Runs in the Family

And Now for Some Good to Go With the Bad

December 14, 2012

Updated: Please pray with all your might for the families affected by the school shooting in Connecticut. Our hearts go out especially to the moms and dads who lost their little ones today. It’s an unimaginable tragedy for any parent to face, and it’s even sadder that it happened at this time of year. We also pray for the children of the world, who have to grow up with the reality that horrors like this are not just the stuff of their nightmares.

Y’all better believe I’m holding Ratine Powell a little tighter today and thanking the Most High God that my biggest problem is screwed-up knees.

—-

For obvious reasons, my appointment with the orthopedist got moved up to yesterday. He examined my knees and took a bunch of X-rays, and while the verdict was not entirely good, it was more positive than we had braced ourselves to expect.

Good: The right kneecap (the one I dislocated) is not torn, and there’s nothing chipped off of it. So there’s no reason to perform surgery now. In fact, the right knee will probably never need surgery (barring any more major disasters, of course). So YAY!

Bad: The knee will, however, have to be in a brace for six to 12 weeks. I will need help with Harper for two to three weeks.

Good: I start physical therapy next week, and the doctor said as long as we’re working on one knee, we might as well work on both, which may either lower the need for surgery on my left knee or make rehab after surgery go much, much easier.

Bad: Surgery on the left knee is still, of course, a distinct possibility.

Good: The brace I wore for my first major dislocation, the original one on the left knee, immobilized my entire leg from hip to ankle, i.e., I could not bend my knee at all. Not only was it difficult to get around, the PT afterwards was, how shall we say, intense. Also painful. THIS brace, however, is smaller (about mid-calf to mid-thigh), so it’s a bit more comfortable AND it has a hinge in it so I can bend my knee a little.

Bad: I have to wear it ON my leg, i.e., not over pants, tights or leggings. Not surprisingly, I don’t have any pants with legs wide enough to accommodate this big ugly mofo. Actually, that’s a lie; I do, but they’re sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret with “PINK” emblazoned across the rear.

Needless to say, I will NOT be leaving the house in THOSE.

Good: I have at least two maxi skirts that I can wear, and I just ordered another one from the Gap.

P.S. If you need a little retail therapy today, use the promo code GAPGIFT to get 30 percent off your entire order, including sale items. I got that skirt and a sweater for $43!

Good: My WONDERFUL neighbor Amanda brought over BAGS of delicious but healthy food yesterday, including: salad, vinaigrette dressing, grilled chicken, kalamata olives, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, a fresh baguette, gourmet cheeses, crackers, roasted garlic hummus, pitas, a jar of Roma tomato chili melange, homemade tabbouleh with shrimp and a bottle of Chardonnay. OK, so maybe the Chardonnay isn’t particularly healthy, but it sure is tasty.

Bad: No bad there, except The Guy and I probably had really rank breath from all that garlic hummus. As he said last night, injured or not, that was one of the best dinners we’ve had in ages.

Bad: I feel irrationally guilty that my mom, mother-in-law and Amanda are having to help me with Rat.

Good: Since I’ll be spending a lot of time with my mom and, well, I have quite a bit of time on my hands at the moment, she’s finally going to teach me to hand-sew.

That’s right – I can cross-stitch, embroider (by hand!) and sew on a machine ’til Jesus comes back, but I have no earthly idea how to hand-sew.

Bad: My husband suggested that I audition for the role of a mentally handicapped woman. Oh yes he did.

Good: After he, uh, CLARIFIED that statement, it became obvious that he has much (misplaced) faith in my (nonexistent) acting talents. And he does have a point – I did grow up around a mentally handicapped person, and I can do a pretty awesome Aunt Carol impression*, not to mention that it’s not exactly a stretch for me to walk funny at this particular point in time.

However, this play is set in New York, and I think any of you who have ever heard me talk can probably agree that the chances of me leaving my Southern accent entirely behind are slim to none. On the other hand, it’s not like I don’t have time for dialect coaching right now.

*Please note: Do not send me 28,000 misspelled emails written entirely in capital letters telling me what a horrible person I am for making fun of the mentally handicapped. Aunt Carol could have an IQ of 192 and an impression of her would STILL be funny, I assure you. She may be mentally handicapped, but she’s also kind of a snob. She is also the biggest LSU fan on Planet Earth, a Goldwater Republican and a lover of badminton. There are students currently studying at Harvard who can’t remember dates as well as she can, and I am 90 percent sure that she would punch my mother, her big sister, in the face for a bag of M&Ms (plain, not peanut).

Bad: I can’t climb the stairs for another week or two, so The poor, long-suffering Guy has to make multiple trips upstairs every night for craft supplies.

Good: I have set up Crafting Command Central on the sofa; The Guy now not only knows what a Xyron is but also what it does.

Bad: Since I am no longer getting LASIK for Christmas, The Guy told me to look on the Internet and find something else I want for Christmas (!!!!). PEOPLE, I COULD NOT FIND A THING. I mean, I was on the Tory Burch site, so believe me, I found plenty of stuff I would NOT turn down, but I didn’t find anything I wanted badly enough to spend the money on it and/or that I can use for the next several weeks (e.g., I’m pretty sure a pair of Hunter Wellingtons will NOT fit over this dumb brace).

I also considered asking for chickens, but Mom and Dad, as former chicken keepers themselves, assured me there is no way my injured self can have a coop and all the other paraphernalia The Ladies would require prepared in time for Christmas.

Kelly’s Christmas Wish List:
1. Tory Burch flats
2. Chickens (hens)

Clearly, I have a wide range of interests.

Good: The Guy is going to surprise me! On the one hand, I’m a little afraid that I’m going to get a stocking full of nothing but leopard-print panties, but on the other, I’m pretty darn excited.

Despite a couple of bummers, the Christmas season is full of possibility.

Your optimistic
Kel

P.S. I almost forgot! More good: A lovely and radiant pregnant Christmas angel by the name of Emily brought me a GORGEOUS Christmas tree skirt that looks absolutely fantastic with my tree. MUCH more beautiful than the one I ordered, I assure you. Obviously, this is the skirt I was meant to have all along!

Filed under Allstars, Crisis Averted, Deeply Unqualified for Adulthood, Domestic Goddess, Double Ewe Tee Eff, FILDI, Happy Holidays, Harper, OMG SHOES, Runs in the Family, She's Crafty, Small Fry, The Gret Stet of Looseeanna, Times I Did Stupid Stuff, Triumphs and Failures, Uncategorized

Party Girl

November 26, 2012

Predictably, a sense of melancholy fell over me after Harper’s first birthday party. After weeks of planning, strategizing, shopping, choosing, ordering, crafting, sewing and a whole lot of hot gluing (also: second-degree burning), I finally had a moment to sit and think about my girl being one whole entire year old, and how this “baby” business is flying by way, way too fast for my liking.

I think I shall take her out in the rain and shrink her so she’ll stay a baby forever.

That’s how it works, right?

At any rate, she had a blast at her party, which is the best outcome I could’ve possibly hoped for. And, after some initial skepticism, it turns out Little Miss is quite the fan of cupcakes, just like her mama.

Also, she is now under the erroneous impression that all cupcakes are for her. I.e., she threw a fit at Joy’s birthday brunch when I wouldn’t hand over my entire cupcake.

Before Harper was born, I started planning a cowgirl theme (yes, I am EXACTLY the kind of person who begins planning her daughter’s first birthday party before she’s even born), but in February, I decided Raggedy Ann was the only way to go. See, Raggedy Ann dolls are one of Delta Gamma’s symbols. (Well, officially, DG refers to it as a “Hannah Doll,” but in reality, most chapters use Raggedy Anns.) It was my small way of honoring Thorpe, whom Harper never got to meet.

I hope Thorpe would’ve been tickled pink.

The lovely and incredibly talented Henrietta Wildsmith photographed the event for us. She also took Harper’s newborn photos and photographed her baptism, and as usual, she did an incredible job. Thanks to her hard work, I was able to be completely present for Harper’s party and focus on being a proud mom, not a photographer, and that meant the world to me.

Plus, we got our Christmas card photo out of it, so SCORE.

We also need to talk about how AMAZING The Guy was during my days (and nights) of June-Cleaver-on-speed-esque over-planning and neurosis leading up to the party. He never ONCE complained, and he jumped in and cheerfully did every single thing that needed to be done, including, but not limited to, going to three different stores to find polka-dotted balloons and paper straws and making an 11 p.m. run to Walmart to get Tabasco for the cucumber tea sandwiches. Because if THAT’S not a bona fide emergency, you’re going to have to tell me what is because I just don’t know.

In sum: A real man will hold you while you freak the eff out about be-glittered chipboard letters.

Want to see some more pics from Harperpalooza? They’re right here. That’s not all of them – Henrietta literally shot hundreds (a photographer after my own heart!) – but those are the ones that tell the story of a fun, exciting day that we two out of three of us will remember forever.

Your party-hoppin’
Kel

Filed under Bachelor Girl Hall of Fame, Domestic Goddess, Harper, Mrs. Bachelor Girl, Pitchers, Runs in the Family, She's Crafty, Small Fry, Times I Did Stupid Stuff, Triumphs and Failures, Uncategorized

Birthday Girl

November 23, 2012

Today, my newborn baby Rat is one year old. To be precise, she will be exactly one year old today at 5:56 p.m. That’s the first time I heard her sweet little mewing cry, a sound I wish I had recorded because it’s growing increasingly difficult to remember what this busy little girl looked and sounded like as a tiny, helpless baby.

She is already everything I always hoped I would be. And no, I don’t mean that in a weird, vicarious sort of way, like I just gave away my nefarious plan to mold her into a NYCB dancer in my basement lair, but she’s fiercer, braver and mightier than her mama ever thought about being.

My daughter has changed my life for the better in more ways than I could list in a book, let alone on this blog. Being her father’s wife and her mother are the two greatest things I’ve ever done and ever will do, and if anyone thinks that’s hopelessly un-feminist or that I’ve lost my sense of self or, frankly, my mind, well, I can live with that. I am an integral part of a family. I am important and necessary in ways I never thought I would be. I finally have some sense of my own worth in the eyes of God, and that is what Harper Nell Powell gave to me on her birthday.

Lest you think I’ve completely gone down the rabbit-hole, I’ll tell you that I still adore my job(s), and I expect I always will. (I told Blake the other day that I don’t ever plan to “retire.” Sure, I’d like to work less and with less pressure, but giving up writing and photography would be the exact opposite of a happy retirement.) I love that I get the opportunity every day to be creative (and get paid for it!), and I love interacting with other adults in a professional setting. I even love the minutiae of running a business. It’s just that I love being a wife and mom more. And if there’s just one thing I want Harper to know always, it’s that I love her and I love being her mom. As I sit here, I know that my own mother loves me more than anything in the world, but I don’t think she was particularly fired up about being a mom in general. I, on the other hand, relish it. I love washing Harper’s little clothes, I love picking up her toys, I love thinking of what to feed her for meals, I love reading books about child development, I love socializing with other moms, I love taking her to church even though it’s exhausting, I love sewing and crafting things for her, I love changing her diaper in the back of my car and I love planning her birthday party (which has been the main reason for my recent unplanned blog hiatus).

That sounds like a lot of distractions from work, and it is, but being Harper’s mom has given me and my photography business a clarity and a focus that I never knew I could have and that, to be bluntly honest, very few who know me personally, including me, thought I was capable of. What used to take my all day can now be done in a couple of hours, i.e., during naptime. And although I try never to speak for The Guy, I think he would wholeheartedly agree that, although he has always loved his job, he has a whole new level of enthusiasm and confidence about it, in part because of his role as a father. If you were to distill it down to a single reason, I guess it’s that there are far fewer hours in a day that we can spend focused solely on our work, so we have to come to our jobs with a laser-like focus and take care of what’s important and eliminate what’s not, which has made both of us more efficient, more creative and more motivated.

This first year has not been easy. Joyful, yes. Easy? Not on your life. There has been an enormous learning curve for me and The Guy to overcome, and I’ve said more than once that, when we have another baby, I’ll feel kind of bad for Harper, because she’s the one who had to be the guinea pig. Every baby is different, so there’s no guarantee the next one will be smooth sailing, but having the first one is like riding a roller coaster in the dark; you never know what’s coming next. At least the next time around, we’ll have SOME idea what to expect. But Harper’s the one who made us parents, and because of that, she’ll always be special.

I’m so excited to see how she’ll grow and change and learn and develop in the next year. Yesterday, at Thanksgiving dinner with family, she more than held her own with her two- and four-year-old boy-cousins, so if I had to guess, I’d say we’re probably going to have more snails and puppydog tails than sugar and spice in our lives. And that’s just fine with me. It’d be great if she were a Girlus maximus like her mama, but if she’s not, then my five-year plan involves turning Harper Nell Powell into a spider-killing, attic-exploring, four-wheeler-riding machine. Which I am most definitely not. Although I did kill a spider yesterday to keep it from getting in her room. (If it had been anywhere else, I totally would have screamed, slammed the door, run away and waited for The Guy to get home. So yeah, I can unload a 9 mil into a splatter target with a pearly-white smile on my face, but smooshing a spider gives me the shivers for 45 minutes. Sue me.) So on top of everything else, Harper makes me brave.

She’s asleep at the moment, no doubt passed out face-down in her crib, drooling on her Winnie the Pooh doll that’s becoming more of a constant companion by the day, but when she wakes up, we’ll look at her Global Babies book that Linda and Elaine gave her (it’s the first thing besides Pooh that she wants every morning – I think she’s checking on them), cuddle her “Tiger Tail” (a little purple-and-yellow plush football with a striped tail attached), scatter blocks and maybe even rip up a fresh magazine (there’s very little Harper likes more than a brand-new, pristine magazine). She’ll babble to herself and say “Uh oh,” “BOOM!” “bo,” “I love you” (sort of), and, if I’m lucky, “good girl.” And that she is, my friends – a good girl. So I better go and fix another cup of coffee. It’s going to be a busy day.

Your candle-lighting
Kel

P.S. Want to see the many ways this nugget has grown and changed over her first year? Go here!

Filed under Allstars, Bachelor Girl Hall of Fame, Harper, I Shoulda Majored in Womyn's Studies, Misty Water-Colored Meeemories, Mrs. Bachelor Girl, Pitchers, Runs in the Family, Small Fry, That Thing I Do All the Time, Triumphs and Failures, Uncategorized

Menu Monday

October 29, 2012

We got home yesterday from a belated anniversary celebration weekend in Hot Springs, and I haven’t even had time to write this week’s menu on the chalkboard!

For shame, Mrs. Bachelor Girl.

If you grow up anywhere near the Northwest Louisiana/East Texas/Southern Arkansas region, you take at least one vacation in Hot Springs. You just do. Unless, of course, you’re me, and your parents are violently allergic to anything even remotely touristy and will, in fact, go to enormous lengths to avoid even looking like tourists. Which is how three residents of Henderson, TX, one of whom was only ELEVEN YEARS OLD, ended up lost in San Francisco’s Chinatown at 2 a.m.

But I digress.

(Give me Jellystone Park any day of the week, is the point I’m trying to make here.)

I’ve always wanted to go to Hot Springs. It probably seems kind of dumb, but something about 140-degree water bubbling up out of the ground just fascinates me to no end. So obviously, we had to do the whole bath-and-massage routine for which Hot Springs is famous, and believe me, it did not disappoint. The Guy done good.

(I’m awfully glad he sprung for a private bath, though, so I didn’t have to try to relax while steeping myself in Senior Citizen Tea.)

The other super fun thing we did on vacation was go to an indoor firing range, which was practically a religious experience.

So our anniversary consisted of: guns, pizza, beer, shopping, a visit to a spa and Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle.

(Um. ?)

And Harper spent the weekend at my parents’ house, where she spent the entire time trying to stick her hand in the dog food bowl.

A good time was had by us all. Clearly.

Now on to the menu!

After a long weekend of overindulgence, we’re eating crazy clean this weekend. I’m at the point where the thought of Halloween candy entering my household makes me slightly nauseated.

Mon.: Apple Rosemary Pork Loin and brussels sprouts

Tue.: Black beans, cornbread and salad

Wed.: Soup and sandwiches

Thu.: Roasted chicken with new potatoes and green beans

Fri.: Homemade pizza and salad

Sat.: 10 Minute Enchiladas (a lighter version using Amy’s Kitchen organic frozen burritos and low-fat cheese) and sauteed spinach

Sun.: Penne and broccoli pasta

If it weren’t for Pinterest, my family would probably eat cold cereal and Cheetos every night for dinner, I swear.

So what’s cookin’ at your place?

Your recipe-pinning
Kel

Filed under Biggest Nerd in World, Domestic Goddess, Harper, Kel's Rebellyon, Menu Monday, Mrs. Bachelor Girl, Pitchers, Runs in the Family, Small Fry, The Gret Stet of Looseeanna, The Whole Wide World, Uncategorized

Santa Claus is Coming to Town!

October 29, 2012

Your merry and bright
Kel

Filed under Happy Holidays, Harper, Pitchers, Runs in the Family, Small Fry, That Thing I Do All the Time, Uncategorized

Menu-less Monday

October 22, 2012

No menu today, folks. Not because I don’t plan to eat this week (that’ll be the day), but because until Wednesday, The Guy is in Las Vegas eating all sorts of delicious and exotic fare, and I’m taking one for the team and eating up the leftovers in the fridge.

Needless to say, he better bring me home something amazing. This sounds like a job for Tory Burch.

I did, however, order a Johnny’s Pizza Saturday night and, over the course of two days, ate the whole thing by myself, and I didn’t have to share my anchovies with anybody, even Harper. It was, in a word, magical.

So instead of regaling you with what we plan to eat this week, I’m going to tell you all about how Chihuahua went missing Saturday. Don’t worry, we found her.

The Guy: “Is it wrong to admit that I’m a little disappointed?”

No, my love. No, it is not.

For those of you keeping score at home, this makes TWICE. If it happens a third time, I’m calling it God’s will and going home to live out the rest of my days in canine-free bliss.

Longtime readers may remember two years ago when Chihuahua went missing the night before my birthday. A husband, a baby and a whole lot of sleep deprivation later, I handled the situation somewhat differently this time around.

Saturday afternoon, in between Halloween mini-sessions, I drove to my parents’ house for a little target practice. I was outside with Dad getting an introductory lesson in handguns when Mom hollered out the back door (we’re so Southern, we bleed sweet tea and Bourbon) and said she couldn’t find Chihuahua. Frankly, I wasn’t all that worried. If she was hiding in the woods near where we were shooting, then chances were good to excellent that she was sitting on a cloud begging Jesus for a hotdog right about then. But given what happened last time, I was pretty sure she was hiding in the house.

When I noticed that Aunt Carol, who is mentally handicapped and has balance roughly equivalent to that of a beach ball with feet, was traipsing around IN THE WOODS looking for Chihuahua, I figured it was time for me to locate the rat-dog and set everyone’s minds at ease once and for all.

Except I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in the house, in the woods, in the garage, under the camper or in any of her usual hideouts.

Mom was, by her own standards, at least, frantic (meaning that, from the rest of the world’s point of view, she was slightly concerned). You see, she’s the one who let Chihuahua out and then forgot about her. She blamed herself, and, like the good – no, great – daughter I am, I kept reassuring her that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Even though, technically, it was TOTALLY her fault.

(I think that proves decisively that I’m the superior child and should therefore inherit everything all to myself. Don’t you agree?)

Personal to Mom: I’m gonna let this one slide, but the next time you lose my dog, we’re going to have to start talking about cut-rate nursing homes.

Is threatening a person with discount elder care the senior adult equivalent of a time-out?

Nah, I’m just kidding. Like I tell Mom all the time, I’ll never put her in a nursing home. Instead, I’ll keep her at home with me where I’ll dress her in holiday sweaters and pay her a quarter to water the plants.

Anyway, back to Chihuahua. Still couldn’t find her. Finally, I had to go to another shoot. And in sharp contrast to the last time she went missing, I had what the self-help books call a “peaceful acceptance” of the situation. Although, to be fair, that “peaceful acceptance” probably had more to do with the fact that Chihuahua has peed in Harper’s room three times in the last four days than any sort of personal serenity.

After the shoot, I drove back to my parents’ house to retrieve Harper and, hopefully, Chihuahua. I made up my mind to drive the streets surrounding my parents’ house one more time on my way out of the neighborhood. And just about the time I turning onto the road home, The Guy called and said that Home Again, Chihuahua’s microchipping service, had just called him. Apparently, a good Samaritan named Cynthia, who lived just one street over from Mom and Dad, had Chihuahua. I turned around and went back to get her.

I drove up to Cynthia’s beautiful home, where she graciously invited me inside. Turns out I had to go inside because Chihuahua wouldn’t let Cynthia and her family touch her. (Except, of course, to read her microchip tag.)

So I walk in, and what do I find but Chihuahua sitting on a settee – not even a COUCH, y’all, a damn SETTEE – eating hotdogs. HOTDOGS. I swear to God.

And rather than jump around or in any way act happy to see me, Chihuahua looked at me balefully, like, “MEAN LADY ALWAYS SHOW UP AND RUIN ALL CHIHUAHUA FUN. NOW CHIHUAHUA HAVE TO GO BACK TO HOUSE OF STUPID AND BORED.”

Cynthia was all like, “Oh, you must have been so worried about your baby!”, not knowing that in that moment, I really wanted nothing more than to drop-kick Chihuahua into my parents’ driveway.

So I loaded her up and took her home, and now here she is next to me, snoring and farting, just like last time.

So what have we learned today, boys and girls?

1. Chihuahua is part boomerang.
2. Don’t let my mother let your dog out to pee.
3. I’m a much calmer person when allowed to shoot at things periodically.

and finally

4. Good neighbors are worth their weight in gold.

Your dog-hunting
Kel

Filed under Animal Shelter, Chihuahua, Double Ewe Tee Eff, Runs in the Family, The Gret Stet of Looseeanna, Times I Did Stupid Stuff, Triumphs and Failures, Uncategorized

Because the Night

October 4, 2012

Tuesday was National Night Out Against Crime, and the citizenry of our neighborhood boldly demonstrated to the criminal element of Northwest Louisiana that we intend to fight back against their shenanigans…

…by eating funnel cakes, playing bean-bag toss and having a parade.

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when we come for you?

When The Guy and I first began house-hunting, we agreed that we both wanted to find a neighborhood where there was a real spirit of fellowship and community, a place where neighbors not only know each other’s names, they make an effort to get to know each other and foster relationships among themselves.

Well, mission accomplished. We comment to each other at least once a week that we totally won the neighbor lottery.

And guess what else? Two of the people who were in our wedding live on our street!

Harper looked forward all week to corn dogs (mostly corn, very little dog), funnel cakes and cotton candy.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am trying to give my baby diabeetus.

Our entry in the Bike, Trike & Wagon Parade, which we vote should henceforth be called the Bike, Trike, Wagon & Jogging Stroller Parade. Discrimination is for losers.

The Guy decorated it all by himself!

Our neighbor/groomsman Don.

We are completely, totally, 100 percent against crime in all its forms.

Well, except for the fun crimes. Those are OK.

(Kidding.)

One of our neighbors made this! Plus two others!

If I tried to paint something like that, it would look like a four-fingered monkey of sub-par intelligence made it in art therapy.

Am I the only one who can’t read or say the words “bowl,” “bowling” or “score” without singing that song from Grease 2?

Harper wants to know why she has to be the kid with the weird mom.

Thomas Jefferson read the Declaration of Independence for us. The kids were surprisingly tolerant of this interruption in the Goldfish Toss*.

*No goldfish were harmed.

*Except I probably gave them diabeetus, too.

LOOK, WILFORD BRIMLEY, IT’S CANDY!

Caramel apples, handmade by The Guy. Unfortunately, caramel-covered confections don’t fare well in our subtropical climate, but bags full of caramel sure do hit the spot regardless.