Playing Dress-Up

Happy Most Uncomfortable Holiday! I try every year to get excited about Halloween and I just can't muster up the enthusiasm. For one thing, what and who looks good in orange and black? Don't say that you do because I assure you, you don't. Your friends just don't feel like they can be honest with you like I can.

Then there's the candy. My children would prefer to hook themselves up to a pumpkin-shaped I.V. and just ABSORB candy all day long, so Halloween is a built-in battle of wills. My favorite approach is to let them wallow in it for the two days after tricks and treats and then peel them off the ceiling at the expiration of 48 hours. Also, I steal their candy and eat it when they're in bed. (I learned this technique from my mother, who sometimes still pilfers my candy out of the drawer where it's hidden. She has a bit of a sweet tooth.)

There is a bright spot, however, for the Halloween scrouge. The costumes can be lovely. I shake my head distastefully at anything involving ketchup-blood or webs or vampire teeth. Also, boys wearing white and black make-up or girls using trick-or-treat to be code for "skank-o-skank." You can call me a traditionalist. But some people really don their Clever Hats when it comes to costuming. Take this man, who was inspired by a Chia Pet:



Or this man, who was later arrested for trying to cook his child:



Now, here's an option for those of you think all those cute duckie and sweet pea costumes are so 2009:



My favorite costume, though, was worn by a friend of Marc's during grad school. The guy was a bit of a class clown, sported a healthy Midwestern belly, and sure did show up to the Halloween party wearing a lot of tin foil and a big sandwich board sign that said "Mammogram Machine: Place Breast Here." Not one female at the event took him up on it, but bless you, B.K., wherever you are.

Happy Halloween, friends. Try to be cheerful.

p.s. Am I allowed to be a Christian writer and use the word "breasts" in a blog post? Christians still have breasts, right?

Slow Start

I've had a rocky start to the school year. I realize I am not actually IN school, but two of my children are and I think that counts. Plus, I'm the one making sack lunches, so I deserve the love and pity.

Mostly pity. For example, the first day of school, Mitch looked like this:



This is also what he looked like the second day of school because he wore the exact same clothes. AND HIS MOTHER DIDN'T NOTICE until she picked him up at the end of preschool. He looked at me like I smoked dangerous chemicals when I expressed my concern about wearing a shirt that had yogurt artfully spilled around the collar.

"Mom," he said, "I look awesome."

And then there was the Calendar Confusion Incident a few weeks ago. It was a Monday and I kept Ana home because she had the day off from school. Probably teacher planning or something, I wasn't sure. Mid morning, still all in our pajamas and considering a trip to the science center or maybe a movie and I noticed a fleet-footed thought take a jog through Ye Olde Maternal Head. I wondered why I hadn't heard any other moms talking about their plans for the day off from school. Why? Hmm. Well, turns out there was a simple answer to that question. Other moms didn't have day-off plans because school was in session. People who read calendars with a savvy and literate eye know things like this but people who send their children to school in yogurt-crusty shirts do not.



So I'm warning you now: Do not trust me with important information or the hygienic care of children. You can trust me with pretend stories and fake people that don't exist. Fiction is safe! Anything else, though, and we're all taking our chances.

Paging Kimberly Stuart

Well, I did not perish. I should get that out first. Everything's still ticking and I'm still experiencing the glories and travails of life with three young children and their spectacularly handsome father.

But, good gravy, has it really been five months since I checked in with you people? What have I been doing, you might ask, that might warrant such a hiatus? We did move to our home and I love it, love it, love it. I can't say this often around Ana, who has been brainwashed by some well-intentioned mother to say things like, "Things aren't important. People are important." (Someone should tell that mother to STOP being so preachy.) But secretly I love it and I love our new neighborhood, our trees, our dear neighbors who brought us cookies and plants and little buckets of toys and Teddy Grahams for the kids. Mayberry, people! I am living the Andy Griffith Show!

So we moved. I'm slowly starting to brush off the gears in my brain because Operation Bonnet is set to release this February, which might seem like a long time away to you but we all know how productive I've been the LAST four months.

Here's a glimpse of the fantastic cover.



The Amish never looked so sassy. (Actually, the girl on the front is an aspiring P.I. who wants to infiltrate the Amish. More on that later.)

I'll tell you one thing, though. There are a lot of things I HAVEN'T been doing the last few months. I have not been organizing my cosmetics.




In fact, I realized yesterday I own one dried-up tube of mascara and an eye shadow that bears the tracks of Thea's fingernails in a nifty criss-cross pattern. (*Please note, the above photo is courtesy of a Google search and not my own. I'm entirely unsure of what most of the items in this photo are.)

I also have not been learning another language, though my new neighbor speaks German and didn't seem all that impressed with my "Du bist vie eine blume" (You are like a flower) from my undergraduate smart aleck days (I'm entirely over that phase).



(*Please note: The man in the lederhosen is not my new neighbor.)

And finally, I have not been doing this:




Having myself photographed in the nude, holding a large designer handbag and petting lion cubs. I saw this ad in the paper yesterday and asked Marc why no one had asked for me to take a photo like this. He looked up briefly from his Grape Nuts and shuddered. I'm not taking that personally. Instead, I'm getting back to blogging. If my husband can't banter with me about lion cubs and Julianne Moore, I know where to find like- minded souls.

I've missed you. :)

Swagger Wagon

We're moving. Have I mentioned that yet? This is the reason for my mute blog as of late. That and I'm finishing the edits on Operation Bonnet. Oh, friends. I can't wait for you to read this one and it's not just because my livelihood depends on it. It's also because I really think you'll like it. More on that (and the cover image!) coming soon.

In the meantime, I can wield a tape gun like a samurai.



Seriously. I'm fast. There have been a few mishaps, like my left hand having only three fingers now and the time I "accidentally" enclosed Thea in a well-taped box. But otherwise, I'm super great at it.

We're only moving about a mile away from our current residence, which makes people say, "Oh, that's nice. That will be much easier." Those people, though well-intentioned, are on crack. Because we still have to PHYSICALLY MOVE everything to the NEW HOUSE. It's not as if I can, a month from now, stand in the new kitchen and say, "Oh, shoot. Forgot the mixer. I'll just run over and get it on my way to Redbox." First, the mixer will need to move when I do, and second, I'd only know a Redbox by its current listings of animated full-length features. So double depressing errand.

I'm actually thrilled out of my mind to be moving to this particular home. The whole process has been an enormous blessing from start to finish and we are very, very excited to be starting this next chapter of the Stuart Family Escapades. And I'm sure Thea, for one, will be really happy in her new home after I unwrap her on moving day.

Before I try to find a Mitch-sized box, I leave you with this. It appears Marc and I have competition. Swagger on, dear friends. Swagger on.



If you'd like the wide-screen clip, click here. Thanks to Stacey P. for alerting me to this day-making video.

Wheel Spinning

I try to lead a productive life. This is what it gets me:



I turn my back to, say, scrub a toilet (hypothetically). Or to pluck my eyebrows, which have, sound the alarm, grown together in the middle of my forehead from neglect. Or to stand in front of my closet wondering how, exactly, I came to Spring 2010 with not one weather-appropriate shirt that is fit to be worn in public. And in those precious, fleeting moments, one or more of my children starts to weep, needs help applying rubber cement to his or her eyelids (!) or spills an entire, full box of cereal on the stairs.

And still we press on, don't we? Trying to get something accomplished during the daylight hours? Here are a few of the items I cannot seem to scratch off my list:
~Editing a manuscript about a quirky girl and an Amish boy, to be released next spring. Incidentally, the Amish are woefully productive, as is my friend and fellow writer, Erik Wesner, who just released his book on the Amish. Check out his book and his fascinating blog and further decrease your productivity but have MUCH more fun than organizing your silverware drawer.
~I've been getting some speaking things together for The Sweet Life this Friday (Come on out to Connxions, Des Moines girls! There will be chocolate!) and some upcoming fun in Austin, Texas, and Sioux City, Iowa.
~And I've REALLY been trying to pluck my eyebrows with more regularity. It boggles the mind how quickly one can go from looking sufficiently groomed to the female counterpart to a Yeti.



What are you up to? What happens when you turn your back these days? Anybody else in need of one of those weird vacuums that follow you around like a stray cat, picking up your messes? How's the productivity quotient out there?

In Glowing Terms

I had coffee with Anita Renfroe last weekend. Do you know this woman? You might have seen her Momsense song on YouTube. Or heard her spots on Good Morning America. Or read about her in the New York Times. Or laughed yourself to painful sensations listening to her at Woman of Faith. Anita and I write for the same publisher and met through the book bih-nuss. Let me assure you, she is the real deal. Smart, funny, kind to minions like me, AND she has great skin.



This photo does not do it justice. When I look at this photo, I have a hard time getting past the WIDTH and BREADTH of my forehead. Mammoth. I also get distracted by the beginnings of double chin. Forehead-y and chin-y. Sweet.

If you can get past those issues, and I have faith you can, you need to look at Anita's skin. It is phenomenal. Clear of any signs of problem areas, shiny spots, and altogether glow-emitting. And this was after two solid days of speaking to a crowd of 7000 Women of Faith goers! I get cold sores after watching athletic competitions WHEN NO ONE CAN SEE ME, people. I can't imagine the riotous shape of my skin after public speaking in an arena equipped with hot dog vendors.

So she has great skin. And she's very patient with people who can't get over it. Anita promises I, too, could glow if I could only move to Atlanta and become a client of her "facialist". I don't think I'd know a "facialist" if she hit me in the T-zone, but Anita assured me I would because her facialist is a Hungarian woman who beats the living daylights out of a tense facial muscle and can tighten even the most stubborn pore. I think Anita talked about other stuff, like what it's like to film the pilot of a sitcom and what she's thinking about the book industry and what it feels like to fly to four cities in the space of one week. But all I could think of was how soon I could get to Atlanta to track down the Hungarian woman and let her get to WORK.

Now that I've seen this photo, however, I might have to wait. The forehead alone is going to require a special kind of "facialist," one who can see beyond the vast, untethered landscape and right to the well-intentioned heart.

I'm off to exfoliate, but you should visit Anita's site. Watch the video clips and check back, because I saw the first bit of her not-yet-released cover of Beyonce's "Single Ladies." Anita's version: "Wrinkled Ladies."

Not that she'd know anything about that.

Lessons Learned

Well, it's over. All the glory, all the drama, all the weeping people who'd just like to thank God, their parents, and Red Bull. I'm older and wiser after this Olympiad, and I'll take this chance to share the lessons learned.

Number One: We should host next time around.



Do you see the cement at the bottom of the pile? That's our driveway. Do you see the child at the mountain's summit? That's my Mitch, who would like to take up aerial skiing or snowboarding, whichever involves pizza and chicken nuggets in the winnings.

Number Two: Speed skating is too stressful for my constitution.



(I don't remember anyone looking like these two at the Olympics, but they do have admirably feathery hair. Counts for something.) After the first night of watching Apolo Ohno and the Koreans come close to knife fights, Marc couldn't get to sleep for two hours and I sprouted a cold sore. A SPEED SKATING COLD SORE, people. So Marc made the rule (he loves rules) of no speed skating after 9 pm Central Time.

Also, speed skaters are built like T-rexes.


And I mean that with all respect, by the way.

Number Three: Olympians are a rare breed. I understand that technically they are human beings, but they are a tidge crazy. The commentators cracked me up when they'd read down the litany of struggles and ailments preceding the Games. One of my favorites: "So-and-so has had a great year of skiing. You know, she blew out both knees and broke her jaw at the beginning of the season but she's been skiing GREAT."

I can identify because I started skiing up to my potential only after I broke my jaw and my kneecaps. And I write WAY better novels after surgery. Surgery and near-death falls on mountainsides.

Speaking of writing, my manuscript of The Next One (not its real title) is in the able hands of my brilliant editor, which is best because I have a lot of make-up laundry and dusting after the Olympics. Literature is so distracting. But don't worry-- I'll be more focused after my jaw's feeling better.

p.s. For those of you living in Host City Des Moines: Come to Connxions Friday, March 26, for a night out! The Sweet Life is what they're calling it and I know COPIOUS amounts of high quality chocolate will be consumed. Also, I'm one of the speakers and I promise I won't wear my speed skating unitard. You have my word.