Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!

Truly a tribute to the holding power of Aqua-Net! Shout out to my peeps, my Crunchy Brown, my soul-sista and partner in crime, Monica aka "Alice" Wihongi. Love that crazy girl.

Ellen... Feeling De "Generous"?

I hope the people from the "Ellen" show know that this little skit is but an homage to her comedy (you don't need to watch the whole thing, but the intro will give you the flavor for my general efforts). I was supposed to dance OVER the coffee table as is Ellen's custom. However, the table the crew had procured was WAAAAY to wide for my stance and the bowl of fresh flowers was a last-minute addition. The result: I got stuck midway across, splashed water from the bowl all over my crotch, and ended up with purple bruises lining both calves for the attempt. Worth it? Every second! (Can you hear the crowd? How could I not keep going?)

Inhibitions, Be Gone!

Just finished up an extraordinary, exhausting, whirlwind, fabbalus week in Washington, D.C., at Close To My Heart's annual convention. From shaking my booty as one of "The Scrappin' Ladies," to my flip 'do as Carol Brady, to my table-dancing skills as Ellen, I have officially established myself as one liberated from any illusions of respectability. AND WAS IT EVER FUN.

If you want to take a peek at the real me, check out one of these clips, posted to YouTube during our general sessions at Convention by our techno-savvy Consultants. They're the best in the world, and the reason my job is the best in the world. Crazy how it works like that. I'll post the others in a sec. Once I figure out how! :)

Airports of Broward County

I'm thinking of writing a sequel to the popular book "Bridges of Madison County." It's about a girl who's been on many adventures--sailing the Caribbean seas all by her lonesome. She swam with stingrays on Grand Cayman, wandered the ruins of Tulum, met and mingled with many. But at heart, she just wanted to go home: to her peeps and her palace in the snow in Springville.

And here's where we get the title: "Airports of Broward County." On a blustery Friday with a yellow sky and palm trees that snap in the sideways rain, she makes her way to an airport with a ticket in her hand. She takes off her shoes, scans her computer, gets her lost ticket reissued by a stalwart gate agent, and waits in the terminal with nary a landing plane in sight.

But here's where the plot goes terribly awry: the story gets waaaaaaaaay too long and nothing much happens. The supporting characters are boorish and weary, talking too loudly on their cell phones about delays and cancellations.

It's really a sad ending, because the girl winds up stranded in a hotel room in Ft. Lauderdale watching crime drama reruns, and hoping that the gale-force winds subside before her next novel is "The Lost Weekend: Miami Edition."

Sigh.

This Bites!

Trey's timid about most things--rollerblades, ugly food, dark rooms, lizards, and definitely the dentist and certainly the stylist. Guess he's growing up: within the past three days, he's visited both the hair hygeinist and the dentist sans drama. Check out his super-cool look above.

Earned his lollipop for smooth sailing on the sideburns and the floss for the fab performance in the dental chair. Imagine a seven-year-old refraining from fidgeting for MINUTES on end. Way to go, Trey! You've bought yourself several months free from drills, clippers, and adults in aprons telling you to SIT STILL, PLEASE.

American Economy: Shrink to Fit

I watch zero live TV at home. When I do watch, it's super concentrated bursts and mini recaps via Tivo. But when I'm on the road and off the wagon, it's a different story.

I've the propensity for utter couch potato-dom, haplessly watching whole seasons of "NCIS" or streets of "House Hunters" until the weeeee hours of the morning, when I should be sleeping. Tonight, it's the Portland episode of "Kristine Watches Too Much TV."

I've just watched a garment-district-focused HBO documentary that I'd never watch at home. Here's some fascinating, completely random tidbits I gotta share:

* In 1965, 95% of the clothes Americans wore was manufactured domestically.

* By 1975, only 80% was made in America.

* In 1985, those Guess jeans I was dying for were probably manufactured in Chinese or Indian sweat shops, like 50% of the clothes purchased by Americans.

* By 2009, only FIVE PERCENT of the clothing we wear in this country is actually made here.

Do our kids even know the terms "Buy American" or "Look for the Union Label"? Probably not. They're as antiquated as the idea of shopping at Gimbel's, and just as impossible.

A parting shot: The average Bangladeshi seamstress is between 12-14 years old and may be making only $.30 per day. You may be hungry for a great deal on the jeans she's sewn... she's just plain hungry.

And they said Valley Forge was cold...

For fall break, C and I (along with Gramma and Grampa) traveled to glorious Washington, D.C. to savor the sights and sounds of a resplendent autumn in our nation's capital. That was the plan, anyway. At just over 40 degrees and raining nonstop--and did I mention shearing winds?--about the only thing we savored were our winter coats. Clinging to the adage that 10-year-olds rarely notice the weather, we forged bravely on. George would have been proud.
Savoring a meatball sub before hitting the metro!

Posing by the fountain at the National Gallery of Art. (Note that C is working to supplement his allowance by dipping in to the water's bounty. Hmmm.)

The Thinker. 'nuff said.

Here C poses tentatively in front of the only Leonardo da Vinci painting to grace the entire western hemisphere. I say "tentatively" because he had just accidentally backed into it, bonking his head against the frame. Those security guards are nimble folks!

Tired but happy and finally warm... back on the plane home to Utah. Thanks, Gramma and Grampa for sponsoring a once-in-a-lifetime adventure! We didn't even mind the snoring!