Getting Ready for Vacation is Going to Kill Me

English novelist Catherine Aird famously wrote, "If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning."  I love this quotation.  It runs through my head many, many times a day.  While this blog is devoted to charming and heatwarming stories of our Norman Rockwell life stories about the bizarre stuff that goes on here at the Taylor house, sometimes I like to use this forum to dispense advice.  So pull up a chair, spike your Coke Zero, and let Auntie V tell you a thing or two about preparing for vacation.  Or rather, how NOT to prepare for vacation.

Let me first say that I am really fired up about our trip this year.  We are revisiting Isle of Palms, which is one of my favorite places on the planet.  This is impressive because the last time I was there, I was six weeks postpartum with Davis, as large as a house, depressed, and hormonal.  I had a lovely time watching my family frolic in the waves as I attended to my screaming newborn who picked that week to decide to forget how to sleep.  And yet I still have fond memories.  I remember thinking, "It would be great to come back here someday when my kids are older."  Well, friends, "Someday" is upon us.

So in the excitement of my "do-over" vacation, I have dieted, exercised, had my hair cut and highlighted, slapped some white strips on my teeth, done the mani-pedi, packed cute dresses that cannot double as tablecloths, and have tried in every way to ensure that the pictures from this trip can in no way be confused with the pictures from five years ago.  I was feeling good about myself, which is ALWAYS a prelude to disaster.

There was only one self-improvement item left:  the fake tan.  As you probably know, (since my blog readership is limited, HI MOM!) I sport a very fair complexion.  A very, very, very fair complexion.  I glow in the dark, basically.  I can't tan.  Despite spending summers on the lake and at the pool, I have the same pasty glow in August as I do in January.  Even self-tanners look fake on me, but I continue to try them.  Aside from those Twilight kids, pale really hasn't taken off like it should.

I called a local tanning salon with questions.  How much would a spray tan cost?  Would I have to make an appointment?  How long would my "tan" last?  The middle-schooler on the other end of the line patiently answered my questions, probably thinking that yesterday was the day they let the looney bin patients make crank calls.  Later that afternoon, I showed up for my appointment.

The posters for spray-tans showed lovely, smiling men and women, their lives obviously given meaning by the virtue of their golden glows.  They seemed to exude confidence and attractiveness.  "Yep,"  I thought.  "That's me.  The pasty, annoyed looking girl on the bench watching these morons skip by.  What idiots."  Yet, I continued down the hall to the tanning torture chamber.

Barbie herself showed me how to turn the chamber on, and walked me through the various poses I would strike as a beep sounded.  There were four beeps, one for my front, back, and each side.  Each pose she showed me looked more like advanced yoga than just getting sprayed.  I was sternly warned to do each pose JUST AS SHE SHOWED ME or I would not tan evenly.  God forbid my left butt cheek get the wrong dosage, but OK.  I was also given a verbal list of instructions.  Please know this about me:  I am not an auditory learner.  I can remember anything once I have read it, but tell me without writing it down and it's out the window.  This fact is important later...

Barbie left and I stripped down and entered the torture chamber.  As I pressed the button and the beeps sounded, I froze.  Which side was I supposed to face?  Where did my legs go?  Was I supposed to put the "shield lotion" on my fingers, toes, and palms before or after the spray?  As I looked around the tube for any hint of what to do, I was blasted in the face by the spray.  I took a huge gulp, ensuring that my lungs and sinuses would be nice and brown for the next thirty years.  I frantically did a spread-eagle and willed the spray to do its best.  My next poses can only be described as "Walk Like an Egyptian" and "Fight Scene from Women's Prison Movie."  Since I did not pay extra for the immediate bronzing option of my tan, I looked at myself in the mirror, declared all to be well, and left the tanning salon, head held high. 

I woke up this morning looking like a chicken that had been deep-fried on some of its parts and left raw on others.  Upon examination of my hands and feet, I realized I was supposed to put the shield lotion on BEFORE I tanned, which might have kept them from turning the lovely orange color that they now are.  My legs literally have stripes on them. Outside of a horror movie, I have never seen skin this color.  Despite two showers, I still smell like a landfill.  The best, however, is...

SPOILER ALERT:  All right, boys, I'm about to talk about my boobs here.

The best part of my new look is my chest.  See, in those lovely posters, those girls had perky B cups.  No sagging.  No gravity.  Having and feeding two children did nothing good for my chest, and let's just say my boobs are much better friends with my belly button than with my chin.  I was obviously without the aid of a bra during my tanning session and so this morning as I lifted the girls up to get dressed, I discovered white half-moons underneath my breasts.  Great.  Next time I am going to ask to pay extra for a twenty-five year old underwear model to hold my big ol' boobs up while I tan underneath them.  Sigh.  The things Pamela Anderson never told me...

The good news is that because this stupid tan is supposed to last five days, it will be completely gone in two.  My beach pictures will show a happy, relaxed, pasty-pale woman.  And that's completely fine with me.

SPOILER ALERT #2:  Did you honestly think you were getting pictures?

So THIS is Apparently How We Do Mother’s Day Up in Here

I have never been commanded to write a blog post. I have been encouraged, I have been inspired, and I have been asked to write blog posts. While a water gun is not actually being held to my head, I have been threatened with having my camera taken away if this post did not appear. Quickly.


First of all, let me say publicly and officially, that I have the most wonderful husband in the world. And, as an attorney, he has a very developed poker face. Which he uses against me. Especially on gift-giving occasions. What I could not have known, as I wrapped my prime lens for myself and blogged about it, is that he HAD actually gotten me a Mother’s Day present. Despite my insistence that the lens was my entire gift and that I was very happy with it, he decided that I needed something more substantial than my little backpack to carry my camera and various lenses, flashes, filters, cables, batteries, etc.

When he read my blog post on Friday, he probably thought to himself, “Laugh it up, Chica. I’ll show you.”

On Mother’s Day, Scott and I got up and attended our church’s early service while the kids slept in with their visiting grandparents. When we got home, it was time for Scott’s mother and me to open our Mother’s Day cards and gifts. I watched JoJo open her gift, being in no hurry myself as I knew that I had an empty lens box and a photography book that I had picked out waiting for me in their bright pink paper.

I opened the cards from the kids and was surprised by the Mother’s Day gifts that they had made at school. Davis presented me with a lovely painted picture frame, which showcased flowers painted with his fingerprints. It now has the place of honor on my computer desk. Katie had written a paragraph on “I love my mom because…” which made me choke back tears.

Thinking that I had already been surprised by the kids, I opened Scott’s card. It was funny and sweet and a piece of paper dropped out of it. Huh? As I unfolded it, I realized that it was a picture of a Kelly Moore bag: the lady photographer’s ultimate accessory. It’s a cute purse, but it’s also a very serious camera bag. While diaper bags have made great leaps and bounds in the fashion department over the years, camera bags have not. If you are a woman and you want something nice in which to carry your camera equipment, tough. There are only a handful of companies who have caught on to this problem, and Kelly Moore is my favorite. But back to Scott, the most fabulous man on the planet.

He had gotten me a Kelly Moore bag. It arrived on my doorstep today. My camera and equipment are now snuggled safely in my purse, along with all the other stuff I haul around daily. For me, it was a perfect surprise. Thank you, Scott!!

So for future reference, I hereby make the following disclaimer: Any future “The Taylored Life” blogs which represent the author’s spouse as anything but a sensitive, wonderful, thoughtful and very athletic and charming gentleman are unintended and are deeply regretted by said author. Any supposed slights to the above-referenced spouse are a work of fiction and do not bear any resemblance to any spouse, living or dead. The author’s husband has never, and does never intend to slight, forget, or minimize the importance of Mother’s Day.

And he reminds me that Father’s Day is coming up. No pressure, right?

This is How We Do Mother's Day Up in Here

Vaiden to Scott:  Here, sign this card.
Scott:  What's this?
Vaiden:  My Mother's Day card.  Say something nice to me.
Scott:  What?  Your card?  I'm going to get you a card.  I don't want to sign this one.
Vaiden:  You have to.  I have to put in on the present.
Scott:  What present?
Vaiden:  My new camera lens.  I'm wrapping it right now and I need to put the card on it.
Scott:  **Facepalm**

Taking Off the Training Wheels

If you have seen me around town lately, you've noticed that I have had my camera with me more than usual.  All the time, in fact.  In the midst of this crazy, busy spring, I have been working to improve my photography skills.  I have re-read manuals.  I have googled my questions.  I received a new lens as an early Mothers' Day present.  I have played with every button and setting on my beloved Nikon.  And I have driven Amy Avery simply bonkers (although she is too polite to put it in quite those terms) with camera- and photography- related questions.

So as people who truly love you often do, Amy is throwing me into the deep end -- with no floatees.  She sneaked in and took the training wheels off the bike.  She packed my parachute and shoved me out of the plane...you get where I am going here.  She is making me take the next step in my learning by sharing my photos with more than just family and friends. 

Amy has a lovely friend and fellow blogger/photographer, Patricia, whose site is an inspiration.  She also provides very useful photography tips for newbies like me.  I am offering up this photo, taken in my newly utilized manual mode, for her Photo a la Mode.  She recently did a post about capturing the sun on film, and my photo is a newbie attempt at doing just that.

For you Knoxville folks, this picture was taken in the Veterans' Cemetery off Northshore Drive.

For you photography types, it was taken 1/250s, f/22, ISO 2800.

Graduation Day!

I would like to announce that Jack has completed his course of study at the PetSmart Pet Training Program and has received his Beginner Education certificate.  Please don’t feel bad that you didn’t receive an invitation, or that you haven’t had time to send an appropriate graduation gift.  It was a very small, private affair, since I have been overscheduled the past two weeks and Jack has missed a couple of classes.  We were graciously allowed to make up our missed work and Jack was given his final exam today.  Get ready to be impressed, for he passed:


Sit

Stay

Watch me (uninterrupted eye contact for twenty seconds)

Lie Down – He passed, but only with many treats as an incentive.

Come when called – this portion of the test was done through the PetSmart store and with other people and dogs around, so even I was impressed with him.

Loose-leash Walking


I was so proud of him that he got a bath and grooming upon graduation.  This was as much a present for me as it was for him because he had spent the morning digging a very impressive mud-hole in the yard.  Jack, like all young boy-types, doesn’t miss an opportunity to get himself really nasty.  Please note his mud-covered nose in his graduation photo!

Being the indulgent parent that I am, I am allowing him to take the summer off to “find himself” before he registers for the Intermediate Training Course in the fall.  I keep reminding him that his education is vitally important, but you know kids these days…

Hacked by the Easter Bunny!

Hey y'all, it's me, the Easter B. I had a little down time after spending all night hiding eggs and candy that I know you parents will be cursing me for for weeks to come, so I decided to hop on over here to "The Taylored Life" and post a little photo of my pal Vaiden and her crew. Shhh! Don't tell her I hacked into her computer to put this post up. Now, I know y'all are probably all disappointed because it's not Vaiden who is posting. I know you love her funny tales and she promised me over carrot cake and coffee last week that she'd be getting a post up real soon. Until then, enjoy this little photo I snapped of her and the whole crew this morning. Hoppy Easter y'all!

You Can’t Put a Price on Dog Ownership, or Why Don’t I Take the Dog to Atlanta and Board the Kids?

So a couple of you astute readers noticed that I slipped that “Oh yeah, we got a dog” reference into my last post. If you are wondering why I haven’t been in the blogging saddle for two months, that’s why. Jack is wonderful and loving and devoted to us, but he is also an 11-month old black lab who has a lot of energy. A LOT of energy. Power-New-York-City single-handedly amounts of energy. The upside is that between our twice-a-day jogs (did I mention his energy?) and a particularly nasty bout with a GI bug, I am wearing jeans I haven’t worn since my wedding. But back to my story…


It’s not like I’ve never owned a dog. I grew up with dogs, but childhood for me was a while ago. Apparently things have changed in the dog-owning world in the last twenty years. Perhaps it was because we grew up in a more rural area, but when we went out of town, I suppose we paid a neighbor kid to throw some kibble over the fence and make sure our dogs had water every couple of days. It was a different time, a simpler time.

Flash-forward to last week, when Scott and I sat down and look at our calendars. We remembered that we have a trip to Atlanta coming up. This will be our first family trip since the acquisition of our four-legged friend. Would we find a neighbor kid to throw some kibble over the fence? The answer was a resounding NO since Jack’s barks can be heard from space, and he tends to bark a lot when he is feeling lonely. (Jack’s definition of lonely is any time someone is not actively petting him, feeding him, or throwing something into the air for him to retrieve.) We decided that boarding was the way to go. But not something frilly, fancy, or stupid. No pet spas. Jack is a manly dog, and just the basics would do fine. We laughed at the type of people that would actually spend good money to board their dog at a facility with pet-cams, doggie cots, and a turn-down service. “Suburban Yuppie Twits,” we scoffed, smug in our complete superiority as down-to-earth dog owners.

Oh, hi. Let me introduce myself. I am Vaiden, the Suburban Yuppie Twit and this is Jack, my Suburban Yuppie Twit dog.


As we entered the doggie hotel, which will now on be referred to as “S.Y.T. Boarding”, I knew that I wasn’t in proverbial Kansas any more. I asked the receptionists (yes, there were three) if I could have a tour, as I had a new dog and would be leaving him for the weekend. I was shown the luxury suites, the VIP suites, the executive suites, the geriatric suites, and the adventure suites. The hospitality specialist giving me the tour must have thought I was out of my mind, because I could not stop laughing. I really lost it when she explained the aromatherapy baths and the organic peanut butter treats. I told her that Jack was really just a good old-fashioned family dog, and that he was not used to a lot of pampering. With a withering look down her nose at me, we continued our tour.


When we were finished, I was handed my list of services, a second-mortgage application, and a SEVENTEEN (17) page application packet. Please understand that when I sent my human children to preschool, a five-page application was probably average. Basic questions, attach a health form, and we were good to go. Not so with S.Y.T. Boarding! I would like to share with you some of the application and screening questions:


On a scale of 1 to 5, where would you rate your dog’s intelligence?
Although Jack has mastered long division and enjoys Russian literature, he still likes sniffing poop, so I’ll go with a solid 3.

Does your dog require anything special to feel secure and at home?
Um, no. He’s a Black Lab, not Kim Kardashian.


How many times a day does your dog eliminate?
Eliminate what? Bad thoughts? Carbs? OH, that. 5.6 times during the colder months, and 7.1 during the summer, as his fluid intake is increased… I DON’T KNOW, friends. I have a life, and I try to spend as little of it as possible watching my dog’s rear end for activity.


Are there any animals or breeds of dog that your dog is afraid of?
None that he has mentioned to me.


Are there any breeds of dog that you are afraid of?
I do not like Pit Bulls, and Chihuahuas really freak me out. Clowns and spiders also freak me out. Please don’t have any of those in the executive suite.


This went on for seventeen pages. I had to fill out boarding contracts, grooming contracts, day-camp contracts, special activities contracts, and occasional treat contracts. I kept expecting someone to jump out and yell, “Gotcha, Stupid Yuppie Sucker!” but it appeared that everyone was very serious. So I said goodbye to my dignity, signed the reservation form, and can leave for Atlanta with the knowledge that my furry friend Jack will be cared for by an excellent staff at a state-of-the-art facility. I just hope the downtown Hilton has a turn-down service and a gourmet organic peanut butter treat on my pillow, too.