"Mama, why does heat make you so tired?"

We crossed the street and headed into the art festival. We're heat-hardy, my daughter and I, indiginous to the sultry Midwest summers like goldenrod and cone flowers. The 105-degree temperature didn't stop us from wanting to look at paintings until we hit the pavement, where temperatures had to be even higher. And the humidity, thick like a washcloth, making it hard to breathe.

"I'm not sure, exactly. Maybe so you'll be forced to slow down and it will be harder to give you heat exhaustion. It's probably your body's way of protecting you."

Each step seemed a little harder. The heat wrapped around my body. I could feel the air molecules pressing on my skin, heavy and saturated. I looked over at my daughter. Her pale cheeks had a high flush with beads of sweat hanging above her lip, unable to evaporate in the thick air. 

"I don't feel good," she said.

My head swam. "I don't, either. Let's get out of here."

I had to pull her by the hand the two blocks back to the car. I actually felt a little dizzy as I squealed onto Main Street and directly to the QT, where we stumbled into the delicious air conditioning and gasped for filtered air. We bought a huge bottle of water to share and hung out for a few minutes by the freezers, alive in our skin in the way of extreme temperature relief -- those first few moments when the cold limbs tingle with warmth or the icy air hits hot skin and you think, in that moment, everything is right in the world, there is nothing better than having this need fulfilled, the return to equilibrium.

We piled back into the car and cranked the air conditioning, turning back toward home. 

"My head hurts, Mama." 

I dropped her off at home to cool down and rest, and I drove to the grocery store to get food, finding myself still wandering a little awkwardly amid the rows, my head achy. 

I don't often have extreme reactions to heat, but when I do, I'm reminded I'm a mortal, that life is delicate and beautiful and to be examined while I have the chance. 

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In something less heavy, I reviewed lice prevention products on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews, because that is life I want eradicated.

When I was a kid, there was a bench in my parents' house that was just long enough for a small child to lie down with her head touching one armrest and her feet touching the other. I loved that bench. I still love it -- my parents gave it to me when I moved out. Sometimes I go upstairs and sit on it and realize how totally uncomfortable it is, but I still love its swoopy wooden details. I don't have the house or the budget for the amount of swoopy wooden details I would buy if I could.

I was moving some things around a few days ago and put a little rectangular pillow on the sturdy, uncomfortable bench in our living room, the one that went so well with the Mission 1902 style of This Old House but not so much with the seventies vibe lingering in Chateau Travolta. I don't think anyone in the family has ever sat on it except to put on or take off shoes, but it holds all of our living room blankets under its seat, so it lives on in the corner of the room.

The day I put the pillow there, my daughter came home from school and saw it and immediately went over to lie down. Her head touched one armrest and her feet touched the other. She looked down, pulled a book out of her backpack and didn't move for the next hour.

Pretty cool.

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Speaking of things kids like, you can win a giant cardboard playhouse now through Nov. 1 at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

Beloved, the little angel and I clomped down the sidewalk. It had snowed just a little bit, and what was there had already melted, but the air contained that combination of humidity and cold that tickles your nose and reminds me of the Rocky Mountains. I just wanted to be outside in it a little longer, so I whined for a trek down a neighborhood path that winds behind houses and essentially goes nowhere. I knew it went nowhere because we'd been down it before, but we were only a few blocks from home and I was stalling.

We'd only gone past four or five houses when the path became covered in the mud resulting from less than an inch of snow. I watched the little angel tromp through it in her snow boots and wished I'd been more thoughtful of my own footwear. I own snow boots, too. Why weren't they on my feet?

"This was a really bad idea," I said. "I'm sorry. We're getting all muddy."

She didn't even turn around. She just yelled, "Mommy, are you an explorer or are you a fashion model?"

I swallowed. "I'm an explorer! I'M AN EXPLORER!"

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Win a Sony streaming device that will turn your TV into a smart TV on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

I just put up a review of chocolate truffles over on my review blog. While the effort was salvaged in the end and tastes lovely, I was thoroughly annoyed by the entire experience. Here's why:

• It was pitched as easy. It was not easy. And I'm not being terribly subjective -- something easy does not take six hours in the kitchen.
• In order to make the truffles, you had to temper chocolate. There were no instructions included for how to temper chocolate. Instead, a tempering unit not included with the review materials was referenced as how to temper the chocolate. Which made me want to blow things up.
• You needed a candy thermometer to temper the chocolate. I bet it's in that tempering unit I didn't have!

The woman I worked with was thoroughly pleasant and the end result tasted great. But this was an experience that could've been so much better had more forethought gone into the level of kitchen competence of the reviewer -- and really -- the target audience. Especially after I asked about the tempering kit and was told no-go.

I take full responsibility for not thinking through -- based on the picture, despite the fact it was labeled "easy" -- whether it would be something worth my time to do. I didn't get paid for this review, and no, nice chocolate is not worth an entire Sunday in the kitchen.

The little angel had fun, so I'm happy about that, but once again, I need to really think about the value of my tiny shred of free time and how I want to spend it. I haven't reviewed food in almost two years, and I'm just mad at myself right now for taking this on.

If you're just starting out doing product reviews, please learn from my mistake. If everything you need isn't going to be included, think about what that means for you. Ask how long it takes on average to complete the task necessary to review the product. I do book reviews all the time, and I know it takes hours and hours to read a book. It's all a matter of how you want to spend your time. I've reviewed 164 things over the years, so mine was a mistake I should not have made.

There was nothing inherently wrong with the product. The publicist was nice and will most likely be mortified when she reads my review and this post. But in all honesty, this was not pitched or executed correctly, and honest feedback is the most valuable thing a reviewer can provide, to both the audience and the publicist.

And for those of you that are all, tempering chocolate? I do that in my sleep! Please try this product, because you would love it.

It seems I forgot to do this last month. Oops.

In December, I got a new job! At BlogHer! So I suspect most of my posts from now on will be showing you what I've been doing over there. However, as Cagey pointed out at Average Jane's cookie soiree, "You never link, then you just tell me about the post. I want to read it." This is a good point. I should link. I wrote about the Elf on the Shelf vs. Jesus this month. You might want to read it. (FYI: there is a little widget in my left sidebar that links to my work on BlogHer. But it doesn't catch everything else so I will keep doing this for myself mostly.)

In which I finally break into national print:

• Let's Get Together -- November 2009 issue of Scholastic Parent & Child

In which I judge others:

• Kid Suspended for Camping Utensils as Schools Are Forced to Parent -- I really hate it when schools have to take a hardline because they don't really know which kids are insane.
• Why Is Yelling a Parental Hot Button? -- I maintain that if I meant to yell? I meant to yell.
• Our Daughters' Hair Length: Let the Armchair Psychoanalysis Begin -- Why does everyone keep telling me how long my kid's hair should be or if she wears it up or down?

In which I judge myself:

• He Sees You When You're Sleeping: The Elf on the Shelf vs. Jesus -- I think the title pretty much sums it up.
• Has Swine Flu Created the Purell Period in History? -- I'm so ambivalent about magic goo.

In which I question society:

• Grandparents and Their Truckloads of Gifts -- Note to Ma and Beloved's mom: I'm not talking about you.
• Does Everybody Really Hate Mommy? -- Views from both sides of the stroller.
• When Does Bullying Stop and Start? -- I hope NEVER.

Community and citizen journalism projects at BlogHer:

• What the Heck is a Momspotter? -- I'm project editing a citizen journalism project at BlogHer, which I was doing before I got my new job. We're discussing parenting in a digital age. I think it's cool.
• We Want to See Your Holiday Hot Mess -- A photo contest at BlogHer where people post photos of their messy houses. Probably the most fun I've ever had at work. Go check out the entries.

Reviews:

• A is for Admission: The Insider's Guide to Getting into the Ivy League and Other Top Colleges -- not for the faint of heart
• The Double-Daring Book for Girls -- a must-have addition to The Daring Book for Girls
• Cat Ladies -- I loved it so much I made all my former co-workers watch it at the office.
• The Case for Make Believe: Saving Play in a Commercialized World -- solidified my resolve not to buy close-ended toys
• MedSafe -- hide your prescription drugs from your teens 
• Great Discoveries: Explorations That Changed History -- Time did a great job with this entertaining coffee book.
• SnapGifts -- Get your giftcard in .02 seconds, shipped next day

Enjoy your holiday week!

I got the little angel a Barbie Head (I don't know what they are really called -- that's what I call them) at a garage sale this summer. She is OBSESSED. The stupid thing says things like "Let's change my style!" and "How about a barrette!" to the extent I think I'm going to have to secretly disable her. Why must everything talk? And she has no tray. like the old-school Barbie Heads. I mean, really.

The stylist runs a tight ship.  Taking her roots from a great-grandmother who had a master's degree in home economics, she sets a stunning table at her dinner parties for Bella the Cat and Statue the Dressmaker's Bust.

The stylist demands complete and total attention while she focuses on learning, etiquette and fashion.

The stylist can be uninspired when it comes to mix-and-match, but she's only four.

Fortunately, the stylist has two extremely hip assistants.

Typically, the stylist will begin by taking BEFORE pictures.

Sometimes she interviews the client regarding lifestyle, maintenance preferences and aptitude for risk.

The stylist is not afraid to bring the outside in.

This client is 30 years old and not afraid of color.

Samantha Ronson goes outside for a smoke break.

Some clients embrace styling more than others.

When styling secrets must be hidden from the paparazzi, styling is conducted in the fort.

But the result is SO worth it.  Totally trendsetting, dahling.  We now get an additional four channels, plus Cinemax, at Ma's house.

TA DA!

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Updated to add my review of Parent & Child magazine on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews and a link to my BlogHer post this week on traveling away from your child.

So today I *tried* to work from home, but apparently some patch or something that was installed on my computer last week flipped my computer all the hell out. Now it won't boot in less than three hours, and I couldn't get it started at all.  It was incredibly frustrating, to the point where I seriously had to take deep breaths and leave the room to keep myself from smashing it to bits.  After an hour with the help desk and two hours trying to get it to boot, I rode my bike to the gym in an attempt to exhaust myself.  It felt a little like the first two weeks of motherhood: out of control, exhausting, frustrating when nothing works. 

ARGH.

I'll be meeting with the help desk tomorrow morning.

So anyway, tonight I'm trying to excise that frustration from my life by concentrating on the positive.  I did wipe Bella's ass with a wet towel, cleaning her thoroughly. I've never had a long-haired indoor cat before, and let me just tell you, they need regular shaving, which we have not been good about.  Otherwise, nastiness ensues. Also, in the second month of my attempt to lose the five stubborn pounds that have been hanging around my hips for a quarter (I know, right? It's not that much, but seriously, makes the clothes look BAD), I have a) added ten minutes to each workout b) started biking to the gym and c) reduced my intake of fries and nachos to nothing.  Today I tried a little reduced-carb-intake, as well, to see if that would work. I am really tired of this five pounds.  It hasn't been this hard to get five off in a while.  I think I might be almost 35.  Lord, help me. But the positive part is that I. Am. Trying.

Finally, Beloved cleaned the ceiling fan in our bedroom. The ceiling fan I have been staring at every night, thinking how disgusting it is and how I should clean it, only I am too lazy at that point in the evening.

So that's good.

Sometimes it's the little things. 

I hate my work computer. So much.

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But I've done some reviews!  Get free Off! products and read about cheating wives at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

I had this post all composed yesterday, but then a bunch of stuff happened, and I ended up having to shut down my computer without saving it.  I'm kind of bummed, because that post was better than this one, or at least more sappy. It wasn't done, though, and there is no fast way to write a post about seven years of marriage.

Yesterday was my anniversary.  Today is my parent's anniversary.  Happy anniversary, Ma and Pa!

Seven years ago, my husband and I stood on a white sand beach in St. Pete Beach, Florida, and exchanged vows.  We were 27. At the time, that seemed old to be getting married.  (I live in the Midwest, remember.)  Now, I can't believe anyone let me DRIVE at age 27, let alone get married.  My generation gets married older, has babies older.  My parents got married when they were near the same age, but for their generation, they were OLD.  Funny how times change.  Maybe by the time the little angel grows up, kids'll be getting married right out of high school again - why not, when you can download your college degree onto your iPod?

I remember when we first got married, after a weekend spent driving to Iowa and back (there were many more of them then than there are now), we'd have to each go our separate ways for a few hours on Sunday night.  Too much togetherness.  We got on each other's nerves.  That doesn't really happen as often now, and I think it's because we've had to learn not to annoy each other, because with the little angel around, we have to be together more often.  There is no more running off to the gym or sinking into an entire afternoon of napping and sports on TV when we're feeling pissy.  There is no more avoidance.  We've learned to make adjustments so coexisting is easier.  We've learned to step out of the way in the bathroom proactively instead of bumping into each other and swearing.

There have definitely been some hard times, recent hard times, but the hard times overcome make the relationship sweeter.  I knew when I married my husband that he was funny and smart and strong and kind, but I didn't realize he would be so resilient, so handy, and so comforting. 

Yesterday I had a bad day.  There was a bad conversation, followed by a big dose of stress and a bunch of things left unaccomplished.  I started leaking tears on the way out of work.  S. and The Editor Across the Aisle sent me home instead of to a birthday happy hour that I wasn't supposed to attend anyway, because I was supposed to go home for my anniversary dinner, but I was feeling guilty about missing the birthday and feeling guilty about the bad conversation and not getting my beloved a fabulous anniversary gift even though we said we weren't going to and did I mention I'm always a little upset about things during the ides of the month?

So I drove home.  Made a few calls.  Cut off my beloved to take a call from my best friend, who I know is better at listening to me vent than Beloved is (he is great, but he IS a man).  By the time I got home, I thought he'd be pissed, because instead of being in a great and loving mood on our anniversary, I was strung out and stressed.  I pulled in to see him and the little angel getting out of the car, carrying roses.

Seven years ago, he would've been pissed.  Yesterday, he recognized that I was just having a bad day and in need of a little pick-me-up.  Of course, I melted, and felt bad that I hadn't gotten him anything.

"Ha ha," he said.  "I won."  And he walked outside to light the grill.

Seven years.  Some itchy, some not.  Getting better all the time.

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Julie won the Build-a-Bear gift card giveaway and you can enter to win free Lee Jeans capris or pedal pushers at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.

Hello, world!  My name is Rita, and I really love it when you tell me what a narcissistic idiot I am!  Whee!

Now, I don't normally do this, but today I am in a really good mood, because I took today off from my day job to work on the book tour and some other blog projects.  (I'm going to give away more stuff!  See below!)  Also!  Beloved got sinus medication, and he no longer snores.  BRINGING SEXY BACK.

So, here, without further ado, is the best troll comment I've gotten since the Woman Who Shall Go Unnamed.  I do seem to attract me some venom, don't I?  It must be my reticence.

OMFG!You actually think you're interesting and have something to say. Ithought it was all some sort of crazy joke. Nope. Just crazy. I plowedthrough this crap looking for a truffle. Alas, there was nothing morethan a little girls diary of private thoughts posted to the world by anarcissistic adult lacking in the good taste to keep private thoughtsprivate.

Commenter name: Mark

Commenter email: bitme@myass.com

IP address: 64.174.52.242

None

Somebody has a case of the Mondays.

Now, hmm. A truffle? At first I thought MAYBE there was a meaning for the word "truffle" of which I was unaware, so I hopped over to Dictionary.com, and no, no, "truffle" means what I thought it meant.

truf·fle

1. any of several subterranean, edible, ascomycetous fungi of the genus
2. any of various similar fungi of other genera.
3. acandy made of soft chocolate, shaped into a ball and dusted with cocoa,or sometimes a three-layered cube of light and dark chocolate.

So, Mark was either looking for fungus or girly candy.  Here at Surrender, Dorothy, we deal mostly in herbs and Laffy Taffys.  Sorry, Mark.  Next time leave your real e-mail address.  I'm pretty sure "myass.com" doesn't exist, though I totally could be wrong about that. I'm pretty sure "bitme" is a Freudian slip. BUT I WASN'T WRONG ABOUT THE TRUFFLE.

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My gushing adoration review of the Cricket magazine Ladybug is up at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.
I'm giving away a $25 Build-A-Bear gift card at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.