I saw a UFO this week.

No really, I did.

An unidentified foreign object…in my eye. What did you think I meant?

It all started last Sunday. I had been drilling holes into our white kitchen cabinets to install babyproof latches. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until that evening, when I noticed a tiny white speck on the surface of my eye. I felt nothing, and figured it would go away.

Fast forward to Monday evening and I realized that little speck was still there, in the same spot. I used drops, rubbed, even attempted to touch my eye, cringing all the while, but it was in vain. This was one stubborn UFO.

After a bit of back and forth with the eye doctor’s office, I finally got an appointment for yesterday to have it removed.

::Shudder:: I can’t stand to even think about touching my eye, much less to have someone else touch it! Needless to say, I was pretty nervous yesterday morning as the showdown with the UFO loomed.

Of course all my worry was for nothing. With numbing drops in, and very little ceremony, Dr. B simply grabbed a pair of tweezers (okay, I am sure there is a technical name for it but it bore a striking resemblance to that thing I pluck my eyebrows with) and grabbed that little speck right out of my eye.

Dr. B. took one look at the speck and confirmed what I had guessed – a little fleck of paint had flown into my eye while I was drilling on Sunday. The UFO was no longer “U”. And I learned a valuable lesson – never do DIY projects around the home without eye protection!

So, I survived my first UFO encounter. My eye feels a bit scratchy today and my vision is a bit blurry, so maybe that explains that fast-moving bright spot in the sky I thought I saw last night.

Or maybe not…

My dad’s in his early 80s.

But over the July 4th holiday, I realized he’s still got a lot of little kid left.

Most Sundays we’ll discuss lunch plans and he rarely cares what restaurant we enter for a meal. He’s more interested in the company than the menu.

But early last week, he started dropping hints. Which places had the best ribs. Which places didn’t. How he had lost the thump necessary to picking the perfect watermelon.

I decided against letting him know the secret the unskilled use to find the tastiest fruit. You wait as someone with that particular talent finishes squeezing and thumping. When their head is turned, you pluck the melon from their cart.

Instead, I voluteered we go for ribs as the main course and watermelon for dessert. We devised a gameplan that included a particular establishment and a swing by the grocery store on the way home.

However, as often as the case after a tasty meal, we headed directly home, settled into the recliners and dozed through the ballgames.

Nearing dinner time, Dad realized we left out a vital part of our holiday plan.

“We forgot to go the store and get some watermelon.”

“You want to do that for dinner?” I asked.

He broke into a huge grin.

“Let’s do that,” he said. “Let’s have watermelon for dinner.”

I felt as if I were 5 years old.

And I wasn’t the only one.

We all dream of doing it ourselves. Rolling up our sleeves and accomplishing something. And sometimes we succeed. Granted, we spent six months of weekends and almost as much money as it would have taken to hire a pro and have it done five months ago, but doggonit, it’s done and we did it ourselves.

And then sometimes we fail.

It takes a special kind of person to tackle a DIY project and come out ahead in money and sanity, and I’m not one of them.

Perhaps that is why I am giving up on making my son’s baby food, in spite of my high and mighty post about it just a couple of short months ago.

At the start, when Baby D ate maybe two ounces of food per day, it was easy to make a few batches of food in a couple of hours on Sunday and have it last for three weeks. Then he started eating three, then four ounces a day. Then we added a third feeding and he was eating six ounces a day. Now the amount that used to last three weeks was lasting one and I found myself steaming, mashing, pureeing and washing the blender almost constantly to keep up.

As his appetite accelerated, my patience screeched to a halt.

The icing on the cake was a visit to my parents’ house last week in Wyoming. My mom had picked up pre-packaged baby food for the week.

My friends, it was bliss.

No steaming, no mashing, no pureeing, no blender-washing. Just opening a container of organic pear raspberry puree (yum!).

I still advocate parents making their own food for those first few months of solids. It starts out manageable, like changing a lightbulb, or hanging curtains. But with my nine-month-old eating machine, it’s more like laying down tile or adding a sunroom – work best left to the professionals!

Hi folks!
Annie Duguid here to tell you about the fabulous new weight loss secret I’ve recently discovered. Stars have been using this trick for years and now I’m here to bring it to YOU!

Why waste your time with tried and true methods to healthy living like gym memberships and dietitian consults? With my method, there is no exercise, no dieting, it’s JUST THAT SIMPLE!!

Here’s all you have to do –

Step 1. Have your 8-month-old pick up a nasty virus at daycare, then have him pass it on to you.
Step 2. Have a weird sore throat for two days, but think that you are out of the woods when you start to feel better.
Step 3. In the span of three short hours, go from feeling normal and cooking Father’s Day breakfast for your husband to collapsing in your bed with stomach pains, queasiness, chills and body aches.
Step 4. Languish in bed, subsisting on Saltines and Gatorade for 36 hours.

Voila! I’m down two pounds already! And you can be too.

Got a big event around the corner? Need to fit into that little black dress? Need to look great in that bikini for your summer vacation? I’ve got the solution for you!

The Stomach Virus(R). Because if I can do it, anyone can do it.

*PLUS, if you call now, you’ll get another Stomach Virus(R) for your spouse or another family member, completely free! Hurry, supplies are limited.

Summer started in my neighborhood a tad early.

As we hit near 100 degrees over the weekend — 97 with the wind chill factor — I noticed many of us doing yard work Saturday took early breaks from the heat and didn’t return.

I actually showered between tasks to lower my core temperature. Handing over the reins to a lawn service now seems like the right move. But then would I feel obligated to get a gym membership to fake like I’m still in shape?

While summer officially arrives Monday, I really didn’t need the outside sauna to convince me in very sweaty terms that it approaches.

I have another gauge, gleaned from grade school.

For me, summer’s in session when the freezer’s stocked with banana-flavored popsicles and I’ve gathered the ingredients for homemade slushies. Now, my combination of cranberry juice and 7-up is no match for what you get at the Gas-n’-Sip, but it’s a nippy thirst-quenching treat on a hot evening.

I prepare it just after dinner, pouring a full can of non-caffeinated soda into an over-sized plastic college cup with the washed-out logo. I add enough fruit juice to bring my concoction just below the rim before placing it in the freezer.

I return periodically to give it a stir or sample the icy treat, don’t want this slushy goodness to become a solid. After all, this is summer. I now take my evening drinks seriously.

Whole Foods is one of those places that completely intimidates me. Some of the items are just plain weird, and I have no idea what they are, let alone what to do with them. I wouldn’t know a kumquat from a quahog unless I used Google, and everybody in there seems much cooler, slimmer and healthier than me. (I scored a point for remembering my reusable shopping bags!)

Yesterday, I walked into the store for supplies for an upcoming photo shoot for the magazine I work for, and while shopping the produce aisle, I came across a section of farm fresh eggs sourced from local farms, including both duck and chicken. Below the smaller eggs was a handful of cantaloupe looking things. Unlike the melons, they had a smooth surface, though, so I sought out the description. HOLY COW! Those were OSTRICH EGGS. Too afraid to pick one up, I ran my hand over the cool, $19.99 (bargain!) surface and wondered “just what would one do with an whole ostrich egg?”

Short of hiring a personal chef, I didn’t have a clue. I was fairly certain one couldn’t crack it open like Wilma Flintstone cracked open a pterodactyl egg on “The Flintstones” (she was a tough old broad!). A quick internet search recommended using an assortment of a saw, a hammer and/ or a screwdriver.

Wow.

A Google check told me that an ostrich egg is roughly the equivalent of 20 to 22 regular chicken eggs and could feed up to 12 people. I found a great post from a blogger who purchased one of these ostrich eggs and made omelets out of them. I thought about making a big ol’ platter of scrambled eggs.  But other than traditional breakfast foods, can anyone tell me what 20 eggs can be used for?

I’m thinking I might just need to make another trip to Whole Foods…

We have a tooth!  One little razor-sharp white bump in Baby D’s bottom gums. 

No wonder he’s been so cranky recently.

For the past three weeks our docile little man has become a bit of a Fussy Britches.  A toy that delights at one moment repulses at the next.  A book that charmed yesterday incites hitting and screaming fits today.  A sweet snuggle with mommy turns into squirming and hair pulling at a moment’s notice. 

Lately, he seems to live on the verge of a meltdown.  But I think he has turned a corner since that tooth broke through. 

His happy, stable moods have returned and Mr. Fussy Britches has taken a vacation, hopefully a long one. 

At least until our first visit to the dentist!

Right now, I’d like to be the swashbuckling Inigo Montoya fencing with the Dread Pirate Roberts atop the Cliffs of Insanity.

I’d like to smile and say “I am not left-handed.”

But I am.

Thus, my frustration level soars.

Granted, that’s not inconceivable. After weeks of protecting my injured left hand, my right side now wants to storm the castle. My shoulder throbs. My elbow aches. Somewhere deep inside, I swear my left side is snickering that “we do this every day, get over yourself.” Which isn’t helping.

Try using your non-dominant hand gripping the steering wheel, writing, moving the mouse. Even doing double-duty on the keyboard with an opposite-handed hen peck. Do it for a week and you’ll feel my frustration at fumbling, wincing and otherwise slowing to a crawl over routine exercises like opening a door, pulling up the covers or getting dressed.

I probably should find a physical therapist to speed my recovery since, unlike an octopus, I can’t give my pair the day off. I can’t even ponder the possibilities since it hurts to rest my chin in my hands.

Arrgh! Both arms hurt. Both hands hurt. Anybody seen Miracle Max?