Monday, Monday…

Is it Monday already?

I have never understood that question. In my whole history of histories I have never NOT known it was Monday. For every second of the forty bazillion seconds in a weekend (totally officiall number by the way) I am aware as each passes by. I can feel the impending Monday morning wake-up in mah bones. Mah bones, I tell you.

And this weekend was no exception. Hubby has been working his fingers to a stumpy little nub trying to accomplish all kinds of interwebby tasks and being that he works from home this has resulted in late nights of him click-click-clicking away on his computer from the home office (i.e. our bedroom) leaving me tossing and turning to the rhythm of his keyboard.

Not as soothing as it sounds. (Yes, that was sarcasm. Not my most attractive quality. Well, that and my cankles.)

So, last night I relegated myself to the living room couch where there is no computer in sight and the only sounds assaulting my ears are those made by my achy bones as they settle into the ten year-old couch cushions.

Ahhh…blissful, right? (Again with the sarcasm. I need help.)

Not so much. Monday morning came screaming at me full-force and I’ve been feeling every bit of it…in mah bones.

And in case you’re wanting some context regarding the picture featured above? That’s just my Jack being Jack…in a little bit of a Risky Business moment. God Bless him.


Backyard Chickens…What?

I typically prefer my chicken wrapped up in cellophane and sporting a barcode. I’m real traditional like that.

But my hubby decided that our suburban existence was missing a vital element. He felt the calling, people, and plunged head-first into what has become his new religion.

That’s right. We’re chicken farmers. Farmers. Of chickens. In the suburbs.

Now, I am well aware of the growing “backyard farmer” trend and understand it to a certain degree, I guess. Apparently there’s something wrong with buying the offspring of our feathered friends from the supermarket. Apparently I have been doing detrimental damage to my family by serving them up sparkly white eggs.


Enter the chickens.

We started out with two Rhode Island Reds (listen to me sounding all legit!) appropriately named Ginger and Scarlet.

Husband spent my kid’s college savings on building them some posh digs. I mean, we’re nothing if not devoted farmers.

And then we started rockin’ and rollin’. The chickens were popping out eggs left and right. My hubby would run out to the coop every morning, gather his bounty, throw some high-fives at his girls and come in the kitchen with a smug “yes, I’m doing my part for this environment” look written all over his face.

And just when I’m pretty sure the hubby was ready to send in his application to the Chicken Farmers of America his good work came to a crashing halt. Ginger was sick. She took up residence in a cushy little corner of our bathtub while my man attempted to recuperate the little chicken. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be and Ginger went home to be with her Maker in, I’m assuming, a heavenly plane of plush grass and worms a’plenty.

Sure that our new(ish) backyard venture was to be thwarted with this loss I started perusing the sales ads for Eggland’s Best. I barely had enough time to compare market prices when my hubby shows up with four new baby chicks. Four. Apparently you can’t change the world with just one chicken.

The ladies have not started laying yet but I’m quite sure that when they do we will have eggs coming out the wazoo. I mean our wazoos. Not the chicken’s. Because eggs literally do come out of their wazoos.

You get my point.

This should be fun. In a chicken poop/bawk, bawk, bawk/egg wazoos kind of way.



lia sophia jewelry anyone?

Hi folks! Today’s post is serving the purpose of FULL DISCLOSURE to my readers.

I am now an Independent Sales Advisor for lia sophia jewelry.

There, I said it. I was kind of nervous. Like “OMG, do you think he likes me?” kind of nervous. Remember that high school feeling? That little niggling tickle in the deepest part of your stomach assaulting your nerves as you sit with your girlfriends at lunch and pretend not to notice the hunk-a-burnin’-love dripping sexual energy from two tables over. A very Danny/Sandy kind of scenario.

But, yes, I was all nervy about announcing my new venture because some people take issue with bloggers attempting to make a little cash. And then talking about it. How ironic, no? Bloggers talking about something going on in their life? What a thought.

I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for a little over 5 years now, and while I absolutely love the fact that I get to watch Days of Our Lives in real time, I have been itching for some grown-up interaction. In December I was invited to attend a lia sophia party and peruse some fabulous jewelry. To know me is to know that I have some major love for three things: makeup, jewelry and handbags. It is no surprise that those three categories have no size restrictions or require elastic waistbands. Simply put, they always fit despite even the most bloated of stomachs. A frizz-free hair style, some bright fuschia lipstick and a fabulous long necklace equals a pretty fantastic day in my book.

So when presented the opportunity to consort with adults, build my jewelry wardrobe and potentially make a little dough, I jumped at the chance. I will be creating a tab on the blog for my business and plan on posting monthly specials, giveaways and reviews of certain pieces there. I will also provide a link to my website where orders can be placed and shipped directly to you.

Because I choose accessories way better than I edit WordPress, all of the above may take me a little bit of time. But in the meantime, if you are so inclined, you may visit my business at start shopping.

My plan is to keep my business information to the specific tab and not barrage you with too much jewelry information. The Suburban Lifeis now and forever will be an outlet for my thoughts, not a sales page. But in the interest of full disclosure, I wanted to let you all know what I was up to. I’m very excited to get started and see where this business will take me.

Please let me know if you have any questions or comments. During my research of lia sophia I have been shocked to learn that the business of direct sales illicits some strong emotions in people. This jewelry company may be new to some of you and others may already have some thoughts. While I understand that everyone has their own opinions, expectations and experiences, I would appreciate only constructive comments. In other words, don’t be mean, yo.


It’s All Starting to Make Sense…

Since accepting the position as the Head-Lady-In-Charge around these parts I have been forced to realize some truths:

1) Stay-at-home mom = easy access to food pantry and Cheez Its… All. Day. Long.

2) Stay-at-home mom = growing collection of yoga pants.

3) Stay-at-home mom = slight addiction to online shopping.

4) Stay-at-home mom = dishes, laundry, vacuuming, dishes, laundry, vacuuming…

Having accepted these truths should make the reality of my at-home life a little bit easier to grasp but I will say that sometimes even my own steadfast foundation gets rocked.

Take the above picture for instance. To the untrained eye it would appear to simply be a frying pan on top of the stove. But wait! If you look a little bit closer you will notice not one, not two, but three spatulas resting contentedly in the unwashed egg pan. What you can’t see is a kitchen that has already been scrubbed from top to bottom due in large part to a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon.

So at this point I am staring down a dirty egg pan. Upon further investigation I learn that Jer was hungry and fried himself two eggs. In that pan. With those spatulas. All three. For two eggs.

So, like any good boss I inquire as to the purpose of all three spatulas and why they were waiting for me. To clean. In my already cleaned kitchen.

According to Jer:

One spatula was used to spread cooking oil around the “non stick” pan so as to avoid sticking eggs.

One spatula was supposed to be used to flip said eggs but was determined to be too stiff to effectively do its job.

One spatula was used to effectively flip said eggs.

All three spatulas and the egg pan were left on the cooking surface awaiting a specialized sanitization procedure…otherwise known as “washing the dish.” A procedure in which Jer, apparently has not yet been certified.

It’s all starting to make sense to me.


I’m Living the Life

Just another day in this suburban household, and like most others, it’s been eventful. I’ve taken particular notice of the fact that Jack, my 3 year-old, is growing more and more curious the older he gets, thus causing my day to swerve in all different directions. It’s nothing, if not interesting, tobe the co-pilot to Jack’s daily adventures.

Today has been no exception.A good portion of my day has been spent conceiving answers to questions like, “Why does Lewis (the dog) have eyelashes?” Or, “How comemy hand does dis?” as he flexes his fingers so hard they start shaking. Unfortunately, my answers of “because he has eyes,” and “because you are flexing your fingers” don’t cut it. This kid is getting too smart and I’m beginning to think my lack of employment, i.e. adult-to-adult daily contact, is catching up with me.

But, at this point in time, it’s just Jack and me. And because I believe in the power of sharing, the following represents a mere smattering of the events of my day.

This morning- This was, perhaps, the most frustrating part of the day, and unfortunately, the very beginning. If you’ve already been following my blog, then you know we’ve been attempting to potty train Jack. He can pee on the toilet like a pro, uh, pee-er, but has been less than successful with the other part of potty training. It’s not from lack of trying, on either of our parts, mind you. Jack knows there’s a big prize at stake (something I’ll manage to procure from my pantry when, and if, the big day ever comes) and has been giving it the ol’ college try.

The problem? Jack wants to know how to do it. He wants me to tell him how you make it, er, happen. Yeah, I got nothing. Therefore, I have spent the better part of my morning explaining to the kid that you can’t make it happen.

“But I want to,” Jack cries, pushing with all of his might.

“Buddy, it doesn’t happen that way,” I try to console, urging him to get off of the toilet.

“I can do it,” Jack purposes, crouching down with intensity.

“Jack, you can’t just make yourself poop. It comes out when it’s ready,” I try to explain, kind of grossed out by my own explanation.

With a big sigh, he answers,”Okay, mommy,” and slips off thetoilet. Well, guess what? Moments later, underpants back in their rightful place, it happens. I guess all of that intelligent conversation got things moving. Lucky me.

This afternoon- My son is still enamored with Barney. And, I will admit, from time to time I’ll pop the purple dinosaur into the DVD player to buy me some much needed time and space (ofcourse that’s after we’ve studied Bach and practiced French). After lunch I started his favorite Dino Dancing Tunes movie and set out to finally mop the floors.

“Mommy, mommy, Sophie’s on the TV!” Jack calls out.

“What, honey?” I ask.

“I see Sophie on Barney. Right der,” he answers. I look to the TV and see the little girl he’s pointing at. She actually does bear a slight resemblance to his cousin, Sophie. But, alas, unless the 7 year-old moved to Hollywood to pursue her dream of singing alongside the mega-star I’m pretty sure he’s mistaken.

“Jack. That’s not Sophie. Sophie’s at school with sissy. That’s just a girl,” I attempt to explain.

“I know it’s Sophie. Cause her has yellow hair,” he says.

“Jack, I promise, that’s not Sophie.”

He tears up a little as he says, “But I fink it is, mom. I see her.”

Then, in a move demonstrated time and time again since the beginning of ‘motherhood’, I answer, “Okay. You’re right, honey. That’s Sophie.”

And then, after Jack reflects on my answer, I get this…”No, it’s not. Sophie don’t know Barney.”


This evening- A highlight of Jack’s little sheltered day is his job of starting the dishwasher. He hangs around the kitchen all day long waiting for the moment when I say, “Jack. It’s time. Let’s turn it on.” Well something amazing happened today. My family of four managed to not blow through every plate, bowl, glass, cup, fork and spoon in the kitchen. It was not necessary to run the dishwasher. You’re welcome, folks. Just doing my part for the environment,s’all Well, try explaining that to Jack. He wasn’t buying it. At various points thoughout the evening I would hear the familiar whirr of the dishwasher. “Jack!” I’d yell. “Did you turn on the dishwasher?”

“Yes,” he’d answer. This kid sees no need for dishonesty. He’s all for leading an honor-filled life.

“You need to leave it alone, okay, buddy?”

“Sure, mom.” Moments later, whirr. Mm hmm. That made all the difference.

Well, needless to say, the battle continued on until bedtime where I had to swear up and down we would, in fact, start the dishwasher tomorrow.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring? More explanations of the bowel system? Perhaps a couple more Barney episodes? For sure we’ll be doing some dishes.

One thing’s for certain. It won’t be boring.

Happy Tuesday,