Just Because

A while back, Dave and I bought tickets for two concerts: Pearl Jam for him and Kings of Leon for me. He loves Pearl Jam and has never seen them. I love Kings of Leon and had seen them three times in the past. Pearl Jam rocked; Kings of Leon canceled due to a "throat infection." Last night, they came back . . . and I was happy. If you've only ever heard "Sex On Fire" or "Use Somebody," please have a listen. Most of their stuff isn't like that (thankfully). This is my favorite song, one that I can and happily sing at the top of my lungs.



- Jill (plus, I have a little crush on the drummer . . . and yes, my husband knows)

Running With Scissors

August Break . . . and a crappy Internet connection prevented me from posting this two hours ago. I think we're ditching Vonage this week and going with our cell phones.

- Jill

Why Toy Story 3 Kind of Sucked For Me

This summer has been weird, just plain weird. We got out of school a little on the late side of June (apparently, snow and ice are uncommon in northeastern Pennsylvania), but that's not very weird. I made a list of what to do for the summer, but that is not very weird either. However, it's been weird having the Girls home for the summer. When you see Erika's photos, they inevitably have images of the Boys playing or doing something fun or learning about life. My photos? Pretty much devoid of such cuteness because I have 19-year-olds. Getting them to pose for a photo or let me take a quick snapshot is an exercise in negotiation skills that any union boss in the 1950s would be proud of.

So, that weird summer, the one in which I am in a new phase of motherhood - and one that I don't know if I completely grasp as of yet - is about to come to an end. We have been all consumed by apartment shopping as of late. What do you need? What have we got in the attic? Where can we find a cheap dresser? Who's bringing the pots and pans? Remember that list I created? Fuck it . . . half of it won't get done now.

On August 14th, the Girls will be moving into their first apartment in Philadelphia. They are living in a converted warehouse that is full of modern amenities, ones that make a slightly paranoid mother feel good about her children living in the middle of one of the countries largest cities. They will be taking our couch, their Mimi's silverware, some Salvation Army pots and pans, a rescued kitten (who really, really has been kind of fun to have), and a whole assortment of "things necessary for modern life" with them. But they are leaving Bun-Bun and Sara at home. And that makes me a little sad.

Bun-Bun and Sara were their constant companions when they were little. Jordan couldn't get to sleep without rubbing Bun-Bun's ear on her cheek. Sara and Shelby snuggled tightly in bed every night. If we left Bun-Bun and Sara at a grandparent's house, then we turned around to get them. Once after I washed Bun-Bun, the dryer was set too high, and the rattle inside melted a little. It didn't sound right, and Jordan was distraught . . . so Bun-Bun had an "emergency rattle transplant" with Shelby's Mousie (clearly not the preferred stuffie). At our mom's house, we had her stitch up Bun-Bun's ear, and she thought she would "help" by adding some stuffing to Bun-Bun's middle . . . mistake. Jordan shrieked that Mimi had "ruined" Bun-Bun, so Mom had to remove the stuffing and make things right. Shelby named Sara when she was about 15-months and spent hours talking to her. Sara has that plastic-rubber face that is impossible to clean . . . but her five-o'clock shadow never got in the way of being snuggle worthy.

So, come August 14, the U-Haul will be loaded with all sorts of crap, but I'm pretty sure that Bun-Bun and Sara will be staying put. They will eventually make their way to the attic with the other toys that were cherished a long, long time ago. And that's alright. We all go through it eventually. Cooper will lose interest in his train blanket, Erika. He'll put it aside for something else like a skateboard, which he can't exactly cuddle . . . but if you don't wash it, you can occasionally still snuggle with it and remember when you were actually relevant in your children's lives.

- Jill

Hasty Decisions.

I'm a planner.  If we do anything, I like to have the time to prepare.  Lists are made & piles are organized.  And when the day arrives, we're ready to Move-Out.  But this week, I'm grateful for hasty decisions.  During Wednesday's dinner, I floated the idea about camping.  We've been dreaming of a family camping trip since I was pregnant with Cooper.  For the past 10 years, we camp with a large group of friends.  It's strictly a No-Kids event.  Nothing lurid happens, but it's nice to get a break from Parenting & kids would change the entire vibe of the weekend.  Not mention, I'd be a nervous wreck with the kids in our canoe.  And where would the cooler fit?  Back to Wednesday night...

Mark jumped on board & began checking the weather reports.  It looked clear.  Since we're skilled campers, everything was packed & organized.  It took very little effort for us to prepare.  Let's camp in the summer!  The boys were told & the site was reserved.  When I clicked the "Purchase" button, some regret began to bubble up.  Wasn't the A/C going to be fixed on Friday?  Aren't we sick of the heat already?  How are we going to escape it outdoors?  I don't have time to get everything ready!  What are we going to do with a toddler on camp site?  What the hell is wrong with us?  This hasty decision could only have been made in a state of delirium brought on by living with no A/C in house with only two functioning windows.  But it was made & the camp stuff was slowly being brought upstairs.  I asked every question I could that might pass this doubt onto Mark.  "Each site has electricity.  What if we're next to a camper that runs its air the entire night?"  "What are we going to do with Becket?"  "What if he runs into the woods & he never comes home?"  "What if the Beach is only a gravel pit surrounding a puddle of mud?"  "What if it floods?"  "What are we going to do from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. at night with the boys?"  "What if..."  He knows me & just let the questions pass.

{Notice the different pile sizes?  I think he just noticed it too.}

My biggest worry was concerning Becket.  I knew Cooper would find a way to entertain himself for the weekend.   But a toddler?  I almost brought some blocks, but we ran out of room in the trunk.  I begged him to bring Guys to play with, but he didn't want any.  What was this kid going to do all weekend?  What could I bring that would satisfy him all weekend?  Clearly,  I haven't learned my lesson with this one.  The only thing I ever need to bring is Cooper.  He's his shadow.  Cooper tells a story.  Becket repeats it.  Cooper says, "Baby-Head."  Becket calls you, "Baby-Head.  Tree-Head. Toilet-Head" & laughs about it.  Keep Cooper happy & Becks is happy by default.  At this stage of our Parenting lives, this is the key to happiness.
 

When we got to the campsite, all of my other doubts were chased away by the beauty of it all.  Our site was lush & tucked into a canopy of natural shade.  I realized that we were going to spend the weekend alone & I was excited for this moment.  It wasn't that we'd get a break from technology, but we were going to get a break from everything.  Whatever happened it was going to be our responsibility to deal with it.  And there's a simplicity in knowing that your only option is to just Deal.  At home if I'm out of an ingredient, it requires a anger-filled trip to the store.  Don't you hate when you forget the key ingredient?  At the campsite, you just deal with the fact that we have no ketchup & there's no point in pouting about it.  No one asked to watch Batman or anything else.  But we were asked to play dozens of Uno matches.  We learned that Cooper is competitive & that we can never play Monopoly with him.  One of us will be forced to leave the family for good.  Mark & I aren't nice Monopoly players.   The boys giggled at night because they got to sleep next to each other.  We didn't take guide books or try to squeeze in nature lessons.  We just let the weekend unfold.  The boys spent their mornings at the site building with dominoes, organizing the Army Men into troops & playing with stickers.  Never once was I asked, "What can I do?"  The only complaint we got was that the fire hurt Cooper's eyes.

 {Via changed my Camping-Life!}

I take that back.  Cooper took the majority of the Army Men & Becket wasn't happy about it.  Camping or not, that kind of argument will never end.

-Erika

p.s. Here's a few more...

{He was very concerned that Becks was going to walk into "traffic"}

{I decided to give "Eat. Pray. Love" one more chance. I'm glad I did}

{Toy Story Dominoes were a hit, but are too easy. And I'm pretty sure Mark & I don't play correctly.}

{He was so happy that he found some shells on his own.}

"It's Friday & I'm In Love" Big Brother

There are absolutely no photographs that relate to today's post in any way, shape, or form. They are all from Picture Summer, which Erika and I are participating. Her username is {.erika.} and mine is jillapeno (long story, not worth the retelling). My photos are kinda derivative, but it's getting easier to take them. If you are participating, let us know!
 
It's no real secret that we are reality show whores. Rock of Love? Daisy of Love? Train wrecks, both, but train wrecks that we couldn't look away from. American Idol? For a long, long while, start to finish. The Amazing Race? This is the show that I want to be on. The Bachelor? A girl has her limits . . . but Joe Millionaire, whoa, that was priceless. There have been a few new reality shows that have jumped to the limelight recently (The Fabulous Beekman Boys, Tough Love AND Tough Love Couples) but none - not a single one - can hold a candle to our guilty pleasure: Big Brother.

If you started watching Big Brother from the word go, you may have stopped watching it that first season, and I really wouldn't have blamed you one little bit. The people were too honest, too earnest, too eager to please. Plus, the folks who went home were determined by a national vote. This might have worked in just about every other country, but for some reason, it didn't really gel well here. It was, truly, boring. But the following year . . . whoa! It was the year of Dr. Will and Mike Boogie and the word "showmance." You started to see people showing their true colors, people who were motivated by a big money payout and who did just about anything to stay in the game.

Last summer was Dramatic, which is very, very typical for the show. That "drama" might be why people turn in because sometimes our lives get a little boring. Sure the kids spice it up now and then, but lots of our days - mine, in particular - follow a pattern in the summer. Take Friday. Here is the schedule: laundry before the house gets too hot, dishes during the cycles, pizza for dinner, something that we taped on the DVR. Patterns? Hell, yes. But Big Brother? Escape from reality. I get to watch other people's lives from a safe distance, try and figure out how they can be so naive, and then sit back and watch it all unravel.

The "cast" was revealed last night, and there were a few things that bothered the hell out of me. First, there was a decided lack of ethnicity. It's a mistake, I think. I look at my friends, and we are pretty diverse. A second thing? Several cast members proclaiming themselves "certified genius" . . . dumb mistake, because the smartest people are usually the first to make a hasty exit. They always think they know the game and then make a rookie error. The final mistake: the goofballs. Where the hell are they? Yes, you had the requisite "boobalicious" chick and a blond-girl-who-wants-to-bond-with-the-stereotypical-gay-man-who-likes-the-hunk, but the goofballs are missing.

So this summer (and early fall), I'll be tuning into CBS on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, doing my best to avoid searching the blogs for some spoilers. I don't really know who the saboteur is (the big "expect the unexpected" this season) nor do I really have a favorite. I could do without the red head relying on her boobs to get some attention, but I like the deputy sheriff . . . she's 40. I have to stick with my age group.

Enjoy the weekend!

- Jill

PS - I would willingly go on The Amazing Race with Erika or about five other people. When they did a "family" edition, Dave and the Girls and I joked that our family would be referred to as the "Beep Family" since we would give CBS's censors a run for their money and probably break the budget on the beeps.

When Thank You Isn't Enough

School ended two weeks ago, yet I found myself back in the classroom on Monday for a full day. I had been telling friends that I was attending Boot Camp, and they all looked at me like I had started speaking in tongues or something. "Boot Camp? Like push-ups and that shit and people screaming at you?" After explaining that it was a technology boot camp and we would be learning new educational technology implementation strategies and pretending not to notice when they yawned at the second word of that explanation, I started telling people that I was taking a summer class . . . because that didn't require any further words since I have always been a learner first and a teacher second. Put any nonfiction book in front of me, and I'll read it . . . and then tell you about it. See? Learner, teacher.

I think I've wanted to be a teacher my entire life. Sure, I wanted to be a nun for a year (stop laughing), but my first few teachers were all nuns. Then, after our sister Bridget was born premature, I wanted to be a neonatologist for the longest time . . . but honestly, I should have pursued teaching from the word go. It would have saved me years of trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I would have had an excuse for all the bookwormish behavior that I exhibit. Teaching was such a logical fit, but god, did I fight it for a long, long time. 

When the Girls entered kindergarten, I helped out at their school as much as I could and met so many dedicated teachers. They didn't ask for a lot, save maybe some books or left over craft supplies, but they changed more lives than they could ever know. I credit them with pushing me into the teaching profession. Later, when I worked as an instructional aide, the teachers with whom I worked on a daily basis provided more help, support, and knowledge than I ever learned in my coursework. I credit them with giving me the confidence and tools necessary to survive in a middle school. Now, as a teacher, I have the privilege of working with people who put kids first and everything else second. They willingly come in on a gorgeous summer day to learn new techniques because they want the best for their students. They put whatever politics are going around about teaching aside in favor of educating the kids sitting in front of them. I credit them with keeping me fresh, giving our students 110%, and never accepting that "good" is "good enough."

Teaching is in the news these days and not for the best of reasons. Teachers are greedy; they're overpaid; we only work ten months a year; if you can do, and if you can't teach . . . dare I continue? There has been a huge upsurge in homeschooling and cyberschooling recently, and I totally get why people would choose to go that route . . . honestly, I do. I can't read the paper without looking at some piece on how cutting education is our only hope for financial solvency. In a district about 20 miles from here, they cut 72 jobs, including all of their technology positions. Think about it. You use a computer and the Internet and so do your kids . . . who do you think knows more? In the past three days, I've learned more about technology integration than I had during most of the previous school year (I also learned I still hate group work, but that is a post for another time). Without a technology coach, I would be lost and floundering. I credit them with pushing me to be better than I ever could hope to be, helping when I am pretty sure that things have gone pear shaped.

- Jill,

PS - Clearly, I was creatively brain dead after this week . . . but I did sign up for Picture Summer  so maybe there is hope for me yet.

When Compassionate Kids Make Life Harder (But Are Right)

I meant to put up a post on Father's Day extolling the virtues of our dad and our husbands and fathers-in-law and brothers-in-law, but Life kind of had other plans, courtesy of Jordan and Shelby.  And sorry in advance for the crappy photos . . . I haven't had the time to even play with a photo editing program (read on).

Jordan and Shelby, or the Girls as they've been collectively called since they were born, are home from Temple this summer. A friend of ours asked if they could house sit and watch their dog, Ranger. The house also comes with a hot tub, so it was a pretty quick "Yes" on their part followed by a, "For god's sake, no parties," on our part. So, Saturday night, they left to check on Ranger. We get a phone call about ten minutes later. "We almost hit an animal on Glenbrook but we stopped to check and it was a kitten and now there are four kittens and you need to come quick and help us catch them because they are going to get hit so bring a box and some gloves because they are not in a good mood." So much for a calm night in with Dave.

Not being in a good mood was an understatement. The kittens were frightened and vocal, but after about 30 minutes, the Girls caught them all, separating them into three boxes and a reusable shopping bags (which will no longer be reusable). Dave and I went to Target, bought two larger boxes and some tape, poked holes in the boxes, and somehow managed to get them all into the new "homes" for the evening.

The Girls brought them over to our house the next morning while we tried to find a shelter for them because they were not staying with us any longer than was necessary. We called seven shelters but got the same response from each: sorry, we aren't taking kittens . . . we're full. The Pike County Humane Society said that they would accept them for a $25 fee (it's a bargain and if you can click on over there, they accept PayPal donations). Jordan and I took three of them the Humane Society but kept one little calico for the Girls and their apartment in Philadelphia. So, Olive Murray is resting comfortably upstairs. She's had a very long flea bath, lots of food, a trip to the vet, and much loving from the Girls, me, Dave, and the dog. Our cat? Hates her with a passion . . . which is why Olive will be leaving for Lancaster tomorrow to spend the summer with one of the Girls roommates.

Two things really pissed me off about this whole situation. The first one is obvious: if you are going to have a pet, do the right thing and get them spayed or neutered. The probability of your pet getting knocked up if you don't? Somewhere around 90%. Dumping the litter of kittens or puppies or whatever the hell you have on the side of the road in a semi-populated area doesn't solve the problem; it just makes you a douche. The second thing that really pissed me off was that no one stopped to see if the Girls needed help. Granted, the road we were on was twisty and it was dark, but if you see a car with its hazards on, at least stop and ask if everything is alright. 

The Girls returned to their house sitting duties on Sunday evening - this time with explicit instructions to leave any and all animals they find wandering around in the woods . . . no matter how cute they are.

- Jill

PS - This really should have been a birthday post for Erika since today is "that day" but again, Life got in the way. So that post will have to wait until later this week . . . but Happy Birthday, Erika! You've definitely made my life more interesting (and better times a bajillion)!

"It's Friday & I'm in Love" Lush

"Official" transcript of conversation with Erika on Wednesday evening:

Erika: So, you're home now. You get to do the Friday, I'm in Love post.

Me: What the hell?

E: Think of something you're in love with.

M: How about milk? I love milk. (quietly puts the cap on the milk jug and puts it back in the fridge)

E: Umm, no . . . not milk.

M: What about Ezekiel Bread . . . I really like that now.

E: Not "really like" . . . LOVE.

M: You sure you want me to do this?

E: I'm going to bed.

For two days I pondered this question . . . and came up with nothing. Sure I love: my kids, my husband, my family, my job, sitting on my fat ass doing whatever I want until August 31, drinking coffee every morning, milk (can't do milk, can't do milk). So here goes. 

Lush. Lush. Lush. I'm not admitting to a drinking problem, but if I have to be in love with anything, it has to be Lush and their smelly goodness. I think my first Lush store was in England when Bridget and Shannon lived there, but I don't really remember. Dave knew from that trip on that we would be bringing back approximately one metric ton of Lush products every time we went. The beauty of Lush is that even if you aren't looking for it, you can find it simply by following your nose. The smell is unmistakable, pungent even. On a trip to New Orleans, I once smelled the shop from about three blocks away. The Girls thought I was nuts (probably still do) until they picked up the scent, too. 

A small, small portion of the Lush stash . . . minuscule if you ask me. 

 

So what's so good about this smelly little mess that is Lush? Just about everything. They made "all natural" and "handmade" cool well before the push made it to the mass retailers. Products look more like food, which is always a plus for me. There are huge chunks of ingredients in their soaps with magical properties. Funny names like 17 Cherry Tree Lane and Goth Juice and Sonic Death Monkey either evoke childhood memories or grown-up belly laughs. Either way, you put the soap in your little wicker basket and head to the register like a modern day Dorothy clicking her heals chanting, "There's no place like Lush, there's no place like Lush."

My favorite, can't live without it product is Ultrabland, an extremely hardworking but gentle makeup remover. Smear it on (about a fingertip's worth), wipe it off in the shower with a hot washcloth, you're good for the day. It's pricey (maybe $15 for a small container) but that small container will last half a year at least and for the most part, it leaves your skin so silky smooth that you don't even need any moisturizer. I haven't met a mascara that can stand up to Ultrabland. If I know that I'm visiting some place with a Lush, I'll check my stock of Ultrabland and grab a new pot. Otherwise, I'll invent a trip to New York City to buy some.

 Attempting to distract you with your pretty hydrangeas - for which I do nothing

If you've never tried Lush, give it a go. You might not have a store near you, but chances are, you have do. About six years ago, they started to crop up in Macy's and in larger cities. I used to come home from England with duffels loaded of the potent soaps and lotions. Now, I buy what I need when I visit Erika in Columbus . . . unless it's Christmas time. Then I stock up on Snowcake, the once-a-season soap that makes you want to lick yourself all-over . . . but that might be a post for "It's Saturday & I Have a Problem."

Jill

PS - I don't love the asshole beeping his horn at me this morning when I backed out of the driveway to let my husband out; so sorry I took up 10.7 seconds of your very precious morning . . . and that I flipped you off.

Not That I Would Doubt A Muppet

but maybe Kermit had it wrong. Sometimes, it's pretty damn easy being green. You can buy so much "green" crap today that you might lose sight of the fact that you don't actually need it. Seems like there is an organic product for everything (except for maybe nail polish remover). Despite our best efforts, however, there is one area where our family does not do so well at being green - two actually, but I'll save that dirty little secret for another day.

We have what we affectionately refer to as the "bag bag" in our kitchen: truly, a plastic bag filled with plastic bags. Dave remembers that they need to be taken into Wegmans or some other store for recycling, but then we forget to throw them in the car, and they spill out everywhere. I have even resorted to using them for packing boxes (cough, cough shipping presents to nieces and nephews) just to get rid of them. Solution? Buy those cute little reusable bags. Problem? Remember to take them with me. Repeat in a vicious, vicious cycle.

A bottle of wine, some cheese, maybe a baguette would look good in the bag

 

Enter summer vacation. I sat in front of the television - watching Pushing Daisies on DVD - and finished a knitting project: BYOB. The book that we are reading this summer for the Sit, Knit, and Read class is The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club, and Joann thought a tote would be a good idea. Miles and miles of seed stitch later (plus 12 episodes of fun albeit short lived television) the BYOB was complete.

I'm not sure if I'll be taking it to farmers' markets or toting the latest and greatest organic find from Target home. I do know that it holds about 30 plastic bags . . . thank god Dave didn't recycle them since I needed them for the photo.

Jill

"It's Friday & I'm in Love" Strawberry Head Popper Off Thing

Time for Round Two of "Friday I'm in Love".

I have a sweet spot for strawberries.  I remember being a toddler & hearing how my mom went strawberry picking a couple weeks before she had me.  Only now do I realize what a brave woman she was.  I was breech.  Sat pretty low.  And it was JUNE!  There's no A/C in strawberry patches!  I realize this because I carried Becket the exact same way, but during the winter.  I guess I only have the season to thank for my sanity.  But he was a pound heavier.  That might make us even.  I think during the seventies & early eighties there was a Strawberry decorating boom too.  I remember strawberries every where.  Kitchen towels.  Pot holders. Fabric.  Skirts & hats.  And I can't not mention Strawberry Shortcake.  But I was a Lemon Meringue kid.  I can still smell the chemical lemon scent being blown on my face from the Blow Kiss Dolls.  1982 rocked.  Back to actual strawberries though...

In our family, we claim things in our Parents' house.  Big things are marked with a masking tape name plate.  We figure that when it's time to pack it all up these little name plates will make the difficult much easier.  We're all leaving one day & you can't take it with ya!  I thought every household operates this way.  They don't.  But that doesn't stop me from asking my MIL to let me put my name on things in her house.  She's got a dog teapot that is adorable.  Trust me.  The other thing was this strawberry tool.  The tiny corer came from Pamper Chef & you might think it's unnecessary.  You might think anyone using it is pampered or spoiled.  Well, you'd be right.  One scoop & the whole top is off!  Way faster than a paring knife!  And safer if you have my thumbs.  When I mentioned that I was going to write my name on it, she said "Take it."  I think she said she has two.  I hope she does because I can't imagine living without it.  But then again, all my Moms are unselfish.  She might just have had one & now her strawberry top popping is much harder.

We got a perfectly ripe pint of strawberries this week & I was afraid they'd go bad.  I'm a little nutty because the entire box could have been polished off in 60 seconds by my clan.  I wanted a jam recipe that I could make with stuff I had on hand & one that used a small amount of the berry.  I searched & this one popped up fast.  With good reason too.  It taste like heaven & hell mixed into a pot of gold.  I didn't have the wine on hand (shock) or the green chile.  But I thought it was worth the grocery trip.  Sure was.  It isn't really a jammy as a jam.  More of a drizzling jam.  It doesn't matter cause it taste good on whatever you dip in it.  Saltines?  Yep.  Graham crackers?  Oh yeah.  Your fingers?  Gross, but yes.  Vanilla ice cream?  You bet your 1982 Strawberry Shortcake Blow Kiss Doll is does!

Later this week, there will be no investigative piece!  This Strawberry Head Popper Off Thingie is a Favorite!  And so is the spicy jam!

Keep your fingers crossed for my belly that rain stays away.  If it does, you'll find me knuckle deep in a strawberry patch.  After all it's summer. 

Erika

Lists, Or How I Suck At Following Them

Every year, about this time, I get this itch to make lists. Part of me thinks that it has something to do with being a teacher and that never ending quest to learn. But truly, it stems from the fact that summer is about 18 short work days away, and I am a person who craves structure. Seriously . . . who makes "to do" lists for the summer? Umm, me. Summer should be a time of relaxing on the beach, basking in the sunlight, and recharging for the autumn. One problem . . . I burn quite easily. So I make lists instead.

Three-quarters of the time, my lists look like this:

1. Read insert 25 titles of books here.
2. Finish knitting insert all of my knitting projects here.
3. Make a quilt, bag, dress, whatever-strikes-my-fancy.
4. Learn how to take photographs like my sister (because I am a shitty, shitty photographer).
5. Exercise (seriously, this makes it on the list every single year).
6. Read some books for school.
7. Be a better cook

The list could go on and on and on. Rarely, if ever, do I cross off a single thing because while I crave structure, I also fall into routines too easily, routines like this:

1. Make two cups of coffee.
2. Watch Morning Joe.
3. Watch People's Court.
4. Watch Judge Judy.
5. Watch some other horrible reality television program with a judge.
6. Watch more television.
7. Attempt to make dinner.

So, the only list I plan on making this summer is limited to one thing: don't watch television during the day . . . except for Morning Joe (I kind of have a crush on Joe Scarborough . . . if anyone knows him, please pass the word).

Jill