I find this totally hot:

Facial hair + holding our kid + playing air hockey with another of our kids = insanely sexy

Also sexy: when I find him doing dishes, helping the kids with their homework, or babysitting while I have girl time with friends.

Yup. Hotness.

(also: it doesn’t hurt that he looks rather like Jack Bauer with glasses)

Tonight was the Annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. Jachin and Jon made a replica of a Corvette Stingray. They spray painted it orange, because orange is the raddest color ever! Plus, it was the color we had in the garage already.

(Jachin was more excited about it than he lets on in pictures.)

At first we were worried. The cars were supposed to be turned in at the Cub Master’s house for the final weighing last night at 8pm. At 7pm Jon managed to epoxy three of the wheels to the axels. So three of the four wheels didn’t spin. This didn’t bode well for the car’s chances, since traditionally the Pinewood Derby is won by cars with four spinning wheels. Luckily a spare set of wheels was found (read: busted off of Jachin’s car from last year) and the Stingray was quickly patched up and rushed to the Cub Master’s house, just under the 8pm deadline.

But we were worried. The car was hardly “fine tuned”.

So tonight, tensions were high and the heats were run. The village children came to witness.

Winners were applauded and lavished with gifts, and losers were mocked and humiliated. (not really.)

At the end of the night, Jachin’s Stingray took 2nd place overall, taking first in all of its heats.

And he won the “Killer Nickelcade” Award… due to the fact that his car had about $3.40 in nickels epoxied to the underbelly.

What? That’s what gives real Corvettes their speed, right?

See these tasty things here:

These delicious things are the spawns of Satan. Because I guess the devil is made of licorice. Who knew?

Why all the evilness, you ask? Because I can’t frickin stop eating them. I eat bags of them. And I wish I was joking when I say I eat “bags of them”, but I literally eat bags of them. It is easy to hop in the car and drive down the street to Rite Aid, where I will purchase several bags at a time. The daytime cashier knows me now. We have an odd relationship. She rings me up and gives me that look like,  your butt is visibly wider than it was when you were in here two days ago. But she says nothing except, “Will there be anything else for you?” And she knows the answer is no. She knows that I only came in for the Pull-N-Peels. But it’s in her Rite Aid Employee Contract to ask. One of these days I will totally yank her chain. When she asks, “Will there be anything else for you?” I will say, “Yes, these Tic Tacs here.” And her jaw will drop and she will be taken aback, and she’ll say, “Really?” And I’ll say, “No, not really. Sheesh. Just ring up the frickin licorice already.”

But I can’t stop doing it.

I. Can’t.

I have tried. I went to Jon last week, with much hesitancy — much like a suburban housewife would reluctantly go to her doctor when she’s finally decided to confront her prescription pain pill addiction.

“Honey,” I said to him through the shower door, “I need for you to not let me eat any more Pull-N-Peels.”

“What?” he asked, shampoo running into his eyes.

“I can’t stop eating Pull-N-Peels. And I’m not even kidding. I am addicted to them. And you can’t let me buy any more.”

“Ok,” he said, surely trying to figure out how he could possibly enforce such a thing. Then he said, “Don’t buy any more.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

Whew… that was done.

But two days later I found myself back at Rite Aid, being rung up by my judgmental dealer. “Will there for anything else for you?”

I threw Tic Tacs at her.

And that night as I sat in bed, eating Pull-N-Peels, Jon walked in and said, “I thought you weren’t going to buy any more of those.” But his eyes said to me, your butt is visibly wider than when you asked me not to let you buy any more of those. And I looked around, but I couldn’t find any Tic Tacs to throw at him (if only I had actually bought some, instead of throwing them at the cashier’s head). But I couldn’t be mad, because he was only trying to enforce what I’d asked. So I just got all sulky and passive aggressive and tied my Pull-N-Peel into a noose and ate it.

I then came up with a brilliant plan. I figured that if I ate enough of them, I would eventually become sick of them and then it would be easy to stop eating them. I would now eat as many of them as I physically could! Well, a bag and half later, all I had done was successfully ingested 1,800 calories and made myself a little thirsty.

I’m working on a Plan B.

Oh, and if Pull-N-Peels are the spawns of Satan, then these are the spawns’ cousins:

Because apparently the devil’s brother is a big, evil Goldfish. Who wears a helmet when riding a bike.

When I am out of Pull-N-Peels, I eat these by the truck-load.

Sure, they look cute. Sure, they claim to be Made With Whole Grain! But don’t be fooled. They will do just as much widening of the arse as a bag of Pull-N-Peels any day. When eaten in bulk-like quantities. Which I will invariably do. Because Satan will tell you nothing of portion control.

But one of these days I will shock the crap out of the Rite Aid cashier. In a few weeks, when the snow melts, and the air warms, and the spirits lift, she will ask me, “Will there be anything else for you?” And I will hand her a bottle of Zantrex-3, some running socks, and a water bottle, while I tell her of my plans for an afternoon run.

And just maybe I’ll get some Tic Tacs… for fresh breath and ammunition.

I found this video on the camera card today. I didn’t realize that Zoe had taken some video while I was in the hospital. (The day after Deacon was born, to be exact.) But bless her for doing it, because Deac is so small. And we hadn’t yet even finalized the name.

(Pop the Dramamine before pressing play. After all, this was filmed by a 6 year old with twitchy hands and a wandering eye.)

I know, I know… the cuteness is burning your retinas, right? I am rude for not giving you a heads up… but I wanted it to be a surprise: the utter preciousness. Please email your kiss requests, and I will be sure to smooch the little guy for you.

I’m taking a break from my new schedule of eating Goldfish crackers, cleaning the house in my bathrobe (no I haven’t showered yet today, thanks for asking), and listening to the latest New Kids album on my iPod to bring you this short post.  

 Jachin and Zoe are adjusting pretty dang fabulously to their little brother. They give him loves. The are both excellent binkie-replacers. They remember to use Germ-X before holding his little hands or smoothing down his crazy hair. Zoe has even loosened up on her staunch rule of me not saying the words “poop” or “diaper” around her because of their embarrassing nature. (Before I would have to say, “Deacon went number 2, would you please hand me a D?” when requesting her help in a diaper changing situation.)

But still, there are limits to what the kids can handle. Like, they don’t like the crying. Take this exchange that took place last night as I took a screaming Deacon from Jachin’s lap.

Jachin:    ”Woah, he’s not happy.”

Me:    “He’s just hungry.”

Jachin:    “Yeah, he just wanted the Milk Factory.”

(Have I not mentioned that Jachin calls me “The Milk Factory”? That’s my new title. If you call my house, you can ask for me by that name.)

Jachin:    “I love him when he’s smiling.”

Me:    “Wow, just when he’s smiling?”

Jachin:    “Well, I mean I love him more when he’s smiling. Instead of screaming and crying and having a weird, red face.”

Me:    “Oh, I see.”

Jachin:    “You see, like right now… how he has a really weird face? It’s not cute, just weird. You can have him when he’s crying.”

Then Zoe piped in:   ”I would give my life for baby when he’s crying.”

Jachin (calling out his little sister):    “No you wouldn’t. Then why do you leave him crying on the couch and go to the other side of the room when he’s screaming? You just leave him there.”

Zoe:    “Yeah, but I go to the other side of the room and I say ‘It’s okay, I would give my life for you, baby’ while he is screaming.”

Jachin:    “Yeah, that’s really helpful.”

*The sarcasm hangs thick in the air*

But regardless of who goes to the other side of the room, and who thinks he has a weird crying-face, and who would or would not give their life for him when he’s crying (which I don’t think is even completely necessary), they are both adjusting fabulously to having a little brother. And I’ll take whatever help and love I can get — even the conditional kind. And the fact that I can say the word “diaper” in this house again without Zoe freaking out is a bonus.

And now I am going back to listening to “Dirty Dancing” while I try to identify the odd smell lurking somewhere in my kitchen.

Don’t be jealous of my day.

Tonight Jon and Jachin had some man time at the movies and dinner. Zoe and I, being at home with crappy weather and a baby, decided to scrapbook for the evening, something she loves to do but I totally suck at… so we rarely do it. But poor Zoe. Her scrapbook only has about 12 or so pages in it… and only goes up to about age 2. If you are any good at math, you will realize this puts me 5 years behind on her scrapbook. (She deserves a better mother. Really.) And when I say I “scrapbook”, it mostly just means I glue pictures to colored paper and slide it into a page protector. There is nary a ribbon or rivet or any such accoutrement.

I suck.

But tonight I went through a bunch of old flickr photos to print off pictures to glue to colored paper scrapbook. I had forgotten how little and cute my kids used to be. Because now they are biggish and cute, but I tend to forget that they were once little and cute.

These pictures reminded me that Zoe has always loved art. Coloring. Painting. Drawing. Anything along those lines.

 This picture: She would NOT stop coloring on the wall in this particular spot, so I finally taped butcher paper to the wall to spare the paint. It worked.

And there was a time when Jachin hadn’t yet discovered how to tease and irritate his little sister. Behold, the nice days:

Also, he went through a period when he had to have a bandaid for every. single. wound. Regardless of whether it could actually be seen with the naked eye.

When did all the growing up happen? I must have blinked. A long, drawn out blink. Because there’s no way it happened while I was paying attention. And now Deacon is lying here in my lap, snoozing… already bigger than he was when we brought him home two weeks ago. (He’d gained 7 ounces by his two week check up.) And he will do the same thing. Grow up when I’m not looking. And then one day I’ll stumble upon some pictures of him as an infant… and it will freak me out.

Wish I could stop time. Just for a bit.

(post script: Jachin reminded me that his chin wound in that particular photo was the result of a treadmill accident. Because once the kids turn three, I make them run 8 miles a day on the treadmill. Without that safety strap that is supposed to keep you from flying off the back of the treadmill and hitting your chin on the moving belt. In the photo he is calling Children’s Services on the cell phone to report me.)

I have this fantasy:

 I am published. My fiction is a smash. My memoirs are fabulous. I am witty and poignant and thought provoking and, frankly, genius. People talk about and quote lines from my stories. My novels win awards. I am invited to speak at writers’ conferences and schools. And when I speak at these engagements, I am articulate and hilarious and people take notes on what I say. Seriously, I’m, like, totally brilliant.

And who do I have to thank for the shaping and molding of my (imagined) success?

My fake family.

Yes, in my fantasy I have a fake family. Not that I replace anyone in my existing (real life) family… I just add some people.

Like Wil Wheaton. Wil is my brother. We sit up until all hours of the night talking sci-fi and borderline nerdy stuff and he cracks me up while he regales hilarious stories of his childhood. A childhood which we shared. So of course I have hilarious stories for him as well. He also thinks I’m very funny. We chat about his books and he encourages me to write witty memoirs about my childhood, too. I do it. They are successful. People can’t stop buying my memoirs. I’m on the New York Times Best Sellers list. I have book signings at Borders. I finally realize my dream of having my own ISBN numbers. And its all thanks to Wil. What a brother!

Another of my awesome brothers is Mo Willems. He teaches me all about simplicity. Simple words, simple pictures. Simply hilarious. He teaches me to draw. He shows me how he does it; how a small change in one line here and another line there makes a cartoon elephant’s countenance go from elated to puzzled. He lets me listen as he fleshes out ideas for pigeon hijinks and piggie conundrums. I grin because my inner five year old self is in heaven. Then again, so is my outer 32 year old self.

My cousin is M. Night Shyamalan. We meet at Barnes and Noble on occasion and have decadent drinks and cheesecake in the cafe and chat about weaving twists and intrigue into a storyline. I mostly shut up around him, which is a weird thing for me. But I do it. I just keep my mouth shut and listen to him. He’s a smart guy. His creativity is spot-on, even if sometimes his brilliant ideas fumble a little on the big screen. I see what he was trying to do. I get it. I applaud him for his efforts. As we leave the bookstore, I pay for his steamer with irish creme. He assures me that it’s okay that I’ve never read a book by Stephanie Meyer. We are vampire purists, the two of us. We make up a hand shake for it. He then tells me he will be happy to direct my story when it’s made into a movie. Even if it only ends up on Lifetime. Then we do the hand shake and part until next time.

On the weekends I like to visit my aunt and uncle, Dave Barry and Mary Roach. They didn’t even realize they were married until I told them. But now they have a very happy life together. They live in a lake house somewhere in New England. They make me laugh and keep our visits light-hearted. They teach me how to condense hilarity into 500 words or less and send readers along on their merry way, their days brightened. I put this knowledge to use on my blog. It becomes a sensation! More than 30 people read it! More than 6 people comment! I put ads on my blog and make 48 cents a month! Score!

C.S. Lewis is my grandpa. There is no end to what this man has to teach me. He knows things. I mean, awesome things. Life changing things. He lets me in on the secret that Narnia is real, and there are other places like it. He shows me how to find my own place, go there, explore it, and write about it. A magical place is easy to write about once you’ve spent any real amount of time there. Also, Grandpa Lewis always remembers my birthday. He sends me books that he’s written. Ones that no one has read before. And they are dedicated to me. I am inspired to write. Write! Every day, without fail.

Now before you freak out, I should assure you that all of these relationships stay firmly in my brain. They never bleed over into real life. Jon never finds me in front of a mirror, having a conversation with my ”cousin” M. Night about whether my current book would be best in first person or third. However, I often find that more time spent in my head often equals less time spent with fingers on the keyboard. So maybe it’s time to take a little break from my fake family and get back to the meat of what I imagine they tell me:

Write, Suz. Write.

Hi I have no T.V! It’s pretty boring. In fact I haven’t had it since like 5 months ago! But now I don’t care about it ….. well at lest a little bit. It’s still the same though …… because of movies of course. I hope that does not happen to you. Bye bye!

-Zoe