dirt don't hurt

GIRL!

By Karrie McAllister It’s that time of year; I’ve got presents on the brain. And I’m reminded of the importance of choosing the right gift every time my four-year-old son pushes the button on the animated singing snowman he received last year. (Worse yet, I was the one who bought it for him!) Trust me, hearing a fat, wiggling snowman sing “Play that Funky Music White Boy” multiple times a day is a stark, yet funky, reminder that you should think before you give. It’s the same old challenge this year, trying to come up with just the right present for just the right person. And in my book, the perfect gift should have the following characteristics: It should be meaningful. You should be thinking about the person you are giving it to, and find something special just for them. For example, if my son was not into disco dancing, the snowman would not have suited him. But unfortunately, it does. It should be quality. There is nothing worse than opening a gift and having it break coming

By Karrie McAllister At any given Christmas function, you will find me and my mouth full of sweet teeth lingering with a large cup of coffee right next to the dessert table. Easter has it’s chocolate, Thanksgiving has it’s pies, and that’s all well and good. But those holidays have nothing on Christmas and all of the joyous cookies that come along with it. Yes, from cutouts to those little nutty ones you have to stick your thumb in to make a well for the jelly, I love them all. Even the peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kiss so delicately pushed into the center, which I really don’t like, I’ll eat anyway. Why? Because it’s Christmas and I love sugar and getting fat doesn’t count before January 2nd. However, with cookie in hand, there is one line that will stop me in my tracks and lock up my throat like I’ve eaten a McNugget shaped like a chicken head: “My kids made those cookies!” I’m all for kids in the kitchen. My kids have multiple aprons and cookbooks designed for litt

By Karrie McAllister At this point in my life, I am most obviously pregnant. With mere days to go, I strictly waddle and tend to groan every time I need to bend down anywhere near the floor. While grocery shopping, I lean on the cart like it is my life support, as if that cart is the only thing letting me stand upright and keep mobile while I toss in the food for the week that I will most likely be too tired to cook at home. My clothes have all become snug in places they should not. Maternity fashion designers must not be realistic human women, or else the stretchy elastic band would start at the waist and continue down past the hips because those things tend to expand just as much as a belly during these glorious months. The cute wide-cut shirts made to fit over bellies don’t fit over so well anymore, so if I’m not yanking down the shirts, I’m pulling up the pants so that somehow, someway, the belly button that has recently become horribly convex won’t show more than it has to. It’

By Karrie McAllister “Do you know what you’re having?” If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that question, I could afford to pay for a whole gamut of tests to positively confirm the gender of my child. Instead, I give a smart aleck answer. “Hopefully a human baby.” And then I explain that although I had plenty of chances to find out, my husband really wanted to be surprised this time around and wait until the “hopefully human baby” makes its debut as a boy or a girl. Believe me, I wanted to know before hand so that I would only have to unpack and wash half of the baby clothes and so that we could only argue about one name instead of two. I also didn’t want to have to purchase any uni-sex baby clothes, those yellow and green jobs that make strangers nervous to ask anything using pronouns. But I digress. The fact that we do not know the sex of the baby also brings about a fantastic list of old wives tales that people just swear by. Evidently, no matter how kooky the old w

By Karrie McAllister As usual, the turkey’s not even cooled and sliced and already people are decking their halls and hauling out the holly. The radio stations are taken hostage by the 14 holiday songs that are played over and over, sung by different artists and in different genres, but it’s still the same old 14 songs. The stores are completely insane, and television programming is booked solid with Christmas specials and holiday themed concerts. It’s all well and good, because I, like most people, eat it all up as much as I do the Christmas cookies. My halls will be decked before my husband wakes up from his Tryptophan nap. However, this year I’d like to pitch a new holiday series to the CBS Network for our television entertainment pleasure, so if there are any CBS executives out there reading this, remember it was MY IDEA and that I should be the one raking in the zillions of dollars for this new show. I can virtually guarantee that every female between the 20 and 120 will be w