Kimberly Stuart's Blog

I have a really phenomenal mom.

Mother’s Day always reminds me of this, but I have lots of reminders all the time. Here are a few of the biggies.

One: This:

We are living in the time of graduations and senior photos, and can I just mention that everything is better now? The parties are better, the gift options are better, and the senior pictures are, across the board, better.

I graduated in the era of this kind of action:

And I have a 3-D visual to represent this time of life AND the depth of a mother’s love. She let me pop out from behind a tree with my over-zealous eyebrows and my one J. Crew shirt that I loved for too many years beyond what was fashionably or socially appropriate, and then she BOUGHT A THREE-DIMENSIONAL CUT-OUT OF THAT MOMENT, like I was Sly Stallone or something. The woman loves me with a fierce, blind love.

Two: She taught me the joy of doing work you love.

This week, my mom taught her last private violin lesson after 44 years of teaching. She played second stand in the first violin section of the Des Moines Symphony for 40 years. Her first season with the symphony was also the time I was growing in her belly. My mom is a brilliant musician. Until college (where I made sure to wear my one J. Crew shirt at least twice weekly), I thought it was normal to have soaring, achingly beautiful string music as the soundtrack for one’s life. I thought it was normal to hear Bach and Mozart and Dvorak and Barber and Mendelssohn while doing one’s homework or teasing one’s bangs.

Turns out, this is not normal.

I also thought it was normal to make work and family look easy, to pour yourself into an artistic pursuit, into work that inspires and pushes you, AND have dinner on the table by six o’clock.

Turns out, this is not normal either.

Three: My mom taught me to love Jesus.

She has done this in the most accessible, real-life ways. She loves books and story, and she loves the Bible. She likes talking about what she’s learning by reading its ancient-yet-alive stories. She has no patience for legalism and very easily dismisses dumb rules posing as Jesus rules. Even as a tiny kid, I noticed  my mom laughed a lot at both home and church. Church Patti was the same as Home Patti. (Again, tragically, this turns out not to be that normal either.) My mom hungers for real things, true things, and she taught me by how she lived and through years of conversations that Jesus is real and true and the embodiment of the stubborn, ferocious love of God. What a gift to give anyone, but particularly to a strong-willed daughter who often came looking for a fight. Oh, that I can give my own children that kind of legacy!

Mother’s Day is this weekend. Here’s another thing I thought was normal: an automatically joyful Mother’s Day. I mean, Patti. My brother and sister and dad and I have always had a lot to celebrate. But the truth is that Mother’s Day can be brutal. Years have taught me how Mother’s Day can bruise all sorts of hearts in all the most tender of places.

When Marc and I were mourning miscarriages, Mother’s Day was an interminably long day, a searing ache that started at breakfast and didn’t end for days afterward.

As I’ve walked with friends through the pain and disorientation of broken maternal relationships, Mother’s Day has seemed downright mean, a sort of cheery smudge of lemon juice into a gaping cut.

And this year, I’m thinking of and sitting with and praying for friends who have said temporary goodbyes to people they love, to a mom, a daughter, a son. Nothing feels right this year, this first year without the chance to finish the conversation, make the plan, send the card. This year is hard, especially when the love was so big.

So listen, all you mamas, all you daughters. I hope you feel the love this week. Friend, you have a tough job, whether you are mothering or daughtering. You have an especially tough job if you are doing these things alone. Thanks for what you’re doing. Thanks for doing it even when it’s never-ending and not very well appreciated and when the days are very, very long. I’m honoring you from this corner of the world, and I’m saying thank you.

And to my mom, the intrepid Patti who showed me how to live well and laugh hard and love with abandon: Mom, you are a gift that feels more boundless with each passing year. I love you.

XO,

Kim

P.S. Central Iowa folks: Juuuust in case you forgot to make your dried macaroni necklace, I have an idea for the perfect Mother’s Day gift. Stop by the Jordan Creek Barnes & Noble this Saturday between 2 and 4 pm, and pick up a signed copy of Sugar. The first 30 people to purchase a copy of the book also get a little sweet treat, all wrapped and lovely and BOOM! You have yourself a ready-made, delicious, personalized gift for your favorite mom, teacher, friend, or sister. This is waaaaay easier than that Pinterest project you were mulling over. Ditch the lunacy. Come to B & N. You and your gift recipient can both congratulate you on the awesomeness of your decision making.

One of my favorite questions that keeps popping up after people read Sugar is this:

“Kim, have you ever studied at a culinary school ?”

I get a little shiver of happiness whenever this question is posed, first because I want to look like Giada and cook like Ina.

Photo by Buzzfeed

I’m not exactly batting 300 for either of those hopes. Ina has mad skills and she lives in the Hamptons and sometimes Paris, both of which are a lot like Des Moines. And as for Giada, does anyone actually believe that woman eats pasta? I, for one, do not.

The other reason I get the shiver is because it means that people who read Sugar are buying in. They are getting lost enough in the story of Charlie and Manda and Avery and Kai that they think I know what I’m talking about when I get to the foodie stuff.

Isn’t the foodie stuff fun?

I have a weakness for good food and good writing about food. Here are a few things I picked up when studying food and restaurant culture throughout the writing of Sugar.

1. Disclaimer Number One: Um, no. I did not go culinary school. In fact, my private Christian middle school was so poor, we didn’t even have home ec. I didn’t even get to sew a pillow. I want you to feel sorry for me right now. Thank you.

Here I am in a photo from that period, forced to abandon any hope for pillow making and instead to turn to stringed instruments, unfortunate haircuts, and flowered shorts.

I did not go to culinary school, but I do love to cook and bake. I’m the weirdo who reads every word of Bon Appetit every month and who reads cookbooks cover to cover, even pausing for a good while to take in the index. I’m that person. I hope this confession doesn’t make you stop wanting to talk to me at parties. I might be the bizarro cookbook index girl but I can still dance! Just ask my kids.

2. Real, live chefs who do Charlie’s gig every day are heroes. Some of them are jerks, like Felix. Ahem. (If you haven’t read about Felix yet, I’d recommend picking up a copy of Sugar for a little bad-boss therapy. We have all worked for a Felix and we have all wanted to do to Felix what Charlie does to Felix. Glory!) So some of these people are total nut jobs. But many of them are not, and I was fortunate to follow around a couple and pepper them with my many questions. My uncle, Robert Lewis, is a grad of the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, NY, which is chef-speak for saying he’s the real deal. He writes cookbooks and speaks all over the country about eating delicious food while managing diabetes. He’s wonderful and answers all of my questions all the time, that is, when we aren’t laughing and making inappropriate comments during solemn extended family moments. He’s that uncle. I’m a fortunate girl.

George Formaro is a local legend. His restaurants are phenomenal, and we five at this house find ways to visit all of them as often as is possible. This weekend, for example, I had to physically remove my children from the chocolate fondue fountain during brunch at Malo, but I only got around to it after tucking into George’s chipotle shrimp tacos wrapped in warm, house-made corn tortillas. I dare your mouth not to water. (You can read all about my visit to Chef George’s Centro and his fantastic team here.)

3. People in the food industry spill their guts and write memoirs. In fact, an entire new crop of these kinds of books comes out every release season. There are so many to mine, but I found this, this and most things by Anthony Bourdain or Ruth Reichl fascinating. Be aware: Chefs have potty mouths.

4. I found lots of fantastic food blogs and food writers throughout this process. My favorites, in no particular order, are:

Jenny Rosentrach of Dinner: A Love Story;

The delightful (and North Dakotan!) ;

Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen;

Damn Delicious food blog (again with the cussing, but merited here);

Le Creme de la Crumb food blog if only for the slow cooker mashed potatoes;

And another (delightful!) CIA grad Lei Shishak of Beach Town Baking. Make and eat everything Lei tells you to and you will lead a long and happy life. The end.

5. I loved, loved, loved getting to peek behind the curtain of the restaurant world. It was my personal Oz, and I’m not done peeking. Perhaps another novel is in order?

In the meantime, stop by the Davenport Barnes and Noble this weekend and get a signed copy of Sugar, as well as a glimpse of Chef Robert Lewis in action. He’ll be cooking up something, right there in the store, a dessert inspired by Sugar. I’m assuming he’ll need me to taste test everything. Cross to bear.

Happy weekend!

Kim

Signing details:

Barnes and Noble, North Park Mall, Davenport, Iowa

April 1, 2017, 1-3 pm

 

 

 

 

 

You people. Honestly. You have made this the absolute most fun and wild and raucous book release ever. That’s right: Sugar‘s release has been raucous. As in, Can’t-Stop-The-Feeling raucous. And people-are-stopping-me-in-Target raucous (probably because I’m always there, but let’s not dwell on that). I’m talking party-with-Prince raucous.

 

 

OK, fine. That’s an exaggeration. But I FEEL like I’ve been partying with Prince, only sober and a little tired. And wearing athleisure, a fashion statement I’m one hundred percent certain Prince would disdain.

(NOTE: I have not been wearing this outfit, but this is what came up when I Googled images for “athleisure.” This world is messed, kids.)

First, you came to the book release party.

So many people, so many books, so many lovely friends and family coming out to share in the celebration.

Second, this.

So many empty shelves! Party like it’s 1999, people! This is AN ENORMOUS DEAL TO ME. Let me tell you why. Here’s the real story behind Sugar, a novel about a pastry chef named Charlie Garrett and her dream to have it all.

Sugar is actually version 2.0 of Charlie’s story. After eighteen months of not selling version 1.0, I was just getting ready to bury the manuscript under a lovely tree in our backyard, ready to hire professional mourners and a tambourine player, when my agent suggested finding an editor who might be able to help. I did find that editor, who wrote a six-page response to the story, detailing how much she detested it. As in hated. Trashed. Dismissed. She used the word “annoying.”

She did, however, really like my formatting, she said. She liked my margins and my page numbers and the way she could read all the words. THIS WAS HER HIGHEST COMPLIMENT. SHE LIKED MY FORMATTING, WHICH IS AN AUTOMATIC FUNCTION IN MICROSOFT WORD. I DIDN’T EVEN PICK THE FORMATTING. And I paid her for this treatment.

Nevertheless, this was the BEST MONEY I EVER SPENT because this was the beginning of a conversation with this editor, a woman who who initially made me want to give up writing and take up clogging, but who gradually helped me strip away all the junk, all the stuff I was doing in order to impress publishers and readers and book clubs. She helped me realize it was time to write the story I wanted to write.

I wanted to write Sugar.

I wanted to write Sleepless in Seattle meets the Food Network.

I wanted to write something funny and smart and highly readable. I wanted witty banter and snappy dialogue and a peek behind the curtain of high-pressure kitchens in fine restaurants. I wanted romance. Not sex and raunch disguising as romance, but real romance, with all the chemistry and tension and push and pull that comes with a love that’s real.

Remember these?

Remember how you felt when the credits rolled? I wanted readers to feel THAT when they turned the last page.

Turns out, I’m a bit of a weirdo. Turns out, stories like Sugar are outliers these days in publishing. Turns out, Sugar got a healthy round of rejections (39, I believe) from publishers, many of whom cited that I was too late, that a book like Sugar, a romance like Sugar, would never sell. I needed more raunch, more sex, more raunchy sex with more raunchy sex people. I need at least fifty shades, though 75 would make it even more sellable.

Um, I have about one-half of one shade. That’s it.

Early on, a big, fancy publisher offered on the manuscript and said they loved the story, loved the voice, loved the characters, but in order to get a nicer advance and a healthy marketing budget, I’d have to sex it all up, start to finish.

I politely declined, and then I cried for a week. WHERE WERE THOSE CLOGS, ANYWAY?!

Happily, this was not the end of the story. The end of the story hasn’t been written yet.

I do know this:

*Skyhorse Publishing did take a chance. They loved Charlie, loved Sugar, and have enthusiastically made this book better and available everywhere.

*Barnes and Noble and all sorts of independent bookstores nationwide did take a chance. They have been kind to order and stock and sell. These are book people, and I love me some book people.

*And remarkably, miraculously, since I’m small potatoes, Target took a chance too, releasing Sugar into all 1800 Target stores nationwide a couple of weeks ago. I shake my head at the way God can kick down big doors for a girl from Iowa.

I have about four more weeks to prove to these stores that there is a market for this kind of book. B and N and Target look at their first round of numbers then, and they decide whether to let me keep my shelf space or not.

I am POSITIVE that I’m not alone here, that I’m not the only one who wants to fall into a book like Sugar. I’m POSITIVE that I’m not the only one who likes real love, real romance, real chemistry. I know this because I’ve been listening to you all for years. You have been kind enough to share this road with me. Thank you for that. Thanks for being here, for sticking with me, for reading and posting and chatting and accosting people in the book section of Target (thanks, Dad!).

Here’s to dreaming and throwing away the clogs and believing you’re not alone. And here’s to all sorts of stories and all sorts of room on the shelves.

xo,

Kim

P.S. If you are one the delightful people who has already read Sugar, THANK YOU! Can I be just a little needier? I would be so grateful if you would post a review on Amazon, BN, Target, Goodreads, wherever you do such things. Thank you. I owe you all REALLY nice get-ups in the latest athleisure.

 

 

I just returned from Africa. I went to Kenya. It was beautiful. The land is beautiful.

Photo by kerdowney.com

The food is beautiful.

 

Photo by KaluhisKitchen.com

 

The wildlife is beautiful.

Some of us felt this beauty more strongly than others. Ew.

And actually, when I think about it, not every member of the wildlife crew is beautiful. These guys, for example, are ugly.

And mean. And let’s just say that when the males decide it’s time for a little nooky, they don’t wait to light any candles. Poor baboon ladies. I witnessed it, and let me assure you, there is no WAY she was enjoying the moment.

My reason for going was to connect with and encourage missionary women working in Kenya. Now, hold up. Perhaps your vision of missionary women involves a severe hairstyle and a full-length denim jumper. Maybe you’re picturing a crucifix necklace that weighs roughly eighteen pounds and can double as a weapon for reluctant converts. Or perhaps the word “saint” comes to mind and you feel instantly guilty about Starbucks and IKEA and Justin Timberlake. JT can have that effect on people.

Photo by Tom Munro

 

Nevertheless, you’re wrong. On all counts, including IKEA. These women are regular women.

They are teachers and physicians and nurses and mothers. They work hard and they fall into bed at night, spent and poured out. They struggle with feeling inadequate and tired and angry and burned out. They wonder if they’re doing enough and wonder how they could ever do more. They ask God to speak more loudly. They hunger for His peace and His direction and His stubborn, ferocious love. It’s that love that propels them onward. It’s that love that asks them to live deeply, love lavishly, live boldly.

I was honored to be the speaker at a retreat for these women. We had four sessions, fit in between times at the spa, time to eat, time to rest, time to chat. Because I’m as unable to remember my dignity in a foreign country as I am in my own, our time together included a moonwalking contest, an homage to shoulder pads, and far too many stories involving my own lack of boundaries (Uncle Rico, anyone?) and my dream of being an emaciated woodland nymph (best not to ask).

I went to Africa with dear, good friends from my church. We brought a lot of chocolate and dry cereal (not joking) and taco seasoning and scented candles. We brought things the women requested, including Chapstick and Ziploc bags and Honey Nut Cheerios. And we left ten days later with hearts full to the brimming, names and stories written all over us, new and renewed friendships, and reminder upon reminder of that stubborn love, of that One who crossed time and space and distance to reach us, pursue us, rescue us from ourselves.

I’m still jet lagged. I’m a little nervous to post this when I’m in a state of utter exhaustion and general weepiness. I might look at this later and have second thoughts, particularly about that section on baboon intimacy. But I’m also feeling an urgency to say thank you to the girls of Kenya. What a gift you gave to me. Thanks for letting me visit. I’m ready to come back, whenever you would have me. And I won’t forget. Not you, not your faces, your stories, the sound of your voices, the tears you indulged me, the prayers I am praying and will keep praying. You are dear to me, sisters. Press on. Take courage. You are loved, known, beautiful, never alone, and His.

xoxo,

Kim

You guys. I met Amy Grant. Here is proof.

Amy Grant is my pretend-friend-famous-person. Do you have one of those? The famous person you find approachable and authentic and who you think you would totally be fast friends with if only the person wasn’t so busy being famous and could instead move to Des Moines?

No? Just me? Wow. You guys need to be more imaginative and needy.

Anyway, I met her. IN THE FLESH. She and Michael W. Smith and Jordan Smith from The Voice were in town last night on their Christmas tour, and I have a friend who knows of my obsession with Amy. This friend procured backstage passes for me. I cannot name this friend publicly, but I will just say here that now I’m going to have to reverse a surgical procedure and birth another child and name the child after this person, so great is my debt.

Marc and I arrived at the arena at the appointed BACKSTAGE PASS MEETING TIME, which means I walked right past all the people waiting in line to get to the BACKSTAGE PASS LINE. I’m sure you’ll understand that I was feeling completely superior to all people everywhere, until I remembered that I was waiting to see Amy Grant, who is known for being humble and kind and NOT full of herself, so I had to rein it in. Marc, for his part, was stopped by security and frisked because he was packing heat, a tablespoon in the pocket of his dress pants. He assured the security officer he had no plans to harm the performers with his tablespoon, but that he had intended to eat some yogurt on the way to the concert.

This is my real life. My husband really loves snacks. Sometimes he pays the price by getting frisked.

So we wound our way down, down, down into the belly of Wells Fargo Arena and we stood in line long enough for me to get hysterical with excitement and nerves.

Here’s the thing: Amy Grant’s music and the texts of her songs and her storytelling have accompanied me through six car stereos, five states, fifteen foreign countries, the awkwardness of adolescence, the cynicism of college, and the exhaustion of motherhood. Her songs have played in all sorts of apartments (hovels), houses, dorm rooms, and spaces where I have made homes for myself.

I even mention her on my website. This is deep, abiding love, people.

I thought about all this when I wrote her a little note, ahem, profession of my undying love and gratitude, on my fancy monogramed stationery made by the ridiculously talented girl who owns this shop. Doesn’t this make me look far more professional and less fan-girl than I really am?!

So I met Amy Grant. She was gracious and kind and so very much a real person. This was a great relief to me. No one wants their pretend-friend-famous-person to be a cad. It’d be such a letdown. Amy (because we are first name now) is the opposite of cad. She was warm and welcoming and greeted every one of her frothing fans with an open smile and a willingness to look past the froth.

I gave her a copy of Sugar. She was absolutely kind and acted genuinely pleased. In fact, she took the book from me and CLUTCHED IT TO HER, and said, “I will totally read this! I love to read! Thank you!” She might have said more words but at that point I was starting to hyperventilate and had to work really hard to no weep.

I’m telling you. Amy (first name) brings out the weep in me.

The concert was fantastic. Really. Just so much fun. Amy hula hooped at one point, and I kept muttering how impressive that was to hula hoop and sing “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” at the same time, to the point that the woman sitting next to me turned to look at me with narrowed eyes, clearly not as appreciative about my play-by-play of Amy’s (first name) treasure trove of talent.

Marc and I took selfies like the middle aged people we are.

Michael W. Smith and Jordan Smith were also fantastic. I did find myself with tears streaming down my cheeks when Jordan Smith sang “All is Well,” a song from Michael W. Smith’s first Christmas album and one that I used to cry to many years ago when I was first figuring out that God loved me with a stubborn, limitless love, and that He really was Emmanuel, God crossing  miles and time to enter into our mess.

As an aside, what the heck is going on with Jordan Smith?! His voice is ridiculous. Do you know about this person? Crazy time. Mostly I felt stunned.

The concert was wonderful. And I met Amy Grant. She’s lovely. She owns my book (thanks to my awesome publicist Bri, who overnighted an advanced reader’s copy to me when I let her know, in breathless tones, that I was going to meet Amy. Thanks, Bri! I wasn’t lying!). Amy Grant has a copy of my book. Or at least she did for one fleeting moment before it made its way to Goodwill. No matter! It was a great moment, one that I’ll tell my kids all about (again) when they come home from school. They LOVED it the first three times. I know they’ll appreciate it even more with time.

Merry early Christmas, friends. May all your dreams, even the pretend-friend-now-first-name-basis ones, come true.

 

You guys! I wrote another book! And you can buy it today!

I may or may not be really giddy right now, which is nothing short of miraculous because I’m battling a serious cold and my voice sounds a lot like I’ve been a two-packs-a-day kind of girl for a really long time. Think Barry White meets Bea Arthur.

I wrote a book this summer! I know, I’m a total weirdo. Most people go camping in the summer (ew). Or they join a recreational softball team (double ew). Or they eat their weight in ice cream or in a delicious little number known in Iowa as The Nutty Bar (OK, fine. I did do that.)

In between Nutty Bar purchases, I wrote a book! It’s called Better Together and it releases officially today! Better Together is the third book in my Heidi Elliott series, and I love it. Honestly. I do. It might just be my favorite of the three, and that’s saying something because this series is near and dear.

So here’s the scoop on how this book came to be.

I have always had a third Heidi book in me. I knew I wasn’t done, and I knew I wanted to tell the next installment in her story. These books aren’t exactly autobiographies, but they’re close. Let’s just say writing them was like cheap, indulgent therapy. And let’s also say that Marc is just as handsome and charming and funny as Jake. And that he also tries to book bizarre travel plans that involve yurts and gauchos just because they are screaming deals (see Bottom Line).

I knew I had another Heidi book in me. And when I heard myself say it out loud during a catch-up conversation with the people dearest to me, our words gathering in the twilight as we sat by the lake, I got suddenly sick of my bad self. Sick of saying I should, I would if I had time, I wished I could, blah, blah, blah. I got up early, long before the kids, the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and I kept getting up early and writing every day until it was done. I had my third Heidi book and I couldn’t whine about its absence in my life any more.

So here’s what I learned:

*I should whine less and do more.

*I can get a lot done when my children aren’t exactly conscious. Fear not: I will refrain from using blunt objects at 4 pm, but this realization does change things.

*Stepping into Heidi’s story was like picking up a continuing conversation with an old friend. I so dearly hope you feel the same way.

*Work, even when it’s fun, is still work. I love to write and I loved writing this book, but there were plenty of days when I wanted to be done and days when I feared all I had on paper was worth approximately one third of one penny. So if you’re there, if you’re working on something that can make your shoulders slump in defeat or make you want to bang your head not-very-gently on the nearest wall, press on. You can do it. Keep after it and silence that inner critic. That inner critic is dumb and still lives in her parents’ basement and eats all their sour cream and onion dip. She has no idea what’s true.

*I learned again that I love writing stories for you. I love writing romance that has charm and wit and chemistry. I love writing quirky characters who need the freedom of grace as much as I do. I love Heidi and Nora and Jake and Willow and Annie and all the other folks who make Heidi’s world rich and full. And I love a happy ending. I don’t know about you, but I’m in desperate need of a happy ending these days. The world has enough crazy and dysfunction to offer. Give me a book where I can forget the dysfunction for awhile and just read it while I eat my Nutty Bar.

I do so hope you love this book like I do. It’s been top secret for months, so I’m super excited to talk about it now.

Better Together absolutely stands on its own. You do not need to read the other Heidi books to completely enjoy it. However, if you want a refresher, Balancing Act and Bottom Line are available in updated editions here. In fact, Balancing Act in ebook form will be free within the next few days and will remain that way for a good while! So that’s an easy choice.

Thanks for sticking with me. I really do believe we are Better Together, no matter the divisive nature of the last month in our country. I really do believe in well-told stories and happy endings, and that having the patience and courage to get to that happy ending is where all the good stuff happens. Here’s to the good stuff!

Kim

p.s. Thanks for all the pre-pub good wishes and PR about Sugar, my first mainstream novel that releases this February. I am THRILLED the book has received such positive endorsements from early readers, fancy bestselling authors, and even a celebrity chef! I’m also very grateful that both Target and Barnes and Noble have enthusiastically acquired lots of copies for their stores. Again with the patience and again with the good stuff. God is kind and I am grateful. I can’t wait to share Sugar with you, but if you’re in a hurry, you can pre-order at Target, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. Word on the street is that pre-orders tend to arrive a couple weeks early.

All this political ridiculousness has got me thinking. I’ve gotten VERY JUDGEY in the last year with regards to politicians and all their talky-talk. You need to have a little pity for me with this because I live in Iowa, which means we were getting mailers, phone calls, and television ads voiced over by men who’ve smoked since the age of eight for THE LAST TWO YEARS. Probably more. I can’t remember that far back because I’ve had children and children rob one of one’s ability to remember one’s life.

I do know that I’ve been hearing from all sorts of politicians for years—years!—, and that’s just this latest election cycle, not all the many that came before. And I’ve learned something while I’ve been busy getting all judgey. I’ve learned that people do NOT say what they mean. People say all sorts of things and comb all sorts of hairsprayed and shellacked hairstyles into their coifs, and they wear the same exact riff on a suit for two years, no matter the outside temperature or if the suit looks like it should have found a comfy spot on the shelves of Goodwill a long time ago.

They do all those things. But they do not say what they mean. And I’ve gotten really irritable about this. In fact, I had a really nice spot up on my pedestal all staked out and ready for the install of my new couch and flatscreen, right next to a six-foot-tall portrait of myself. (JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE PORTRAIT. WHO DOES THAT?!) But then I had a very sobering realization:  I don’t say what I mean either. Particularly when it comes to talking with my husband.

Poor Marc. Not only is he the nicest human alive married to a woman who…um,…struggles with nice-ness, he is also required to interpret what I say using the Kim Dictionary Of Fake to Real Meanings. Here’s a sampling of the most frequently consulted entries:

p. 35 *When you ask, “Can I help with that?” and I say, “No, I’m fine,” THIS ACTUALLY MEANS “Drop what you’re doing and help me right now or I’ll be cranky/broody-silent with you for approximately 4.1 hours.”

p. 14 *When I ask, “Do you think my arms look like mom arms in this?” YOU MUST ALWAYS, ALWAYS SAY, “Your arms look like Michelle Obama’s only sixty percent more toned.” Always. There is never a time when this is not an appropriate response to the mom-arm question.

p. 87 *When I say I don’t want any presents for my birthday or Christmas, THIS ACTUALLY MEANS I want to go out to dinner and a movie with you. And dessert. With sprinkles. So yes. Yes, I do want a present. Just nothing with a bow and wrapping paper. (Bonus hint: The use of Valpak coupons is strictly forbidden at birthday dinners. Also, please don’t take me to a restaurant that sends coupons in the Valpak.)

p. 73 *When I say you can’t use a coupon for my birthday dinner, this does not mean you can’t use the Valpak Krispy Kreme coupon for buy-one-get-one dozen of doughnuts. Krispy Kreme is exempt from the no-coupon birthday rule.

p. 74 *When I say, “Does my butt look ginormous and lumpy after eating that dozen doughnuts from Krispy Kreme?” YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER.

p. 8 *When I ask you if you like my new haircut and you respond that you do, but your eye twitches or your right nostril flares or Saturn passes earth in its autumnal orbit and I freak out because I’m reading into your behavior (and the passage of the planets) and I suspect you are not telling the truth, STAY THE COURSE AND KEEP LYING. THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO UNTIL IT GROWS OUT.

p. 46 *When I ask you if you’ve read my blog and we both know you haven’t, just say no. But you’d better take a look every now and then because you just might be well-represented and I want to make sure you’re getting updates to the Kim Dictionary.

So I’m sorry, all you politicians. Sorry I thought you were really the dregs of society in unflattering suits. I was wrong. I am the dreg. I embody dreg. My apologies.*

(*New entry to the Kim Unabridged, p. 101: When I say I was wrong about politicians, I’m really saying, “Wake me up at Thanksgiving, and I would like you to bring the Krispy Kremes.”)

 

Readers. Friends. Countrymen and women. Lend me your ear and let’s chat about youth sports.

Youth sports. THE LAND OF THE INSANE.

Marc and I are receiving an education this fall in youth sports. Up until this time, for the first fourteen years of our parenting life, we have been entirely naive. We have done church-league sports. Church-league sports are pretend sports. They are fun and light-hearted and always end in a juice box and an inspirational talk, even when we get clobbered 11-0.

You didn’t score one touchdown your entire season? No problem! Church-league sports says you have a great attitude! Take your trophy and go get ice cream!

You didn’t actually understand until the final game that each team has their own basket and it matters where that big orange ball ends up? No biggie! Church-league sports thinks you are the most improved player JUST BECAUSE YOU FINALLY FIGURED THAT OUT! Way to go! Here’s your trophy! Go get ice cream!

You don’t really want to keep score because that kind of thing is so deflating? Perfect! Church-league sports totally agrees! Score-keeping is for sadists! Here’s that trophy! Get a double scoop of ice cream!

I really loved church-league sports. I could laugh and drink my hot chocolate and shrug when we lost. Again. IF THAT WAS EVEN TRUE, because we didn’t keep score! Boom!

We tried different leagues this fall, and let me tell you right now, THEY KEEP SCORE. And stats. And there is a weighing-in ceremony. And lots of gear. And puny-looking children running around terrified and tackling each other.

But this is not what I want to discuss, the puny terrified kids. I want to discuss the huge and crazy-town parents. Do you know these parents? Have you seen them? I’m talking personalized clothing and bleacher chairs, emblazoned with their child’s face and home phone number in case a pro scout needs to reach them. I’m talking parents getting to the game AN HOUR BEFORE KICK-OFF because they don’t want to miss a minute. I’m talking yellers. Have you seen the yellers? Have you heard the unrestrained and loud opinions on the referee’s performance? Have you heard the profanity?

Can I just take a minute to encourage a cultural deep breath? THESE ARE CHILDREN. THEY ARE CLUELESS. THEY STILL PICK THEIR NOSES AND STRUGGLE WITH HYGIENE.

Why are we yelling at them?

And the refs. The refs, if they are paid, rake in about 83 cents an hour. Are we really going to wig out when they get it wrong? The refs in our league, while they seem like very kind gentlemen, are not bionic men. They might, in fact, be blind. Have we considered this? They could be blind AND YET WE YELL ON. What have we become?

Listen, if you are headed to a youth sport experience this weekend, will you just sit down and breathe deeply? Take along a book to read. Pick up crochet. Hold a stress ball in each hand, but do not throw them at the ref when he messes up a call. HE WILL mess up a call BECAUSE HE IS VISUALLY IMPAIRED. Eighty-three cents an hour, people. Perspective.

Here’s a quick reminder: Only two percent of high school athletes receive an athletic scholarship for college play. And only one percent of that very, very select group will go on to go play professional sports. In other words, we would be wiser to start prepping for the CPA exam. There are more future accountants on that field than pro athletes, EVEN THOUGH YOU HAD HIS FACE SCREEN PRINTED ON YOUR SHIRT.

Let’s bring back the sanity. Go out there and be quiet. Smile and wave and cheer on your CPA. And for the love of Pete, don’t forget the ice cream.

Listen, I know I’ve been out for awhile. I’ve missed you. But now that we’re all back together again, can we talk about summer beauty?

I don’t believe in it any more. And not only because the summer’s almost over and I’m jaded and sun damagaed. I don’t believe in because it doesn’t exist in my current zip code.

I didn’t start out this way. I used to be super optimistic about summer beauty. Like in March, for example. March was a great summer beauty month for me. The skies of Iowa were gray and unrelenting, the cold lingered, and the view out my window was soggy and brown. But I had hope. I knew summer was a-coming and with it pedicures, relaxed curls, sundresses, and effortless make-up that made me look radiant. Bronzed and radiant.

In short, I would look exactly like Gisele during the Opening Ceremonies. Did you see her?!



She was luminous. Her legs were tanned and smooth and eight feet long, give or take a few. And I want to talk about her hair because this is where summer beauty has taken a big hit for me. Gisele’s hair is long and wavy and remarkably resilient to South American humidity.

This is my summer hair.

I was waiting to get my hair cut/tamed/shorn and when I pulled my hair out of a ponytail, this is what I saw. I saw a lion. A wrinkled, middle-aged lion who lives in the swamps of Iowa.

And it’s not just my hair. My toenails, for example, are not looking their best. I think I’m up to four different colors, each painted one on top of the other. The bottoms of my feet are dead ringers for cow hide. And I think we’d just better discuss the shorts issue.

Show me a pair of shorts that doesn’t ride AND doesn’t make me look like I should be strapping on a fanny pack and a hand-held fan, and I’ll show you the Holy Grail. IMPOSSIBLE. I’ve tried, oh, have I tried. But it’s either dumpy or scandalous, no in between.

This is a man, and he has an unfortunate tattoo, but I think he captures exactly how I feel in shorts.

Note his mournful countenance.

I’ve missed you. Get on out there and have a good weekend. Don’t forget your shorts.

Hello, dear reader! 



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