Hello? That is totally correct.

Over the past week, I engaged in a two-state, five-store quest for a pair of jeans that fit. I tried on more than fifty pairs of jeans. In front of my seven-year-old daughter, who assured me over the course of two stores that I really didn't look right in skinny jeans. Because I'm not necessarily skinny. She wasn't being mean, she was being honest, and she was actually right. I wear the fact I didn't burst out crying when she said this as a badge of honor and body acceptance. Also the fact I didn't burst out crying when subjected to high-mounted fluorescents and knees that have fallen two inches from where they were on my body in 2009.

I'm cheap and I don't like to pay more than $30 for a pair of jeans, but my booty desires a fit I've found only in more high-end brands. Hence, I do all my jeans shopping in discount stores like Gordman's, T.J. Maxx, Marshall's and the like. My body refuses to conform to the standard jeans model, whom I'm convinced now is seven feet tall and has no gradual curve between the top of her hip and the bottom. I used to think the basketball hoop formed by thirty yards of excess material directly above my ass was due to the high-waisted jeans of the late eighties and early nineties. Now with jeans more low-rise all the time, I'm flummoxed. Surely I'm not the only woman on earth in possession of a bowling ball ass? That is what weighted lunges to you! And weighted lunges are all the rage, right? Am I practicing outdated exercise? Have we moved on to ballet football?

In every store, I would select between 8-12 pairs of jeans and sit the little angel on the little stool. She would begin to critique the fit before I got them on, in most cases. To her credit, she wasn't critiquing my body -- just the fit. "Those pockets don't sit flat, Mommy," she'd say. Or maybe "I can see your underwear."

She actually is an astute shopper. It's all about the fit, ladies. Anyone can look good if the fit is right.

I left the state of Nebraska on Monday empty-handed. Last night, I challenged Missouri and its larger T.J. Maxx to the test.

The little angel and I walked into the dressing room with eight pairs of jeans. I'd since abandoned skinny and was horrified by "flare" (Little Angel: That is like a foot and a half of material across, Mommy") so basically all that was left for a 38-year-old woman is boot-cut. I got three pairs to lay flat over my unusual butt and not cause a muffin-top. However, two out of the three pairs are about five inches too long.

My inner monologue upon discovering this:

1. I'm 5'6" and wear a size 8. I've always thought I was pretty average. Size 8s sell out really fast. Are size 8 women really seven feet tall now? Or are all the kids wearing five-inch heels to school with their jeans? 
2. Did I miss a chapter? Why am I needing to have jeans hemmed now like when I was nine years old?

HOWEVER. I was so excited the jeans fit my hips and thighs I resolved to find a tailor ASAP so I can donate the four pairs of jeans I bought in 2007 and have worn every week since then in rotation that now are so stretched-out, faded and unflattering I feel like I'm setting a new standard for mom-who-has-given-up every time I wear them.

When I was checking out last night at T.J. Maxx, the teenager who rang me up mentioned her mom wears a size 8, too. Thanks, kid. Is she seven feet tall?

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Read my review of Kim Purcell's young adult novel Trafficked on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

My awesome sister cross-stitched me these for my birthday.

I know, right? Aren't they great? I can't wait to hang them in my kitchen. 

I'M KIDDING. Sort of.

I just got them this weekend when I went to my parents' house to collect on their bday gift to me -- they kept the little angel overnight and booked Beloved and me in a hotel nearby. A night out with no early morning and no babysitting costs was the best birthday gift ever. 

However, I don't know if it's just trying to adjust after a long weekend or being sick of winter or what, but my groove is decidedly lost. I am dying to just lie on the couch and watch an entire season of something completely mindless, and unfortunately, I have a ton to do at work and around the house after being gone Friday-Monday. Anyone else having trouble with mojo today? 

Baby needs a new pair of shoes. In other words:

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If you're not interested in this sponsored post, check out The Hospital for Puking Animals.

Question: What is your best tip for hosting a gathering, get-together or party that is enjoyable and stress-free for both the host and guests?

This is really a hard question, because some gatherings are stress-free for the host and some are stress-free for the guests, but seldom are parties stress-free for everyone, right?

Stress-Free for the Host

• Make everyone bring their own food and beverage.
• Host the event in your backyard.
• Rent a port-a-potty. Don't allow your guests to use the bathroom.
• Hire security to throw everyone out after two hours.
• Keep children enclosed in an inflatable fenced-in area.

Stress-Free for the Guests

• Design five menus, including gluten-free, peanut-free, fat-free and kid-friendly. Make enough for each guest to have one of everything and then give them a choice when they walk through the door.
• Pay a housecleaner to shine up your house before the party.
• Hire wait staff to make sure their glasses are kept full of high-end drinks all night.
• Hire taxis to drive anyone home who has overindulged in said high-end drinks.
• Have open starting and ending times to the party so that no matter what else your guests have to do that day, they can still make it.
• Move your house so it is exactly five minutes from everyone on your guest list.
• Hire a babysitter for all your guests with children to occupy their children at their own house while they come to your party. This does double-duty: the parents will relax and have fun and those without children won't be subjected to anyone's spawn.

So, tricky Life Well Lived editors, what the heck are you trying to do to me?

The Happy Medium

• If you live in a nice climate or it's at least a pleasant season, have the gathering outdoors. You'll worry less about red wine on your upholstery, and they won't sweat to death. 
• Allow your guests to use your bathroom, clean it ahead of time and make sure there's smelly spray in there or at least matches, for heaven's sake. 
• Let your guests bring their children but either a) hire a sitter to hang out and keep them occupied or b) have a ton of outdoor toys, sports equipment, water balloons, bubbles, what have you so the kids can play and the adults can talk and there needn't be a lot of overlap. We once rented a bouncy house for a party -- it was like $75 for four hours and worth every penny. 
• Provide the main course and a few kinds of drinks (lemonade, water, and if you're the alcoholic beverage type, a bit of beer and wine) and ask your guests to bring any special beverages for themselves or their kids that are desired.
• Specify start and end times on your invitation, especially if you have kids you need to get to bed.
• Send real invitations as well as an evite so it's not as easy for your guests to forget all about your party.
• Follow up with those who don't RSVP so you have a better idea of headcount.
• Don't allow your children to deliver the invitations (mine invited several people in the neighborhood I've never met to a party we hosted the day I got home from a business trip).
• Prepare as many finger foods as possible to minimize utensil needs.
• Have garbage bags or bins and recyling bins at your party location to minimize clean-up or trash blowing around your yard later.
• Be cognizant of food allergies and make sure there is an alternative if you know one of your guest has one or is vegetarian or vegan.
• Check out the much better and more sophisticated tips than mine by Get Buttoned Up at Life Well Lived.
• Enter to win a Kindle Fire, because even though it has nothing to do with throwing a party, who doesn't want a Kindle Fire?

It's Valentine's Day, so I'll gladly put both feet straight on the cheese platform and say the best example of my love for Beloved is our daughter.

I look at her and I see my husband's cheeks, my husband's huge blue eyes, my husband's toes. I see my nose, my shoulders, my flat feet. I see her uniqueness. Our genes live together forever in her, which sometimes takes my breath away.

I see my husband tuck her in every night he's home from his traveling job and read her stories. 

And so, I am not surprised at her capacity for empathy and compassion. She even extends it to stuffed things. 

I swear this is the last time for a while I'll do this. 

Yesterday was a snow day, and I let her stay home while I worked because it's going to be 46 degrees today and all that beautiful snow will probably melt. So after lunchtime sledding, she had some time on her hands.

I give you The Hospital for Puking Animals.

There was a simple, Department of Homeland Security coding system at play in this hospital. Colored-in heart, you're puking. Not-colored-in heart, not puking. Just resting. These guys were totally just resting.

The dogs, Salt and Pepper, can't bear to be separated, ever, so it doesn't surprise me they're side by side.

The couch hosted a LOT of pukers. Of course she puts them on the only piece of furniture with any value. Nonpukers on the broken Kmart dining set from 2000, pukers on the leather couch. That's my girl. Not in the picture, though. That's the neighbor.

From this angle we see the kitchen chairs are actually set up much like a submarine, with double racks for the infirm.

She ran out of furniture downstairs, so thank goodness she dragged down all the furniture from upstairs, too.

Pukers, both of them. The bear is using a Turbie Twist for a blanket.

As we cleaned up the Hospital for Puking Animals, I reminded myself that someday my house will be constantly in good order, and I will find myself longing for a few stuffed pukers. That's why I post these pictures. It's not for you, even though I like you. It's for me.

Happy Valentine's Day. Hug a puking animal today.

I've since learned the bears who faced me during my morning coffee were actually lined up for Bear School, which apparently was being taught in the kitchen that day due to a field trip. Boy, am I glad that's all cleared up.

This weekend, the little angel discovered the stitches in her Michael's version of Build-a-Bear named Tanya -- that she'd bought with her allowance and I stitched together while waiting for dinner in a Mexican restaurant --had suffered an injury in the seams. We prepped Tanya the bear for surgery and placed her in her rolling baby bed. After a tense ten-minute surgery, Tanya returned to the bed for post-op recovery. The little angel found even smaller stuffed animals to be Tanya's stuffed animals and has been wheeling Tanya around the first floor of our house for the past few days, commenting to Tanya about the weather.

I am more than a little concerned the bears may attend boot camp soon and that I should hide the birthday candles.

I walked downstairs this morning, poured a cup of coffee, and turned around to see this.

The part I'm most confused about? What's under the chairs. On one side is a white doll's dress and on the other side is a towel.

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!

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8YhED4IgQA]