Kansas University alumnus Rob Riggle anticipates a full house this weekend as he once again teams up with fellow actors Paul Rudd, also a KU alumnus, and notorious Jayhawk fan Jason Sudeikis, to co-host the third annual Big Slick Celebrity Weekend, a benefit for Children’s Mercy Hospital.
My friend, Jill, makes the most marvelously addictive fried fondue balls. I know this because I ate no less than 200 of them at bunko last month. This unleashing of my not-so-inner turophile, along with an upcoming vacation and the bikini I plan to pack, inspired me to try a conditioning session at a nearby boxing club.
I am not sure what my husband and I were discussing during dinner when Luke’s monologue finally registered in our heads with, “I told the guy to leave me alone. I’m only 10.”
I might look like a grown-up complete with gray hairs, wrinkles and a minivan, but inside I am still the girl who swoons at the very mention of the words “royal” and “wedding.” And, of course, “half of Wham!”
It was one of the many days our kids had off from school this semester (they are all running together at this point, and I can’t be certain which one it was), and I was in the kitchen making lunch (of this I actually am certain).
For all my fellow Gen X-ers who find themselves sitting around with friends, grumbling about how times have changed, lamenting the passing of their acid-washed, Karma Chameleon childhoods as kids these days bop along with their flat-billed hats and nanopods right before you yell at them to get off your lawn, I have found a time machine guaranteed to take you back and ma
Aaah, Valentine’s Day, a day for celebrating love. (And/or eating chocolate.) In honor of this special day I have a special story to share, inspired by a question my oldest daughter recently asked, “Mom, what was your worst date?”
Uncle! Mercy! Whatever Mother Nature’s safe word is, I’m calling it right now.
Apparently I had blocked out about eight years of my life from the recesses of my brain. But a few days with my nephew, Charlie, and all those memories of the eight straight years I spent turning my toddlers into preschoolers came flooding back. For those of you blessed to have survived this point and, like us, do not remember what it was like, here is a refresher…
It was after midnight in Chicago. My husband had taken our kids back to the hotel earlier, leaving me to enjoy an evening out at my BFF’s 40th birthday party with college friends and my brother, now living in the Windy City.
It’s not so much that we were about to purchase a minivan this week. I accepted the fact long ago that I was far too practical of a person and lacked far too much eye-hand coordination to ever own an SUV and was, therefore, destined to contain my herd behind sliding doors.
My list is meager, a realistic and attainable set of goals for us to collectively embrace: an end to all illness, corporate corruption and TMZ’s coverage of all Kardashians and those who keep up with them.
With one last primp of the hair, we made our grand entrance to… A bunch of families in T-shirts surrounded by people my parents’ age.
‘Twas the week before Christmas And all through my brain My to-do list was running Just like a freight train
To ensure you always end up on our “nice” list, we have some pointers that are guaranteed to make you the hit of the mailbox every year.
Just like moving from the low dive to the high dive, moving from home-displayed gingerbread house construction (whereby your children decorate spiced cookie abodes with minimal supervision and the hope of one day vacuuming the last green sprinkle out of your dining room carpet), to an original creation (built upon plywood for judges and a paying audience) takes commitment.
Basketball season is in full swing again, and do I ever have high hopes for a certain crew of boys in blue.
I will be the first to admit, if not flat-out brag, that my brother-in-law’s Thanksgiving turkey is the most delectable, savory food ever to hit one’s taste buds.
My friend Sara is taking a cruise this winter, abandoning us to relax on the Promenade Deck. Oblivious to the shade of green upon my face, she asked if I had any advice.
Another fall, another round of parent-teacher conferences done. Like many parents, I imagine, I attend these conferences not for constructive criticism, but to spend time with my children’s teachers swapping stories about how brilliant and entertaining my children are.
It was a dark and stormy night. Rain seemed to fall not drop by drop, but, rather, bucket by bucket upon our fair city, as an angry Kansas gale ripped across our yards and down our streets. Its target: the power grid encompassing this writer, home alone with her daughters.
I’m River City Jules, and I approved this message:
“I can’t sleep.” This often-heard delay-of-game came from our 9-year-old son, Luke, just minutes after I tucked him in bed, assured him of my love and alluded heavily to the fact that I would see him in the morning, many hours after watching the season premiere of “Dexter.” And not one minute sooner.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon in Wrightsville Beach, N.C., a perfect day for boogie boarding with the family. On a family vacation. At a family beach. With family values.
I have discovered a terrifying phenomenon in music that has nothing to do with Justin Bieber. Huey Lewis is getting airtime. On the OLDIES station.
People, we need to discuss Bluetooth etiquette, as there seems to be some confusion on the part of a small but audible sector of the general population about how to appropriately converse on the helix-held (the hard part of the ear, I just Googled it) talking device.
Today marks the first of many lasts for my BFF, Oprah, as the first show of her final season airs. Like many women around the world, I have long-dreamed of meeting this superlegend, sending in more letters than I can count over the past 24 years. And, although this dream has yet to come to fruition, I have come close …
It has been brought to my attention that “River City Jules” lacks substance. That these pieces serve as nothing more than emotional reprieve from the real news. “Fluff,” if you will. So today I will deviate from my normal, silly banter and pass along a real-life lesson I learned last summer: How to get a new dishwasher.
There are some people, for instance the one I married, who feel I can be overly critical. Maybe it is about one’s need to crank up the heavy metal while driving, maybe it is about one’s habit of treating those within earshot to an a capella version of “Symphony of Destruction” while listening to one’s iPod. The (his) point is that I have a natural ability to find room for improvement in others.
I could not understand the urgency with which my parents had delivered my perfectly darling 2-year-old nephew, Charlie, to us last weekend for an overnight stay while my sister and her husband were away.
According to the school calendar, summer is ending this week, proving there is a God and He does, indeed, love me.
“You have to do something pretty spectacular to stand out in Vegas,” a woman said to me at the MGM Grand pool in Las Vegas last weekend.
For 50 straight hours, I fought extreme heat and the harsh reality of being one of the few moms in my son’s pack unable to convince her husband that taking off work to attend Cub Scout Camp was vital to the development of our boy into a man who can tie a slipknot.
This week’s story is a little different from the others. But while it might lack laughs, it should make you feel good all the same.
Today might very well be my last column, and I want to take just a moment to thank you all for reading River City Jules these past eight months. But I am afraid our time together may be coming to an end, as this week I am doing a two-night stint at Cub Scout Camp that, based on my experience last summer, has the potential to land me either in an institution for overexposure to nature or in jail.
I hate my personal trainer. Not because she is one of the nicest people I have ever met, though she is. Not because she is so stinking cute I would like to clone her and marry her off to one or both of my brothers, though I would. And not because, in spite of the fact that she is older than I am and has had multiple C-sections, she still has abs that rival any concrete slab for strength and flatness, though that certainly does not help her case. She is a freak of Mother Nature.
Our family vacation had been a little rough on Luke. By the trip’s end, Luke was hungry for a moment of triumph when his soul, which longed for adventure, could rise to a challenge with his body, which obviously did not spend enough time outdoors.
All was peaceful at Disney World. Children were laughing, princesses were frolicking, and everywhere we looked, dreams were coming true.
“Why do you always clean the house before we leave on vacation?” my husband inquired as I dusted behind the refrigerator.
While sitting at the KU Spring Game, I overheard two young teenage boys discussing the odds for the players on the field. However, unlike the grown men around me, these lads were not weighing the team’s chances of making it to a bowl game. They had more immediate matters in mind. “Those guys have it made,” the first one said to his buddy. “Girls love jocks.”
I first met my friend Sarah at a holiday party in December. She had just moved to town, and I found her to be positively delightful.
Apparently Victoria’s Secret sells a Brazilian bikini. How I know this is part of a long story, ending with me accepting the fact that it will take far more than an intimate wax job to get me in one.
While driving with my son, I noticed a “Now Hiring” sign in the window of a soon-to-open restaurant near our home.
An invitation came for my 20-year high school reunion. After checking the current date, referring to an old yearbook, doing some math and crying a little, I realized the invitation had, indeed, arrived at the correct address.
My friend, Janie, was on the treadmill next to me at the gym not long ago, telling me about her recent family vacation. “We had a great time,” she said, “except we were the only people at the hotel with children over 1 year old.”
There are few outings new moms can count on for relaxation. An eye exam, the annual physical, anything necessitating time in a room sans children becomes a precious respite during those early days of turning newborns into functioning people.
“Mom, can we get a pet?” my third-grade son, Luke, asked. Luke had just attended a birthday party at Pet World, where he spent 90 minutes man-handling baby pythons, snapping turtles and other creatures and, apparently, forgot all about the three sisters, the dog and the one remaining hermit crab at home.
Christmas finally arrived for our two oldest daughters when we took them to the Taylor Swift concert last weekend.
Nothing ushers in spring quite like the Royals home opener. And no one is more Royal than George Brett.
Due to a crippling case of Aphrilophobia, I will not be available for human interaction Thursday.