Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Strange Pancakes

"I didn't think your cooking would ever really poison anyone, Susan, but that's what the coroner's report says."
Morning Readers,

I'm reporting to you live from the Split-level, coffee in hand, brand new Justin Timberlake album on the record player.

...Or on iTunes. You guys are always so technical. What with your, "Paige, it's called electricity, not "the devils' magic." Whatever.

Anywho, we here in Kansas are still surrounded by snow, which means that, when the storm hit the other day, the Kellermans were forced to dig around the cabinets and come up with something interesting for dinner. After a tough decision between ambiguous canned goods and ambiguous canned goods, pancakes and bacon were declared the sustenance of the evening, and our last meal if we were to be snowed in forever.

Monday, March 25, 2013

At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles ...coming to an Amazon near you!

Morning Readers,

Will it be winter in Kansas forever? Probably. But that doesn't mean good things aren't around the corner. Just in case summer does eventually make its way here, I have something special you can grab for your Kindle or throw in that over sized beach bag.

"Paige, is it a free sun screen giveaway?"

I wish, but no!

At various points in the past year, I retreated to my secret layer and wrote a book. It has mystery. it has suspense. It has cankles. Yes, my friends, cankles. And it will be here in June.

"June of  2030?"

No! I fought all urges to procrastinate, and decided it needed to be released within the decade. So, get ready. Mark your calenders. Shave a reminder on the back of the dog. And write it on the bottom of your coffee cup in something waterproof.

And now, a little something from the back cover. Yes, people, it will have a back. The pride I feel over that simple fact is overwhelming. For, when I was a little girl dreaming about writing a book, I swore to myself that book would have a back:


At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly True Tales of An Impending Miracle is the hilarious debut novel of writer and humorist, Paige Kellerman. From the moment her positive test result is revealed in a fog of canine flatulence, to the day she's gently hoisted onto the delivery table by a front-end  loader, Paige guides you through her pregnancy with twins, careful to only hold one of your hands in case you need to cover your eyes with the other. You'll laugh out loud as she recounts the horrors of birthing class, her struggles with morning sickness, sexy Halloween costumes, applying for maternity leave - and of course, the impossible task of corralling those wayward cankles — in her own inimitable style. This book is a must-read for any mother, or anyone who has a mother to whom they probably need to apologize.

...And you thought this summer was only going to be about doing fun things besides reading this book.


Until Next Time, Readers!

Friday, March 22, 2013

Sticks and Stones ...and half an announcement

"If I jump off the roof, there's only a 98% chance I'll break something. I'm doing it."
 Morning Readers,

It's been a busy week around the Split-level. As is the case for most households when a child flies off her bed and breaks her arm.

Oh yes, our dear Sundance, after executing a Double Sow Cow and finding a soft plastic race track to land on, became a brand new recipient of, what the nice old doctor referred to as a tiny "crinkle" in in her right arm. Not bad enough to be in a cast for weeks on end, but serious enough that we have to try desperately to keep an almost-three-year-old in a splint for two weeks.

What was that? I heard someone in the back ask what the three hardest things to accomplish in life are. Survey says:

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Out of the Office: Embarrassing Myself at Another Location Today

"Well, I'm off to Stephanie's. She's going to love this mailbox I made her."
 Morning Readers,

Today I'm over visiting at When Crazy Meets Exhaustion,  humiliating myself on queue. Because I'm really good at that. The only thing I'm better at is forgetting to buy more toilet paper before we're down to the last square on the last roll.

So come on over, but bring your own coffee. I drank all eight cups of mine, hours ago.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Monday, March 18, 2013

If You Give a Baby a Cracker

There's nothing like a child's look of joy when they get what they want.

Morning Readers,

I'm well aware I haven't given may updates about Doc. So, before we go any further, please know he still lives with us.

Okay, that's cleared up, so let's talk about some notable milestones, which, to the untrained eye, are unimpressive, but to the trained eye, are passably interesting. As of  3/18/13, Doc Kellerman can:
  1. Touch his toes - This is interesting because some people can't.
  2. Laugh hysterically at whatever I say - This is interesting because we've been biting our nails waiting to see if he was born with a sense of humor.
  3. Pull off a teeny tiny chambray shirt paired with sophisticated shorts - This isn't interesting, but, Your Honor, in my defense, I plead cuteness in the form of the world's smallest J. Crew model. If I can address the jury for a moment, I'd also like to beg for a small boat and a casual, Grecian backdrop to complete the look. The defense rests. 
But, we're not here to talk about whether babies can actually steer ships. No, no. That, they can do. If you want to give them something that truly challenges and inspires, break out the saltines. Oh yes, once infants reach six months or so, they love them some crackers.

Eyes glaze over.
Fat fists punch the air in triumph.
Super-human strength takes over, while baby heels dig into your abdomen and try to launch everything from the heels up into the cracker box.

This past week, I assessed the youngest and decided he was ready for a cracker. I handed it to him. "Here, small child. Have a cracker."

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

What Happens In the Van Stays In the Van ....thankfully

"Well, Marleen, you could ride in the back and make the kids drive the car."

Afternoon Readers,

I'll be completely honest, sometimes I pack the kids in the van, simply to escape the house. That's right, I punch the ozone in the face and waste gas by driving around aimlessly. For a brief twenty minutes to an hour or eight days, I buckle everyone in, turn up the music, and enjoy the sites and sounds of things that are not the coffee pot or hearing my jewelry being flushed down the toilet.

It is my sanity.

It is my joy.

It is something that only has a success rate of 10%.

Monday, March 11, 2013

A Family Plunged Into Darkness

"It's just the fuse box, Bill. Don't you think a screwdriver would be less dramatic?"

Morning Readers,

They say the hardest thing about raising children is remembering to bathe them four times a year.

No, maybe that was two times a year.

Before June, but after July?

No matter, I'm here to tell you, the hardest thing about raising children is keeping them from sticking things in places where the sticking is less than advantageous.

  • Oh, you mean it's not customary to mix the peanut butter with one's fist?
  • Crayola said the orange, red, yellow and Burnt Sienna were best stored down the heat vent. That masterpiece on your hand is called, "Heat Smells Like Imagination."
  • Since when do dogs not like drumsticks poked at their butt? What do you know about music?
  •  You're yelling like the finger in your eye is somehow inconvenient for you. Curious. Get a load of the lady who hates fingers in her eye.
 Apart from the dog's butt, occasionally, things are stuck places that really matter. Readers, you're already aware the Split-level is in crisis. (Oh yes, we're still sinking. I looked out my bedroom window this morning, and all I saw was an earthworm doing Zumba in his living room.) So, when the lights went out last night, I threw up my hands and started handing out miner's hats.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

How To Sound Exactly Like Your Parents

"I'll never sound like you. Ever."  "Son, you're a fool."

Morning Readers,

This is my third consecutive day without coffee, which would be more of a tragedy if there was some sort of coffee shortage instead of me being too lazy to go buy more. As it is, I'm drinking tea and, while I feel more refined, the box said it has minor laxative side effects, so it may be time to restock the tea as well.

But, we didn't gather here today to talk about regularity. Nay, this morning's topic lands carefully on the subject of sounding like one's parent. When I was a young thing, decked out in braces and hair that considered styling tools dangerous strangers, I made a vow to myself.

Monday, March 4, 2013

A Few Extra Pounds

I wrote you a song. It's called, "Stop feeding the dog Pop tarts."
Afternoon Readers,

I'm taking a brief timeout from a horrendously unsuccessful nap time to say hello and confirm the fact that, yes, right now, playing in traffic sounds delightful.

Thanks for asking.

But enough about me and how tempting the liquor's looking before 3pm. I need to tell you how awful am as a dog owner, as well. I know what you're thinking, "Paige, how can you be a horrible dog owner, when you're so great at raising children via chicken nuggets and half-listening to everything they say?"

How, indeed. It was brought to our attention this weekend, that the dog is overweight. By fifteen pounds. Which, as I've been informed, is a lot. Husband let me know when he brought Flea huff puffing back from the vet.

Friday, March 1, 2013

The Top Seven Things I Want On My Gravestone: Because ten would be in poor taste

Afternoon Readers,

In an attempt to celebrate the end of a workweek that will continue into Saturday, pass through Sunday, and end up at Monday, I posted the above picture on Facebook this morning. Due to the positive response it received, I'll go ahead and state that my Readers have the best sense of humor in the history of senses of humor.

And, while the picture is hilarious, it got me thinking about my mortality and the final message I'll leave the world when my time comes.

Because, when it it's all said and done, my gravestone will also be my final blog post, the last, solitary, mark I was ever here, incessantly folding towels and perpetually in pajamas. Husband has strict instructions not to deviate from the fact I want something interesting on my final marker. He does, however, get wiggle room in the form of this list.

He may choose one of the following...