

that she hadn't cut and pasted

somebody else's legs on my torso...

My unfriendly thoughts about

my bottom half have been the slowest to resolve...

But she assured me that with proper posing

anybody can have great legs!

Lesson learned.

But mostly, let's talk about the hair.

That is not my hair. That is a wig.

The wigs were my favorite, favorite part of the whole day (we were there for more than four hours).

First we picked out our outfits. How I ended up in a bathing suit beats me, but I just put it on and didn't want to take it off. (Not even for a stunning mauve party dress. You can expect those pictures when I schedule my next sitting!)

Then make up.

And finally wigs.

The whole thing felt sort of silly until she plopped the first wig on my head. Then it was like I was a whole new person. Like I could change myself with every flip of the wig. It was magic I tell you!

We tried tons... a long red one, a short blond one, curly, straight, all shades of brown...

I loved it so much that I am fairly certain I am going to purchase a wig or two and wear them on a regular basis. Just because the joy of wigs is a secret that should no longer be kept!!

I have a slight confession to make. A few days after the shoot, I had planned to go to bed early, but I started looking at wigs online and I gazed from page to page, review after review, until I got a headache. I think I probably looked at wigs for about three hours that night.

Obsessed.

I am aware.

The only solution is to buy a wig. I know it!

So, if the next time you see me I am no longer sporting my pixie cut, or have suddenly gone Marilyn Monroe blond... you can give me a little wink and we can smugly smile to each other thinking, "Aren't wigs incredible!?"

Actually, you will probably be thinking, "Emily is out of her mind." But I will be happily ignorant of that and strut around confidently in my purchased hair.

I can't wait!

Firsts

As a mother of an infant and a toddler, I bet you open a post titled "Firsts" and expect to see drooly pictures of Joey's first tooth or a catalogue of Jack's first trip to the ER for stitches. While those events are, most likely, not far off, I have much more interesting firsts to present to you.

I am happy to announce that I have discovered the joy of having a favorite sweater. You may wonder how I have made it to near-thirty without the novelty of a favorite item of clothing.

I'm not sure.

A pair of Andy's sweats came close while I was pregnant, though I had to retire them when I moved in with Andy's folks because I had worn holes in places that are completely inappropriate to expose while living with your father-in-law.

So now, I have a sweater. Soft and loose, but not slouchy. The perfect shade of grey to hide baby boogers and rice cereal. Suitable for wearing to bed, to the gym, or to Target. A wonder of a top covering!

I truly don't think you are interested in my apparel

which is why

I have refrained from sharing

my clothing woes

which involve shrinking

out of everything I own.

*I know, I know,

bragging disguised as complaining,

but it IS annoying

when I have no way to replace

the baggy-saggy jeans and sloppy looking tops*

and re-discovering

how messy this phase of babyhood is.

But it provides a natural segue into my other first.

Which I think you will be much more entertained by.

My first crush on an older man!

SQUEE.

I would say that it is also my first celebrity crush, but that wouldn't be true since I had a doozy of a crush on MacGuyver when I was smaller and a second infatuation with Dean Cain as Clark Kent. But other then that, I can honestly say I have been crush-free.

I've never been much of a crusher anyway.

In fact, Andy holds the distinct privilege of wooing a girl who was resolutely single and determined to keep her heart from wistful affections that might never be returned.

That being said, it is with his full permission that I make this "firsts" disclosure.

I confessed last season that I am a little attached to reality shows. The new season of Survivor has aired two episodes.

In those two episodes I have developed a fond affection for Jimmy Johnson.

Here he is looking rugged and Survivorish.

Here he is looking debonare and flashing that melt-me smile.

Ladies, if I were to meet this man tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I would blush uncontrollably, and probably do a lot of giggling.

Oh dear.

When I announced my fluttery feelings toward this former Super Bowl coach to Andy, he laughed. Really, really hard. Almost as hard as when I accidentally swore while watching the Biggest Loser.

Did I already share that story?

It is Andy's favorite.

And yet another example of

the

[melodramatic voice here]

havoc that Reality TV

is wreaking on my inner person.

Obviously he isn't worried about me being slightly smitten with a famous face. In fact, I think he might be a little happy since it gives me a much greater tolerance for watching Sports Center.

This may just be my season for being a football fan!

I have a lot to say about Fred Meyer

Do you ever have moments when you realize that at your core you are petty and trite and not even close to the nice, lovely person you think of yourself as?

I am that petty person these days.

I know I'm really a miser at heart because when I looked at my attitude and realized it was terrible I actually though, "I know I am seeing this ugly thing in myself now, but God can change that in me... but I don't know that I really want to ask him to. I kind of want to be a brat and feel justified in my mean ways."

I am not a nice person.

In a few more days I will come to a place where I will lay myself before the Lord, but because I'm always perfectly honest here on this ol' blog, I will tell you that I'm just stewing in my sin at this point.

But let's not talk about that too much.

Let's talk about Fred Meyer.

I have always been a Target girl. I love me some Target.

But I might have a new bff.

The Snohomish Fred Meyer.

Maybe because it is so close. But it might just be because something awesome happens each time I go.

Last week I went to FM wearing a grey cotton skirt and a pair of leggings. Under my leggings I was wearing some of the brightest pink panties you have ever encountered.

Somewhere near the organic carrots my leggings suddenly started to creep from my waist to my hips and showed no sign of stopping.

I'm not sure how it all happened, whether I was just walking with wiggly hips, or the very sheer nature of my undergarments caused some sort of legging malfunction, but as the leggings were doing the shimmy, my underwear decided they wanted in on the trek.

I was trying to find an unoccupied aisle to adjust myself, but the store was very busy. I tried a few inconspicuous hitches but all that did was pull up the leggings and miss the panties. Pretty soon the leggings were barely holding on to my rear and my pretty pinks were not anywhere near where I had put them in the morning.

GAH!

By the time I left the store there was nothing between my bottom and my skirt and I was gritting my teeth against the moment when both the leggings and my underwear made the final plunge to my ankles.

That moment never came, but the first thing I did when I got to my van was to put everything in it's right place. If someone had walked by at just the right moment I very well could have been arrested for indecent exposure.

...

Today I took Jack and Joey with me to grab a few items and get Jack out of the house.

When I shop with both boys Jack always sits in the front seat and I put Joey's carrier in the main section of the cart. It doesn't leave any room for groceries, but I don't have to do it very often, so I can manage once in a while.

When our trip was finished, I wheeled the cart out to the van. I rested the front of the cart against the van to keep it in place and transfered Jack first (I always do him first so that he is as contained as possible). Then I grabbed our groceries and put them in.

When I turned around for the third time, to get Joey, the cart was gone.

Can you even imagine what went through my mind?

First I was totally confused, then I was a little scared, and then I was laughing hysterically as I saw the cart rolling at a leisurely pace down the parking lot with a little baby in it.

Somehow the cart got free of my positioning and was following the gentle slope of the lot.

I made some sort of exclamation and quickly chased after the cart (good thing I wasn't wearing leggings!). After I had retrieved it and returned it to the cart rack I heard someone chuckle. I looked up and a young couple had witnessed the whole thing and enjoyed the show a good deal.

I know that could have gone horribly wrong had a car been part of the equation, but as it was, I had a good laugh, which felt very nice.

...

Not all of my enjoyment of FM comes from my own propensity for being totally ridiculous. The employees also brighten my day.

On the same day that I almost showed the world of Fred Meyer my fancy pants

Side note:

In England,

"pants" means panties.

I didn't learn this until

after I told someone at the train stop

"I like your pants,"

and they looked at me like I

was really, really weird.

I was purchasing some pastrami at the deli.

I was going to make reuben sandwiches.

I really love reubens.

The woman behind the counter was a little older, and seemed like a totally run-of-the-mill deli lady. That is, until she handed me my pastrami.

She said, "Have you ever had our pastrami?" When I answered in the negative she began to show off the sliced meat, "you can see how beautiful it is..." and promised me that it would be the best that I had ever tasted.

I smiled, pleased by her enthusiasm, but what made her my favorite deli lady ever is that when I took my meat and offered the usual, "Thanks, have a nice day," she returned with a very sincere, "I hope you enjoy it immensely."

I love that!

When was the last time you enjoyed something immensely?

That pastrami may not have been the very best I have ever had, but I did enjoy it immensely.

Stocking Lunch

Growing up, one of the most anticipated traditions of Christmas was the stocking. My parents made such an event of the little gift appetizer.

My dad would come up with elaborate ways to hide the stocking. Each Christmas we had a list of rules we had to follow and clues to lead us to the hidden treasure. The whole lead up was thrilling, but the stockings, oh the stockings! My mom was a master of cramming as much good stuff as she could into the foot-shaped sacks.

I think we did the treasure hunt until I was about 22 (my dad does it now for Ellery). When we gave up the hunt, neither Liz or I could quite bear the idea of giving up our mom's amazing stockings.

Side Note:

When Andy and I got married

I think he was REALLY intimidated

by my mom's stocking.

We've had to make new rules for

stockings in our house.

As adoring and clever as Andy is,

I just don't think a boy can

stuff a stocking the same way

a girl, especially a mom, can.

The solution we came to was what we call our Stocking Lunch. We put an afternoon date on the calendar and meet to exchange stockings. My mom makes one for Lizzie and one for me, and Liz and I work together to fill up a stocking for my mom.

To this day we have never achieved as awesome of a presentation as she gives us every year, but we keep trying!

Today was our Stocking Lunch. Oh how I love being with my mom and sister!

Lunch was yummy and our stockings were lavish and we laughed a lot. There is something wonderful about sitting in public, digging through one of the icons of Christmas that is usually reserved for children and surrounding yourself with heaps of festive wrapping paper (my mom wraps each individual item that goes into the stocking).

We all ordered the same thing for lunch so when the check came we asked the waitress to split it an even three ways. It was then that, gasp! I realized that my mom and sister had ordered sodas and I only had water.

Oh the injustice!

Not like it was a big deal at all, but we decided that they would put the tip on their cards and everything would even out. Which it did.

But after all of our stocking jollity I think we were a little rummy. I started babbling on about how I had to leave my tip line blank and I didn't want the waitress to think I was cheap or mean. Then I rambled about leaving a note to explain the arrangement we made at our table:

"Dear Waitress, your service was excellent. I'm sure you noticed I didn't leave a tip, but it is because I didn't order soda and my dining companions did, so my tip is included on their tab. Thanks for the great meal!"

We were all laughing at the ridiculousness of it and then my mom and Liz ganged up on me and kept saying, "Do it!"

And you know what...

I did.

I put an asterisk on the tip line that lead her to the back of the receipt and to my explanation. Regardless of the fact that I feel really silly and totally suckered by my mom and sister, I'm finding solace in the fact that the waitress probably had a really great story to tell when she went home.

That's what I'm about. Making other people's day.

Thanks for another amazing stocking mom!

My Day in FB Updates

I try and make a point to not keep my Facebook status TOO up-to-date. It would never do for people to think that I have nothing better to do than let them know what I'm doing.

Additionally, I don't really think most of my virtual friends are that interested in what I am eating for lunch, what errand I am running or my current emotional state.

However, you, my faithful followers, I know are interested.

So, for you, here is what I considered posting during various points throughout the day:

Emily Aichele is leaving the house without a shower and in her husband's sweats. If you see me, please disregard my disheveled state. I promise I won't make a habit of it.*

Emily Aichele is about to undertake the absolute worst household chore... scrubbing the bathtub. Ugh. It needs to be said again, UGH.*

Emily Aichele wishes she had a cupcake to reward herself for finishing the most hateful job of tub scrubbing.

Emily Aichele doesn't keep cupcakes (or any other sweet baked good) in the house for the very reason that she would use them as incentive for finishing (or starting) unpleasant chores.

Emily Aichele confesses that she ate the pieces of cake she brought home last night from a party as a coping mechanism for a stressful morning.

Emily Aichele confesses that she medicated herself with cake while watching a show about obesity.

Emily Aichele thinks that no matter how sprinkled a grapefruit is with sugar, it really doesn't satisfy the craving for something sweet and buttery.

Emily Aichele is proud that she at least tried to soothe her sweet tooth with grapefruit. And is glad that there is no fallback baked good to eat following her healthy choice.

Emily Aichele finds herself balanced on the fence of shaking her head at her ridiculous ways and nodding in appreciation of her charming approach to life.

Emily Aichele wishes you a good evening. Sweet dreams.

*Actual update. I couldn't resist.

It's REAL

Just so you know,

In case you have been wondering,

Pregnancy brain is a REAL thing.

Earlier this week I discovered that instead of throwing Jack's cloth diaper in the diaper bin, I had thrown it in the garbage. Only I didn't know I did it. It wasn't like one of those putting your keys in the fridge kind of things where as you close the door you are like, "What am I doing?"

No, I really had no idea I had done it until I went to throw away a paper towel and low and behold, there is one of Jack's cute bottom covers in the trash.

Sheesh.

However, that is nothing compared to today.

Today I met a gorgeous and interesting woman.

She captured my attention immediately. She moved with grace and poise. I just HAD to talk to her! We were at church and so it was easy to sit next to her, hear bits of her story and enjoy her easy smile.

I hope that doesn't sound stalker-ish. It wasn't really. Some people just exude that "I'm interesting and your life would be better if you knew me" quality, and she did for sure!

This is an author edit.

Apparently I also have difficulty

telling stories when I am with child.

Because the previous paragraphs

sound really creepy.

Even with the "I'm not a stalker" disclaimer.

I didn't sit in her vicinity and listen to her talk to

other people. I sat next to her and

struck up a friendly conversation.

Please don't think I'm an eavesdropper.

Anyway, after the meeting she ended up staying until everyone had left except for me and the other leader (I may not have mentioned that I'm helping with a mom's group at my church, but I am... today was our first meeting). Anyhow, I asked this terribly fascinating woman if she was waiting for someone and discovered that her husband is away on business and she wasn't looking forward to going home.

So I did the only thing I could do. I invited her to my house for coffee.

And she accepted!

That meant that she walked into my house with the random garbage smell (not usual, and a surprise to me when we walked in, oh yay!), laundry all over the couch (usual), stains on my carpet(permanent) and all other manner of mess.

But hospitality doesn't wait for laundry!

We had a wonderful visit.

I was able to offer lemonade with fresh slivers of ginger, which I hope compensated for half the pile of laundry. And I was granted the distinct privilege of making the "best nachos" she had ever had. Yahoo!

I wonder why I put "best nachos" in quotes.

An hour and a half into our very pleasant and easy conversation my doorbell rang.

?

It was Lizzie, my sister. She had the phone to her ear and almost immediately I realized my mistake.

For those of you who don't know,

My sister Liz lives two floors below me

in our condo complex.

I had a dentist appointment scheduled at 2:00 and Liz was at my door at 1:50. OH MY GOSH! How did I totally and completely forget that?! How?

Here is how the whole thing went:

The previous day I had called my mom

and arranged to call her at 1:00ish to see if Jack

was asleep or awake.

If he was napping she was going to come to me

and if he was awake I was going to bring him to her.

When she didn't hear from me

she called Lizzie.

Lizzie in turn came up and knocked on my back door.

Which I also didn't hear.

So she came to my front door and rang the doorbell.

And that is when I realized that I hadn't called my mom.

Does it make more sense now?

So I called my mom, who was supposed to be watching Jack and she headed over. This wonderful woman who I just met today offered to stay with Jack until my mom arrived. And I accepted!

I dashed out the door without a proper goodbye just as my mom was walking in.

How embarrassing! What a confusing, sloppy first impression I must have made.

But the day is done. My teeth are clean and hopefully my potential new friend won't write me off as a nutcase after this encounter.

So seriously. Pregnancy brain. It is REAL.

I'm No Expert But...

I need a second opinion.

I think this book may be misinforming and confusing young minds.  

Care to take a peek?

First:  You will notice that the cover highlights "letters," 

leading you to assume that your child will be exposed to, 

at the very least, colorful A, B and C.  Nope.

 Nowhere in the book is there any mention of "letters."

Second: Since when is "ABACUS" classified as a first word?

Third: Why not just call it a watermelon?  I'm pretty sure that in the US, all other melons have very distinct names, cantaloupe, honeydew... Perhaps there was some sort of licensing trouble with the whole term, watermelon. Hmm. This leads me to a dilemma when I read the book to Jack.  Do I read the word melon, because that is what is written, or do I call it a watermelon, because that is what is pictured? Do I write in "water" before the "melon" or do I just say, "Jack, this is a watermelon.  The word says, 'melon' but the picture is of a watermelon.  I don't know why they did that, but maybe they just didn't know."?  What is a mother to do? (The answer to that is, "As a mother, don't you have better things to worry about?" but I wasn't really asking for an answer, so we'll just move on.)

Fourth: I like to think I am pretty well versed when it comes to fruit.  

And I'm pretty sure these are not peaches, but apricots.  

Anyone with me on this one?

Fifth: This is a kid.  A baby goat.

Sixth:  This is also a kid.  A baby goat.  

Masquerading as a lamb.  

Just because you are white, does not mean you are a lamb.

The fur is all wrong.  The face is all wrong. 

 PEOPLE!  Just take a picture of a lamb! 

What is this world coming to when apricots are called peaces and kids are called lambs?!  You can't see me, but I am shaking my head in sorrow at this very moment.  

...

Despite the erroneous information in this book, Jack is getting smarter by the day.  I hope to have a post of all his new tricks in the very near future.  Maybe even later today!  But I just had to get these things off my chest first.  Thanks for hearing me out friends. I feel better now. 

Just Go With It

I have "Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk" stuck in my head.

Yes it is on my ipod gym mix.

Along with three songs from the "Lizzie McGuire Movie" soundtrack.

Now you know my shame.

I have no explanation.

But what is going to be even more embarrassing is showing my complete incompetence at swimming laps tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow I launch the swim training phase of my triathlon endeavor. I think the last time I swam (swum?) any distance was all the way back in high school.  I mean, I've been in a pool since then, but mostly in a stationary sense or in a sliding sense.

So tomorrow I am going to step into the pool with my bright pink tankini with the great big floral print.  I will also be wearing this:

This is what it looks like on:

This is what avocado looks like on, but that is beside the point. 

I figured I might as well embrace the absolute awkwardness of trying to learn to swim laps under the watchful eye of a teenage pool guard. Go all out right? What is more all out than head to toe fuscia flowers? 

So friends, wish me luck.  My only goal tomorrow is to swim more than two laps without hyperventilating and to keep my face from matching my swim cap.  

I'm not sure that I will succeed, on either account.  

Hold onto your seats people, the crazy woman with the petal-head is on the move!

Really?

I would like to share with you the most ridiculous piece of mail I have ever retrieved from our postbox:. 

A blue tri-fold brochure/advertisement with a giant number one on the cover and titled "Birthday Party Planner" from ToysRUs. 

Okay, before I even look inside, I know this is going to be silly.  Call me crazy, or no fun, but I don't really think Jack needs a big blow-out birthday this year.  Yes, I am truly and amazingly grateful that he has been born and I love celebrating the wonderful little man that he is, but really? Except for the classic cupcake-frosting-messyface-sugarhigh picture (don't even get me started on the cupcakes) that I keep to show his future wife, he will have absolutely no idea what the party is all about. 

But wait, the card gets better.

Some highlights from the first page:

"Somebody special is turning one!  It's been an amazing year filled with firsts.  Now, it's time to get ready for the event of the year!"

Okay.  Pause.  The event of the year? Um. I don't think so.  Sorry Jack.

Here's what you can get from Geoffrey's (the ToysRUs giraffe mascot) Birthday Club:

Birthday cards, suprise gifts and phone calls from Geoffrey

In-store celebrations with balloons...

Annual Party Planners with savings opportunities

Woohoo!  

Here is what the party planner advises me to do to plan the perfect first birthday party... 

EIGHT WEEKS before (seriously?) make my guest list and set the date, place and THEME.  Really?  Jack's favorite toy right now is an empty tennis ball tube.  What would the theme be?  Trash that can be toys?

Hmm...

Four weeks and counting, of course, make my gift registry at ToysRUs... and to the rest of the planning stuff

Two weeks to go, order cake and balloons (aren't they they #1 choking hazard? Or is that hot dogs?).

Three days before the "event of the year" call and remind anyone who has not responded to your invitation ("Hi, this is Jack's mom.  I'm just wondering what you have against my son?  I mean, this IS his FIRST birthday party.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you just forgot.  We'll see you Saturday at 1:00pm SHARP.  Please remember that we have registered at ToysRUs.  Thank you.").

I don't think this list will really work for us.

Also included in this handy dandy dual-purpose planner/advertisement is a checklist of the planning ESSENTIALS, which apparently include, but are not limited to: 

A commemorative bib

A helium tank

Centerpieces

Pinata (for a ONE year old?!)

Okay, I'm sorry, I know I've been a little snide, but doesn't this all seem silly to you? Anyone? Is this really what motherhood has become?  Throwing the perfect first birthday. If so, count me out.  

Luckily, I am surrounded by friends and family who simply love me as a mom, and love Jack as the wonderful baby he is.  We celebrate each milestone as it comes (by the way, my baby boy is WALKING!) and pray daily that he grows up loving God and growing in wisdom.

Jack's first birthday IS approaching, but I'm pretty sure we'll celebrate sans pinata.  

After all, does this boy looks like he needs centerpieces and party favors to be happy: