Oh, Tulip, I hardly knew you and now you lie trampled on the ground, broken down in the prime of your life, never to bloom again.  Well, until next spring, that is.

At least I still have you, my lone back yard tulip. Be strong! I will remind the boys to watch their step while they swing their bamboo sticks magical swords, less they pop your head off, too.

* * *

Here are the things that irritated me so much today that I yelled like a lunatic:

1) One of my 13-year olds spilled a box of one thousand toothpicks into a kitchen drawer in his quest to get one toothpick. He left the box askew and the drawer open.

2) My daughter accidentally peed on the freshly shampooed carpet.

I may have overreacted because I’ve been the sole parent in charge for three solid days now, plus two days last weekend and last night I didn’t go to bed until 1:00 a.m. because I am foolish. Saturday, when my husband returns, I’m out of here!

Lest I snap off someone’s head, just like that poor tulip.

I bought a domain name: www.unretouchedphoto.com The site is not ready quite yet for its unveiling, but will you add it to your blogroll? Or bookmark it or add it to your Favorites or consider having it tatt o o ed on your elbow so we don’t lose one another? (But don’t delete your link here just yet. Just add the other one, too.)

Signed,
Bossy Near Seattle

Yes, as it turns out, I do have a face. And when I wear lipstick you can even see my lips. When I was twenty-eight, I remember a forty-something mom telling me how her lip-color had faded with the years. I thought that odd, but what do you know? It happened to me, too. Without lipstick, no lips.

So, you're saying to yourself, how did Mel come up with that photograph so quickly? You see, I am never ever in the family photographs for two reasons. One, I am always the photographer. Two, I am fat.

But you see, being fat has opened doors, which is ironic in so many ways. For instance, I have thought to myself, Self, you need to get yourself in shape so you can go to that writer's conference next year and kick-start your writing career! And I've thought, If only I weren't so fat, so many more opportunities would fall into my (no-longer ample) lap. And I've looked at Heather B. Armstrong's blog, "Dooce," and thought, Well, of course she's making money blogging. She's skinny.

See how irrational we chubby fluffy pudgy chunky fat girls can be? The internet is a wonderful thing, too, because no one has to see our outside and we can bypass those feelings of embarrassment and self-disgust and just put forward our best selves, the inner parts of us. I have been dismissed sometimes because being fat is like wearing a force field which makes you invisible to the human eye. Sometimes, this is good. Who wants to be hounded by the paparazzi, after all?

So, I'm fat. And my being fat has indirectly led me to this particular blogging job which has requested a photo.

And I have no photographs of myself. So, knowing that I'd need a photograph for my new blogging job, I decided I would spruce myself up and get myself to a photography studio as soon as possible so they could work their magic and hopefully, employ some airbrushing techniques to remove my double-chin and possibly fifty pounds. Which wouldn't be possible for days, weeks, months . . . who knows? Because, as the detail-retaining among you will remember, my husband is out of town, hanging out with his college buddies in Las Vegas. Yes, the pastor is on the loose in Vegas!

The email that came yesterday, though, asked for a picture now. Right now. As in hurry-up-send-a-picture-before-we-change-our-minds-right-now.

And there I am, wearing a shirt with gummy remains of a Triscuit smeared on my shoulder and not a drop of makeup on my pale face and no chance of leaving my house. I made a half-hearted attempt to locate an existing picture of myself, but knew deep in my heart that I don't have one I can tolerate. And using my old college picture or the one of me was a three year old simply would not do.

At lunch-time, I have a forty-five minute baby-free window because one baby leaves for a lunch break with his mom and the other hasn't yet arrived. I sprang into action. I smeared on carefully applied make-up, fluffed up my hair and put on a clean shirt. Baby number two arrived just as I finished glossing up my lips. I'm sure the baby's dad was shocked to see me in that condition, but what can you do? You can't always be a frumpy housewife, I guess.

I had one 13-year old keep an eye on the baby and my daughter, while I went outside with my other 13-year old. I dragged over a ladder, stood my son in front of the laurel hedge, and positioned the camera just so. Then I changed places with my son. I had him step up the ladder a few rungs so he'd be looking down on me, so I could tilt my face slightly up and thus, through the magic of posing, eliminate a chin. Hey, when you don't have special lighting and your own personal airbrusher, you get creative. (From now on, whenever I know there will be cameras, like at family reunions or holiday events, I am taking my 6-foot aluminum ladder with me, because, as it turns out, I don't look too bad if you are three feet above me and I'm looking up.)

He took about ten shots and I chose the one you see to the right as the best one.

And now you know the truth. I'm a fat blogger. I hope we can still be friends.

I'm kidding! Of course, you'll still be my friend. Because here's the best part about having a fat friend: you look thinner standing next to her.

Now, ten points to the person who comes up with an utterly delightful title for a blog chronicling the diet of a fat housewife. Okay, a hundred points.

Go!

My daughter is three and a half and obsessed with the telephone. If you call my house, you will have to talk to her, which I know is a very annoying requirement and one I never understood before I had children when I would telephone my friends and be forced to speak to their little hooligans. But, now I know. The child will not be denied her phone time.

Tonight, she was speaking on one of her many pretend cell phones (the pink one) and she said, "Oh, I can't come to your party." Pause. "I have babies here." Pause. "And I can't drive."

Then she asked, "Daddy, did you see the dinosaur in the forest? Did it bite you? Did it bite your head or your toes or your legs?"

Apparently, he indicated that the dinosaur bit him on the head.

And then the imaginary conversation ended.

Earlier in the day, I made a telephone call to New York, New York . . . while my daughter was busy playing on the other computer. (She's very competent and probably she'll be fluent in html before long.) I had to leave a message, though.

And, of course, later, the woman from New York returned my call and so I hurried upstairs in a desperate bid for privacy and quietness with the phone in one hand and the paperwork in the other and closed the door to my bedroom (with no lock on its door, drat!) and the bathroom. We were having a rational conversation when my daughter came stomping upstairs, talking to me, insisting on my full attention, and finally, crying, as I rushed away from her in a effort to finish my conversation.

Later, I attempted another telephone call to an East coast blogger (Barbara Curtis), because I needed some advice and reassurance and, of course, although I left my daughter safely upstairs, happily chatting with her daddy, she appeared at my elbow, whining and then sobbing while I tried to talk. Then, the other three year old woke up and he started whimpering about his runny nose and about being hungry . . . then my 8-year old walked by and motioned some unintelligible question at me . . . and finally, I had to say good-bye before my head exploded and my eyeballs popped out.

I have to say, I miss the days of long, uninterrupted telephone conversations. And I'd like to know why having a telephone pressed to my right ear reminds the children of their urgent needs and desires that only I can fulfill.

 Today, my mother and I forced the children delighted the children with a trip to Tacoma to watch the Daffodil Parade. Parking spot? Perfect. Transit train? Convenient. Spot on the curb? Delightful. Weather? Chilly, but sunny. Daffodils? Yellow. Fingers? Cold.

I think everyone had fun, despite the grumbling from the teenagers (“I am NOT going!” “What? We have to waste a whole Saturday?!”). My three year old insisted on wearing a cute summer outfit, shorts and sleeveless top. I said, “Hey, it might be cold. You should wear long sleeves and long pants like me. See?” and she replied, “That’s okay. I’ll just wear this jacket.” She tucked her legs up and into her jacket, which is possible when you are a lanky three-year old.

My mother, ever resourceful, brought a can of Pringles for each child. They thought this was a very fine idea, indeed. (They did not eat all the chips, though.) My mom said, “I brought a can for everyone so there would be no fighting.”

When I was a very young child, my grandmother and my mother would take us to the parade each year. My mother said today that she remembers us in strollers and under umbrellas. This year, we continue the tradition, though the kids won’t understand the importance of that for many years to come when they drag their reluctant-I’d-rather-watch-television-and-dig-holes-in-the-backyard kids to the same parade. 

 This is the hole in the ground super-cool bike ramp constructed by three eager and imaginative boys. I’m guessing if I said, “Go dig a giant hole in the back yard,” I would have had a mutiny, but this? One hundred percent pure fun.