An apology.

Dear Winco,

You know that lady who burst into tears near the seafood counter this afternoon? Yeeeaaah, that would be me. I'm truly sorry if I drove away any customers. It was unintentional. I cannot help it. It's the day before my favorite holiday and less than a week has passed since the third best day ever and I am a complete. emotional. wreck. 

Maybe it was because I had just arrived from the Honda dealership where I had been informed that the clutch and coil on our AC needs to be replaced for an eye-popping amount of cash (good thing that third best day ever came with a raise).

Maybe it was because my son kept defiantly reaching into the bins of candy/dried fruit/berry crunch cereal trying to pilfer a handful (Oh, and while we're at it, I may as well confess that last week my son stole a lemonade gumball. Don't worry, he received a stern stealing lecture of which I believe he understood about 7%).

Maybe it was the lady hogging all the space in front of the whole, halved, and chopped pecans for what seemed like ten minutes as she tried to decide exactly what she needed for her sweet potato casserole. 

Maybe it was the fact that when I went to twist tie my bulk bag of oats about half a pound came spilling out the other side. 

But I really think the kicker was when my son came at me with a 16-in wrapped deli sub in hand, weilding it as if it were an accessory to last month's Halloween costume. Hence, I burst into tears near the seafood counter. What followed was mortification as I witnessed the stares of fear and disgust from fellow shoppers.

Again, I'm sorry. Please let me back in your store. I found soymilk for $1.08/quart today. And those bulk bins. Oooooh, those bulk bins!!! Next time I'll get a babysitter. Promise.

Love and hugs,

Buffy

Curse you, California sunshine.

Here we are two days from Thanksgiving--my absolute favorite holiday. For the very first time I am making the food and hosting the company. I should be juggling feelings of jubilation and stress, right?

Wrong. Apathetic, depressed, and lazy are better adjectives to describe my state of existence. I just can't get into it, no matter how many pumpkin/cardamom/chestnut candles I smell while aimlessly wandering around Target. In fact, when I smell those candles, it just feels so wrong. It's in the sixties today. And that's supposedly cold. 

I didn't realize that I take so many of my holiday spirit cues from how it feels outside. Some crazy, impatient, no-concept-of-Thanksgiving people are already listening to Christmas music, while I feel like I should be gearing up for Columbus Day.

Don't people dream of someday retiring to weather like this? Am I completely out of my mind? Today I actually shed tears over the fact that it's never going to snow here. Whine, whine, whine...I know. But what am I to do? Allan just passed the California Bar and I'm considering a move to Minneapolis. This Midwest girl (born and raised, thank you very much) is at a loss. I never knew how much cold, dreary weather meant to me until I willingly left it.

I'm not normally a dreamer.

Last night I had a dream that I went to the same library where all of the cool people I blogstalk go. And I forgot my pants.

The problem is, I can't remember whether these hipsters considered me hip for not wearing pants.

What do you eat on the third best day of your life?

Um, duh. You eat jambalaya.

This is Allan's all. time. favorite. He gets it every Father's Day/Birthday/Good job day/Buffy wants to butter him up day/etc. And I absolutely love to make it. In fact, so much love goes into this big pot of goodness it should be declared the most romantic meal of all time. I especially enjoy it if I can pop in a DVD (yesterday's was Proof) while cutting up eight cups worth of vegetables, four cups of meat, and measuring out eight different herbs and spices.

Oooooh, baby.

Don't be intimidated by the ingredients. I've even looked up andouille, so that you'll know how to pronounce it when asking your meat man where the heck it is (Try it for me: ahn-DWEE). Don't be turned off by the fact you'll have to fork over the cash to pay for two red bell peppers. This makes a ton. And basmati rice? If you really don't want to go that far, use regular white rice. It's not quite as good, but you'll still want to lick your bowl clean.

Andouille sausage is a slightly spicy, smoked pork or chicken sausage. In my opinion, it is the soul of this dish.


Don't worry about the bottom of your pot/dutch oven/HUGE skillet getting black. It's supposed to do that. It deepens the flavor.


And the meat...oh, the meat. Last night I used boneless chicken thighs instead of breast meat. It made me love it even more.


This is the shocking part. This dish is from Cooking Light. I am telling you if you love to cook, this magazine is absolutely fantastic. I can say with 100% confidence that none of the approximately fifty recipes I've pulled from there have ever tasted light (I have not tried the baking recipes, however, so I can't speak with certainty about those).

To balance out the light, I made flourless chocolate cake with homemade caramel sauce for dessert. I may or may not have eaten two pieces. I don't want to get too skinny.

Chicken and Andouille Jambalaya

Serves 6.

• 2 tablespoons canola oil
• 1 1/2 cups andouille sausage (about 7 1/2 ounces), cut into (1/4-inch-thick) slices
• 3 cups finely chopped red bell pepper (about two medium)
  
• 3 cups finely chopped yellow onion (two medium)
  
• 2 cups finely chopped celery
  
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 1/2 cups chopped skinless, boneless chicken breast (or six boneless, skinless thighs)
  
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon dried basil
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped jalapeño pepper (this makes it VERY spicy, omit if you're not into that kind of thing)
  
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 1/2 cup tomato puree (I totally forgot to buy this, so I used tomato sauce instead. Crushed tomatoes also work in a pinch)
  
• 2 3/4 cups fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
• 1 1/2 cups basmati rice (or regular ol' white...jasmine is also good)
  
• 1 cup thinly sliced green onions (I never remember to put these in)
  

Preparation

Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add sausage; cook until sizzling quiets (about 8 minutes), stirring occasionally.

Add bell pepper, onion, celery, and bay leaves; cook until vegetables are golden brown, sizzle loudly, and begin to squeak (about 14 minutes), stirring occasionally. Add chicken and next 8 ingredients (through garlic); cook 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add tomato puree; cook 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add broth, and bring to a boil. Stir in rice. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes. Discard bay leaves.*** Stir in green onions.

***If you've eaten at my house, there's a good chance you've heard me warn "Watch out for bay leaves!" because I ALWAYS forget to take them out.

I haven't sat down to figure it out, but this MAY be the third happiest day of my life.

The pass rate for first-time takers around 50%, sometimes even less.

The pass rate for students from Indiana is 34%.

If you have to take it again, the pass rate for second time and beyond is around 15%.

Now you understand why I've had a pit in my stomach since September 2007 when we started talking about moving to California after law school. The dreaded California Bar.

Yet, he passed.

I guess this is where I'm supposed to go on and on about how proud I am of Allan. What a hard worker he is. How he's so smart. And how I always knew he could do it. 

But I don't think he needs me to spell it out for him. Neither do you. I love him very much, and trust that he always works his hardest. This is a task that would have been infinitely more difficult had there been no raw material to work with. But we both knew that this would take more than just his best. 

I cannot talk about the Bar without acknowledging how we felt over the summer as he prepared for the exam. We knew that we would need divine help to accomplish this task. Coming off of a brutal third year of law school, I wasn't prepared to give my husband away to a summer of 12+ hour days, six days a week--even though I knew that is what it would take. Allan was concerned about his capability to focus that hard for that long and not completely lose his mind come test day. We prayed, we fasted, we attended the temple every single week, and we prayed again. 

We had prepared ourselves for the most unpleasant nine weeks of our lives. Instead we found ourselves strengthened and enabled beyond what we ever thought possible. The days flew, and I was able to busy myself with family, friends, and hobbies. I never felt like I couldn't make it through the day without Allan's company. I felt like Supermom and Superwife. Allan felt quickened and enlightened. He enjoyed the lectures, and had never felt so smart in his life.

We knew that the outcome of the Bar was literally in the Lord's hands. If Allan had failed you can bet we would have turned to Him again.

We did not do this on our own. I just have to tell you that. Heavenly Father, through his Son's atonement and the power of the Holy Ghost helps us do very hard things. This morning, as I was trying very hard not to think about what would happen twelve hours from that point, I read this quote from Neil L. Andersen's recent Conference talk:  "Brothers and sisters, we each have moments of spiritual power, moments of inspiration and revelation. We must sink them deep into the chambers of our souls. As we do, we prepare our spiritual home storage for moments of personal difficulty..."

I count this last summer as one of the highlights of my spiritual experience, regardless of what the outcome would have been today. I know that because I'm composing this before we've even see the results. 

I'll post this if he passes.

UPDATE: Upon hearing that his father passed the Bar, Jack exclaimed, "I have stinky GAS!!!"

What a guy, that Allan.

Because we're not celebrating until the weekend, it took me about an hour to remember what today means.  Today is Allan's twenty-eighth birthday.  Any well-wishes (e.g. Have a ROCKIN' Day, Bailey!!!), memories (e.g. I remember when we used to sneak across 800 North to get candy at the fruit stand), or general observations (e.g. He's really tall.) are welcome.  Allan loves good memories. So load him up.

If you see me wearing unflattering pants, don't cross me.

The other morning I tried on a pair of jeans from '04. Let me spell out just how much I apparently love to punish myself. In '04 I hadn't yet conceived, gestated, birthed, and breastfed a child. I could run a mile three minutes faster than I can today. I was lifting weights and doing all sorts of dangerous contortions on the big red exercise ball at Gold's Gym. My diet consisted of egg white scrambles, string cheese, yogurt, and boneless skinless chicken breasts.

In present day the jeans zipped up, but definitely required a--let's call it a "flowy" top to help camouflage the distressing spillage around the waist. I was uncomfortable. All of my lunges, leg lifts, squats, and jumping jacks did nothing to stretch them out to a relaxed fit.

A normal person would mournfully sigh, take them off, and put them back into the big Rubbermaid bin marked "Skinny Clothes," right? Well, I'm not normal. As if to hopefully defy well-documented scientifc research that it is impossible for one to shave off five pounds of muffin top in 12 hours, I kept them on.

I was irritable beyond my normal levels. My transitional bangs refused to cooperate with the flat iron, and even though I wasn't likely to see anyone that day save the UPS man, I nearly started crying. The pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink made me want to yell. Jack dared to dump out the clothes hamper and I practically bit his head off. Then, realizing that Jack was in no way responsible for the expanded state of my hips and waist (actually...he totally is, isn't he?), I apologized, giving him a hug and saying, "I'm sorry. My jeans are too tight and it's making me crazy."

Then I went to change into my favorite pajama pants. At 10:30 in the morning.

Back in '04 I thought I resembled a beached whale. I don't feel the same brutal disgust toward my body today, but I am definitely not thrilled with it. And I'm sure that if I am ever blessed to birth another child from these hips, I'll probably wistfully look upon my '08 jeans and yearn for these days. Better yet, I'm hoping that I will have grown up enough by that point to appreciate what my body has done and be blissfully content with the miracle that I am a mother of two.

No matter when you see me next, make sure and check out my pants. If they're a bit on the snug side, be warned. I just may chew your head off.

NaPooPoMo.

NaBloPoMo really should be called National Poo Posting Month**. Because that's what I've been posting, feeling, and thinking.

I'm no quitter. Wait, who am I kidding? (let's see, there was swim team in the fourth grade, french horn in the eighth grade, debate team in tenth grade (the kids were weird), six declared majors in college, yoga in '06...). But this time I'm quitting. I have posted fifteen days in a row. That's good enough for me.

Actually, it wasn't good for me, and that's the point.

I haven't been able to write about the things I really want to write about. Because those things take time, thought, and a lot of editing. Then there's the fact that my child absolutely hates it when I'm on the computer. And since he's not napping anymore, daily blogging has turned into a daily battle (Bad, Buffy! Bad!). And when I'm not frantically writing my daily post, I'm thinking about what I'm going to post and therefore not noticing things like Jack taking an orange highlighter to the recliner and my favorite IKEA pillows.

I'm not answering e-mails (something I'm horrible about anyway). My kitchen floor hasn't been properly cleaned in two weeks. I'm not reading the newspaper. My child desperately needs a hair cut. It's even cutting into my scripture study time. And worst of all, it's taking time away from my son and my husband.

I have been extremely selfish, and it's time to call it quits. I have no regrets for doing so.

I'll see you in a couple of days.

**Many of you know my EXTREME distaste of the word poo. I use this swear word only to convey the intensity of my feelings.

Cutting it close.

You thought I wasn't going to make it, didn't you? You thought that I was going to miss posting today, therefore ruining my streak (am I flattering myself to think that any of you actually care?...Pshaw!).

Well, I made it. Even though right now I'm a little nervous that I still won't make it. You see, I'm actually writing this in a Word document, using what little battery life is left on our laptop. The power is out. Therefore, the internet is out. Southern California Edison scheduled a "routine" power outage today. From 9am to 3pm so they said. This morning I packed Jack up and drove the one hour and five minutes (precise.) that it takes to get to the Fresno zoo. We got home around 2:30. I figured that I could deal with no power for thirty minutes.

Ummm, it's 7:30pm. Still no power.

Thank you, Southern California Edison. Now I know why monopolies are bad. And socialism. And as Allan pointed out, now we know what it's like in Iraq. Or living on the side of Chicago that didn't vote for the candidate who won the local election.

Just trying to see the valuable lesson that I can learn from this experience.

This is what classy Mormons do on a Saturday night.

Yup, that's me. Looking my finest. Apparently, this is what I would look like if I failed to observe the tenets of my religion, let alone the dictates of my own conscience. It's like a snapshot taken inside the great and spacious building.

That's sparkling apple cider. Promise. It's not even mine. I'm holding it, because apparently you have to in order to look legit while hanging out the top of a limousine shouting "WHAT'S UP APPLEBEES!?!" as you're being driven down the town's main drag by a guy named Don.

How did I get to this point? Let me explain.

Meet Molly.


Many of you know Molly. It was Molly's thirtieth birthday this past weekend. Her husband surprised her with a limousine and a party. As guests, Allan and I were asked to come up with a favorite story about Molly to share with everyone. I ended up telling a lame one, because if I shared what I really love most about Molly I probably would have ended up emotional and embarrassed. So instead, I choose to share this way instead. Plus, this means she'll have a hard copy to treasure forever and ever and ever.

Molly lived two doors down from us while Allan was in law school and her husband, Nick, was in dental school. Now we live forty-five minutes away from each other (and she lives in excessively-mentioned CostcoLand. Jealous.). No one can deny that Molly lights up any room or conversation. She is guileless to the point of hilarity. She can talk to anyone, and develops relationships with everyone from the cashier at Kroger to the lonely old couple across the street.

Molly very well may have been the only thing standing between me and Prozac in the months following Jack's birth. She got me out of the house to the park, or sometimes just to her apartment, and she would talk so much that I completely forgot how tired, lonely, and crazy I felt during those postpartum months. Almost three years later she and Allan still do the best job of talking me out of all my "my two year old is going to grow up to be a terrorist"/"I can't tell if I'm really gluten intolerant or if it's all in my head"/"I just gained ten pounds over the course of two hours" crazy talk. Molly has helped me understand that being a perfectionist is a sure way to end up dissatisfied and depressed. Not because she is a perfectionist, but because she is so perfect at being imperfect. She makes it all seem so fun.

All of Molly's friends know she's special. Her husband knows she's special. And hopefully her kids will someday know how special she is, and how lucky they are to have her as their mom.

I'm lucky to have her as a friend.

Happy Birthday, Molly. Thanks for sharing your classy limousine.

This may make up for the fact that we are thirty-five minutes away from Costco.

Part of living in the most agriculturally productive county in the entire U.S. has its perks. I know, I know, I've talked about this way too much, and as a result have made all my fellow food-lovers jealous. If me bragging about this bugs you, let me tell you this: Delicious produce is the most glamorous aspect of my life. Don't hate me because of my access to raw milk and organic apples. As a realtor told us back in May, "If you're into opera, then move to L.A. or San Francisco. If you're into animal husbandry, this is the place for you!"

Inspiring, I know.

So, back to the perks. CSA programs. Community Supported Agriculture. I get a big basket of fresh, organic produce** delivered to my doorstep every Wednesday afternoon. Nothing in the basket is grown outside a fifty-mile radius. It's cheaper than the grocery store (trust me, I've compared it with my last three-months worth of food receipts). And it tastes so much better.


As a result we have been trying a lot of new things. Fuyu persimmons always intimidated me (on those rare ocassions I actually saw them at the grocery store). Black grapes were always more expensive than red or green. Napa cabbage is something usually restricted to Asian cooking, a genre I never felt brave enough to try. Until now.

I told my mom that this is a dream come true for me. Is it possible to be jealous of oneself? Because I think I am.

**My philosophy on organics: When I was pregnant with Jack, I was able to taste the pesticides on apples. Since then, I can taste them on carrots, spinach, bell peppers, and plums/peaches/apricots. If the price is reasonable, I try and buy all of those organic. That happens maybe 50% of the time. I also loooove organic milk. It really does taste better. Now that Jack drinks maybe a glass a day, I rarely indulge, because it's usually costs at least a third more. For me, my choices regarding organic vs. conventional usually come down to taste. If you want more information on organic produce, specifically what has the highest pesticide residue, visit this page.

An unexpected holiday.

Two weeks ago Allan's boss informed him that this town is serious about its veterans. If you don't let your employees off on Veteran's Day you must be either an Al-Qaeda operative or an Obama supporter.

All it takes is a quick Google search to reveal that Allan's boss is quite openly the latter. Since he didn't actually tell Allan that he closes the office we were in suspense. A week later, we found out that Veteran's Day is indeed a paid holiday.

So now what? We are really pathetic. We don't have a clue what to do with this unexpected day off. It's right before Thanksgiving. This year it's in the middle of the week. It just seems so awkward.

We asked Jack what he wanted to do, and he said we should go to Costco.

Ouch.

Three weeks ago Allan threw out his back. This weekend it was my turn. I am in total pain. Taking care of Jack today will surely be a delight. I'm thinking it may be a two movie day.

Last night as I was lying flat on my back I kept thinking "I'm twenty-seven. This should not be happening to my body!" I have scoliosis. Pretty bad--as in I'd-be-at-least-an-inch-taller-if-my-spine-was-straight scoliosis. Any doctor I've seen about it repeats the same mantra: exercise, exercise, exercise, and you may be able to avoid having to get a rod put in your back (ugh. the thought makes me shiver).

I exercise. But last night as I was pondering/stressing/freaking out I realized that sticking with cardio (i.e. the only exercise I like) is a great way to keep my heart and mind in health, but not every thing else. My scoliosis combined with a family history of osteoporosis means I need to do a lot more.

Grumble, grumble. Why me?

Our bodies are absolutely amazing--in more ways than I have the attention span to address at this moment. But the fact that tweaking a few things here and there can bring about great change in how our bodies feel and operate is really quite astounding. God has granted us agency in all areas of our life, and how we take care of our body goes a long way toward enhancing our capability to lead joyous, productive lives. But often our bodies are the first thing we neglect.

So, back to the yoga mat. I need to dig the weights out from under our bed. Pilates?--I hate you, but I obviously need you.

Train up your two-year-old in the way he should go and watch him take it out of context.

Consider this a continuation of this post.

Yesterday morning while Allan was seated in his man chair reading the newspaper, Jack approaches him and sweetly asks, "Can I kill you, Dad?"

Allan, completely exasperated, says "Where does he get this?! Where did he even learn the word?"

I calmly inform him, "The Book of Mormon."

Nerd alert.

We figure that if we encourage nerdiness at a young age Jack will have a better chance of getting into an Ivy League school.

The return of the greatest lunch ever.

Last week I shared with you the absurd amount of joy I derived from transferring one hundred more bucks into our monthly grocery budget. The glee continues, let me tell you. For the past three months I had pretty much been eating the same thing for both breakfast and lunch--oatmeal with side of scrambled eggs (shame on me, I KNOW!). I am pinpointing that strange behavior as the #1 reason why I was feeling less than stellar in the energy department.

After posting on the topic it quickly became apparent that I unwittingly produced feelings of guilt in some people. Some of you just don't get enough fruits and vegetables. I am here for you. Prior to marriage, my idea of 5 servings a day was opening a can of pineapple and putting about six tidbits on my cottage cheese. I'm a reformed woman.

Because I had the completely insane idea to blog every single day this month (WHAT WAS I THINKING!?), I am going to share with you some of my strategies. Before you roll your eyes into the back of your head, I will be completely upfront with you. I am not claiming to be the picture of perfect health or eating. But I do know what I like, what my husband likes, and what my 2-year-old likes.

So let's get to the most important of the three: WHAT I LIKE.

Most every day for lunch I make myself a big ol' salad. HUGE. It fills me up, and it's an easy way to get about 4-5 servings of vegetables in one sitting. The best part is that you can put in whatever the heck you want. Here's what I had today:


Organic baby spinach--Costco sells tubs of these very cheaply. I get organic because I can actually taste the pesticides on conventional spinach. I'm not making that up.
Avocado--Don't be afraid of the price. A little goes a long way. I use a quarter of one in a salad. You can save the rest from browning by sprinkling lemon juice on it and keeping it in your fridge.
Tomato--But only when I can find really good ones.
Garbanzo beans--I love black beans too. Any kind of bean works. Sometimes I put leftover meat in my salads, but I didn't have any on hand today, so I threw in beans for protein.
Red bell pepper--These are expensive, but they are really nutrient dense. One red bell pepper has twice as much Vitamin C and nine times more Vitamin A than an orange. Because of their price, I usually use half of one in each salad. They add a lot of flavor.
Carrots--I usually soften these a bit by steaming them in the microwave for a minute or two. I hate the texture of raw carrots in a salad.
Salad Dressing--Don't even think about reaching for the non-fat varieties. They're full of fillers and sweeteners. Plus, you want some fat in your salad dressings because it helps your body absorb the fat-soluble vitamins (A, D, E, and K). If you're not absorbing all the nutrients from your food, you're really wasting your money.

That's just this salad. The combinations are ENDLESS. Use romaine. Add nuts or seeds (another way to get good fats). Sometimes I add half of a tart apple or a pear. Wrap it up in a tortilla if you want to add some bulk (it also makes for a complete protein with the beans if you're going the vegetarian route). Costco carries some really good canned salmon (I gagged the first time I heard about it too, but I promise it's good stuff). I love to add fresh cilantro and make a dressing by mixing sour cream and salsa. Nuke some leftover vegetables from dinner and toss them in.

Don't stress about it. It's super, duper easy. And, if you're anything like me, after a few days of eating these for lunch, you'll notice a difference in your afternoon energy levels.

Let's play trains.

"Mom. Let's play trains."

Jack grabs my hand and gives this exact command at least once a day. Of course, I'm always in the middle of something--eating my lunch, sweeping up spilled oats, reading my scriptures, plucking my eyebrows, etc. (I obviously lead a very exciting and important life). Sadly, only when I'm feeling unnaturally selfless do I say yes.

Funny thing is that when I actually get down and start building the tracks, I become totally absorbed. Using the mix and match pieces from IKEA, I can make hills, bridges, and curves, I can split tracks and I can merge them. All in seemingly endless combinations. It's strangely soothing--almost like I have some control over one aspect of this crazy world: Jack's train set.

The problem is I've graduated beyond what we own. I long to build bigger, more elaborate and impressive set-ups. I find myself dissatisfied with my recent work. I just can't go on with such limited resources.

A girlfriend and I are planning a trip to L.A. She needs to test drive some grand pianos, because she's lucky enough to be getting one for Christmas. We're planning on dropping by IKEA on the way home. Because if I'm lucky, Jack will be getting two more expansion packs for Christmas.

I think I'm going to take a nap now.

I woke up this morning very tired. But also very hopeful.

Proposition 8 passed. To me this is a sign that California voters really studied the issue. The yeses were 17 points down at the end of the summer. This was definitely a come from behind win. I hope we have at least a few years before it re-emerges and we get to do this all over again.

Obama won. True, he wasn't my choice, and it was an electoral landslide, but it was not a complete blowout in terms of the popular vote. I think he will govern more moderately than I had feared. With the Republicans retaining filibuster power in the Senate, conservatives will still be able to shape legislation.

When Obama gave his acceptance speech, my heart began to soften a bit. Then he threw in "Yes, we can." Not unifying. "Yes, we can" grates on my nerves. I'll venture to say it grates on the nerves of about 55,821,650 other Americans too. It reminds me too much of Scarlett Johanssen and Will.i.am informing me through song that I'm not very cool if I'm not for Obama. But otherwise, I thought it was a fantastic speech.

To echo David Brooks of The New York Times, what this country needs most is a successful presidency. I want Obama to be successful.

I am open to being wooed.

I actually got a little teary.

This morning I voted at 7am on the dot. The lines were out the door. Made obvious by the number of cardigans and thermoses full of coffee, I was there with a bunch of school teachers. Some standing behind me were buzzing about how in their twenty-some odd years of voting at this precinct they have never seen a line out the door. My eyes started welling up. No kidding.

I know. I'm the cheesiest, corniest, sappiest person you know. But I can't help it. I just love voting.

Now onto my next task. Deciding what to do for dessert tonight. Because around nine o'clock we're going to need to drown our sorrows in something...

Halloween postscript.

At approximately 5:30pm on October 31st, Captain Hook declared the night over, having eating one too many cupcakes, two too many garishly decorated sugar cookies, 12 too many Twizzlers, and not enough dry oats (the snack choice of trick or treating champions).

Maybe next year he'll stay awake long enough to experience the whole point of Halloween.

Older brother.

Today is my older brother's birthday. He's getting a slightly belated and unsolicited gift this year. A liberal supermajority. I sure hope that he's okay with it, because he won't be able to return it after thirty days.

In order to ease the angst he will surely feel the morning after receiving the aforementioned gift, I will list #34 out of the #184 reasons why I am grateful that he is my brother.

Morgan has always been a financial whiz kid. He graduated from Wharton, went on to become a wealth manager to Philadelphia's rich and famous, and is now into his second year helping less illustrious populations manage their wealth, or lack thereof, through his beloved brainchild, Banzai!.

The benefits of this? He teaches us everything he knows (everything at our level, of course--which means everything he had figured out by the time he was nine years old). When the financial markets started crashing, I'd call him and ask him to translate what I was hearing on the news into Buffyspeak. These past few months of venturing into the world of retirement savings, life insurance, etc. mean Allan and I have had quite a few questions. Morgan has had quite a few answers. And he hasn't charged us a penny.

There you have it. Reason #34. I hope you have a happy day.

Not another lame political endorsement!

For some reason Drudge didn't report anything about this important political endorsement that occurred last May. Thankfully, six months later we've uncovered video.




Now that's an independent voter.

P.S. This was not coached. Promise.

General observations in re tween culture.

Conversation had last night while watching the hordes of trick or treaters descend upon our generic Centex neighborhood:

Allan: It seems that this year's costume choice for young girls is prostitute.
Buffy: Ummm, that's Hannah Montana.
Allan: Whoops.

We're pretty out of touch. A state of existence for which I'm actually very grateful.