Adding Insult to Itch

Are you sick of the move? I'M sick of the move. In fact, if you're half as sick of the move as I am, you're probably curled up with a blanket and bowl. And perhaps a Frostie, because that's my favorite thing to eat when I'm sick - and you guys have the privilege that is Wendy's. (Which I will have when we move on the 25th - just a couple more weeks! Although I might go to Chiptole first.)

So, when I'm in a "let's change the subject" mood, I generally snark my way through revealing, embarrassing information about myself. I've already done poop, pink eye, and cold sores. What's left?

DANDRUFF, of course!

Here's my question for the cosmos: why does dandruff shampoo have to stink to high heaven? And I do mean that literally - I'm sure the Lord himself can tell when I'm using the offensive stuff.

It's like the Dandruff Company Guys are trying to ruin every sense we have.

Everywhere you go, you are surrounded with an oflactory cloud of brain-numbing odor that lasts for days. I'm pretty sure at least five hundred brain cells die with every use. And the burnt tar smell runs down the back of your throat, effectively flavoring everything you eat with a dash of medicinal metal. Good times.

Even if I arrange my hair to hide any tell-tale flakes, my scent arrives before I do.

Sniff, sniff, HACK. "Dude. Do you smell that?"

"That Girl must have dandruff again. Let's run away before she rounds the corner. My nose is already burning."

So let's get going, science. It can't be that hard to create an effective, sweet-smelling cure. My favorite fragrence is Freshly Washed Little Boy, if you don't mind bottling that. Oh, and if you could throw in a few side effects like weight loss and increased memory, that would be great too.

Take 2

Scroll down to watch the original, much more informative (and constipated) version of this week's Chick Chat.

I reserve the right to delete this post once I come to my senses

I am ashamed. I have not been honest with you.

I'm a FAKE. SKINNY.

I actually know this for a fact, having been declared one only yesterday. A friend in the ward is making me some dresses, and I went in for a fitting. She had to let everything out, with the comment, "Wow, Re, I thought you were skinny, but you're not. You're like a fake skinny!"

Well, at least I know my place in the world.

While I appreciate your comments of my beauteousness, I need to come clean. I only post pictures that make me look good. Duh. But really? NOT. I feel I have deceived you.

Bloggers, I have sinned.

I have a double chin.

Here's me with the camera pointing down. Instantly gives you Audrey Hepburn neck! (It also has the added benefit of stretching your arms up, thus hiding any extra sets of triceps.)

But here is the previously UNPUBLISHED ARCHIVES, EXCLUSIVELY ON MY BLOG - me with the camera pointing up.

Wattle, wattle, wattle. The truth hurts.

Then there's my Equator of Love. I've got a good two fistfuls of flesh right above where I button my jeans. MUFFIN. TOP. (I prefer blueberry with the brown sugar crackle topping, but I'll go for double chocolate chip too. With butter.)

And I'm not EVEN puffing out. This is the real me in all my glory.

(Bytheway, belly fat is very fun to play with when you're watching a movie. But it gets in the way when I need to pick up cars. Or crayons. Or chalk. Or paper. Or little socks. Or food. Or silverware. Or ....)

Sidenote: I wasn't lying when I said I'm a size 6. But this is why I have no faith in the sizing system. I well recall reading the Wakefield twins in junior high, and they were described as "perfect size 6s." Well. I am the chubbiest size 6 I know. It's kind of like the penguins from Madagascar dreaming of Antartica all their life - then when they get there? This sucks. I'd rather be a tight 12 then a flabby 6. Period.

Next - thunder thighs. They really jiggle. If only I could hold them straight out while squeezing them constantly. Then they wouldn't look so bad. But I'm kind of a fan of WALKING. I would take a picture showing you how my legs resemble KFC's special recipe, but that would require moving. And I'm very comfortable in my chair.

Eyes. Lots of compliments on my eyes. MASCARA, people. Pur-lease. I'm a walking Maybelline ad. Haven't I already told you I'm an addict?

Skin. Huge pores. Irregular texture. Bumps. Zits (I'm 27!) And my eyes recently decided to get puffy dark circles as well, just to shake things up.

(Inhaling cleaning supplies for a week and going to bed at 2:30AM last night does things to you ....)

There. Now that I have effectively wasted half an hour of nap time, my conscious is clear.

Now I'm going to clean out the dining room. And maybe dig up some chocolate.

In which I link a lot, so I'm not required to actually think

All right, people. The list on my sidebar is actually GROWING, and freaking me out more than just a little bit. I don't even know why I'm on the computer. (Oh yeah - BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO WORK.)

So to maximize procrastination with a minimum amount of brain power, I give you:

PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE FAMOUS: PART ONE.

First off we have DaNae. Many of you know her. If you don't, ask yourself the deeply profound question - WHY ARE YOU DEPRIVING YOURSELF OF ENDLESS HUMOR AND WIT?! Many a moon ago, we were up against each other in a cat fight Mormon Mommy Blogs Spotlight. I beat her. And I can only conclude that my readers don't know her, because why on earth would they vote for me when I'm a total hack and she's gay?

Next up is Rachel. Her blog title rocks. (Trapped Between a Scream and a Hug - doesn't that describe us all?!) She is a wonderfully honest blogger and I love getting in her head. She'll make you laugh, make you cry, astound you with cleverness - and sometimes all three. Plus also she knows JaNae, who knows Heidi, who I know. So we're practically sisters.


(I would like to point out that I just used the word "cleverness." Hmmmm. That's ironic, somehow.)

And one of my favorite new finds, Stepper. She makes me want to reach through the computer screen and give her a big wet kiss on her pretty little face. I have actually gone through her archives and read every one of her blogs. Cuz I'm freaky like that. End of story.


Last today is Kara. Remember a while ago when I posted about being super stressed? She turned me on to Cherish Bound, an awesome online book-binding company that helped me whip out my Brazilian scrapbook in mere hours. The site is super easy to use, fast, and makes gorgeously professional books. Email Kara if you're interested - and mention me! She also has a blog detailing her journey recovering from cancer. Read it. You won't regret it.

Why are you still here? Get lurking!

Haiku on Arizona

Sandpaper white lips

The marrow sucked from my bones -

Still, good to be home.

(I also wanted to say, "My nose is so moisture-less it tingles and hurts to breathe," but it didn't fit in the syllable scheme.)

(Also, I love this woman even more in real life, if it's possible.)

(I'm going to be a really bad commentator this week. Apologies.)

(Aren't parentheses fun?!)

What's in a name?

So lots of inquiring minds were concerned about my name. My bloggy name, to be exact.

(I like the REplaced Americans. Cute n' catchy.)

But how long will it last? Will I still be just "replaced" after six months? A year? Six years? I suuuuuure hope I'll be well used to America by then.

I can't go The Arizonian Americans, because first of all that's weird, and second of all, what if we move again? Don't name your blog after your address, friends, it creates problems.

I kinda like "My Corner," though My Man squinted one eye, opened the other one wide, and did a funky thing with his mouth when I tried it out on him. Plus it's taken by some random dude who likes Lord of the Rings and hasn't written since 2002. Jerk. (Bless his heart.)

But this leads me to another naming problem.

What should my name be in the States?

I was Rebecca throughout my childhood, and it gradually morphed into Becky in middle and high school. College, too. (Although my roommate called me Rebecca Anastasia.) But when I married I felt like I should permanately switch to Rebecca - much more grown up and matronly. (Even though I always feel like I'm in trouble when someone calls me by my full name. YOU know what I mean.)

Everyone calls me Rebecca in Brazil - pronounced, "hey, BECCA!" which I don't like. I also have the delightful nickname "Re" which sounds like "hey." So personal.

But with moving comes unlimited freedom. I can introduce myself as anything I want. Maxine or Latisha or Fulana. Or George.

Have you noticed how feelings are associated with names? I hated a Lauren in elementary school, and had prejudices against the name til I met a really cute Lauren at BYU. I also can never like a Jolene cuz that was My Man's ex-girlfriend. (If you read this, HI! Bless your heart.)

Most Rebeccas I know are tall, beautiful, and have long, swinging hair. Very chic and reserved. Kind of dramatic looking. Not very ME, in other words. Beckys seem to be shorter, perky, gum-snapping types who smile a lot. Sorta kinda me. Not really.

I've had lots of people tell me I look like an Elizabeth. What does THAT mean? (Although I must say I like almost every Elizabeth I know. Liz and Lyzs too. Beths not so much. Besides the Little Women one, of course. Bless her heart.)

My mom tells me I was almost a Katherine. (With a K, cuz I like it better.)

So what do YOU think my name should be?

WANTED: Couple friends

N/d n/s LDS married couple seeking n/d n/s married couple to hang out and have fun. Occasional outings, but most likely chilling in the living room. Casual, laid-back personalities essential. No need for appointments. Becky must click with the woman. My Man must click with the man. Must love to laugh. Must love to talk. Must love to eat food. Must love games (particularly Guitar Hero, Settlers of Catan, card games, and Scattergories.) Same child-rearing philosophy preferred. Willingness to vacation together a plus. Girl can't be too hot.

Please send applications to watoozi at yahoo dot com.



*Why is it so hard to find a couple that BOTH of us like BOTH of them?!

Image from here.

I, Rebel

I was kind of a boring teenager. I broke curfew a couple times, and I might have talked smack to my mother now and then, but mostly I was Ms. Goody Two Shoes. My first kiss wasn't until after I graduated from high school. And I never, ever snuck out.

So to make up for my square-ishness, I TOTALLY RAN AWAY LAST WEEK.

And thanks to scheduled postings, YOU didn't even know it! See? SUPER SNEAKY.

We went to Rio last week. As in de Janeiro. We've been there before, but it's been a l-o-n-g while. As in, last time we were there, our family looked like this:

That's depressing.

(And DANG Mr. Squishy looks like Little Prince.)

So anyway, My Man had a meeting with a client last week and asked if I wanted to tag along sans kids.

Tcha!

So while he was in his meeting I got my nails done. For R$15 (about half that in dollars.) Brazilian manicures? Heavenly.

And then I got to hang out with

M

Y

M

A

N

Yum.

We saw this randomly cool boat display. And said, "I sail!" a lot.

Then we went to a super famous churrascaria and I ate Ratatouille. ("Let's do this thing!")

And I felt stupid taking this picture. But I did it. For you.

We rode in a taxi. My Man was super excited.

It was kinda rainy, but it made for a (sorta) good picture.

I don't know why this building is. But it's cool.

We got a hotel to freshen up and - mini bar devotees that we are - checked it out. What's that in the corner there?

Ah, of course.

This IS Rio, folks.

But the best part of the trip was AMERICAN food. Or Australian, take your pick.

Rio rocks. Hun, I'm up for a getaway when-e-vah.

LOOK WHAT I DID

See that? That's my NECK. It's not sweaty. Cuz there's no hair touching it. (Pssst. It's hard to take a picture of the back of your head.)

This week I was with a couple of girlfriends. I was commenting about the heat. Well - moaning and groaning on the floor is more like it - and swore I was going to shave my head. My friends said, "let's cut your hair!" and I said, "okay!"

And so we did.

And I like it.

I feel perky. Kinda funky. And when it's wet I look like a Romanian gymnast. (Except that I'm 5'7" and well over 85 pounds.)

And the BREEZE, people. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Plus I bet I lost a good 200 grams.

I still use too much shampoo. And I can't stop touching it. And my kids look at me weird.

But the BREEZE. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Don't cry, Mom. It'll grow. If I let it.

This is it. My BIG HUGE IDEA.

I remember well when we first brought Little Prince home almost five years ago. He was so little and cute. We were skinny and naive. I had taken all the parenting classes and was fairly confident about the how-tos of babyhood. I could extrapolate for hours about the benefits of listening to Mozart in the womb, was eloquent about the pros and cons of pacifiers, and could describe in detail the proper way to breast feed.

But mostly LP just slept. And I was bored.

I would sit and stare at him, waiting for him to wake up so that I would have something to do. By the time My Man came home, I was frantic for adult conversation. And also for a sounding board to my thousands of questions:

"LP slept 21 hours today. Is that normal? Too much? Too little?"

"He wants to nurse every half hour all morning, and then goes four hours in the afternoon. Should I be worried?"

"His poo was slightly green today. Do you think it was all that broccoli casserole I ate, or is he sick?"

And then one day I HAD IT.

"HUN - " I announced when My Man waltzed in. (More like sauntered, really. He's not much of a waltzer. Sorry, hun, it's true.)

"HUN - I have the GREATEST IDEA. All the women in the world should make, like, this huge NETWORK. And we could TALK together. And CONSULT with one another. And COMFORT one another. And it would be AWESOME."

Whaddya think? Did I have a great idea or what? I should be a millionaire.

Open letter to everything below my chin

Dear Body,

Hey, babe. We haven't spoken in a while. I know I've pretty much ignored you lately. Kids are sick and all, and exercising is on the bottom of the prioity list. YOU know how it goes ....

We've been through a lot together. Lots of scrapes and cuts and even a couple dislocated knees. Surgeries and illnesses - some allergies, some infections. Good stuff too. Some crazy thrill rides, truly divine food and getting married - THAT was fun.

I know I get mad at you sometimes. We've had our share of disagreements over acne and potbellies and thunder thighs. But really - I like you.

You let me run and swim and bike and roll around on the floor with my kids. I know I too often take you for granted. Sorry about that.

Best of all, you let me give birth to three glorious sons. You really pulled through on that one. It was hard work, but we did it together and brought forth my loves without medical assistance. GOOD. JOB.

I also have to say I especially appreciated the fact that you held off on that whole menstruating thing while I breast fed. A solid year and nine months without PMS is A-OK with me.

BUT.

Mr. Squishy is only nine months old. He is STILL NURSING. So can I just say

WHAT THE HECK?!?!??!

I had my suspicions when my face broke out this week. And then I mysteriously gained four pounds and my pants got tight. Oh, and then the whole VERY WEEPY AND SUDDENLY DECIDED I WAS MAD AT MY MAN FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER. Yeah, that.

And then this morning. THIS MORNING.

You betrayed me, Body. How could you do this to me?

I'm hurt. Very, very hurt.

Especially when there's no chocolate in the house.

Begrudgingly yours,

That Girl

Sao Paulo Haiku

Ahem.

Sick kids, coughing kids
Traffic in a boiling car
Doctor's freaking far

Thank you.

A neighborly visit

Kids were asleep. House was clean. I sat sewing at our kitchen table, feeling decidedly domestic and wishing I had on red lipstick.

And a little fellow that looks like this hopped through our back sliding glass door.

It tilted its head to the side and looked at me. I looked at it. It's liquid eyes seemed to size me up and finally pronounced me safe.

It hopped around the room for a while, each hop a little closer to me. I sat frozen, barely daring to breathe. I felt the compliment it deigned to give me with its prescence. I slowly reached to turn off my sewing machine -

but not slowly enough. It exploded into the air, escaping in a flurry of buttery feathers.

Five minutes later the bird came back with a friend.

It must have been a girl bird.

They paused at the door, trying to nonchalantly saunter in - no doubt embarrassed by the discourteous exit from before. I recognized my previous acquaintance; she was bolder, having been here already.

The pair inspected my plants, the artwork, the furniture. All met with their approval. I realized I'd forgotten my manners, and went to fetch them some refreshment. My original friend fluttered back to wait by the door, but her companion turned tail back home. Rude.

My friend waited for me. She pecked at the crumbs I offered, keeping one eye on me all the while. She seemed to say thank you with the way she turned her head.

After the repast, she politely preened and powdered her nose. I excused myself and continued sewing. She watched for a while, then flew over to the shelf covered in pictures of my loves. Examining each one, she tweeted and twittered her questions about my children. No doubt she had observed their play and was wondering where they were. We talked like old friends. I told her the strengths of one child, the triumphs of another. My hopes for them and the things that kept me up at night worrying. She listened. Occasionally she'd turn around and gaze at me intently. Maybe she was trying to tell me she had children she worried about, too.

We both felt the visit had come to an end. She circled the room once, then landed a few feet from me, pecking at a few more crumbs she had previously overlooked. I offered her my warm thanks for the visit, and welcomed her back any time.

Then she crapped on my floor and left.

And I slammed the door shut.

Fashionably honest

I got a lot of compliments on my outfit today at church.

Which makes me laugh. Because I didn't choose this blouse for its fashion sense. Rather, for its large amount of armpit room.

I sweat. A LOT.

(And I'm so. Totally. Sucking it in here.)

Perspective

I am reminded of a conversation I had with my brother over Christmas. Not this brother, but THAT one. The one smack in the middle.

(Isn't my family hawt?)

But Middle Brother is not only hawt, he is infinitely cool. People actually knew who he was in high school. People thought I was just wall decoration.

Over Christmas I was trying to impress him with my newly improved coolness skillz, as demonstrated by blogging. (Sort of.) Intending to leave him breathless with awe, I informed him that I have readers from all over the world.

Instead he looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

"That's just freaky."

Touche.

Rise and Shout

Right now I could totally pass for a vampire - if seen from far away and through very squinty eyes.

I'm pale white, have circles under my eyes, my throat fills with flames when I breathe, and I'm ice cold.

Sick. Sick sick sick sick sick.

I HATE sick.

And because I have an extremely low tolerance to medicine, and because I've got a very busy weekend and I thought it would be best, and because I took TheraFlu plus sore throat lozenges plus a nasal decongestant, I can't think straight.

Is anyone getting this? Because my head is floating away ....

So today, for your reading enjoyment, I am posting an essay on "description" that I wrote while at college. Because I don't throw anything away on the computer, especially when the teacher liked it. And cuz it still makes me smile.

Now I'm going to go drink hot cider. Because hot cider is goooood when you feel bad.

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Rise and Shout

You enter the structure with a huge smile, a little breathless from the long walk. Your face tingles with a crisp breeze that carries thousands of cheers and laughs. You quicken your pace to catch up with the dozen or so friends you came with, and link arms with your nearest roommate. She is wearing a blue T-shirt with a big white “Y” on the front—the same one you have on. She grins at you, and the blue paw print on her right cheek dimples up.

The ticket in your pocket is brought out, a little mushy from being in there so long. It is spread out, and the fourteen of you immediately commence arguing where your seats are. You consult the map on the back of the ticket and proceed to the nearest circular staircase. Up and up you climb the tunnel-like stairs—slightly out of breath, but you try to disguise it. You don’t want anyone to know how out of shape you are. Finally you emerge on a platform swarming with people. They look like thick bees bumbling over and through each other. Still arm in arm with your roommate, you (gently) push and shove through the crowd to yet another flight of stairs. This time they are straight up, and you have to cling to the rail. You follow the friend in front of you down a long row of screaming college students, and stand at attention in front of your assigned seat.

With a deep breath of sweat and excitement, you survey the world around you. The sun shines directly in your eyes, so you bring your hand up as a shield. Thousands of people become visible, in a strange mix of blue and white and yellow. They look like a Monet painting—blurs of moving color. The very air around you tingles with electricity. You spin around and awe at the barely visible mountains, peeking out of the stands behind you. They are truly purple majesties, presiding over the game. The moon faces the sun, translucent as a pearl.

It’s time to focus. The crowd lets out a loud, “aaaaAAAAWWWWWWW!” building in intensity as a man in a dark blue uniform kicks an oval ball. He is too far away to see clearly, but you watch the massive screen to your left. Eleven men on the other side of the field run after the ball, and one catches it. The crowd sits down to watch as two teams battle for possession. Most scuffles end in large heaps, men in black and white waving their arms frantically. It is the classic American struggle: slowly gain ground, then lose it. Divide and conquer. Take possession. Grunt. Hit.

But let’s face it. You don’t really know much about the game. You came here for the experience.

You engage in passionate hand-holding with your significant other, and simultaneously carry on a conversation with your best friend about who’s getting married in the ward. (It’s up to forty-three percent.) Periodically your conversation is interrupted by warming bouts of “Popcorn Popping” and the wave. Your face hurts from smiling and your bottom hurts from sitting. Occasionally you glance at the score and let out an encouraging whoop.

“Anybody want the Creamery?” your roommate asks. You stand up with two other friends to begin your descent below ground, giggling excitedly about the passionate hand-holding session you just had.

Underneath the stands is a comparatively dark labyrinth of people and food. The smell of calories and fat knock you to the ground. Your mouth waters. A few damp bills are unearthed from your pocket and you try to decide between mint chocolate chip or strawberry cheesecake. You get one scoop of each.

Back at your seats, a scandal is in process. Your roommate’s ex-boyfriend has just asked out another roommate. (What was he thinking?) The latter friend, though happy, is trying to hide it. The former friend, suddenly very interested in the game, squeezes the blood out of your hand. The ex-boyfriend is clueless.

After a few brief eye-conversations, you turn to update your boyfriend. Guys can only talk with their mouths.

The band commences a loud rendition of Eye of the Tiger and all the boys around you begin jabbing the air with their fists with goofy grins plastered on their faces. Dozens of people are filtering onto the field and you realize it’s halftime. Your boyfriend turns to you with bunched up eyebrows and a frown and peppers you with questions about the last play. You nod in some key places, but generally haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. You make a mental note to ask him questions when there aren’t so many people around.

Camera flashes go off and you pile into a group shot, absentmindedly fixing your hair. You hug your slighted roommate and whisper that you love her. She looks like she just drank sour milk. You give her the rest of your ice cream and all is better.

The game continues, and this time you try to focus, but your boyfriend is playing with your hair. How can you focus with that? It is getting dark, and the adrenaline rush is over. Everyone stays seated, even during really fantastic plays.

When the score is up 21-7, the group stands to leave.

As you walk home, the hum of the crowd is still audible, and the electricity and happiness still present. Your throat is raw with screaming. You go to sleep with a smile and a blue pawprint on your face.

This is BYU football.

All things excrement - *Reader Beware*

Things were getting entirely too serious in my corner of the blogosphere, so today will be much more lighthearted. What to write about, I ask myself. Something universally amusing, no doubt. Can there possibly be such a subject?

And then - eureka! Bodily functions. I bet you smiled just reading those two little words.

I'm not quite sure when my children learned that flatulence is funny, but they giggle at anything that sounds remotely similar. Raspberries. Mufflers. Flip-flops in the rain. (Incidentally, in my house they are not "farts," but "pooters." Mostly because I can't say the word fart without snorting like a twelve-year-old boy.)

I believe that potty humor is genetically inherent to the human race. It's just funny. And kids don't need to be taught that universal truth.

I recall several children in my acquaintence attempting to explain this crazy phenomenon that is - ahem - pootering:

"I burped my butt!"
"My bum just did a 'excuse me.'"
"Oooo! Thunder!"

One time at the temple a man with obvious intestinal discomfort was lettin' loose the whole time during the prayer. I was eternally grateful that I was not part of the circle, because if I had had to open my mouth, I most certainly would have lost it right then and there.

I have a loved one (don't worry, I won't mention that it was YOU, dear) who once pooped his pants in grade school. He didn't have the guts to tell the teacher, so he ducked behind the school building, stripped off his undies, and went around commando for the rest of the day.

A diehard marathon friend of mine was prairie-doggin at mile thirteen. She looked around both directions, took a side road, laid her pile in the middle of the road, wiped with some leaves and kept runnin'.

But my absolute best Bodily Functions story will embarrass only myself. The only people who know my shame are my mother, brother, and husband. And certain cat owners in Michigan.

The time - twelve years ago, when I was a fifteen year old nerd who never went anywhere without a book. The setting - a BOY/GIRL party taking place at a Certain Young Man's house who I very much liked. I felt the very height of cool for being invited. I'm pretty sure it took me an hour to get ready.

But in the midst of sitting around staring at each other and eating (because that's what you do at boy/girl parties that age), I had to poop. I don't really like relieving myself away from home, (anyone using the bathroom after you would KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING) but the urgency was such that it could not wait. I enclosed myself into a generic little guest bathroom and thus gave birth to the biggest log imaginable. Flushing again and again and again proved useless.

Just when my panic was reaching Everest heights, I could hear a knock on the door and the Certain Young Man's voice asking if I was almost done.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, of course I could not open the door and politely ask for a plunger. The shame. The absolute mortification of it - I would never live it down. Instead I gave some lame "be out in a minute" answer and frantically started opening drawers and cupboards looking for something to rescue me in my moment of peril.

All I found was a drawer full of plastic utensils and a kitty litter box in the corner. Which gave me an idea.

Thus I, Becky, That Girl in Brazil, fished out my doo-doo using plastic forks and buried it in the litter box. I also opened the window and washed my hands about 892174927424 times before leaving the restroom. I never went back to the house, never spoke to the Certain Young Man again, and now I MAKE SURE TO POOP before leaving the house.

And I have no doubt that they took the kitty into the vet that week.

Attention, all future-sister-in-law wannabes

Dear Brazilian Young Women program,

Hi there! As you are well aware, my 17-year-old brother is in town. He got here this morning - but, silly me, you knew this. You've been marking down the days on your calendars.

Let me emphasize something: HE DOESN'T SPEAK PORTUGUESE. And your limited skills in English won't get you far. In fact, even if you could speak fluently, he will surely run away if you approach him breathlessly with, "You are bewtiful verrry much! Kiz me! I love you!" It's just not a tactic American boys are familiar with.

Cheers!

That Girl

Ding ding ding ding ding!

Oh, Kristina, Queen of the Comment, Lord(ress) of the Bloggerworld, you guessed right. I'm





Although I never say it. I just say "I'll be 28 on my next birthday." It sounds older.

I can't write the numbers to this tag because my best friend in second grade told me it was the devil's favorite number.

I've been tagged by Charrette to show the world the 6th picture in my 6th folder - but since I'm a compulsive organizer, it turned out to be the 6th picture in the 6th folder of the 6th folder of the 6th folder. Ahem.

So during one of my extremely ambitious moments (they are few and far between), I decided to start a Brazilian Scrapbook. There are so many things I want to remember - not just the people, but the culture. The art. The food. The landscape. The architecture. The streets. My Man and I made a list of all the things that make Brazil Brazil and got to work. This way, when our children inevitably ask us about that crazy country on their birth certificate, we can just hand them the book.

I've only done about 10 pages (out of over 70 - so far!), but this picture was taken for the nature spread.

Brazil's predominate color is GREEN. It's everywhere - year round. And they have the most beautiful, funkiest plants imaginable - as you can see.

Alright, ladies, I showed you mine, you show me yours. I tag:

Wonder Woman - Because she inspires me and makes me giggle - often at the same time.

Stephanie - Because I adore her to life (because adoring someone to death is rather frightening), and the 6th picture in her 6th folder is most likely my nephew and I want to see his little face.

Katrina - Because she's an amazing photographer and I wanna see what she's got.