"The Case of the Missing Tomatoes" - a Tree Guy Narrative

So fourscore and seven years ago (the last time I posted), I mentioned a pregnancy tantrum story that my husband wrote down in Nature Boy's baby book.  Here it go:


The Case of the Missing Tomatoes

By Tree Guy

Early one evening I went to Taco Bell because Danielle wanted a couple Taco Supremes.  These were always her favorite because she loves sour cream.  I came home with three for me and two for her just like she ordered.  I set the bag of tacos on the table and went into the kitchen for drinks.  

Next thing I know, Danielle is yelling about how "These aren't Supremes!!!  Idiots!!!  They can't do anything right!!!!!  I....they...AARGHH!!!!!

And off she ran to the bedroom crying all the way.

Well, there I was, standing in the kitchen with two glasses in my hands wondering what just happened.  I checked the tacos and found that they had just forgotten the tomatoes.  So I added some tomatoes from the fridge and approached the bedroom.  After explaining the situation, Danielle simply said, "OK," and came out and ate her tacos.


So there you have it.  My shining pregnancy moment with Nature Boy.  And he hates tomatoes.

I have no riveting taco picture to add to this post.  (Sorry to disappoint.)  But I do have a crafty Pinterest-y one.

 

My husband likes to make his own salsa.  It's really, really good.  Better than store bought, fo' sho'.  He sometimes whips some up for gifts.  So it happened that we have 5348953408596356 Mason jars just sitting around.  Since I am a lady o' leisure, I spent 534534 hours finding 5456340564064563 things to do with Mason jars on Pinterest.  The painted jar above is my first project.  It reminds Nature Boy of my grandparents, so I call it a win.  Here is the link, in case you like it too.  (EASY!)  I'm going to do a bigger jar next in antique white to hold the flowers that my husband doesn't bring me nearly enough.  (Ahem!)  (Not that he reads my blog...)

I also plan to do this project with silver paint and glitter.  (Glitter!!!!) 

And this one too.

 Craft ALL the jars!!!!!!!!

Hi blogosphere. It's me, Pregzilla.

Happy 2014, y'all!  I'm behind the times, I know.  Haven't got my bloggin' mojo back, and might not ever.  Blame Facebook.  There's actual interaction there!  It's perfect for attention-whoring.

I'm reporting to you today from about mid-pregnancy.  In short, less indigestion, more bitchiness.

Really.

I'm off my mood stabilizer and down to about half the usual dose of my beloved Zoloft.  Most some days I see glimmers of the old unmedicated me.  It's scary.  It makes me think, Maybe I'm not as nice and self-actualized as I like to think I am.  Maybe it's all medication!

The crazy's all real though, I assure you.

The good news is, in a few more months, I'll be back among the fully medicated.  I am totally believing I'll have another round of Postpartum Euphoria.  I had it after having Nature Boy.  It was awesome.  I was walking through Walmart, whistlin' all the while.  Smiling at people in their fuzzy jammie pants.  Not turkey necking anyone.  Just so happy to be a mom.

Which is in sharp contrast to my typical daily interactions right now.

I posted the following story on Facebook, but I think it deserves a spot here as well.

____________________________________________________


I've had a few cranky days. Ain't gonna lie. I had my first pregnancy-induced food tantrum two days ago. Over pizza. Papa John's to be specific.

I couldn't even eat pizza when I was pregnant with Nature Boy (red sauce!!!!) But with this new one, I want the sauciest pizza I can get.

I spent 30 lovely minutes planning my (frugal online coupon supported) order. Mushrooms. Onions. Extra sauce. Garlic dipping sauce.

I downloaded Papa John's app only to get the pop-up that no store delivers to my address. What? So I called the store and asked the squeaky voiced pubescent boy if they deliver out my way. He said yes. So I tried again with the app. (No pizza for YOU!)

The boy lied. Lied, I say!

45 minutes into my meal planning, I called again and was told by a different Papa John's worker that they only deliver to one block east of my house. And that I couldn't get the awesome online deal if I ordered over the phone for pickup.

I was all, "That's only one more block! I've been trying to order from you guys for 45 minutes! That's it!!! I'm not ordering from you!! Bye!!!"

And I hung up on the poor girl.

Because certainly she has power over Papa John's delivery routes and was purposely withholding pizza from me. 

As if that's not bad enough, I then refused to call anywhere else or make any pizza-related decisions for the foreseeable future. I was done!

But I still wanted pizza.

So my husband, who worked all day (his 6th workday in a row) had to take over the rustlin' up of some grub. By then it was almost 7 on a Saturday night and Pizza Hut (who is much more accommodating to us country folk) was on a 75 minute delivery delay.

My guys looked at me fearfully. Could I handle a 75 minute wait? Finally, Nature Boy broke the tension by saying, "Mom, don't hurt me, but you are being really high maintenance! "

My husband busted out laughing, saying, "I totally could not get away with saying that!!!"

To my credit, I didn't frog my son or throw something at my husband. I WAS being high maintenance. So I laughed.

And the pizza, when it finally arrived, was totally worth the wait.
 
_____________________________________________________
 

Sadly, this pregnancy food tantrum is not my first.  My husband wrote down my previous pregnancy's Pregzilla moment in Nature Boy's baby book.  I'll post it here later this week.

When I'm not all up in my hormones, I am actually feeling really grateful.  After 10+ years of infertility, I never thought I'd be experiencing this again.  It's amazing, really.  The creation of new life is always a miracle.  But when it happens to someone who has struggled with infertility, it's magnified.  Pregnancy is such a normal, everyday occurrence for so many people, it's easy to lose sight of the wonder of it.

I love feeling the baby move.  He's kung fu fighting on a daily basis, and I love it.  I even love my big ol' belly.  Here's my latest belly pic.   (Please forgive the less than ladylike pose.) 

Mugged Again

Recently I woke up from 8 weeks of first trimester hibernation feeling decidedly frumpy.  I hadn't done my nails in months.  I only shaved because I had doctor appointments and I wanted to avoid rumors of Sasquatch sightings in the medical community.  And I hadn't had a haircut in 14 weeks.  My hair had grown out of its style and was past my shoulders.  Tree Guy told me I looked like a hippie.  And not the cute kind of hippie.

Like her.  Except I pluck my chin hair.

If you've been here awhile, you know all about my haircut issues.  About how the secret underground sorority of hairstylists has a vendetta against me.  How they've all apparently taken a blood oath to royally screw up my hair every time I dare to place my round rump in their chairs.  How they've included Nature Boy in their grudge.  

For the past year, Shrinky Dink (my artist/therapist pal) has cut my hair.  She isn't actually a hairstylist.  Which is probably why she does such a good job.  She's not bound by the pact!

Anyhoo, I woke up yesterday thinking, I must get my groove back!  I need to see some semblance of myself when I look in the mirror!

But Shrinky Dink's out of town.

So I stupidly went to a chain salon for a haircut last night.  And not just any chain salon.  The fancy one.  Inside Walmart.  Yeah.  Because hey, it was 8PM and I needed groceries anyway.

You know how you walk into a salon you've never been to before and immediately eye the stylist with the best hair in the place, hoping she'll be the one cutting your hair?  And instead you get a 15 year old with a buzz cut?

I should've run when the stylist I got suggested an asymmetrical cut.  I let her know then and there that I'm totally OCD about symmetry and if I had an asymmetrical haircut, I'd walk with my head leaning to the longer side because it would just feel that weird. 

I told her I wanted an inverted bob that falls right at shoulder length at its longest part.  And that's what she gave me.

On one side.

I asked her twice to check for evenness.  She did.  But when I got home, I realized my hair looked something like this (without the awesome color and styling).

WTF hairstylists?!  Is it really that hard to listen to what a client wants and give her that?  Most 6-year-olds can cut a straight line!

So I brought my groceries in and busted out the scissors.  I spent an hour trimming the hair on my right side to line up more evenly with the left side.  It's not easy cutting your own hair when it's curly.  WHICH IS WHY CURLY-HAIRED PEOPLE GO TO PROFESSIONALS!

Now you might be thinking to yourself, Danielle, it's your fault for going to a cheap Walmart salon!  I'll give you that.  But I have to add that I've gone to fancy salons and paid a lot more for shitty haircuts too.  It doesn't seem to matter where I go or how much I pay.  Hence my vendetta theory.

Since Shrinky Dink is a therapist, she understands OCD neuroses, and she's willing (for the 4334345th time) to fix a hairstylist's mistake when she gets back in town.

Until then, I'll be the one walking with her head slightly tilted to the right. 

The Crapper: a Love Story

So I finally bought a potty sign from my friend Erin at Oh Honestly, Erin.  (I know.  I've pimped her blog before.  But the girl is totally pimp-worthy.)  And she also has an Etsy store! 

Potty humor is big in our house, so I knew "the Crapper" would fit right in.  I wanted him to feel at home with his new family, so as soon as he arrived in the mail, I took him on several excursions. 

But first, he had some bonding time with his new dad, Tree Guy.

 

  

Crapper in the sky with diamond.

 

 

The Crapper with a log.



 

 

 The Crapper with my dog.

 

 

 

 

 The Crapper with some cake.

 

 

 

 

The Crapper with a snake.

 

 

 

 

The Crapper with our Tank.

 

 

 

 

The Crapper with some drank.

 

 

 

 

The Crapper with a hat.

 

 

 

 

The Crapper with the cat.

 

 

 

 

So there you have it.  Adopting the Crapper into our family inspired my own creativity.  (Thanks, Erin!)  I've been in a painting/stenciling/Mod Podging frenzy since bringing the Crapper home.  (A crappy crafting post is coming soon!) 

  

Have a great weekend, y'all!

Hey 13. How YOU doin'?

Nature Boy just got back from a fabulous week-long vacation.  What a way to celebrate a milestone birthday!  First, he visited my uncle in New Orleans.  My uncle lives right on the French Quarter, so they were perfectly positioned for some N'awlins fun.

^^My Uncle Craig^^

Uncle Craig told me New Orleans would be a culture shock to Nature Boy, and I was all, "He'll be fine.  He used to take hip hop dance up on the north side of town."

But it totally was a culture shock.

The first thing that happened was a New Orleans looting of his checked baggage.  He was pissed!  I know this because he texted me in all caps with lots of exclamation points, "THEY STOLE MY STUFF!!!!!!"  

Welcome to New Orleans, buddy.

The next thing that happened was that their car was swamped by people wanting day labor.  We live in such a homogeneous suburban/rural area that my freaked out son immediately called me and said, "There are a bunch of Mexican guys surrounding our car!!!"  Like they were getting car jacked or something.

As it happens, my uncle did, in fact, need a day laborer, so it all worked out.  

The next bit of culture shock was all good though.  The FOOD, y'all.  He loved it all.  Except the beet gumbo.  But only because it was too spicy.  He also loved all of my uncle's tropical plants.  I call him Nature Boy for a reason!

^^Uncle Craig's tropical courtyard^^

(An aside:  My son excitedly brought home 3 or 4 of these plants.  "These are from Costa Rica!" he exclaimed.  Only thing is, we are in a different growing zone than New Orleans.  Those plants have to be indoor plants here, so Nature Boy brought them inside.  A couple days later, I discovered that they had a bunch of slugs on them!  Ahhhhh!  

See, I'm all about nature from a distance.  I have a rule that no pests are allowed in the house.  No roaches or mice or ticks or fleas or worms or lice.  I will turn into an OCD ninja if I even suspect an invasion.  So the plants are now in quarantine in the garage.)

The next couple days of his New Orleans trip were all about sightseeing.  They went to the awesome aquarium there, and a fascinatingly multicultural flea market where Nature Boy got yelled at by a Chinese guy for asking for a lower price on a jade carving and told by a Russian woman that he needs a haircut.  

Then they checked out a couple voodoo shops.  At first I was cool with it.  I was all, "Hey, it's part of the culture of the area.  He's learning.  It's social studies!"  But then other people around me were freaking me out by going, "You have to be careful around that stuff.  It's real."  

     ^^Place to avoid if you have OCD.  Or if your mom does.^^

Then they drove down to Houston to visit my cousin, who is a fishing guide in Galveston.  Tree Guy met them there and they all enjoyed a manly few days of fishing.

On the way back, my guys visited Tree Guy's parents and brother, Uncle Jake.

^^Wrestling action shot.^^

^^Tree Guy's mom.^^

Then, my guys were HOME!  Woohoo!!!!  It was time to get our birthday partyin' on!  And that we did.

^^Gettin' Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n' Fruity with it at IHOP with a pal.^^

^^Monster Cookie "Cake" and a fab new 'do, courtesy of Mom.^^

^^Tree Guy chomping on a slice of Monster Cookie.  It's his family's recipe.^^

^^LOVE these cute plates from Walmart.^^

Happy birthday, Nature Boy!  I love you!
______________________________________________________

P.S.  Stay tuned for the Monster Cookie recipe!

Hair-Muggification. And a Little Ditty.

Sorry I lied to you guys about the whole "I'll post a video tomorrow" thing.  Sometimes I lie.*  It's necessary to balance out all the good I do.

I will post the video of me singing Adele's Make You Feel My Love in a moment.  But first I'd like to complain about a couple things.  Because that's what I do.  I complain.**

The first thing I'd like to complain about is that I was recently hair-mugged for the 3453545th time.  If you've been around for a while, you know that this is a recurring theme in my life.  For the rest of you, a definition. 

Hair-mugged:  [haer-mug-d] verb; past tense 

1. the act of cutting off way more hair than a person has requested or given permission for (usually perpetrated by a licensed hair stylist) 

2. the act of chopping layers into previously layerless hair without the consent of the client (also usually perpetrated by a licensed hair stylist)

[present tense: is hair-mugging; future tense: will hair-mug}

It'd been 10 weeks since I'd last been robbed of hair, so it was time for a trim.  The last stylist I went to went renegade and decided to deal with my weird swirly growth pattern by cutting the underneath layer at the back of my neck an inch shorter than the rest of my hair.  To "hide it".  Because apparently that layer of hair is optional. 

And since Miss Scissorhands cut the back of my hair so short overall, the underneath layer ended up only being a half inch long.  I was all, "WTH?  Who just gets rid of a layer of hair to deal with a swirly growth pattern?"  And the really sucky thing is that this stylist cost 3 times more than my usual one.

Her masterplan to ruin my life help me manage my swirly growth pattern only caused another problem. Without that underlayer of hair, my curls fell all weird in back.  The left side looked like it was an inch longer than the right side.  And I have OCD, so symmetry is essential.

I went back to try to get things evened out a little, hoping that the stylist could trim the longer-looking side a bit so it would all fall evenly when dry.  Instead, she gave me a hack job on only the left side of my head.  I came home and asked Shrinky Dink to fix it.  (She's my best friend, so she wants me to have good hair.  And she's an artist, so she's got symmetry skillz.)

I waited 10 long weeks to get some length back.  I didn't go back to the expensive hair Nazi (No hair for YOU!).  I went to a cheap stylist who, while not particularly creative, has given me decent haircuts in the past.  I helpfully detailed all the things I wanted (the sides and front long) and all the things I didn't want (chin-length hair).  And she gave me what I asked for--except that she also gave me SIDE LAYERS.  I HATE side layers.  Side layers are not for curly-haired people.  When I have side layers, they wedge up, making me look like a jellyfish.  It's not a good look, people.

And now that I've spent so much time complaining about hair-mugging, I don't feel like complaining about the second thing.  (You're welcome.) 

As a consolation prize for having to read about the Great Hair-Mugging Debacle of 2012/2013, I will just post the video now.

Actually, I just lied again.  First I'll do the footnotes.  Then I'll post the video.

______________________________________________________________________________


*I actually don't lie.  Except about my weight on my drivers license.

**I do complain, however.  Frequently.  I find that it keeps me from going postal on people.  In that way, my complaining is actually a public service.  You're welcome, society at large.

Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Story

Merry Christmas, y'all!  I hope you're having a wonderful time with your families and friends.  And presents.  And pie.

We're having a great holiday here.  I'm really grateful.  But it's cold, man!  It's currently 23 degrees here with a wind chill of 14.  And one of the Homeskool Mafia members stole my purple long johns(!), so I'm one cold mama.

Remember yesterday when I told you about my dwarf phobia and mentioned that the whole Elf on the Shelf thing freaks me out as well?

My grandparents had an Elf of the Shelf when I was little.  I remember waking up and looking for it each morning on the days before Christmas.  I went along with the tradition, I guess, but I was always a little freaked out.  

Who, I ask you, came up with the crazy idea to put creepy mini-Chuckies on our childhood shelves and move them around overnight so that kids think they come alive after bedtime?  HOW SCARY IS THAT?!

You know, our parents and grandparents will probably claim that they did the Elf on the Shelf thing for our benefit.  "It's part of the magic of Christmas," they'd say.

Don't believe 'em.

The real reason our elders tortured us like this is because it was FUN FOR THEM!  They were peeved about getting crappy kid-made macaroni necklaces for Christmas, so they exacted their revenge with Elves on Shelves!

The series of photos below came from our amazing realtor, Debbie.  She really gets into this thing!  And she posts pictures of her little elf family's adventures on Facebook, so the elf-averse are bombarded with creepy elvish scenes on a regular basis this time of year!  I asked her for one picture to use for my blog, and she sent me nine.  Nine!  [Thanks, Debbie (kind of) for the photos!]   

Below is how I imagine Elf on the Shelf life to be.  [All text (both on the photos and off) was added by me, so don't blame poor (elf-obsessed) Debbie.] 

_______________________________________________________

Hi.  I'm Jack.  And this is my story.

This is me in happier times.

Before the whole leg-eating thing happened, we were flying high in first class to our honeymoon destination, when my new bride, Jingle, made a suggestion that should have given me pause.

I thought she was referring to the bodies of the snowmen that would melting on our front lawn after we returned from our trip, but I was to discover that I was horribly mistaken.

My second clue that something was not right was in my wife's choice of honeymoon activities.  

 Our wedding night was one I will never forget.  

Mainly because I came away from it missing my left leg.  

Still, I didn't want to start our marriage on the wrong, er, foot, so I decided to make peace with my "special" bride.

We had a couple of good years.  We partied late into the nights and took a lot of vacations.  I could tell Jingle was giving our marriage her best shot.

Soon, the two of us became three, and I was as happy as a one-legged elf can be.

Jingle's really getting into the wife and mother thing.  She even made us milk and cookies for Christmas this year!

Today is our anniversary, so Jingle prepared us a special lunch!  I can't wait!

[Note from the editor:  It grieves me to inform you that Jack is unable to complete his story.]

[He drank the Kool-Aid.]

The End.

So I used to have a dwarf phobia...

True story.

I'm not proud of it.  But I used to be afraid of "little people".*  They creeped me out.  Much like clowns do. And those Elf on the Shelf demons dolls, which are pretty much like dwarven Chuckies as far as I'm concerned.  (More on that tomorrow.)

And I realize how shitty a dwarf phobia sounds.  Imagine, you say, if some skinny dude came up to you and said, "I used to have a fat chick phobia."

I get it.  I really do.

But it doesn't change the fact that I used to freak out (on the inside) when a little person was around.  Why? Did I think he or she might magically disappear and reappear somewhere close to me like a tricksy leprechaun?  Did I think dwarfism was catching?  No.  It was totally an involuntary reaction.

I don't know why I developed a dwarf phobia.  It's not like I was jumped by a posse of mini-thugs.  (Although I did get "freaked on" by a dwarf at a dance club once.  He looked a little like this.)

I watched Time Bandits like every other child of the '80s.  Could my first experience with little people on the big screen have planted the seed?  (And don't get me started on Oompa Loompas.)  There was a tiny female dwarf who was popular with the guys in college (if you know what I mean).  Maybe that (imagined) visual is what did it.  Or maybe it was that episode of The Jerry Springer Show (What?  Meemaw and I loved to watch that show together.) when a guy with no legs scooted after another guy for sleeping with his woman.  He wasn't a dwarf, but he was little (due to the whole no legs thing).  Could that staged spectacle have pushed me over the edge?

No, I'm pretty sure it's when my youngest uncle (only 10 years older than me) sent me a cleverly disguised link to midget porn as a prank.

Yeah.

I am happy to say that I don't have an aversion to little people anymore.

And I owe it all to reality TV.

It all started with a Little People, Big World marathon.  I was recovering from lung surgery and living with Nature Boy in a hotel (while Tree Guy was supervising renovation work on our house to make it more lung-friendly).  All there was to do was watch TV.

The longer I watched that show, the less averse I felt.  The less weird or different they seemed to me.  Then I watched some of The Little Couple.  They were so cute!

The show that really kicked my phobia's butt was Pit Boss.  I love that show!

In fact, don't tell Tree Guy, but I kind of have a crush on Sebastian.    

___________________________________________________

*To the best of my knowledge, the medical term for a fear of little people is achondroplasiaphobia.   If you do a Google search, you'll also find lollipopguildophobia listed as the name.

I'm pretty sure someone made that one up.

Drama: ain't saving it for my mama

I haven't been clicking my way through Blogland for a couple months because Nature Boy and I have been BI-ZAY.  We both got roles in a community theater production of Oliver! The Musical, and theater is a jealous mistress.  It involves so many practice sessions that I don't know how people with actual jobs do it!  They must be exhausted.  I can only do it 'cuz Tree Guy's bank-rollin' this operation.  (Thanks, babe.)

I totally get the draw of theater, though.  So many creative folks go through life doing what they have to do to get the bills paid.  Because of time or family or financial constraints, creative expression gets pushed to the bottom of the list.  I admire the people I'm working with.  They are committed to making room in their lives for creativity.  They are making sacrifices to honor the artsy fartsy parts of themselves (and to entertain the public!), and I'm sure it's not easy.  (I'm wo' out, and I'm a lady o' leisure!)

Me, as Mrs. Bedwin

We only have two more shows.  I'm really going to miss these peeps!  Theater is weird in that for two months, we're spending several days a week with former strangers.  Changing next to them in the dressing rooms, zipping up their dresses, complimenting the job they do on stage, talking about our families and hopes and health.  Then BAM!  Everyone goes his or her own way and it's back to reality.  Doing theater is a close-knit, intense, all-for-one-and-one-for-all experience.  It's like friendship bootcamp.  I hope I am able to keep some of the new friends I've made.

I hope Nature Boy stays in touch with his new pals too.  Theater kids gotta stick together!  Because their brand of awesome isn't really appreciated by their peers when they are children.  They have to wait until adulthood to get that recognition from their age mates.  It's hard.

Nature Boy, as The Artful Dodger

I've learned three major truths by doing this, my first musical in 24 years.  Prepare yourself for this wisdom I'm about to lay down:

#1 - People are basically good.  (And theater people are basically AWESOME.)  
It's okay to open yourself up to new friendships and experiences.  It helps you grow.  And it has major fun potential!  As my regular readers know, I like to say that I tend toward paranoia.  (For real.)  Doing community theater has been a sort of exposure therapy for me.  And I love the results.

#2 - It's possible to overcome stage fright.  

I've written before about my fear of performing in public.  Doing this show has been exposure therapy for that as well.  I can now walk out on stage in front of a theater full of people and belt it.  No tinny, wavering voice.  No 'stache-area sweating.  No backing out.  This has been a lifelong fear, and I am conquering it.  I'm proud of myself, y'all.

#3 - I'm nearing 40, and there's still so much to learn.  (Yay!)

I love learning.  It's exciting to get involved in something new and discover fresh avenues to explore.  I've learned how to project my voice, that even mid-1850's housekeepers need supportive bras, that menthol cough drops right before a solo really help open the throat, that theater kids really need the support of the adults in their lives, that baked goods are always welcome in the Green Room, that stage acting is not the same as film acting (it's more exaggerated), that defining one's brows makes a world of difference, that a bit of brushable hairspray is my friend, and that people in my real life think I'm nice.  (Aww!)          
___________________________________________________________________

What do you do to exercise your creativity?  When was the last time you tried something new? 

Partytime! Excellent.

Happy Halloween, y'all.

I have really enjoyed the costume thing this year.  And the party thing.  We've attended two costume parties, and it isn't even trick or treating time yet.  And that's awesome.  Tree Guy and I used to discuss how nice it would be to have parties and dinners to go to.  To have the kind of friends who host that stuff. His parents have a big group of friends who always have something going on, some event to look forward to.  Most of them met while raising their kids in the same neighborhood.  Now they are grandparents, and they're still friends.  They've moved out but not on.  

Times are different now.  Tree Guy and I wave to our neighbors (the nice ones, anyway) and help them catch their escapee minpins, but we don't socialize with them.  We don't have progressive dinners or block parties.  People are too busy.  We all have other friends.  And we have Netflix.

What I've learned is that to get invited to parties and dinners, you have to throw parties and dinners. There's a kind of esoteric party circuit in the 'burbs.  If you throw parties, you are added to the invisible list of potential invitees.  You become a "party person".  

I didn't have dinners and parties when we lived in our old house because it was too small for such gatherings.  At least in my mind.  The kitchen was TINY.  I admire folks with small homes who make them so comfy and welcoming that no one notices the lack of dining space or seating.  I aspire to be a gracious, relaxed hostess.  But the truth is, I am too neurotic to relax.  

Plus, in keeping with my general quirkiness, I have a "thing" about being crowded in the kitchen.  It drives me nuts.  Makes me feel claustrophobic.  The kitchen is my domain, and when I'm cleaning or cooking, I want to inhabit it solitaire.  Sometimes I get claustrophobic just having both dogs underfoot in the kitchen.  

And I really love my dogs.      

My nuttiness doesn't help in the hostess department, but I try to make up for it with my fantastic cakes and amazing rapping skills.  So far, so good.

I threw a monster party for Nature Boy and his friends a couple weeks ago.  Everyone had to come in costume.  Even Tree Guy dressed up, which was a departure from his personal goal to not appear goofy in any way.  As y'all know, he's totally into the fake warrior thing, so he dressed as a monster hunter. Sharpened stakes, actual holy water, and all the rest.  It was hot.

Anatomy of a Monster Hunter

Nature Boy wore a werewolf costume, then later turned into a zombie.

I was a disco zombie.  This talented young makeup artist did my makeup.

   
I concocted these refreshments.

Gooey Eyeball Cupcakes

Nasty Brews

And then invited over some seriously creepy kids to share brains with.

It was a monstrously good time!

Stay tuned for another costume-centric post.