Can I get mudflaps on this sedan?

I sat in traffic behind a PT Cruiser. On the back of the car were two voluptuous, feminine silhouettes. One had horns and held a pitchfork. The other had a halo overhead. I'd seen these decals on  large pickups and semis, but never a PT Cruiser. And while I hate to reinforce gender stereotypes,  I think we can all admit the the Cruiser is not the manliest of cars, making the sexy angel and the sexy devil look extremely out of place, and making me wonder how they got there. I've come up with a few different scenarios.

1. A wife really wants a PT Cruiser. Her husband wants something a little more masculine. They argue. The wife wins. The husband, in an effort to make the vehicle one he is not embarrassed to drive, takes it to one of those sweet car painting places that will do eagles and Catholic Saints, and requests Miss. Naughty and Miss Nice. The husband and wife may or may not still be married.
2. A man buys a PT Cruiser, thinking it's a sensible car and will get great gas mileage. The man is mocked and called a Sissy Pants. At a nearby truck stop the man purchases two stickers, one a curvy angel, the other a curvy devil. "That'll show them," he wrongly assumes.
3. A woman hates that her husband, on the back of his Chevy,  has a sticker of Calvin peeing on a Ford. To prove a point and demonstrate just how tacky she finds his display, she orders The Daughter of Perdition and  The Heavenly Messenger at radicalcarstickers.com, and after waiting a week for her order to arrive, she wonders if this is really the best idea, but goes ahead and places the stickers on the back of her PT Cruiser that she drives her children to and from school in everyday.
4. A woman hates the objectification of women, so she ironically paints the epitome of such objectification on the back of her PT Cruiser. The irony is lost on many.
5. A runner failed to train properly for Ragnar, so by the time they finish, the race organizers are out of Ragnar 2013 stickers. Feeling ashamed and disappointed, the runner picks the first sticker they see at the 7-11 where they've stopped to buy Gatorade. With a Sharpie, they write on the sexy devil's body, Ragnar 2013. It rains that day and the sharpies washes away. They can't remove the sticker because they are out of Goo Gone. They regret ever signing up to run Ragnar.

P.S. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT do a Google image search for sexy devil sexy angel.

Grandpa Morley,

Photo c/o Alpha Smoot 

Thanks for teaching me how to win at every card game. Thanks for introducing me to Vienna Sausages. Thanks for taking me fishing. Thanks for attending every recital,  church talk and school performance. Thanks for giving my nose back after you stole it. Thanks for watching Jeopardy with me. Thanks for sharing the produce from your pristine garden. Thanks for telling jokes.  Thanks for being my grandpa.

Til we meet again.

Dear Beyonce,

Hey Girl!

How've you been?

First, off, I just want to clear the air.  Sure, I was upset when you stole my baby name. But I've had time to heal, and while my Ivy may not be the princess of hip hop or the promised child of The  Illuminati,  she's pretty good at patty cake, so I think she can hold up to comparison.

What have you been up to? Touring? Performing for the president? Superbowl Halftime? That's cool. I've been catching up on Say Yes To The Dress Atlanta and eating Wheat Thins.

So listen, the internet is telling me that you're pregnant again. I mean, congratulations, but I have some questions for you: Is Baby Blue waking up at 5:30 demanding snacks and shows? Did your body just barely get back to pre-baby normalcy? Are you struggling to keep the carpet next to  the high chair anything but filthy? Are you picking up your living room twenty seven times every day? Does Baby Blue make you feel  like a CIA water boarder during bath time? Does your house always smell faintly of a too-full diaper genie? Do you wonder if three hours of Sesame Street is too many hours of Sesame Street? Have you gone through an entire bottle of Excedrin this month? No? Well then I guess you are ready for Baby Green Lilly or Yellow Daffodil or whatever name you choose. Good for you. You're a stronger woman than I am.

All the best,
Meg

Fat bottom pup

What do you do when someone you love has a weight problem?
What do you do when that someone is a dog?

Ollie refuses to exercise. It took him two years, but he finally figured out that we can't make him move. So every time I attempt to take him for a light jog, he plants himself on the ground and looks toward the apartment.

It doesn't help that Ivy's favorite past time is sharing fruit snacks, bagels and graham crackers with her furry friend.

In related news, Stephen-slice and Ivy-hizzle surprised me with Mastering The Art of French Cooking for Mother's day, and I'm about to make my third cake in a week. Guess how many sticks of butter Ms. Child's icing recipe calls for: (hint: the number of thumbs you have, unless you've been in a terrible accent and lost a hand, in which case I apologize for reminding you of what must be a really painful memory)/

I

What a nice surprise, bring your alibis

Palm Desert.

We came. We saw. We lounged.

You know you're in for a relaxing vacation when the median age of resort guests is approximately 102. Much like the geriatric patrons, we spent our time taking leisurely strolls,

Nana Carey and Ivy and palm trees

Instead of telling her not to walk in the street where cars drive, I took some pictures. That's' just the kind of outstanding mother I am.

feeding the ducks,

This guy held his pose  for a good thirty seconds. It seems he's no stranger to the paparazzi.

I mean, come on.  Baby ducks.  I  freaking love  nature. But not the sad Planet Earth kind of nature where baby elephants can't find their moms. The Marriott man-made pond kind of nature where baby animals walk right up to you because they know you probably have snacks.

enjoying art,

Yikes

dining,

It was at this culinary establishment that my faith in humanity was restored. If we as a species are able to create a tomato sandwich that delicious, then surely world peace is possible.

and soaking in surf and sun

By surf,  I mean kiddy pool water.

By sun, I mean sun.

The point I'm trying to get across is that we had a lovely time. 

Also, we saw Gatsby and I felt very "meh" about it.

Probably the best thing I've ever penned

I'm waiting for the repair guy to show up and he's already forty minutes late. I don't dare shower because I might miss him and because it would be a very cold  shower. On Saturday our hot water heater went kaput  and we've  been straight up pioneering it since. Sure we still have electricity and heat and easy transportation,  but it took lots of water boiling to warm up  one toddler's bath. This and the relentlessly chilly Colorado weather has caused me to melodramatically throw my arms in the air and say "I need a vacation!" which I realize is something only the over-privileged say. Luckily for me and my entitled desires, tomorrow we're headed to a Morley family vacay in sunny Palm Desert where I plan on taking lots of naps. If you're a burglar, we are leaving our giant, trained-to-kill pit bulls in the apartment so don't even think about it. If you're anyone else, I'll try not to Instagram too many pictures of my feet on a beach chair. No promises though.

Mr. Repair is now 49 minutes tardy and I need to go to the bathroom.

Two internet articles and 14 minutes later...he's still not here. Are there other things I could/should be doing? yes. Am I using this wait time as an excuse to just sit and internet for a while while Ivy naps? Okay fine. Am I about to crack open my second Diet Coke of the day? Absolutely.
Good news: I put on deodorant. I'm  still holding out for the promise of a hot shower, but it feels like common courtesy to not reek of body odor when a repair man visits.
I just spilled Diet Coke on the couch and only sort of cleaned it up because it's time to burn  this couch cover anyway. Seriously, white? What was I thinking? That my child would be the first kid ever to not spill? My couch looks like the kind of couch that I would judge someone else harshly for having.

70 minutes late.

Oh, here's a thing. Ivy threw her first temper tantrum. For about three minutes I was successful in ignoring her screaming, toy throwing and hand grabbing, but she eventually hit a  dangers decibel level  and I cracked and gave in  to her demands (to be let out on the balcony in forty degree weather wearing only a diaper). Yes, she won the battle. But I learned some things. I've rethought strategy, and she has definitely not won the war.

80 minutes.

I finally went to the bathroom. Hey, here's another thing. We're going back to DC this summer. And even though DC in the summer is akin to a Biblical plague (heat,  cicadas), we're thrilled to be returning.
An hour and thirty five minutes late. I think he forgot.
I called. Joe rescheduled for 1:00. And by rescheduled I mean changed the time and didn't bother to call.

Well, this was fun. I'm off to take a cold shower. If you're a burglar/rapist, don't forget about the two pit bulls. Everyone else, wish me luck.

Three deary year-ies

As of yesterday, Stephen Walter and I have been married for three years. Three years feels like we're no longer marriage rookies, so the day called for some big time celebration. It  was my turn to plan a surprise evening, and I did real good if I may say so myself. We started the night with sushi, and when I say sushi I mean SUSHI. Like, Jiro dreams of this sushi. How, you might be asking yourself, is it possible to get great sashimi in Denver? Fly it in from Tokyo, duh, which is what Sushi Den does. Get this: they have a buyer who goes to the Tokyo fish market everyday to pick the freshest fish and then ships it in a twenty four hour cycle. So it's no wonder that the ginger tuna made us cry with sheer joy  and the red dragon roll gave us a glimpse into the heavens.
After dinner we sipped some hot chocolate at a hipster coffee shop across the street and mourned the end of the sushi.
Then we went bowling, obviously. When two people bowl for an hour, it's about 3 games, and by then end of those sixty minutes I had to use both arms to lift the ten pound ball. But Stephen bowled like the bowling aficionado that he is and beat me all three rounds (beat me as in won, not as in hit me in the face). Luckily we've been married long enough that I can rejoice in his successes, though I would like to win someday. I can always dream, I guess.
Anyway, I took zero pictures of the evening because sushi photographs about as well as (insert your least favorite scary looking celebrity) and the bowling ally was poorly lit. So as far as you know I made this whole thing up and we really spent the night watching Real Housewives of Des Moines on opposite sides of the couch. I guess you'll have to trust me...