Wowzers
October 23, 2007

Did you know that you can buy a wedding dress at Target?

Me neither.

Styles start at eighty-nine dollars.

Maybe I'm snot-nosed and old-fashioned, but have they gone too far?

We Laughed Our Glutes Off
October 23, 2007

Fun fact about Amy: She runs like a weirdo.

If you know me personally, you've probably come to realize this. It's strikingly obvious any time I chase the ice cream truck or run into the road to gather my unruly toddler. And if you don't know me personally, I'm not sure that I can adequately describe my stride, but for the purposes of this post, I will try.

Let's see...If I'm trotting along and you decide to run next to me on the right side, my right heel will kick you in the shin. If you run next to me on the left side, my left heel will kick you in the teeth. And if you cheer me on from the sidelines, you'll probably get chills and feel motivated to become a better person because I genuinely look like a girl with a slight physical impairment who has courageously overcome the odds. It's really very touching.

This stride problem was bad in high school, but over the years, it's only gotten worse. My ankle hurts, my hip hurts, my shoes wear out too quickly, and it's all because I run like an injured petting-zoo animal.

I knew the issue needed to be addressed, but I had no idea who to call.

Finally, after much thought, and a run-in with his wife at the park, I decided to call Marcus, the friendly neighborhood fitness trainer. Not only is Marcus a personal fitness trainer, he's also a physical therapist--in other words, Marcus is the man for me.

So I called him, we made an appointment, and last night around 7 o'clock, Marcus showed up on my step. Jared and I were putting some groceries away when I opened the door, and holy crap-a-moly, we were both rendered speechless. Marcus--how should I put this delicately?-- is unbe-freaking-lievably hot.

This man looked like he was either computer generated or airbrushed--I can't decide which one. We're talking rippling abs, beautifully toned biceps, and a set of shoulders which he could easily throw me over as we scamper off into the sunset.

I wanted to say, "Welcome to my bachelorette pad. This is the maintenance man, and he's just leaving," as I casually pushed Jared out the door.

But instead I said, "Hi Marcus, this is my husband and we're in an open relationship."

Ok, not really. I said, "Hi Marcus, thanks for coming. Your little boy is adorable and I love chatting with your wife at the park!"

How boring.

As he turned around to hang his coat on a hook Jared glared over at me, put on a surprised expression and clearly mouthed the words: HE LOOKS JUST LIKE ME! I mouthed back: TOTALLY!

As we began our session, I quickly came to realize that Marcus was a normal human being, just like the rest of us. He was nothing but professional as he evaluated my bone structure and bounced medical terms back and forth with Jared. After a long and thoughtful pause, Marcus proclaimed that my troubles were originating in my hips and glutes (aka: butt). "Roll over onto your stomach" he said, "I want to show this to Jared."

I rolled over and he starting rambling off some information about my bum muscles. As he talked and pointed he paused to say, "Don't worry, Amy. I won't actually touch your glutes."

And that's when my husband piped in. He was like, "Oh, that's fine Marcus. You can palpate Amy's glutes. She knows that it's all professional."

So he did. Marcus poked my glutes. And when I turned my head to make eye contact with my husband, he gave me an affirmative little nod and mouthed the words: YOU'RE WELCOME.

As soon as Marcus left, we totally laughed our glutes off. Oh, and I should mention, while the element of teamwork was very much appreciated, I will never return that favor for my thoughtful, selfless husband.

Good News All Around

October 22, 2007

First, Jared passed round three boards--the hardest round by a long shot. He also passed his physiotherapy boards with a 690--375 is passing. Trust me, you want this man to be your chiropractor.

We're getting there. We're finally, finally getting there.

Second, THE RED SOX ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES!

Things are looking up!

*Kiss Kiss*
October 21, 2007

We live in a total *kiss kiss* kind of neighborhood.

Allow me to elaborate.

Dallas and its commuter towns are largely comprised of subdivisions, with zillions of houses that all look remarkably similar. Sure someone might put an extra arch above their garage to outdo their friendly neighbor, or maybe they'll paint their shutters a richer shade of taupe, but that's truly the extent of originality. Row after row, house after house, brick after brick, they all look the same.

I can't lie, it completely creeps me out.

However, amidst the extensive cookie cutter-ness that we call the DFW Metroplex, there are a handful of secret little neighborhoods that defy these odds and simply ooze with charm. And somehow, by a very random stroke of luck, we happen to live in one. Our neighborhood boasts tree lined streets, mini tudor style cottages with original stained glass windows, its very own Montessori school, and super strict regulations to keep it all in tact.

The people who call this neighborhood home, are equally interesting. They tend to be young professionals, in the early stages of eventual high-powered careers, who wouldn't have a clue what to do without their cleaning ladies. They have book clubs, supper clubs, and wine & cheese play groups. Their houses are eclectically, but impeccably decorated--usually featuring a number of accessories from Pottery Barn, an item or two from their honeymoon in Buenos Ares, and a few assorted artifacts from a semester study-abroad program in Italy.

The quirk that makes these people especially unique is the way they like to greet one another. It's always with the *kiss kiss*. You know--kiss the right cheek, kiss the left, and end the ritual with an especially goofy kind of smile. Much like Cameron and Justin pictured above.

In this neck of the woods, the *kiss kiss* seems to be appropriate for all types of encounters:

At the soccer game:
*Kiss Kiss* Jimmy's cleats are ADORABLE. I can't believe you found them for only fifty-four dollars! What a bargain hunter you are, Stephi!

At the health-food grocery store:
*Kiss Kiss* You're kidding me! Organic mangoes are on sale this week?! They look WONDERFUL! So glad I ran into you, Todd.

And at the birthday party:
*Kiss Kiss* Thanks so much for inviting us! Here's a developmentally appropriate wooden toy for little Matthew, and a bottle of chardonnay for the hostess extraordinaire!

I love these people with all my heart, but damn, I just can't get used to their European inspired greeting style. I'm used to kissing my family members around the holidays, but come now, am I really supposed to plant one on another unshowered mother at the park? Gosh y'all, in my apartment complex (which happens to be the eyesore of the neighborhood) we're more likely to greet each other with the good old-fashioned armpit fart.

We're like, What's up? *fart/flap fart/flap*

Works for us.

On Saturday, James and I attended one of these birthday parties. It was cute, very neighborhood appropriate--fresh fruit for the children, fancy dips for the parents, and lots of *kiss kiss* greeting among the adults.

Oh, and before I forget, there was a birthday cake from Whole Foods. It was supposed to feature Curious George, but the graphic turned out more like a giant ape, with tats, swinging from a vine. Seriously guys, George had a rockin' set of taa-taas. I was like, "Ummmm, could someone go ahead and draw a little organic frosting t-shirt on our monkey friend?" Unfortunately, no one was willing.

Anywho, I digress.

On our way out, I thanked the host of the party, who happens to be the father of the little boy I babysit--in other words, my boss. And apparently, unbeknownst to me, the *kiss kiss* is also used for departures. I was like, "Bye Carlos, thanks for the snacks." And before I knew it, he was reeling me in.

Of course, being the righteous, married woman that I am, I was thrown off. "Why," I thought, "is this strappingly handsome hispanic boss of mine putting his face uncomfortably close to my own?" I had prepared myself for the *kiss kiss* greeting, but I wasn't expecting it again so soon. So, in a strange moment of self defense, I turned my head to the left.

And that's when my boss kissed me. Right in the ear.

Talk about thrown off. The ear kiss is a little risque, don't ya think? I really didn't know how to react, so I said, "Wow Carlos, that was really exotic. Thanks."

And then we ran home...back to our apartment complex...right where we belong.

Knocked Up
October 19, 2007

No, no, it's not me. I'm definitely not the one who's knocked up. If you read this blog regularly, then you know full well that the only thing I find scarier than a second child is the idea of being chased by a blood-thirsty hippo down a major freeway while a government official hovers above me in a helicopter yelling "THE WORLD HAS RUN OUT OF SNICKERS BARS! THERE ARE NO MORE SNICKERS BARS!" over his battery-powered megaphone.

It's true, that scenario is nothing short of terrifying--scares the schnit right out of my rear.

So who's knocked up? Well, let's rephrase that question...who's not knocked up.

Right now, I quite seriously know sixteen girls from church, four women from my neighborhood, and three family members who are all expecting children. I'm very excited for each and every one of them, and to commemorate these historic events, they will each be receiving one high five from yours truly, because seriously, I can't afford twenty-three baby gifts--or twenty-three now n' laters for that matter.

I'm most excited about my nephew who's due to arrive tomorrow, my niece who should make an appearance in two-ish weeks, and my sister's kid who's due in May. Yes, that's right. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and friends, you all read that line correctly, my sister Katy is pregnant....AGAIN!

That's a picture of her cutie son Tyler, wearing the over-sized 'World's Best Big Brother' shirt. Actually, the t-shirt's not that big, Tyler's just a bit too small. You see, unless you live in Utah, Idaho, or the heart of the ghetto, it's next to impossible to find an appropriately sized 'big brother' shirt for a nine-month-old baby. My sister's children will be a mere sixteen months apart, and based on upon that reproductive choice, I'm officially naming Katy an Honorary Mormon Mom.

So congratulations Sister Shamitz! Welcome to the fold!

I'm sure you can tell that I'm pretty damn excited about my three new nieces and nephews. If you're finding yourself unexpecdedly excited about my family's news, then hop on over to my sister's blog and wish her congratulations. Then pop by my sister-in-law's blog and wish her loads of good luck with her fast approaching due date. And then, when you've finished with that, close your eyes and send some painless labor vibes to my other sister-in-law--because dang it!, she's still blogless.

These babies will bring James's cousin count to a grand total of six. At that rate he won't need a little sibling for a long, long time. So keep 'em coming ladies, keep 'em coming!