Party at Our House

Matt and I love to entertain. We both love cooking, and I like making sure everyone's glass is full, all the candles are lighted, not one spec of dirt lingers anywhere, and that the music is spot on.

We're having a New Year's party, so come on over!

We had the greatest Christmas ever. It will be difficult to top in the coming years. We went to church--pretty much the entire Brooks clan, Matt, Sam and I--and allowed Sam to stay with us for the candle-lighting ceremony. It was beautiful and moving.

The Brooks gang joined us for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities, which warms my wee heart when we all can be together (but we were missing Jason's family, sadly).

Santa came, of course, and brought Sam everything on his list. Matt and I exchanged presents...one highlight is my retro Schwinn bicycle from the late 1960s - perfect!

But my favorite gift of all, from Matt, was a huge box filled with canned and dry food. I want to get involved--really, really involved--with Gleaners Food Bank. I have a plan I've been working through for a while, and when I opened the box, Matt said, "This is to help you start your mission."

I almost cried. This guy, this husband of mine, the onion...oh, I love peeling back new layers revealing what a sensitive guy he is.

So, he can't fix much around the house. That's all right. He's a good guy, and I knew that the minute I laid eyes on him.

With every great year and wonderful Christmas we have, we know that the most important part is giving to those in need. I hope to end all of my nights wide awake at 2:00 a.m. worrying about the children who didn't get dinner. And all it takes is a plan...and some serious driving around.

More to come - Happy New Year!

Say, what?

In all of my geekdom, I discovered my new favorite website: Forvo.com. All of the words in the world. Pronounced.

It has over 6,000,000 people pronouncing words that might typically throw you, like Aeschylus (that one always gets me) or Jeffrey Eugenides (also had a really hard time getting that one down).

For this website you will need:
1. A computer
2. Volume turned up on said computer

You type your word in, and then click on a little arrow icon and voila: someone says the word correctly!

It even gives you a "Language of the Day," which today is Flemish, in case you want to practice your Belgian Dutch.

I'm searching the house for words I can't pronounce...I might play on this all day!

Shrimp & Grits

I'm in the South. I've been in Charleston, SC for three days for a little break; a calm before my three writing jobs kick my ass in January. The 3rd South Carolina city I've visited, it's by far the most grand. Not quite Atlanta, GA, but for the South, it's really good. Strangely, it's a blonde town. I've met several great locals, and tonight a Charlestonian woman said, "I like you. Blondes have to stick together." She wrote down her phone number and told me she hoped to hear from me very soon. Funny, as that's something I'd probably do.

I've had some very quirky things happen since I've been here, and I'm shocked at how many 80s preppies are still living that dream. Whale and duck pants, bright green and bright yellow pants and shirts. I think the stores simply haven't restocked since 1985.

Charlottesville was chock-full of preppies with Daddy's money, seeking a degree in philosophy or poetry; The Charlestonian accent, however, doesn't give me the shivers.There was a sardonic quote once about how Southern people never sound like rocket scientists, even if they are rocket scientists.

Charlestonians deliver diction, syntax and annunciation with a soft undulating way of conveying their "inna-most" thoughts. It's sweet, sophisticated sugar. I told Matt that I could live here (if we ever move from Georgia, cough cough), and he said that Ruby Sue would likely turn over in her "grave" if he ever moved to the South. We simply won't tell her.

I met a couple last night who started off fun, but I quickly left the jazz bar via a ride from their "bike taxi" son, who'd recently graduated from the Citadel. I was afraid I'd either be sold off to slavery, or chopped into bits (worse yet, grits) if I played with this crazy group any longer. The wife, a Charlestonian, told me her "ugly" secrets and dark thoughts, her husbands miscomings, and her son's quest to marry the daughter of his dad's (her husband's) ex-wife. It was all too "Bravo" or "Oxygen" channel for my liking, so I left before they locked me in a trunk.

I had some damn good wine and mussels before I left, though. I held my arms way up in the bike taxi, laughing at the experience.

I took a wonderful walking tour of the historic downtown given by a 7th-generation Charlestonian and two dry old women from deep-Virginia, whom I could not comprehend at any corner. Although it's fascinating to learn about history--the 1860s were sure good--I noted one little thing that I don't think the rest of the group was following, something that was wearing on me like moss on a myrtle tree. The Civil War ended. There is no more Confederacy. You can talk about palmetto trees and artillery all you want, winning battles at Ft. Sumter, and decorated generals, but the Conferacy is not coming back. Charleston seceded first--and that's cool--but the Yankees won the good fight. And there's no sweet-tea-sipping glory-day-remembering under a magnolia that's going to bring it back. It just...poof! Went. In smoke, nonetheless.

But my stay at the Francis Marion Hotel (Revolutionary War "Swamp Fox") has been wonderful. My calves are killing me from walking...and I've done my share of eating and drinking. The icing on the piece of cake I did not order was Indiana beating # 1 rated Kentucky while I sat tasting my first-ever shrimp & grits.

I'm really looking forward to scooping Sam into my arms today, and kissing my husband hello. I miss them!

The Importance of Being Noticed

One of the best quotes I've heard in a long time came from my friend, Doug, who tells his dates, "Can we please not record this night on Facebook?"

Hilarious.

Today Sam had a playdate with a good friend, whose mom--a wonderful mom--is very young. She added to her Facebook page "where we are having lunch and what we're eating" and I gave earnest consideration to ever posting again.

This younger generation keeps record, by God. I'm astounded at how many accounts they need to tell and show the world just what they've been up to. Is it ego? Is it trying to fit it, or find their place in the world? Is it necessary?

I'm waiting for an answer. I'll check Twitter and see what I find out.

A Fond Farewell

We said farewell to our loving gerbil this week. Gertie died November 30 at 8:11 p.m. Her services were held under our Evergreen tree in the front yard.

Gertie spent many of her days being completely ignored. During those times she enjoyed chewing through toilet paper or paper towel rolls, hiding in one of her many "huts," and running on her obnoxious, loud, green wheel.

She leaves behind her family: Matt, who told Jill "Yes! Let's get a gerbil! Gerbils are fun! I always had gerbils when I was a kid!"; Jill, who fed her, talked to her, held her although Gertie made her sneeze, and cleaned her cage; and Sam, who once took her to preschool for Show and Share.

Gertie died with a full belly, and both Jill and Matt got to hold her for a while until that fateful moment when she decided to lie on her back. Sam seemed unphased by the situation, as it was bathtime, but he did kiss her a couple of times before she passed.

When told that Gertie was now in heaven, Sam smiled, and said, "My next gerbil is going to be name Tutu. And my dog is going to be named Fafa.

Peace Out, Gertie.

Brining the Bird and Other Disgusting Measures

In a few moments I have to walk into my kitchen and stick my hands down the turkey's underpants and pull out stuff that no one in their right mind would actually use to make gravy, let alone eat.
My brine is cooling, Sam is coughing his head off in his "office" playing video games (it has begun...video games), and Matt fled for work (a short day, thank goodness). His parents have been with us for two weeks, with one more week to go! There is plenty of body heat in our house.

We took them to the Jazz Kitchen, which is one of my favorite places, and scored some bonus points for doing so. They're in Chicago today, so I'm going to whip this place into a Christmas wonderland since they leave next week, and will miss the transformation.

Thanksgiving tomorrow with Matt's folks, my mom, sister and niece. Big Brooks bonfire on Friday with the entire clan. Matt's parents want to join the bonfire, but I neglected to tell them that they might have to pee in the woods. This should be interesting.

Until then, happy Thanksgiving!

School Pictures

I got behind a Chevy Malibu on Tuesday and it almost ruined my day.

Kidding.

Sam had school pictures taken on Thursday. We arrived to school early (we're almost always the first ones there because we drive 15-20 minutes to school, so it's difficult to time).

The director said we could "go right in" for the photo session since we were early, and she handed Sam his "paperwork," which she even called "paperwork." I waited. Sam sat in a row created just for picture day, little orange and blue chairs the height of small trash cans. I combed his hair and waited outside. I peeked a couple of times while he waited. He had this huge piece of paper gripped in one fist, and with the other small fingers he waved to me. He grinned. He was knocking his legs together and occasionally swinging them. He kept giving me big grins like he was very patient but couldn't believe how long he was waiting in line since he was the only kid there.

Or perhaps that's what I was thinking.

When his name was called, I vanished. I didn't want him performing for me, looking my way, or making goofy faces. I hid in the bathroom.

When he finished I walked him to his room. I asked how it went. He said, "It was fun, Mom. I was just getting my picture taken."

I cried the minute I got to the car.

This needs no formal introduction...

Fresh Beats

We're people people

Oh man, oh man, the blog. I think about writing, but I always feel so busy that I wonder how I can possibly boil down the facts. I can truly piss away my free hours like nobody's business, too. It's a balancing act.

Good words to describe Sam could be over-indulged child (like the fact that he owns at least 10 costumes and yet I spent my entire evening tracking down a "Dark Knight" costume because he'd rather be that than Ironman, which we bought 3 weeks ago), but somehow he keeps his sunny, friendly, highly-positive, sweet disposition, so Matt and I shrug and say, "Eh, hard to deny him." That kid always has plans. He's 99% Matt, with my social spark: he finds people wildly entertaining and enjoyable. He's knows all of his letters and numbers (up to 40) by sight, and is starting to relay his feelings/desires in fluent Spanish. His teacher said that he's definitely the most direct and assertive (albeit the youngest), and one of the smartest in the class. Let's hope he doesn't blow it all by voting Republican. ; )~

Winter is approaching. I can hear it in Matt's whimpers and sighs. My biggest winter challenge won't be shoveling all the snow, but keeping Sam in line. My flowers are dying, the grass is trying to choke out one last meaningful burgeon, and I've decided that I'll never dwindle time again with the fool-hardy mums. They last but a week or two. Hopeless.

We're heading down to French Lick Springs Thur-Fri for Fall Break, because preschoolers who are only in school 15 hours a week need respite from their harrowing schedules. The timing was perfect for Matt's CLE class (snoooooooze to the commoner), so Sam and I can get in some good swimming time at their wicked indoor pool.

Matt and I are going to a Halloween party with our friends Kelly & Mike on Saturday. The photos from this evening should be cracking. I'm just sayin. There have been a lot of trips to Goodwill, and I got to shop at stores like Wet Seal, Forever 21, and Deb! Whoa, enlightening. I cannot believe I've been wasting my time online ordering from Athleta and Title Nine.

Wal-Mart Bingo

I have not been to Wal-Mart in over 6 months. My heart rate is back to normal, and I don't care if I could save $2.45: I will never return.

I will never drive behind another dump truck, a Mercury Sable, any type of Buick or Toyota Corollas. These are the slowest cars out there, and it isn't worth the aggrevation.

I seriously wrapped a gift at the corner of 96th and Keystone the other day, so I'll never take that route again, either. I'm simplifying my life.

This bingo card fully explains my recent, necessary actions.

Spooky Corner

Our latest creation...it's killer.

Matt's Terrarium

Sam and I made this for Matt's boring office...

note the tiny surf board.

4th Birthday Bash

The sound of 30 little feet running around our house. We threw one killer 4th birthday party for Sam. 41 people in our backyard...awesome. And I KNOW there's no time clock in baseball...Angie was being creative. The scoreboard was the best part of the party!

Lordy Be

We camped in Yellowwood State Forest for Labor Day - beautiful. Two men occupied the site next to us: one looking like an intern pastor at the local Church of Latter Day Saints, the other covered in tattoos with beady eyes and a crooked face. The kind of face you get when you bust out of jail.
We couldn't figure them out, and they kept shouting the Lord's name--not in vain, mind you--at the top of their lungs. Things like, "Glory be to God for fishing!" and "Praise be to Jesus the almighty, let me shout it to the world!"

Matt, hmph-ing, said, "Something ain't right with them." But we camped on. Tyler Brooks joined us, that cute little college kid.

Another guy was walking around the grounds carrying his bible. He smiled wide at me, and said, "You sure have a good looking family there." I could tell he was looking for fellowship, so I kept my nose down and kept camping.

We think we might find another place to camp next time. We keep to ourselves, usually.

Preparations are underway...

I'm preparing for Sam's 4th birthday party. So far, there are 14 kids on the list, with parents, and my entire family. Matt makes the best margaritas, after all, and adults love drinking at kids' birthday parties. It's baseball-themed this year, and I'm creating a score board as the backdrop.

Sam and I practiced making baseball cupcakes. They were very tedious and we stopped after 5, but I am his mother for God's sake; I cannot buy store-made cupcakes!

I was just about to OK an order of personalized M&M's that I created for $52 online, but I had to stop myself, click off the site and hide the address. I thought, "Does he really need these?"

Definitely when he turns 5.

I should be in the party-planning business. I'm over the top - the guest room closet is already full of "birthday stuff."

Someone stop me. "Please," says Matt. : )

Super Fan

This week has been a surfeit of stress. My dad would describe it as low level continuous stress, such is Katie's life. People who do not grab hold of what they have, who find fault and factor in the teeny cracks of their lives (I've been guilty myself), should rejoice that they are still living, still able to complain.


A good guy died this week, along with 5 others at the Indiana State Fair, who I'm sure were good, as well. At first, before I realized I knew one of the victims, it was hard for me to validate the feeling of loss and anguish the families and friends were experiencing. When I knew it was someone I'd known for so long, someone who had always been so wonderful to me, so happy and full of life, it was difficult not to imagine the horrible last moments of life he experienced. Glenn, who worked security at the Vogue Theatre, was a jovial, happy spirit. He spoiled me in my twenties and thirties, experiencing many concerts for the first time with me on the front row shouting, "Glenn, this is a really important band. They're from _____ and they have recorded ____ records." He would just laugh and smile. He didn't care. That wasn't part of his job. He was there to protect us. He knew I was all about the music, and any time I "wished" a nettlesome guy to disappear (which was sometimes), he would wisk said guy off into the darkness of the Broad Ripple, Indiana streets.

Perhaps 3 guys were kicked out of shows in those days, just for messing with me, for trying to push me somewhere I didn't want to be pushed. I should feel guilty, but I don't feel guilty. Glenn would laugh with me now. They all had it coming. I was Eric's girl.

Don't let me confuse you. I never had a boyfriend named Eric. No, no, much better. A best friend named Eric. A guy who would stay after hours--if, let's say, I was passed out in the Vogue's bathroom--for me. If I was heartbroken, or if I wanted to meet--let's say, The Tragically Hip for the first time--a band. Eric was there for me. Eric grew up at the Vogue Nightclub - it was his first job in high school. He stacked chairs in the evening. Now Eric is one of the most sought-after production managers (perfectionist and obvious Capricorn) in the country. Yep, the country.

Eric has come to my rescue more times than I care to remember, and Eric was standing next to the Indiana State Fair stage when it collapsed last Saturday evening. My husband and our neighbors were sitting on our deck 10 miles north saying, "Ooh, isn't this a scary sky?" Little did we know the aftermath that followed these comments.

So tomorrow I'll attend Glenn's funeral, and I'll likely tell him something funny that will always remain between the two of us. I'll thank him for all of the years he took care of me, and how he helped mold me from a starry-eyed fan...into a real fan. He taught me through his sincere laugh, and I taught him through my sincere devotion to music.

What can I say, I'm a fan. A fan of Glenn's and--thank god, still--a fan of Eric's. Without such friends, my life would simply have been a series of random concerts.

Lake Tippy

Our goal is to vacation as much as possible before:
1. Summer ends
2. The United States careens further into financial disaster.

Matt says, "Not to worry, the stock market has crashed before!" I told him to please buy stock in Marvel Comics while it's down. ; )

We went to Lake Tippecanoe (Battle of Tippecanoe, if you know your Indiana history) over the weekend with our super fun, super nice, fast-becoming-our-best-friends Kelly and Mike, and their friends, Jason and Sandy (lest we forget the 5 kids in attendance). Lake "Tippy," as one would say, was very pretty, very Hoosier. It was in the town of Leesburg, which was near the town of Wabash (which I thought was only a county), which was accessible only via small town after small town on State Roads 37, 15 and 13.  I'm maybe a little more comfortable on 465. I have definitely been to more places outside of Indiana than in Indiana. Shame on me. Better brush up on my Indiana history.

Once we arrived, once Matt and I stopped arguing over directions, once I had a PBR in my hand, it was bloody awesome:

Sam tubed.

Sam soaked up rays.

Sam drove the boat with Mike, drank a beer with his dad, and swam with his (previous lifeguard) mommy.

Sam...did crafts? Whoa.

...and Sam did NOT sleep in the room deemed "for children." Oh, that little mama's boy.

What a great mini-vacation.

Next up: The Outer Banks!

The Wood Pile

Summer was rolling on nicely; M's garden was growing with few weeds:

Sam's playset was finally finished:

Sam learned how to swim (pretty well):

And then M bought a chainsaw:

...now it's back to work for us all.

Indians Game

Today I attended a staff outing for Indianapolis Monthly. Given that I only knew one person there, my editor, who hired me over a beer at the Broad Ripple Brew Pub, I appreciated being included as "staff."

The outing was an Indianapolis Indians baseball game, and it was 95 degrees.

I changed outfit ideas a few times, finally leaning on one of my Title Nine skorts to get me through yet another day (best purchases I've made all summer), and a cotton "ruffle" top (so far from my daily gardening tee), just in case these business people were wearing suits. I considered a quick pedicure touch-up for those who might look down at my feet. No time.

I got Sam to school, got back home and took a shower, was having a perfectly good hair day, and allowed myself 45 minutes to drive downtown, park, and walk to their elite offices on the Circle.

It took me 50 minutes just to get downtown. I was starting to sweat, but that's mostly because of the temperature. I walked into the lobby 5 minutes late and several cute women were dressed in shorts, T-shirts and skirts, so I knew this must be my group. I introduced myself and they phoned my editor to meet us.

I walked with a large group of journalists to the game and, quite literally, I could feel the sweat beading on my lip and occasionally dripping down my back. By the time we got to the game--hadn't even taken our seats yet--my shirt was wet, my deodorant was "pilling," and I had severe "shine face." The perfect hair went up in a ponytail

We sat in our seats--right in the sun--for about 30 minutes. I could feel sweat running down my bra...eww. No one ever mentioned a beer. I couldn't be the leader on this one (although, typically, I like being the suggester when drinking is involved). A few times I thought, "Is there a hidden camera? Is this some kind of a joke?"

I ran to the bathroom and used 35 paper towels to wipe sweat. Other women were doing it, too, so I didn't feel so weird. I returned to my seat. I baked. Finally, my editor said, "Let's go get a beer!" Oh, thank God.

I stayed for two + hours and I was the first one to leave. I'm certain no one ever saw my toes. I held my arms tightly to my sides so that no one could see the huge sweat rings, and I ambled back to my car.

What I brought home were some new acquaintances, an official baseball for Sam, and knowing that I'm not really a spectator of sports.

I have no idea if the Indians won; in fact, I don't even know who the Indians played.

For those who still keep datebooks

The magazine shot. How hilarious. "It looks like a dating site photo," my mom told me.

Well, it isn't from a dating site...it's in Indianapolis Monthly this month as there's a wee feature on me being the new Datebook Editor. I seriously love my job. It causes me to be even more of an insomniac because I'm constantly playing over the words of my Top Ten write-ups each month. I choose my words carefully, mull them over, sleep on them, change their order or relevance, and do this for about 3 days each. It's neurosis. I love writing, and I feel very privileged to be writing for the Monthly.

Matt is also acting as my agent trying to land me my second law firm book deal. Ooh, that would be nice. But when would I write...in my sleep? Oh yeah, I don't sleep.

Sweet.