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If you read my Mother’s Day post, you’ll know that plans for this weekend centered around the home. No McDonald’s this year. Just lots and lots…and lots of cooking and baking. If you don’t like to eat butter, sugar, bacon, or stinging nettles, avert your eyes. I’m sure that most of you would say that you don’t like to eat stinging nettles, but if I can convince you to read on, I’ll try to make it worth your while.

On Saturday morning, before we headed up to the lake, the kids put in a pancake request. “Actually, I already made a big pancake with cherries” I was thrilled to announce. “It’s called clafoutis. It’s French.”

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Lauren stared at it and then said “um, mom, you made pie”.

Which nobody wanted to eat. Kids. So I made regular pancakes. Lauren had the brilliant idea to make a DIY pancake bar where each kid could top their pancakes with fruit, chocolate and sprinkles. Not the healthiest breakfast, but not an everyday treat either. And I’d already made dessert for breakfast so it was probably my fault for setting the high water mark for a morning sugar binge.

We got up to the lake around lunchtime, and no surprise, the kids were hungry again. I figured that I’d serve something a little healthier this time around…

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paddle_sunset_FeedMeDearly

Last week, we were invited to a friend’s birthday dinner, usually cause for celebration, but this time it resulted in a mild panic attack. While getting ready for the evening, I started to question what to wear, something that’s been happening with increasing frequency. Somehow, when I made the decision to leave my corporate job last year, I got sucked into the mom wardrobe vortex of cords, chunky sweaters and other items that can best be described as “comfortable”. Any sense of style was promptly diverted to the unused part of my brain that’s responsible for random childhood memories and bad first dates.

So these days, instead of embracing an evening out, I look through my closet, and think….“Will this outfit look good with these shoes?”

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The answer of course being “no”. These heels were bought circa 2009 when gladiator sandals became the shoe of choice for people whom I will kindly refer to as “those who remove their clothes for a living.” Emma modeled them on Saturday morning to remind me that I’m no longer 25 with a questionable taste level. To the Salvation Army they went and I’m at least happy that the worst offending item in my closet is now deceased.

Arrest-worthy outfits aside, the dinner was fun. I sported a sizable headache on Saturday morning, my barometer of a good time. Rodney & I dusted off a family size bag of Thai chili-flavored potato chips for breakfast and hit the road, lake-bound, for what promised to be a beautiful weekend.

Warm weather meant a few firsts for the season…

First dinner outside on the deck….

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April is a special month, my husband and I share birthdays 10 days apart, and 10 days later we get to celebrate my dog Jackson’s birthday.

I’ll be honest, I know that a multibillion dollar pet industry sells treats, clothes, and raw/paleo food to our favorite companions, but I’m a bit stingy when it comes to pet gifts.

Because as much as he seems human, he does in fact eat frozen goose poop, which leads me to believe that these gifts would generally go unappreciated.

That being said, I do like to celebrate his birthday, and give him a better day than normal (normal meaning a long walk in the morning, unfettered access to my face for kisses and breakfast crumbs, and the ability to sit in my lap while I attempt to work).

Just like Kim & Kanye might opt for a lavish birthday weekend in place of a simple celebration on the day of, we likewise decided that several days of festivities would be more suitable for our furry friend.

We started our Saturday with a leisurely walk along the Hudson.

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Lauren wanted me to take some pictures of her with Jack, I obliged. The problem was that ungluing him from my side was upsetting, and it was his birthday after all, so I let him do what made him feel comfortable. Which was howl at the moon and beg for an escape…

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…and then pin me against the barrier for what I would imagine to be a pretty serious make out session. But as much as I love him, I can’t always give a brother what he wants.

Poor Jack had to settle for some companionship of the less frisky variety.

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Even Sam and Lauren got caught up in the moment.

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A Sunday or two ago we faced a big wet blanket of a day. Soggy weather that alternated between pelting rain and damp cold. Not the kind of weather that makes you spring to your feet, sweep your arm around your troops and yell “let’s all get outside for some fresh air!”

But the flip side of an ugly day is something so wonderful, you might just wish for bad weather every weekend. What is this thing, you ask?

That would be leisure sports.

It’s a family specialty. So much so that my brother-in-law started and soon-after folded a side business selling Leisure Ball, a lawn game where you drink beer with one hand, and toss balls at a ladder-type contraption with the other.

With no lawn, no leisure ball, and of course, no balmy July weather, we were forced to consider our next option: bowling.

This was my husband’s idea of course, he being the one who took an actual bowling class in college. That counted for course credit. Yes, it’s a real school with Gothic architecture and the works. If you’re confused, join the club.

Before we could get moving, I was forced into my new role as chief executive hairstylist. Anyone recognize the Elsa braid? Elsa being the She nymph from the movie Frozen, sung by the beautiful Idina Menzel, aka Adele Dazim? Aha, bells are ringing!

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Emma hopped on her scooter in 4-sizes-too-big cowboy boots, which made the absence of wipeouts some kind of modern day miracle.

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Speaking of footwear, can we talk about these shoes? When I’m sitting on Santa’s knee in December and he asks what the kids would like for Christmas, I may whisper “bowling shoes”.

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Let’s start with the tough news first. This winter we had not one, not two, not three…no, that would be seven pipes break at our lake house because of polar vortices #1 and #2. This was going to be the year to get the kids on skis for a whole season; the gear had been rented, the helmets sized. The repairs took 3 months and before we knew it, the ski hills of Northern New Jersey (they exist) were no longer open.

But the good news is that we’re back in action and were up at the lake house this weekend getting the place ready for Spring.

Which is tough when you have a hangover. This seems to be happening all too frequently, which I blame on the renovations, too much time in New York, and too many friends with early birthdays.

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I go into these kinds of evenings with a strategy – stay calm, eat lots of food, drink a glass of wine, two max. Then someone orders a round of shots and the jig is up. The volume increases, the Champagne flows, and all of a sudden I’m waist-deep in a story about body waxing. Filter it! That’s at least the new plan since my inbound strategy never seems to work.

Jack always feels my pain. He’s like my hangover soul mate. The kind of supernatural being who understands my anguish and empathizes by mirroring my body language.

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