Merry Christmas

I got a flip video camera for Christmas. Thanks Santa! You can see my first video attempt at http://sassyandalley.blogspot.com/

I hope you've all had a very Merry Christmas!

Dreaming of snow days

I'm jealous of everyone's snow pictures. It seems the Northwest, Midwest and East Coast were covered in white fluff this past week. (Of course, by now it's probably turned to brownish, yellow layers of ice.)

It was 70 degrees here in Columbus. I'm glad it wasn't freezing, but I do miss playing in the snow.

I remember being a kid in Indiana and waking up on cold winter days to peak out the window hoping the yard would magically have transformed into a winter wonderland. My sister and I would listen to the radio, fingers crossed, to hear whether school would be closed for the day. My mom would listen, too. Her fingers would be crossed, but I don't think we were hoping for the same announcement.

I remember the absolute joy of hearing classes were canceled. Mom could barely get a bowl of cereal in us before we'd run out in the yard to make forts and plan snowball wars with neighbors.

We'd come inside for a break when we'd lost feeling in our toes and fingers and we were convinced our noses had turned into ice cubes. Mom, sister and I would drink hot chocolate and eat mom's famous jam-filled thumb-print cookies.

After warming up, mom would bundle us up again and take us to the park where we would sled down Snow Mountain, in hindsight it was really more of a steep hill. All the kids would be there. We'd have races, try out different tricks and attempt to run into each other as we headed down the hill at top speed. It was all fun and games until someone got hurt, never seriously, thankfully. And then we'd go home.

That night we kids sadly watched our dads shovel the snow into piles and trucks clear the roads. We drifted off to sleep with our hopes of another snow day melting faster than the icicles hanging from the roof.

One week until Christmas

How can Christmas be only seven days away? I'm not done shopping. I haven't baked any cookies. One row of lights is out on my tree.

Oh, and Jeff and I are hosting the newsroom Christmas party at our house on Saturday. Yikes!

When am I going to wrap presents, clean the house and finish hanging the lights?

Remember being a kid? When Christmas meant a hard-earned break from school, playing in the snow and eating cookies while sipping hot chocolate? I don't remember any stress. I can't remember rushing around convinced I'd never get everything done.

Maybe that's because the only thing on my to-do list was to have fun.

I need that to-do list now. Instead of stressing out about when I'm going to finish all my self-inflicted tasks, maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch "Love Actually." Perhaps I'll even have a cup of hot chocolate. That should get me in the Christmas spirit.

'Tis the season for crowds

All I want for Christmas is to avoid the crowds. It seems every store and restaurant in Columbus is packed.

Aren't we facing tough economic times? Someone forgot to tell the shoppers and diners.

Last night Jeff and I went to the Olive Garden. (I know the big, bad chain, but hey, this isn't New York) Picture it: A quiet Tuesday night, an 8 p.m. dinner for two, a glass of wine, some Christmas music playing in the background.

Sounds serene, huh. The perfect way to relax after a busy day at work.

Wrong. We struggle to find a parking spot and then we can barely squeeze into the restaurant's door because so many hungry people are crowded around waiting for tables.

The wait is 25 minutes... on Tuesday! Yikes. We try our luck at the bar (first-come, first-serve policy there). And there is a family with a 9- or 10-year-old daughter sitting at the bar. Not at a table near the bar, at the actual bar. She could reach over an pour herself a beer. Not that she was, it was strictly sweet tea for this family of three dressed in their finest sweats. When did it become O.K. for kids to sit at the bar? Don't you have to be 21?

After 10 minutes and some elbow-throwing, we snagged two seats at the bar and proceeded with our meal. It wasn't exactly the quiet, relaxing dinner we'd been hoping for, but hopefully the crowd signifies that Olive Garden is doing well financially. People need their breadsticks, especially in hard economic times.

Don't forget to vote

I was lucky to have only an hour wait at my voting spot in Columbus, Ga. I arrived at 10:30 a.m. and was driving away at 11:30 a.m. Folks were friendly and the volunteers were organized and efficient. Kids were out of school, so there were quite a few bored little ones running around, but no one was crying. The volunteers were passing out water bottles and had plenty of chairs near the line for elderly or tired voters.

They didn't need any chairs at my mom's voting spot in Terre Haute, Ind. She had no wait at all when she arrived at about 10 a.m.

My sister, in Atlanta, waited two hours. She arrived at 8 a.m. She just missed out on the doughnuts that were delivered as she was leaving at 10 a.m. People there brought their own lawn chairs and were quite chatty in line. Check out her twitter updates. She's Augustanne09.

Time to collect free stuff. Free Chick-fillet sandwiches, coffee from Starbucks and Krispy Kremes are available! Have fun!

Merry Halloween

The drugstore by my house is ready for Christmas. Stockings, toys and all things santa line at least half the aisles. Thankfully, two aisles are devoted to candy. You know, for that other holiday.

It seems like Christmas gets started earlier every year. Some folks wish stores would wait until the day after Thanksgiving to decorate. How about waiting 'til the day after Halloween?

I can't say that I mind much. I love the Christmas season. Filled with holiday parties, shopping and gift exchanges, it's the season for fun. Oh, and the season for giving, of course.

Looking at Christmas decorations makes me happy, even if it's before Halloween. It makes me think about spending time with my family, watching feel-good movies while stringing popcorn and racing to the mailbox to look for Christmas cards.

With store shelves stocked with so many holiday items, at least I have more choices. Maybe I'll pass out Chocolate santas for Halloween.

Chocolate is for kids

Jeff turns 40 Tuesday. Forty. That seems old. I remember my friends' parents being 40. I guess it's one of those things that you think only happens to other people. It's hard to believe it's happening to my husband. This is the man who jumps over the couch, leaps onto my desk at work and has never seen a banister he didn't want to slide down. Don't 40 year olds have joint problems or at least bad knees?

After going through the stages of birthday grief (denial, fear and acceptance) Jeff decided to greet his fourth decade with a gin-induced stupor. Since friends don't let friends drink alone, we had a party. A martini party. We had cucumber, Kit-Kat, chocolate, pineapple, apple, Sapphire and dirty martinis. Yum!

The highlight for Jeff was the impromptu gin tasting (thanks, Anne) which certainly seemed to help him achieve his gin-induced stupor. The highlight for the rest of us was probably the chocolate fountain. Yes, a fountain of chocolate. Makes those water fountains seem pretty silly, huh.

Guests dipped strawberries, cookies, pretzels, marshmallows (and yes, their fingers) into a cascade of melted chocolate. Their faces (some young, some not-so-young) showed childlike joy while watching their treats get soaked in chocolate.

It was a magical experience, and I guess even a 40-year-old couch-jumper deserves some birthday magic.

Real life, real jobs

As I was watching "Privileged" tonight, I was reminded of myself.
Cute, well-dressed girls with glossy hair going to fabulous parties on yachts. That is so me!

O.K. maybe not. But this line (about the tutor, not the glamorous girls) "I know you're one of those must-be-the-best-at-everything-she-does girls, but don't let your job get in the way of your real life" could be about me.

I'm always confusing my job for my life. In fact I'm not sure what my real life would be without my job. What if your job becomes your life?

I imagine I'm not the only one pondering this question since there's no shortage of television lines devoted to the subject. (Remember in "Sex and the City" when Carrie yells at Miranda, "my column isn't who I am, it's what I do.")

Maybe it's especially difficult to compartmentalize your job when it's creative, maybe it's due to working long hours, maybe it's not having enough other interests (probably due to the long hours).

I'm not sure exactly the reason, but lots of my friends and I seem to be allowing our jobs to run our lives. Certainly the gloomy news about the newspaper industry is hard for all my journalist friends. It seems everyone I talk to is waiting for "the other shoe to drop" or "the last straw."

What can we do? I guess we can stop obsessing. We can try to spend more time thinking about our lives. We can also try to leave our work problems at the office.

I guess at the very least we can watch more TV. That always helps me take my mind off my job (and my life).

Bridesmaid Dress: Part II

A friend of mine has questioned my decision to give the bridesmaid dress a sequel, so here is a photo. Decide for yourself.

A dress for a wedding

I narrowly avoided another wardrobe crisis Saturday. I had a formal wedding to attend. How formal? Some of the guests wore tuxes. Yes, the guests.

I pretty much panicked when I found out I'd need a fancy dress. As much as I love dress shopping, I just couldn't justify buying a new one.

I bought three summer dresses at the beginning of the season, and I didn't wear any of them. They're all classic styles, so there's still hope for them. And they were on sale, which eases my guilt. But with those three dresses haunting my closet, there was no hope I could buy a new dress for this wedding.

How could none of my recent purchases work? One is a sun dress, another is a cute little informal black dress and then there's the perfect strapless dress with a bubble skirt. Well, perfect except that it's white.

As I was rummaging through my closet, I came across that dress that you know you'll never wear again even though you promise your friend you will. The dress you convince your friend is exactly something you would have picked out for a million other occasions. The bridesmaid dress.

This one's a green, knee-length dress with a little belt and spaghetti straps. I pulled it out of the closet and tried it on. It still fit! I took off the tiny rhinestone-studded belt and added a wide black belt. I tucked in the spaghetti straps and put on a short-sleeved cardigan. Black wedge heels and a pink clutch completed the outfit.

So, thanks Karly. I really did wear that dress again, and it worked perfectly!

Extra amibiance, hold the reality

In this month's Food & Wine magazine, (yes, I know I'm a snob) editor Dana Cowin writes about how going to restaurants is like traveling to new places. I know exactly what she's talking about. Dining is no longer a prequel to an event, it is the event.

Sure, eating at an Italian restaurant isn't the same as a visit to Tuscany, but for an hour or two, can't you pretend?

I can. A few weeks ago, the husband and I had dinner at a cute little Italian place in town. It was Friday, my favorite night of the week. I was giddy with optimism for the weekend and full of relief at surviving another work week.

The restaurant was cozy with its strategically placed village street lamps, comfy booths and soft linens. It was designed like an Italian street cafe, and Columbus seemed very far away.

A glass of wine and a basket of warm buttery bread later and the tension was melting away. Leaning across the table, looking into my husband's eyes, steeling bites of his pasta, I was "contenta."

Sure, it would be nice to jet off to San Francisco for dinner (hello, new "90210") but sometimes, with the right companion and attitude, an in-town restaurant is a destination.

Fall is the season for football

It was cool – event a bit chilly – last night for the first time since spring. Summer usually lasts until November here in the South, but I'm hoping we'll get an early fall this year.

I love the crisp breeze, changing colors and falling leaves that autumn brings. Fall is also synonymous with football in my house. I'm married to a former high school quarterback who has at least two fantasy football teams every season. I grew up in a small Midwestern town where Friday nights were spent sitting on cold, hard bleachers cuddled up under wool blankets watching high school football.

The husband's favorite team is the Dallas Cowboys. Has been a huge fan since he was a kid. My favorite teams are the Colts, Giants and Ravens. Have been since I discovered the Manning boys and Todd Heap.

With four teams to follow each season, our Sundays are usually spent watching football. Sometimes we invite friends over to sit on the couch - beers in hands - watching TV. Sometimes we sit on hard seats at sports bars - beers in hands- trash talking with other football fans. Sometimes we're lucky enough to be sitting on folding chairs - beers in hands - in a parking lot outside the Georgia Dome meeting new people, waiting to see a game.

Tomorrow will be such a day. We'll be tailgating before the Lions/Falcons game. O.K., sure this is not likely to be a outstanding display of talent and these aren't even "our" teams, but football is fun. And watching live football is really fun.

What makes football fun? For the husband it's following players' careers, memorizing stats about interceptions thrown, yards run and touchdowns scored. For me it's sitting – beer in hand – chatting with friends.

Rah, rah Sarah

I wish that I'd counted how many times Sarah Palin said John McCain's name during her speech at Wednesday's Republican National Convention.

I feel like I'm in high school. He's the quarterback. She's the head cheerleader. She's the supportive wife and mother. He's the powerful, successful man.

She mostly talked about having a son in the Army, mothering a baby boy with special needs, being a member of the PTA and a taking pride in her status as a hockey mom. I'm not sure what these things have to do with being vice president, but she sounds like a interesting person to chat with over coffee.

She's a good speaker, and she was pretty funny (yay, speech writers). I thought she was a bit mean and took some cheap shots at Obama. But that strategy could work if, in comparison, McCain comes across as a more gentle and good-hearted grandfather (he is 72) in his speech tomorrow.

At first, I was surprised McCain chose such an unknown running mate, especially when news of her pregnant 17-year-old daughter broke. But I was surprised because I thought choosing a woman symbolized McCain's desire to grab some Hillary Clinton supporters. After hearing Palin speak, I realize that I was wrong. McCain simply wants a cheerleader. A small-town, pro-life, devout woman with a big, beautiful family will make his perfect wing-woman.

I'm just not sure she's the perfect wing-woman for America.

I am patient, really

My husband says I have the patience of a gnat needing a crack fix.

I think that's a bit harsh.

Just because I hate lines, slow walkers, tedious meetings and long stories, does not mean I'm impatient.

Anyway, we're watching "Ace of Cakes" tonight. (Awesome Food Network show about Duff and his buddies who make beautiful, fun cakes in Baltimore) One woman is applying all these long, thin, delicate strips of colored fondant (icing) to this King Tut (historical figure) cake. It looks excruciatingly exact. I started feeling anxious just watching her.

I would absolutely never have the patience for that type of task. I know this because I once attempted a Christmas craft project. I made stockings for me, Jeff and Sassy. It was a simple project. Take two pieces of felt, cut out a pattern, sew the two pieces together, use glitter glue to write the person/canine's name, sew on three Christmas buttons and a felt tree, sew a strip of white felt to the top of stocking and sew a ribbon on top. It looked so cute in the magazine.

I did mine first, in case I messed up. It was easy, but slow, so slow. My stocking was perfect. Then I moved on to Sassy's, I decided to skip the buttons and the ribbon. I was totally sick of the project at this point. It seemed like I'd been working for days (it was really just a couple of hours). Then, I started on Jeff's. I decided I would just sew the felt together and write his name in glitter glue.

I've never been so glad to "finish" a project. I presented the stockings to Jeff who wondered why his was a bit simpler. I said I didn't want it to look to girly. (Good one, right?)

Jeff drags those stupid stockings out every Christmas, and some unsuspecting guest always asks when I'm going to finish Jeff's.

TV all the time

Thank goodness the Olympics are over, I thought Sunday night. I needed to get my evenings back.

This weekend I was glued to the TV. I ate in front of the TV, shouted at the TV, fell asleep with the TV. I was obsessed!

During the week I was no better. I'd been coming home from work, plopping down on the couch and watching TV until it was time for bed. Oh, and I snacked on chips, popcorn and cookies. I was not so obsessed with my health.

Tonight, I arrived home from work with my whole evening clear. Oh the possibilities. I could take a walk, workout, read magazines, cook, the possibilities were endless.

What did I do? Plopped down on the couch an watched TV, of course. What sort of quality entertainment sucked me in? Well, there was a Lifetime movie "The Bad Son" about a, you guessed it, bad son who kills his girlfriends. His mom, a civilian cop, helps him cover his tracks. And now "Platinum Weddings" is on WE. I love that show. Where do these people get their money? Who spends $150,000 on flowers? Where do these flowers grow? Mars? I can't help but become absorbed in each episode.

Oh, got to go, the groom is about ride an elephant into the wedding ceremony to greet his bride. She'll be wearing three dresses, of course.

Rain, rain go away

Fay is not my friend.

Though she may not have made an appearance herself in Columbus, she sent her good buddies wind, rain and gloominess.

Jeff and I were pretty much stuck in the house all weekend except for a quick trip to brunch and the grocery store this morning. When the rain slowed to a sprinkle for about an hour in the late morning, we made our escape.

Of course, all of Columbus decided to follow us.

The lines at IHOP and Waffle House were unbelievable. We popped into O'Charley's and found a crowd of well-dressed churchgoers waiting. Luckily, getting a table for two was no problem. I always feel a bit funny wearing jeans and T-shirts while other diners are wearing skirts and suits, but we're eating at family-friendly chain restaurants for goodness sakes. I don't want to slide into a sticky booth wearing a dress.

After brunch, we went to Publix where we encountered tons of other shoppers. The rain seemed to make everyone a bit slower and grumpier than usual. We finally make our way to the checkout. We have 12 items. Two too many for the quick lane. We get stuck behind a family with 312 items. And they write a check.

On the drive back to the house, the rain started again.

Cheers to birthdays and big dreams

I entered into my thirty-second year with trepidation. Am I where I thought I'd be at age 32?

Maybe not.

When I was a teenager, I didn't dream about backyard swimming pools, family barbecues and acres of land. I had dreams about wearing power suits and drinking martinis in my New York City penthouse. This was probably due to watching too many episodes of the "The Jeffersons" and "Moonlighting."

As a girl growing up in a mid-size Indiana town, life in the big city seemed pretty glamorous.

I guess as a 32-year-old woman living in Georgia, it still seems pretty glamorous.

And while my life might not look the way I thought it would, the last couple of years have been pretty good.

Maybe I've traded the New York City penthouse for a Georgia lake house, and maybe I wear capris and cute tops instead of power suits, but I still drink martinis. And I still have big dreams.

I guess you could say I'm movin' on up.

Diving for bronze

The best dive of the night didn't come from the Water Cube and it didn't belong to Ruolin Chen. Sure, she did a text-book perfect final dive that landed her a gold medal. But that was child's play. Literally, since she's 16. (or younger, I'm still struggling to figure out that Chinese age-calculation thing.)

No, the most memorable dive came from the rain-soaked track at the Bird's Nest and belonged David Neville. The 400-meter runner wanted the bronze medal so badly, he dived across the finish line. This was no lean. Neville actually jumped up and threw himself forward to land face-down in third place.

He's lucky he wasn't hurt. The paramedics seemed to think so, too. They rushed onto the track with a stretcher only to be turned away by a smiling Neville still sprawled across several lanes.

I'm not sure I've seen anyone want a gold medal as much as Neville wanted that bronze. Without that gutsy (and painful) move Neville wouldn't have medaled and the US wouldn't have swept the race.

I guess dives aren't just for pools.

It's anyone's race

Everyone loves a winner. Micheal Phelps has made us smile since the Olympics began. It's impossible to watch him swim, um win, and not feel some American pride.

But long after the flame goes out and the athletes return to their families, a few images will remain in our minds. They won't all be joyful.

Sometimes it's the losers that you remember. The pain-stricken faces that haunt you. The tear-filled eyes that break your heart.

Like Lolo Jones.

The 100-meter hurdler looked like she would easily go home with a gold medal. Fast out of the blocks. Clearing hurdles so gracefully that it appeared effortless. Ahead at the 50-meter mark. Certain to win at the 75-meter mark. Then she hit the second-to-last hurdle with her back foot. She struggled to stay upright. Somehow she cleared the final hurdle. Her momentum was gone. Others raced by. She stumbled across the finish line in seventh.

It was an awful moment to watch. It was an awful moment to live.

Jones crouched over on her knees pounding the track and staring in disbelief at monitors replaying the race.

Jones leaning against a cement wall, head back, eyes shut, face contorted in a painful grimace.

Poor Lolo Jones.

But where there's a loser, there's a winner. In this race, on this day, that winner is Dawn Harper.

We can smile again. Harper is an American.

Get in shape, girl

I feel lazy.

Today I went to work, exercised for 50 minutes and watched the Olympics.

Michael Phelps swam something like 100 miles and won more gold medals than anyone else ever has.

All in a day's work, I suppose.

Watching the Olympics always makes me want to get off the couch and learn a new sport.

As a little girl, I remember watching gymnastics on TV and tumbling in the living room at home. My sister and I would beg our parents to judge our somersaults and cartwheels. Poor mom.

Once mom bought a Get in Shape Girl rhythmic gymnastics kit. Anne and I had many gymnastics meets that year. We also got tangled in our ribbons and fell down a lot. It must have been hard for mom to judge the meet when she was laughing so hard. She seemed to have fun coming up with new awards like most graceful fall and best ribbon knot.

After one particularly competitive meet Anne I discovered we could hit each other with those ribbons. Mom went from judge to referee and the Get in Shape Girl kit was tucked away in a closet.

It was back to somersaults for us. Maybe I should try a few now. That would probably make me feel less lazy. My mom's not here, but maybe my husband will be the judge. In fact I'm sure he would judge me if I started doing somersaults in my living room.

Faux birthdays

My parents live in Indiana. My sister and I are both in Georgia. It's about a 9-hour drive from my house to mom and dad's.

Most of the time, the distance doesn't seem as far as it is. With phone calls and e-mails, we chat more than some families who live in the same town. But there are some occasions when the distance is really troubling.

My mom's 60th birthday is coming up in less than a month, and neither my sister nor I will be able to make it home for the big day. She and my father will be in school (both are college teachers) so they won't be able to come down to Georgia either.

Missing a milestone birthday sucks. My sister and I wondered if there was a way to make it less awful. Would a faux birthday be fun or goofy? We decided to find out.

My parents came down for a visit last weekend and we had a surprise party for mom. We had a princess theme. It seemed fitting for an almost 60-year-old. We wore funny hats, ate a chocolate brownie cake, snacked on Cheese Puffs and popcorn (mom favorites), blew bubbles, played silly games and made lots of noise.

It was fun. And it was goofy. And maybe it would have been better on the actual birth date, but there wasn't anything faux about the party.

Lie with the dogs

There's a chance I'll be sleeping on the bathroom floor tonight. No, I didn't have too many cocktails. And no, I don't have the flu.

What I have is a thunder problem. Well, to be exact, Alley has a thunder problem.

Alley is a 50-pound German Shepard mix with the bark of a police dog and the piercing look of a mom when her teenager misses curfew. She growls at strangers and chases away wildlife. But when she hears thunder, her whole body shakes as she whimpers and pants. Oh, and she stands on me. I can be sound asleep in my comfy bed and Alley will stand on my stomach and drool on my face until I awaken.

She will not be comforted. No amount of petting, cuddling or treat-eating will distract Alley from the terrible storm brewing outside. The only way to console her is to move to the bathroom. Since the bathroom is in the center of the house and has no windows, Alley can't see lightening or hear thunder. I imagine in Alley Land if she can't see it it doesn't exist. Unfortunately, she needs to have her mommy (me) and her canine sister Sassy with her in the bathroom. I think she feels like she's protecting us from the storm by taking us to this safe room. Sassy doesn't mind. She and Alley will curl up on the bathroom rug and fall into a deep slumber.

It's not so easy for me. The bathroom floor is cold and hard and there's not much room for a pillow or blanket. I eventually fall asleep, but I wake up with an awful headache, a pain in my neck and a sore back.

Maybe I will have a cocktail (or three). After all, I'm going to have a headache tomorrow anyway.

Glitter glue, paper dolls and sisters

There was a time when my sister and I couldn't get along for five minutes. My parents would send us to Anne's bedroom with one book of paper dolls that we were supposed to share. Sharing was never really my thing. We were sent to Anne's room because Anne wasn't allowed in my room. I remember using multiple tubes of glitter glue to create "Keep out Anne" signs that I would proudly hang on my bedroom door. Hey, I never said I was a nice kid.

The paperdoll project was never successful. I would tear out the delicate dolls and clothes and give Anne any reject pieces. I would deem her family the retarded family on the block, and I would deem my family the wealthy, smart, helpful and generous family. It would take about 30 seconds for Anne to figure out that this was not fun and to start shouting "mom." This caused me to pounce on Anne and beat on her to get her to shut up. The dolls and clothes would crumple and rip beneath our flailing limbs.

Mom would run into the room only to find two disheveled girls and another destroyed set of paper dolls. Anne never did tell on me. She'd wipe away her tears and when mom asked what happened, she'd respond with "nothing."

Now my sister and I spend countless hours on the phone chatting about reality TV and taking silly quizzes on Facebook. We still have completely different personalities, but that doesn't cause us to fight anymore, at least not as much.

Sole support

I love shoes, but my feet don't.

Shoes with high heels, pointy toes and ankle straps might look amazing, but ouch. With cute shoes, I usually know what I'm getting into. After all, shoes that pinch my toes in the two minutes it takes to try them on at the store are likely to be downright painful on their first night out.

Sometimes, though, I'm surprised. A pair of shoelace-free sneakers that look comfortable and (dare I say) sensible have turned out to be deceiving. It looks like I could run a marathon in these shoes, but my arch starts hurting before I've walked a block. Still, this is the pair that I reach for whenever I need a pair of cute walking shoes.

The husband regards these sneakers with more disdain than my stilettos. I must confess that the stilettos I only wear out to dinner while the sneakers I wear when I'll be doing a lot of walking. "Why don't you wear your running shoes?" the husband innocently asks on such occasions.

Um, hello, those are for running. And they have those ugly laces. Arg.

When I informed the husband that I would be wearing my cute sneakers to Six Flags (well, he asked) he decided it was time to take action. He bought me a pair of arch-protecting socks. They worked. After walking for 12 hours on hard pavement, my feet were fine.

I guess you could say my husband is my solemate.

Not enough boys

My family planning (or lack thereof) has brought frustration to many of my relatives. Being almost 32 and married for eight years, I can understand why the older family members would be getting antsy, but I had no idea what an adverse effect my childless state was having on the younger generation.

This weekend, my nephew (at the wise age of 6) told me I should be pregnant by now. He informed me that there are too many girls in the family. After all, he only has two boy cousins and about a million girl cousins. Apparently, this is something I can -- and should -- fix immediately. He would like the baby to be born his age (not baby age, because they don't do anything). The boy should also like sports and Spider Man and hate girls.

Seems reasonable, huh.

Mean Aunt Dawn

The temperature is hovering near 105. The liquids are limited because it's Six Flags and prices are high. I'm hot, sticky, sweaty, grumpy and tired.

My sister in law turns toward me with a smile, "you don't mind watching the kids while we ride the Goliath, do you?" I look up as I take a bite of my frozen lemonade treat. I'm about to laugh when I see her and her husband run hand-in-hand as fast as they can toward the ride. Actually, they're just running. They don't care where they're going. The need a few minutes. A few kid-free minutes in the hot Georgia sun. I look at my husband. My panic is visible. I can see it. He can see it. The kids can certainly see it.

I swallow the frozen lemonade. They deserve this time, I think. How long can one ride take? I can handle this. I'll be fine.

"Um, what should we do?" I ask the kids. I'm greeted with silence. The husband has disappeared. The kids, who were laughing and smiling just seconds ago, are now whispering and staring at me. I have a flash-back to my babysitting days where four kids managed to actually tie me to a chair while we were watching a video. Time to establish some boundaries, I decide. I dump the frozen lemonade into the nearest trash can (must be a good role model) and stare back at the kids.

"Well, I guess we'll just sit here and wait" I tell the kids in my most authoritative, adult voice. The kids stare back with a glint of respect just as the husband pops up and says "bumper cars." The kids share a loud "Woo-hoo" before running (yes, running) toward the husband.

"Don't run," I say, as the group takes off. We get in line. The kids are fine. They're answering my questions and being polite until the husband decides to sit on the top rail of the bars that surround us in the line. Immediately all the children hoist themselves onto the rail. I give the husband my mean stare. He's confused. This look is usually reserved for wearing dirty shoes in the living room, forgetting to take out the trash and failing to place a used dish in the sink. He shrugs his shoulders and flicks the ponytail of his nearest niece.

Thus begins my half-hour of "Don't kick your sister." "No standing on the rails." "Don't punch your brother." "Be nice." "Do you want a time-out?" and the generic "Stop it."

And, yes, I did go there. "If you don't keep your hands and feet to yourself, we will get out this line right now," I threaten. Of course, there is no way I'm getting out of that line. I quickly realize I can have a few gripe-free seconds if I don't hop into a bumper car. Let the husband face the wrath of three kids. I'll hold the two superman capes, one extra large plastic drink container and whatever else won't fit in the tiny cars. I'll proudly stand at the exit to this "ride" and take photos.

We're up. The husband runs to his car. The kids run to their cars. I'm running too, toward the exit sign. I duck under the chain marking the end of the track and stand against the wall. I wave at the kids. They stare back at me. They're unsure of what to do now that bumping me isn't an option. I point to the husband. Hit him, I sign. Smiles. The race begins. The husband is sneaky. He may have an advantage, being the only person on the track with a driver's license. He drives fast. He causes accidents, but he never gets tangled up in one. He laughs and drives. I wish I was in a car. I wish I could bump him. The kids try. They try hard. It's futile. The ride is over. The kids come running. The husband comes running. "Did you see me," they ask?

"Yes," I say, "and look who else I see, mom and dad," the kids race toward their parents. "Don't run," I say, one last time.

The husband puts an arm around me. "Did you see me out there," he asks? He's grinning as if he's w0n the Indy 500. I suggest we skip the milk and get a frozen lemonade instead. The parents talk about their two rides on Goliath. The kids brag about their driving skills. One kid hits another kid. "Stop it," says the mom.

I say nothing as I take a bite of frozen lemonade. It's a good day to be an aunt.

Wardrobe meltdowns

At least once a week my closet becomes my enemy.

As I open the door to the tiny, claustrophobic room and peer up at the rows of shirts, skirts, bags and shoes, a feeling of extreme indecision comes over me.

The panic continues as I try on pants, skirts and tops that just don't look right. I toss the rejects on the floor as I aimlessly grab for more hangers.

I have nothing to wear. Seriously. It might look like there are all kinds of options, but nothing will work. Everything is too tight, too loose, too short, too long, too wrinkly, too scratchy or too depressing to contemplate.

Where are the cute clothes? I know I bought some, and I have the bank account to prove it. Why is the closet hiding the carefully purchased outfits that make me look skinny, sexy and put together? And why do the pants that made me look thin yesterday make me look fat today?

I close the closet door, take a deep breath and open the door again. Still no cute clothes. There is only one solution. Shopping. Now I just have to find an outfit to wear to the mall.