idontbelieveingrammar

Today I was the first day back to work, and as I was pulling on my khakis I noticed something. Tan lines. On my backside. My much lower backside. And I’m used to tan lines. Tank top, bathing suit back, and even the horrible knee sock soccer referee lines I sported back in college. But these particular lines haven’t shown themselves since I was a teenager.  And for good reason. I have never been too into my body or appearance. I work out regularly, but I rarely try the new fad diet. I spend more cash on coffee than I do clothes. The seasons change more often than I get my hair cut and a single tube of mascara can last me years. Ignoring something is not the same as embracing it. The truth is I could lose a good 20 lbs. I wish I knew how to put on eye liner the right way. I’d get a massage weekly if I could afford it. And I’d rather have a pelvic exam than go bathing suit shopping.   Or wear one in front of people. And if I have to, I am covering up my pasty white thigh...

I like to have friends with skills I don’t have. How to change a tire. Bake. Brew a really good cup of coffee. Those things come in handy. I also have quite a number of friends who are amazing photographers. And since I have ridiculously cute kids, they keep me and my house in studio quality prints. Usually for the cost of dinner or a bottle of wine. Sometimes even less. I am spoiled. Completely. I know. So when one of these super photographer friends asked me to “model” for her I agreed to whatever she wanted. As long as I got to keep my clothes on. She talked about this shoot for months. Her “vision”. Hair. Makeup. Accessories. A dress. Lighting. Location. All very artsy. And over my head and I was pretty sure she had pegged the wrong model for this shoot. I am more of a baseball cap kind of girl than what she was describing. I just told her to tell me where and when to show up. And to expect me to be a bit awkward behind the camera but that I’d try my best. She ...

I hate lines. Sometimes I will leave a store without what I want because the lines are too long. I will often go eat else where than wait the 20 minutes to be seated. Patience is not one of my virtues. The thought of spending hours in line at six flags to ride a 30 second roller coaster is not even a little bit my idea of a fun afternoon. And just thinking about going to Walmart gives me a rash. Even less than I like waiting in line, is making them. Drawing them. I am not the best disciplinarian in my house. Or my classroom. And I do think discipline is good and necessary and usually out of love. However, I always struggle with my role in it. I struggle to be the one doling it out. I live my life more in a continuum than on a particular side. I hate picking sides. So yesterday. When everyone was posting away on facebook about chick fil a, I went to a zumba class (go ahead laugh, everyone in the same room did!) and ate leftovers for dinner. And was relieved to wake up thi...

A few weeks ago I had a pretty perfect weekend in mansion (if it has an elevator and it is totally a mansion!) on the lake. As part of the package, there was also a 3 hour stand up paddle board less thrown in. I was very excited about this. And equally nervous about making a big fat fool of myself.   First off, most of my friends are like semiprofessional athletes not to mention younger and skinnier! One dances in NYC. Another medals in triatholons. And the fact that I’d have to wear a bathing suit for it did not help my confidence level. Now is also a good time to disclose that I have a love/hate relationship with the B word. Balance. However, the whole idea seemed beachy and dreamy to me.  My husband is a mountain man. He likes to go where the air is thinner. And ski and fish and get altitude sickness. I like those things (minus the atltitude sickness), but I love the water. I spent summer vacations at the beach, long summers on the Guadalupe, weekends on...

Eventually the sunlight through the windows forces me out of my bed. I crawl out of my narrow twin mattress, quiet so not to wake the girl in the other bed right beside mine. I shuffle to the bathroom, strewn with swimsuits, tanktops and toothbrushes. I brush my teeth. Skip makeup. Pull back a ponytail and head to the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. The other girls sleep soundly upstairs, tired from a late night of talking and laughing into the wee hours. I walk outside, the air smells familiar. Like the river and I breath in every bit of the water, look up at the hills and feel my stomach muscles sore from so much laughing the night before. And I could have written that exact first paragraph 15 years ago. It all feels very deja vu. This slight ache in my heart that wants to see my family but is not ready for this to end. The part that wants one more day. One more week. Another night of Johnny Appleseed and fuzzy wuzzies and maybe some more night swimming and smores....

Tess: "I want a snack right now!" (foot stomp) Me: "Well, you aren't going to get anything acting like that." Tess:"I'm not acting!!"

My father taught me many things. Some on purpose. Some on accident. How to tie a tie. How to tie a cleat hitch. How to put away a dozen raw oysters. And that you should only eat them in months that have r in them. That black dress socks pulled up to the knee with white slip on Keds is not a good look for anyone. Bellies and bald heads sun burn first. That change adds up. That nothing is free. That life is anything but fair. That Bs aren’t good enough. How to order a beer in at least a half dozen languages. The way to Eldorado. (gaily bedight this gallant knight in sunshine and in shadow.) How to pour a drink. How to throw a cowpatty. (yes, you read that correctly). How to drive a boat. How to properly taste wine, although it involves something called clucking, and I think looks ridiculous. And should never be tried with whiskey. To tip well. To never run out of gas. To play a mean game of ping pong. That strawberries stain. That you get what you pay for. To let your meat rest. Whe...