What? You didn't buy your son a megaphone?

For some reason, I thought a megaphone would be a really cool Christmas gift for my seven year old son. That's what happens when you shop the odds and ends table at Ross. It was either megaphone or Playboy shot glasses.

I spent over one hundred dollars on lego sets, video games, and dvd's for him. The megaphone, a complete afterthought, was his favorite gift of all, of course.

The megaphone takes four size D batteries. It's pretty hefty. It has a setting for sounds over 105 decibels.

My son can now pretend to be Roy Scheider in "Jaws" yelling at everyone to get off the beach. Or he can thrill the whole house (and neighbors) with this rendition of his favorite song:


Or he can just turn on the alarm:



Could there be a better gift than a megaphone? I need birthday ideas....

Some things are just fate

Some things are just meant to be. Cleopatra and Marc Anthony, Napoleon and Josephine, Brad and Jennifer, I mean Brad and Angelina. And now the newest pairing written in the stars - me and my new shoes.
Here's the whole dreamy story:
Several months ago at Macy's while walking past the shoe department, my eye was caught by a particular shoe display of Rieker shoes. Most were sporty northwesty shoes with thick comfy soles and drab colors. But one pair stood out from the others; casual, yet feminine. Sensible but fun. And embroidered all over with pretty, pretty flowers! I fell in love.
My new love was $110. Way, way, way out of my price range. I've never spent $110 on a pair of shoes, and unless I win the lottery, I never will. I sighed and moved on.
But today I was at Macy's taking advantage of another $10 off your $25 purchase coupon sale. I again was armed with several coupons, and was planning to buy a new sweater plus some fiestaware (mission accomplished). I'm not sure why I walked past the shoe clearance rack, but I did. There they were on the size 9-10 rack. My beautiful, colorful, wonderful shoes. But alas! The only pair on the shelf was a size nine. And my huge feet are a shameful size ten. My shoes were finally on the clearance rack, but not in my size? I was choking on bitterness. Did I mention that they were marked down from $110 to $44? I could have cried.
But then I looked one rack over to the sad, clownish rack of size elevens. And there was another pair with a glaring, red, round "size eleven" sticker beaming up from the inside. I took a closer look. European size 41? Why that's an American size ten. These shoes were mis-marked! These shoes were size ten! Oh my God!
I ran to the register to get the mate and ring them up. And then, to prove to me that I was being smiled upon by the shoe gods, it got better. My shoes rang up as $33. I added my $10 off coupon, and got those babies for $23. Truly, me and these shoes were fated in the stars.

On a different note, I'd like to thank all my friends and family that have been so supportive after the tragic death of my sweet, wonderful friend. All of your kind words, shared grief, and love have gone a long way towards getting me on the road to putting myself back together. "Normal" has a whole new meaning for me now, and I thank you all for being in my life and making my new "normal" a life still filled with joy and beauty. I love you all.

My Best Friend

I met my best friend when I was thirteen years old. It isn't every girl in 1988 that could wear a Mrs. Roper style mu mu to school and get away with it. I was immediately drawn to her for her sense of individuality, unconventional style, and amazing beauty. I didn't imagine in a million years that we would become friends; she was so beautiful I thought she'd be stuck up.

Instead I found a girl that couldn't have been nicer and more friendly. We hit it off immediately, and were inseparable throughout high school. She and I shared a crazy sense of humor, love of adventure (adventure hard to come by in our small town - we made our own), and the sheer, mad joy of being together, being young, and having each other.

My best friend was gorgeous, and the boys were after her all the time. She was so naive though, she had no idea her effect on them. She was raised unconventionally, to put it mildly, and even at fourteen, knew shockingly little about sex. After she went to her first Homecoming dance, she asked me what it meant when her date took her hand and put it in his lap. She pantomimed the event with a phallic shaped rock found on the walk home from school that day. I explained about jerking a guy off, and she was amazed.

My friend and I took delight in stalking and terrorizing a select few guys at school. We would break into their cars in the school parking lot, stake out their homes and leave mysterious packages, and write ransom notes for things we'd taken from them. We'd probably get arrested for such things today.

After high school I left for college. My friend stayed behind and went to community college for two years. We had to keep in touch with visits and letters. And we did. I still have a box of her letters from this time period, filled with her tiny, illegible handwriting, and clever illustrations. We loved trying to send each other the funniest letters. I wonder if she kept mine. I never thought to ask her.

She finally joined me in Seattle, and we shared a dorm room together my junior year.

A few years later I got married. My friend was with me for the whole thing, traveling to Las Vegas to do so. She and I decorated my parent's back yard together, she helped me get dressed, and stood up with me as my maid of honor.

When I had my first child, it was a long, difficult labor. After 45 hours, I ended up in surgery. In my groggy, post-surgery haze I was wheeled back to my room. The first face I saw waiting for me was my friend. She held my son, and then helped my poor, exhausted mom get home safe that night.

In these more recent years, my friend has been to my home for many parties, Thanksgiving dinners, and kiddie birthdays. We loved to have beers at the pub and go to the casino and play slots. The fun we had as kids matured, but our crazy, shared connection never did.

My best friend died five days ago. And I am lost.

Some toys are evil and most are sexist

One of the best things about being a mom is that I can make up arbitrary rules and force my kids to follow them.

When my now seven year old son was born I had a lot of rules about what he could and could not be dressed in. No yellow, no cartoony animals and no elastic waist pants. I thought with my second child I'd relax a little, but I think I just got crazier. For my daughter - no blue (before her hair grew in everyone thought she was a boy), no shirts with sayings like "cutie pie", "daddy's girl", or "mommy's little angel", and no leggings worn as pants.


When it comes to T.V. shows, I've had to ban Barney (for obvious reasons), Dora the Explorer (she talks to kids like they're all drooling half-wits), and Thomas the Train (I hate the nancy boy characters).


But the thing I hate most of all for children, especially girls, is Disney. Disney characters like Hannah Montana, the High School Musical kids, and the Jonas Brothers are super-saturated everywhere in our lives. Clothes, school supplies, toys, snacks, the list goes on and on.


The worst Disney offenders of all are the Disney Princesses. You can't swing a dead cat around in just about any store out there without hitting a Disney Princess item. I HATE the Disney Princesses. Is there no better role model out there for young girls than these vapid, soulless Princesses? At least Barbie has a job. She can buy her own dream house. The Disney Princesses just bumble about until a Prince rescues and marries them.


If you go to the toy aisle in any store you will see how far women have not come in these modern times. Boys get building sets, cars and action figures. Girls get Little Mommy dolls, play kitchens, and Disney Princess toys.


I have a total ban on all Disney merchandise in my house. And it is not easy, because Disney is everywhere, man. I'm really vigilant about this because I have a theory that in raising a girl it goes: Disney Princesses, Bratz Dolls, thirteen year old that thinks oral sex doesn't count as sex.


I give my daughter Barbies, Hello Kitty, and Polly Pockets. She loves pink, wears bows in her hair and in all ways is a super girly girl. But I'm going to try very hard to raise her to know that she'll need to have a job one day, and you'd better learn to rescue yourself.


Don't forget, if you sign up as an official blog follower and send your mailing address to clevervelociraptor@gmail.com, I'll send you a fabulous homemade bath bomb!

X-Mas Frenzy

The tree finally went up this weekend. I'm obsessed with getting our tree perfect every year. I have to look at every tree at Lowe's (best trees for the prices), I have to have a seven foot noble fir, and it has to be shaped perfectly. I usually make Hubby pull out every tree and spin it around while I carefully evaluate it from every angle. He loves doing that in the freezing cold.

Once the perfect tree has been settling in the garage a few days, it comes in the house for decorating.

I have an obscene amount of tree ornaments. I'm obsessed with buying perfect ones, preferably at the 75% off sales after Christmas. The ornaments have to be glass (with a few minor exceptions) and they have to be interesting, and they have to be pretty.

The next best thing to buying perfect ornaments is buying the perfect ornament storage system. All my beautiful ornaments get tucked away every year in their tissue paper, nestled carefully in their special ornament holder storage boxes. I love my oranment storage boxes!

Taking out ornaments, unwrapping them and decorating the tree took us over FIVE hours on Saturday. Hubby is in charge of lights, and the kids are only allowed to touch certain things. I'm sure tree decorating in some households is a fun family event, but here I loudly screech if either of the kids touch anything. Thankfully neither one of them have made any homemade ornaments at school, because as sweet as little-kid made things are, they just don't make the cut on my tree.

This photo does not do my tree justice.

Another huge task is the wrapping of gifts and mailing them out to the relatives. I've been doing that for hours today, and I'm not even close to being done. And don't forget the fifty cards that need to be addressed. Thank God I'm crazy and did all my toy shopping back in September!

Even with my Christmas frenzy, I still managed time to whip up a batch of bath bombs. This batch is called Hot Cocoa. Rich, dark chocolate fragrence, foaming milk, and shea butter marshmallows. They are going to be heavenly.

Taking a page from my friend and fellow blogger over at http://www.baublesbubblesandbeauty.com/, I'm offering a bribe up to any new blog followers. Add yourself as an official follower here, and send your mailing address to clevervelociraptor@gmail.com, and I'll send you your own bath bomb from my stock. And for my current followers, the same offer applies, I don't want to stiff any of you! (unless you are someone I see on a regular basis. you'll probably be getting a bath bomb anyways)

Setting a Good Example

As a mom with two small kids, I am constantly forced to set an example for one thing or another. Going to work everyday, keeping things clean, and taking care of the pets are the kind of big picture things that most of us manage fairly well when we are adults. But it's much harder to set an example for smaller things, like laughing at fart jokes, swearing at other drivers, and giving advice on bullying.

My son told me that a kid at school called him a "dorkface". My immediate advice was to say, "you should call him an asshole". Then I took it back, but it was too late. I'm sure that kid will soon be called an asshole, and it's all my fault for setting a bad example.

Well, in my defense, the kid does sound like an asshole.

I'm not super paraniod about my kids hearing profanity, and I always tell my son that there are no good words or bad words, it's all in how you use them. I mean, someone can use the f-word and say the one of the meanest things to you you've ever heard. But they can also use the f-word and say one of the nicest things you've ever heard. That's one of the great things about the English language.

I'm not sure if the elementary school has that same policy as I do about swearing. So far the principal hasn't called, so I'm hopeful my son understands the difference.

And then we were at Fred Meyer this weekend and saw this on the shelf, and I couldn't help but have a good laugh:

I know it was immature, and I shouldn't have pointed it out to my son, but I couldn't help myself. Can't food manufacturers come up with a better name for this product?

So I guess all in all, the best example you can set for your kids is having a sense of humor.

Sick of being sick

I've been home sick for two days. I've had a sinus and chest infection. I've been in bed for two days now, O.D.ing on Alka Seltzer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the Golden Girls. Luckily I've been on a super strong anti-biotic, and I'm feeling much better now. I even felt good enough to whip up a couple of bath bomb recipes this evening:


Sugar Plum Fairy Bathbombs


Bay Rum Bath Bombs


I just took a test bath with the Sugar Plum Fairy bomb, and it was wonderful. I bought a lump of shea butter, and I've been adding slivers to my recipe. it makes the bath water very moisturizing and soft.

Over the past weekend, I took Hubby on a tour of the Athletic Club. He too was seduced by the beauty of it, and now we have a family membership. Only problem so far is that I've been too sick to use it! Hubby has been there three days in a row now, and even the kids have gone. I'm jealous. He's cheating on my with my own boyfriend!

And now it's time for an update...

I got a call from Costco Travel the other day. The lady said she was really sorry for my travel woes (see http://www.mylynnwoodlife.com/2009/11/costco-has-let-me-down.html). Sorry is nice and all, but I was kind of hoping for something a little better, like a future travel discount, a gift card, or even just a free food court hot dog.

They were so sorry that a different person at Costco Travel sent me another apology in a letter, pictured above. I thought it was odd that a company would offer lukewarm apologies twice, but if you read the second paragraph it states, "While we cannot change your experience, we can look at alternate ways to improve our member disappointments."

Getting two crappy apologies definitely "improved my member disappointments" all right. Well done, Costco Travel.

Updated URL

I paid the $10 and registered my URL as a "real" website. I am officially located at mylynnwoodlife.com. The old .blogspot address is supposed to automatically switch over to the new one, but I haven't noticed that happening. I also lost some comments that were from non-gmail people, although I have no restrictions in place. Please let me know if you have any issues with reading or commenting on the new site.

My new gym

I took Hubby on a tour of the Olympic Athletic Club today. I thought if he saw the magic and beauty of it, he'd fall under the same spell and not only endorse me and my extravagant monthly dues, but maybe even want to join himself, thus getting the family rate. He's as of yet undecided, but I'm not. I'm totally going for it, even if he decided not to. I'm going to swim my last laps tomorrow at the Lynnwood Rec Center and say my good-byes to the damp locker room floor, the group naked showers, and all the old, old men that put the stroke in crawl stroke.

Contest Winner

It comes as no surprise to me that the winner of last post's mystery photo contest was my friend, Steve, who correctly identified poop. The photo was hurriedly taken last week when my toilet training two year old pooped in her bath. The event was very reminiscent of the "Baby Ruth" scene from Caddyshack, panic and all, and for some reason I snapped the photo.

Congrats, Steve! You win.....a bath bomb!