I Dare You Not to Love this Song

One of the cutest things my husband does is sing to the dog.

"Fuh-LEE-shuh," he crooned to her a few Saturday mornings ago.

"What in the world are you singing to her?" I asked.

"Felicia. The Constellations. I heard it on XM radio."

"Felicia?" This with wifely skepticism and slight mocking.

"Felicia. Seriously, it's a great song- you'd love it. Leigh Roy, we're changing your name to Felicia. Fuh-LEE-shuh......"

I didn't think much about this recommendation. For one thing, Felicia does not sound like a cool song name. Layla, yes. Allison, hell, even Billie Jean sound like cool song names, but Felicia sounded like the dumbest woman's name for a song title name since Sharona.

And Michael's musical taste is noise. Rock, metal, punk- as long as it sounds like a domestic argument with rocks in the dryer and cats fighting in the background, Michael loves it. Admittedly, I'm a goosey a girl who still cuddles her Crowded House CD's and fancies herself Aimee Mann in the performance hall that is my car. As with movies, music Michael and I both really enjoy is hard to come by.

Which brings me back to the song at hand. While jogging on the treadmill at the gym, an unfamiliar song started to play. I almost skipped it until a catchy little beat started, and then the naughty lyrics, and then finally, I had to straddle the treadmill belt and twist my iPod around to see what I was listening to. And then I had to admit, Felicia had me from the first listen.

It's not often I like a song so much the first time I hear it. Like my children with new books and toys, it usually takes at least four or five exposures before something really grabs me. But this song was instantly addictive.

Give Felicia a chance. You don't even really have to watch the campy video (if you're my mother, please don't). And I bet you'll be singing it to your dog by week's end.

I'm Getting Rid of Half of This. I Really Am This Time.

It started with a Lego.

I stepped down roughly eight inches from the dining room to the tile foyer, which is a really gutsy move to begin with for someone who's as coordinationally-challenged as I am. Things quickly went awry when the arch of my foot met with a Lego. I slid quite unflatteringly, swore quite ungraciously, and then stood on one leg like a flamingo while examining the bottom of my foot.

It irritates me profoundly when I step on toys, or trip over them, and oh yes, when I sit on them in the bathtub. And it's not just because it hurts like a bitch, which it does. If you've ever knelt down on Taka Nuva's sword or ice-skated on a Lego, you know the pain of which I speak. Once the initial injury is over, though, that's when I like to add insult.

One of the best slash worst things about me is my ability to see the meaning in anything and everything. Very few things in this life escape thorough examination. If Zeus had Pegasus to carry around his lightening bolts for him, well, then I must have a jackass in my brain that carries around large arrows, because all events, conversations, and happenings- they all point to something, in my mind.

So when I step on a Lego, it's more than a minor annoyance due to a little piece of molded plastic. I must draw some kind of conclusion from this. The first thought that goes through my mind, other than the nerve endings screaming from my foot, is that we have GOT to start cleaning this shit up! Because our house is starting to feel like a cross between football practice and a game of Mousetrap. If you have to juke left on your way through the kitchen to avoid a toy vacuum, this may indicate a toy clutter issue.

It's the little crap that kills me softly. Legos. Bouncy balls. Marbles. Joseph has an affinity for building Bionicles, which is brilliant other than the fact that some Bionicle pieces are roughly the size of a mouse turd. Other pieces are larger, more jagged-looking accoutrements- swords, wings, and all other manner of pointy, hard plastic. Fantastic for Joseph's creativity and fine motor skills, murder on the feet.

And with Henry it's easy to tell where he lost interest in a toy. He loves 'em and leaves 'em. He leaves them cold in the hall, the bathroom- so that when you walk unsuspectingly with a basket full of laundry, or go to pee in the middle-of-night darkness, you might bang your shin and then hear "RAWR!" followed by a jazzy little rendition of "Polly Wolly Doodle." Polly Wolly Doodle for a lion's song? Don't ask me. Maybe he escaped from the Audobon Zoo. Maybe The Lion Sleeps Tonight was too obvious?

I know, I know. They're just typical kids and I should lighten up. But when we are quite literally tripping over toys, I cannot help but think that this points to excess. We are not wealthy people. We live in a modest home. And I have tried, in earnest, to avoid toy excess. Woody, Buzz and Jessie have made it really difficult for me, but I do try to thin out the population at least two or three times a year, usually before birthdays and Christmases. And yet somehow, we have three and a half acres of toys.

Before my sons were born, I read an article about a family who had a strict Eight Toys Per Child policy. Yup, just eight toys per child. I don't KNOW why eight. For the same reason our lion sings Polly Wolly Doodle I guess. The children had a shared closet of art supplies, games, and books, but all other toys were kept to eight with a "one in, one out" rule when birthday candles were blown and Santa came to town. The parents swore that their radical system had produced children who adored and treasured their magic eight. The parents reported that the children took great care of their toys, and put a lot of thought into which toys to keep and which ones to let go. The children also enjoyed passing their beloved toys on to local charities. (Sorry, I had to throw that last bit in- I wasn't sure if you were completely dumbfounded yet).

It sounded so militant when I read it, before my babies came along and littered the floors with little plastic landmines. And I don't think I'll ever go that hardcore. But as I barked today, I AM getting rid of half of this crap. This time I mean it.

Our living room. Decorating by Joesph. He also does holiday decor.

The Mommy Clique

This summer, we've experienced a bit of role reversal in the Lively household. I went back to work full time and my husband stayed home with the kiddos.

I actually came home one evening and he was watching Mr. Mom (an '80s classic for you young'ins) with Michael Keaton. We had a good laugh about how art imitates life or something like that.

My husband is a great dad. Fully engaged ... even with the dirty work of diapers (back in the day) and cleaning puke (if necessary.) What frustrated him about being at home with the kids this summer was his inability to break into The Mommy Clique.

The Mommy Clique is the group of summer or stay-at-home moms who usually run The Schedule. You know I likes me some planning -- so I fit right in last summer when I worked part-time from home. Play dates, library outings, Jazzercise camp, art camp, park outings ... I was all over it. Scheduling who would pick up the group, feed them and then return them to their respective homes was done no less than a week out. I'd sync calendars, times, dates and locations like the logistics queen I am.

At the beginning of summer -- all my mommy contacts continued contacting me to set dates. "Let me check the schedule with my husband -- he's in charge this summer," I'd say. For whatever reason, they kept calling me.

"Why won't Stacy's mom call me back?" he'd lament, feeling clearly slighted yet eager to arrange some playtime for our daughter. "Maybe she feels awkward calling somebody's husband," I'd offer.

"Ridiculous," he'd grumble. "It's a Mommy Clique and it's stupid."

"Well, they have the relationship with me," I'd counter, secure in my status of Chief Planner. "They feel comfortable calling me."

This did not soothe his psyche.

But then there was a breakthrough. A new mommy, not in the rotation of mommies from last summer, was as eager for playdates as my husband. She got the message loud and clear early on that he was the key to setting the schedule -- and she completely quit contacting me. Next thing I knew, sprinkler parties and skate dates were being set via text message. Lunch-overs and back yard romps were being arranged over Facebook. They were even Facebook friends! I admired that level of planning efficiency.

Truthfully, I was kind of jealous because I was hoping she could be a new mommy friend for me. Our daughters and sons are the same age -- so the playdates were often a 2-for-1 bonus arrangement. She also is really earthy and cool and someone I'd like to hang out with. You know, chat up over coffee while watching our kids play together.

But it was not to be.

And then, I got a call from another mommy. Ha! See? I'm not irrelevant -- I'm still needed to make things happen.

"Hi, Jane? What's your husband's cell phone number?"

And just like that, I'm out of the Mommy Clique.

Plan it Earth to Jane

I love making plans.

Vacations -- I'm researching destinations for next year's trip before I've even gone on this year's. We have a vacation Master Plan that highlights every major destination we hope to visit over the next decade.

Grocery shopping -- The list lives on the side of the fridge. As soon as we're out of mustard or peanut butter, it goes on the list. On a good day, the list is grouped by aisle, planning to make for an easier shopping trip.

Food -- When I get back from the store, that's when I plan the menu for the coming week. Monday chicken tacos. Tuesday tuna lettuce wraps. Wednesday, well, you get the idea.

Books & Movies -- in the back of my calendar, I keep a list of books I plan to read and movies I plan to see this year.

Activities & Events -- My husband and I plan our days and months full of zillions of family and kid activities -- doctor's appointments, play dates (for kids and grown ups), first day of school, bill deadlines, you freaking name it ... and it all goes on the calendar.

Research -- I even plan what I want to find out about. When I come across topics I want to learn more about -- Chinese foot binding, pinworms, peanut butter addiction -- I place them on my to-doogle list. That's a list of subject I want to remember to Google after the kids go to bed and I'm sitting on the sofa with my laptop. It's pathetic that I have to make a plan for this, but I do, largely because my brain fails to hold more than an ounce of information any longer than a day.

But when it came down to planning our estate and for the eventual and/or untimely demise of my husband and me -- we got nothing.

Now the term "estate" conjures rambling and majestic expansive properties, filled with stocks and bonds and whatever else people can claim as assets. Our "estate" ... not so much, but we do have a home and children and just know from watching daytime TV that this is something we ought to get in order.

One of the reasons why we haven't set up our estate -- shamefully after nearly 10 years of marriage -- is the fear of articulating for the unthinkable. That makes us very reluctant. Like if we don't put it in writing then nothing bad will happen to us.

Then, there's the problem of agreeing who would be guardians to our children. Every time we set down that path and take a step, we immediately step into a pile of no good. The conversation between me and my husband goes like this:

"If something were to happen to us [note we can't even say what that something might be], who would get the kids?"

This is followed by blank stares into each other's eyes. Then, the debate begins.

Everyone falls into one of the following categories: too old/crazy/selfish/religious/uninterested/lives too far away/headed for divorce/may or may not be on their way to rehab/generally-not-perfect-enough-to-rear-our-children.

I might be exaggerating just a tad bit, but effectively, that's the end of that plan.

So between magical thinking and our high standards, we've had the perfect excuse to NOT plan the one thing that's actually more important than our grocery list.

Recent progress has been made on the planning front: We agreed on a guardian and back-up guardian for the kids. So that's a relief. Now... to plan the appointment with an attorney.

What do you love/hate to plan?

Reunited and it Feels So ... wierd

My 20th high school reunion reunion was a few weeks ago. Well, mine and Lucy's. We graduated together. Are you saying "Quel surprise!" right now? Didn't think so.

I almost wrote 10th reunion, not to be a liar, but because I seriously, for a brief moment, forgot. How can it be possible for 20 years to have passed?

Before the shin dig, I started a post about the Top 20 Things I Hoped We Wouldn't Hear At the Reunion... since the fete has come and gone, I'll share a few of the things I heard and saw. (Plus, I couldn't come up with 20 things.)

"You haven't changed a bit!" -- Really? I'm still the self-centered, ego-infused, fear nothing, slightly irresponsible, big banged know-it-all I was when I was 18? Man, that sucks. Besides, I was kind of chunky toward the end of senior year, what with all the beer I was drinking.

"Let's keep in touch!" -- I'm kinda thinking if we haven't been keeping in touch all this time AND we haven't connected on Facebook, then maybe this may actually be a pseudo-request.

"Do you remember that time we traded a bikini for a six-pack of beer at Midway Liquor?" -- Imagine how genuinely delighted I was to be with someone who remembered this escapade! Generally, I cringe when statements begin with "do you remember that time..." mostly because my memory is so bad and I'm afraid I really won't remember. Unless someone wants to bring up the time that our pregnant classmate went into labor at our alcohol-free after-graduation party. Now that was memorable. But I don't think it came up. But the bikini trade -- that was classic in large part due to it being winter. Don't ask.

"Go Purple Dogs!" -- Oh just stop that.

Observations: Just because one has the body carry off the wearing of sequined hot pants, I'm not sure one should. Just sayin'. Besides, where does one purchase sequined hot pants?

I had hoped not to hear anything by Motley Crüe and got my wish.

On second thought, a little Crüe would have been awesome. Look at all that hair. (Check out my little ümlaut!)

All in all, 20 years is basically no time at all. It went by in a flash. People got married, divorced, remarried. Got jobs, had babies, lost jobs. Some were wildly successful. Others just getting by. Some people looked amazing -- even better than at 18. Others, well, not so much. A high school class is truly a cross-section of America, bound together forever, I suppose, by a common thread of High School, where we grow, develop and pretend to be grownups for the first time.

Everyone there had one thing in common: a desire to reconnect with the past if only to say, hey, I'm still here. Do people really ever change? Are we just older and, with hope, a tiny bit wiser?

I probably should have just stayed home with all that post-reunion philosophizing.

What reunion-a-riffic encounters are you looking forward to?

Let's get together, soon!