I Think I Have Developed TLDBCSD

That would be The Little Drummer Boy Challenge Stress Disorder. What is The Little Drummer Boy Challenge? Essentially it is a game where in the player does his best to avoid hearing the (dreaded) Christmas song between Black Friday and Christmas Eve. If you hear it, you are dead. Out. Done for. Now, you can't be tricked into hearing it (as my beloved keeps wanting to do to me) and it doesn't count if someone who knows you are playing sings it to you or otherwise sets you up, but all other instances count. This has led to some rather ridiculous behavior on my part.

Er, more ridiculous than usual, anyway.

On Saturday, my beloved and I were returning cable boxes belonging to a certain company that I shall not name, but will tell you rhymes with Hay Schmee & Schmee. (Huzzah for faster internet and the ability for all of us to operate devices in the house without feeling like we want to murder someone!) As we were waiting in the UPS store, I could hear the dulcet crooning of Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song and I began to get antsy. I could feel my heart begin to race and I looked at my beloved and told him that if Nat started wrapping up the tune before we were done, he was on his own, because I would be exiting the store. (I also made him go in before me to make sure it was safe to enter.) As we finished, Nat was finishing too and I pretty much ran out of the store in an "every man for himself" manner. Yeah, I love my husband, but I am not responsible for his meandering ways and if he gets himself knocked off, that's his problem. (TRUE LOVE!)

Last week, I was in a large discount store. I had been in there for nearly an hour and just KNEW that I was pushing fate. The Drummer could come for me at any moment. I was standing in line at the checkout behind an older couple. They were a little slow moving, which usually is no problem, but this time was causing my palms to sweat. I was polite, but was ever so slowly inching my cart forward as they took their time putting on coats and gloves and carefully rearranged the bags in their cart. (Even now I'm breaking into a bit of a cold sweat thinking about it.) As I pulled forward, ready and eager to pay and beat a hasty retreat, the cashier smiled at me and said with a big grin that showed she was blissfully unaware of The Boy and his bent on destruction, 'Just a sec, gotta change the receipt tape!" I shifted back and forth on my feet, I cleared my throat. 'Sure! No problem!' I lied. I was listening to the current carol wind down and was certain that the sound of pah-rum-pum-pum-pumming would be coming for me. As the cashier got the tape in and proceeded to ring up my purchases, the audio loop changed to an in-store ad for something and I started to breathe faster. When the commercial was done, the cashier was still ringing things up and happily chatting to me. I had no idea what she was saying, for I was nodding and uh-huh-ing absently while listening for the dreaded drums. And suddenly, my friends--IT WAS A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!! The next song was no carol. Instead, my ears were treated to the sweet, sweet sound of Blondie singing "Call Me." I very nearly broke down and wept. I kept willing the cashier to move quickly on my purchases, because I still had to exit the store. Blondie was well into the second verse by the time my packages were bagged. I lobbed a hasty "thank you!" over my shoulder and veritably SPRINTED for the exit. I made it to my van, sweating, breathing heavily, and only able to whisper a hoarse "thanks!" to the Muzak Gods who intervened on my behalf.

That evening, it was a simple yawn that kept me from being slain along with my son. We had been watching the SNL holiday show, giggling as Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg gave inappropriate gifts in a box, when suddenly I yawned. Not a dainty yawn, but a great big, gaping, canyon of a yawn. It was then that I decided that I should hit the hay. I bid my boy goodnight, went upstairs, performed my evening ablutions, and crawled into bed, exhausted from the trauma of earlier in the day. I wasn't in bed long when I heard an unearthly wail from downstairs. My son came up and told me that The Boy had just slain him via Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet. (Every year, this skit kills thousands who don't mute or leave in time. The humanity!) You know how experts are always saying that we should listen to our bodies? I BELIEVE. That yawn saved me.

It's just a minefield out there, friends! I've taken to going to the grocery with headphones on. Yes, I've become one of those people! I make my non-playing/slain family members enter buildings before me. I've always liked shopping online because I can shop in my pajamas. Now, I know we've all seen those girls who are out in public with their hair piled on top of their heads, no make up on, and in pajamas. I'm pretty sure my own daughter has done this. And they can get away with it. They look cute, even. But y'all. I'm 45 years old. NO ONE wants to see me sans makeup, in my pajamas with a messy bun. (My beloved sees my this way last thing at night, first thing in the morning. LUCKY.) So really, shopping online is serving both myself AND mankind. (You are welcome. I am a giver. Again. So. Generous.) I've done most of my shopping online this season to avoid The Boy. I changed the presets on my radio. I have a Drummer Boy Free playlist of Christmas songs on Spotify. I gave my 9 year old daughter the third degree regarding her choir concert, making sure that no drumming of any kind would be taking place. I may or may not have told her that if The Boy was making an appearance, I would be in the bathroom for that performance. Fortunately for all of us, her concert was percussion free.

I'm jittery every time I go out. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Part of me wants to just jump in front of the Drummer Boy train to get it over with already. But the competitor in me just will not give up. Last year, I went down early thanks (NO THANKS AT ALL) to the unholy pairing of The Boy and Bob Seeger. I refuse to be slain in such an inhumane way this year.

So if you need me, I'll be here. In front of my computer, trolling Amazon, wearing my pajamas and blissfully Drummer Boy Free.

Be safe out there, y'all. He's just waiting to do you in.

Last Week

I was busy last week. That explains my lack of posting. I was busy. BOOM! Best excuse ever! It explains everything without getting overly involved.

"We missed you at the PTO meeting."
"Sorry. I was busy."

"Why are you late for this appointment?"
"I was busy."

"Mom! You were supposed to pick me up 15 minutes ago!"
"I was busy."

"Why are we just now eating dinner at 7:15?"
"I was busy."

Then, when people try to ask you what you were busy with, you change the subject back to them, in either a positive or negative way.

"I am so impressed with the way you are running the PTO this year! Never in a million years would I be able to take on such a responsibility!" (HAHAHA!! Why??? Because I'M BUSY!!)

"You know, the staff here in this office is always so kind and efficient. I really hope these doctors know how lucky they are to have such a great staff!"

"Hey, I was looking on Skyward and I noticed that your English grade isn't looking so good, what's going on?"

"Wow, honey, you are looking especially good in your unshowered, unshaven, state! And the bicycle shorts only add to the glamour. Sexy! Here, have some potatoes!"

Or, if that takes too much effort, you could just type a few things on your blog and add pictures. Because the pictures will surely explain what you have been busy with.

I was busy trying to escape enormous spiders with 6 foot webs that MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEAR within 10 minutes of viewing it.

I was busy trying to figure out just what is in her mouth and why she felt the need to photograph it on my phone. #photobomb

I was busy trying to figure out if this is the new duckface selfie.  #photobombedagain

I was busy...um...still scratching my head over this one.... #seriouslytherewereabout15oftheseonmyphone

I was busy sending snarky texts to my daughter when she informed me that she would be late coming home from school. #motheroftheyearproof1

I was busy helping my son get ready for the big rivalry football game. #motheroftheyearproof2

I was busy sending pictures of duct tape to my other son in order to find out his preference on which one he would prefer I use to put on his cleats. #motheroftheyearproof3

I was busy taking very hip and chic selfies with my youngest. 

I was busy rescuing a leopard frog from our window well.

I was busy eating frozen custard with my family.

I was busy marveling at the light.

I was busy watching my daughter spin circles in her "twirly skirt."

I was busy taking pictures of my daughter's pillow perm. This picture doesn't even do it justice--you should've seen the back! #motheroftheyearproof4

I was busy helping my Beloved pick out new glasses. And by that I mean absently nodding in his direction and grunting "uh huh" at every pair of specs while really prowling the store for the frames I want when I go in to get new glasses soon. 

I was busy trying not to melt at my son's first game of the season. 

I'm busy trying to distract you from the ridiculousness of this post with a picture of an adorable Great Dane who was at my son's game. The game didn't end so well, but she was fabulous entertainment.

So. There you have it. I've have been busy, wouldn't you agree?

Um...look! Cute doggy!!

A Fractured Five Senses Poem

My kids have all written what is called a five senses poem while in elementary school. It's not a poem that rhymes, rather one that focuses on using your five senses to describe your surroundings. I shall attempt to replicate such a poem with a Que Sara Sara spin.

Home:

I see: dirty socks lying like dessicated worms in crumpled heaps on the floor; pale tumbleweeds of dog fur that roll across the floor with the breeze; piles of notebooks, keys, and sunglasses that make an end-of-school-year mountain on the kitchen island.

I hear: the wet, slurping sound of the dumb dog's tongue repeatedly licking a spot on her dog bed; the thunderous kawunking thump of the washing machine on spin cycle, sounding like a Blackhawk helicopter in my laundry room, signaling the end of its useful days; the squawks and screeches of yet another battle between siblings over the blaring television.

I smell: the bitter, but lovely smell of mama's little helper coffee brewing; the stale, heavy, still somewhat appetizing aroma of bacon that was cooked days ago; a slightly musty, warm Frito odor coming off the dog as dozes in the sunbeam by the door.

I taste: the bittersweet hotness of the cappuccino as I guzzle it down while signing school papers; the bright, minty flavor of the sweet peppermint gum I chew to keep coffee-breath at bay; the bland, plastic taste of the tip of a pen as I compose yet another grocery list.

I touch: the gummy surface of a countertop left mottled and blemished by dirty cups, bowls, dishes, and wrappers; a slightly damp, highly stinky baseball jersey as I throw it into the dying washer; a wet shower mat with my bare feet, causing me to leap onto cold tiles. (Ick.)

Home.


And there you have it. It's probably not the A+ work my children received on their poems describing places like Disneyworld or the zoo, but it's my poem and I'm sticking to it.

Feel Free To Paint Your Toenails During This Post

I'm back! Not that I was really gone, I've been here. I mean, around. You know, physically. But after the events in Boston and Texas, I just felt like I needed a vacation from media for awhile. Because I'm such a delicate bunny.

It's not like I accomplished much while I wasn't here writing. Although there was this:

She went to prom with her beau. She went with a group of about 10 other couples. And the whole thing made me think some stuff to myself. Stuff like: Self, you cannot possibly have a daughter old enough to attend prom, because you are only a few years past that yourself! And: Self, this is just a preview. Someday you'll be watching her in a white dress. And then: Self, you must knock off that kind of thinking! And finally: Self, you are getting old. That stuff you said about just being past prom yourself? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Also, I may have found a new energy source. I think if you could find a way to harness the light that was coming off these kids, BAM! You could light the world! I mean, they were all just so beautiful and fresh and full of light. And they had absolutely no idea!

Youth is wasted on the young.

Let's see....what else?

Um, there was laundry. And dog walking. And trying to keep the dog from walking off with the laundry. Seriously. This has become a thing now. I walk down the hall past the laundry room and I find a random piece of underwear or dirty sock or damp dishrag laying in the middle of the floor. At first, I was blaming the children, thinking they were knocking stuff off of the ever-present-piles of dirties in their haste to grab a clean garment and get out of the laundry room before I could catch them in there and make them take their WHOLE pile of clean clothes back to their room instead of just retrieving one. piece. at. a. time. But then, it dawned on me that the culprit was more than likely the Dumb Dog, what with her excellent nose and the fabulous smelling capabilities that go with it. Oh yeah, and her propensity to find absolute joy in the grossest smelling stuff. Yep. Would that I could find the same joy! It would make doing laundry and spending any amount of time in either of my sons' rooms so much nicer.

Hmmm....there was also taking my younger son to the dermatologist to have something removed from his back and standing by his head to comfort him whilst the doc cut an inch long, nearly inch deep incision into his back. Guess what we talked about while this little procedure was going on? Pizza. It was highly disturbing. And I'm not usually grossed out by stuff like that. In fact, for the first part of it, I was pretty fascinated. And then the discussion of pizza came up and I had to stop watching for a bit. You're welcome.

Also, my house is the poster child for entropy. I have been trying to systematically go through the house and clean things up and throw things out. My children have been systematically going through the house and messing things up and bringing things in. This has been causing me to systematically eyeball my wine bottles more times a day than I should probably mention.

And now that it's almost May (and thank the heavens above, because April? You have bitten it HARD. It's been wet and cold around here. Hey April! Don't let the door hitcha on your way out!) I am equal parts excitement and dread. Excitement because YAY! Warmer weather (Sweet cracker sandwiches! It BETTER get warmer)! And warmer weather means more time outside playing and watching baseball and grilling and walking the Dumb Dog. And also, May means school is almost out. Dread because school is almost out and that means projects and Special Days which require my time and attention when I am in no mood or shape to give any more time or attention to anything but painting my toenails. Seriously. That's my attention span right there. If it takes longer or requires more effort than painting my toenails, I'm out.

Whew! I feel much better! Thanks for reading. Or alternatively, thanks for pretending to read while you painted your toenails.

Last Week: Or Seven Days Of Excuses About Why I Couldn't Blog

I know it seems like I've been completely lame about posting and I'd like to say that my last post sucked all of my creativity and you know, making with the words out of me, but really it's just that my life has been extraordinarily ordinary lately. My life has been like watching paint dry. Except that watching paint dry is much more exciting and interesting than my life. Also, the last week has been fraught with roadblocks to blogging. To wit:

Sunday: I spent 7 hours in various waiting and exam rooms in doctors' offices and hospitals with my eldest. She has a pain in her ribs. She had x-rays and blood work (because of which my poor sweetums became white as a sheet, nearly keeled over, and immediately barfed up the juice the nurses gave her. Girl doesn't do blood work.) and probably a total of 40 minutes with various medical personnel. We spent the rest of the time either waiting in rooms or lobbies, moving from one building to another, or moving from one room to another, or doing paperwork. The results? Um, inconclusive. They know what it isn't, but can't tell us what is causing her the pain. The moral of this medical adventure? The weekend urgent care clinic is probably not the best place to seek out care for this type of problem. We should have waited a little and gone to her regular doc. I'm guessing we could've skipped a few steps. Oh well, at least I wasn't stuck in the laundry room for 7 hours.

Monday: Because of the activities of the weekend--namely Maggie's Medical Adventure in Hospital Land-- I spent 7 hours in the laundry room. But at least we were all in relative good health.

Tuesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Worst Cold Ever. Seriously. It was the worst. I'm sure it was worse than any cold suffered by any human in the history of the world. Do you know why? Because it was happening to me. Duh! Anyway. It was nasty. And gross. And horrible. But at least it wasn't a migraine.

Wednesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Migraine From Hell. This sucker came roaring in about the time I took Mary to the bus stop. She looked at me and said, "I can tell you don't feel good. Does your head hurt?" When I barely nodded my aching noggin, she said, "Oh I'm sorry! But at least you didn't throw up!" So naturally when I got back to the house, the vomiting started. Migraines are horrible. Vomiting is bad. But combining the two is a rather specific sort of hell. You can't keep your migraine meds down because you're vomiting. And because of this the pain continues, which leads to more nausea and vomiting. It's delightful. And by delightful I mean I spent a very long time wishing that God would just kill me already before my eyeballs exploded from the pressure leaving a nasty mess for someone--probably my mother, because goodness knows the people I live with wouldn't know what cleaning up was like--to clean up. I was finally able to time the medication just right with the waves of nausea and passed out in my bed with the heating pad covering my head. I couldn't think straight, but at least I had the power of speech.

Thursday: I woke up Thursday morning after 36 hours of fighting The Migraine From Hell and felt much better. But I sounded like Barry White. After he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years. Except for when I had no voice at all. It was extremely sexy. I alternated between a squeaky whisper and a very bass rasp. It's no wonder that my husband, upon returning from a business trip gave me an air kiss in the area of my forehead. While holding his breath. Lucky guy. I had been stuck in the house all week, but at least I'd be getting out tomorrow for lunch with a group of friends.

Friday: Lunch with friends was lovely. Unfortunately it was a very small group, as a couple of the girls discovered at the last minute that they couldn't come. Still, lunch with friends is always a good thing. And this lunch was great after the week I'd had. I was out of bed, I was out of the house, my head felt normal, I could breathe, (well, sort of. Every breath made my sinus cavities feel like they do after you snort water.) and I had my voice back.

Saturday: Who blogs on Saturday?

Sunday: I finally found my kitchen island! It only took two hours of picking up, wiping down, disinfecting, vacuuming, and mopping, but there it was! Smack in the middle of my kitchen, right where I'd left it. Then there was shopping for shoes for prom with my daughter. And then shopping for a cape for my eldest son. Yes, a cape. I'm not sure why exactly, his explanation had something to do with his English class,  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, and Batman. I'm shaking my head even as I type that. Then it was time for dinner, followed by the daily round of a little game I like to call "Who Has Homework?" wherein the various contestants tell me if they have homework, why it sucks, and why they shouldn't have to do it. This is followed by several rounds of a game I call "Do It Now Or I'll Continue To Make Threats I Won't Follow Through On." Then the movie "The Breakfast Club" was on and I had to stop and watch it, because, hey, it's "The Breakfast Club." Then, after editing my daughter's paper that she had to write for Geometry (yes, they make them write papers in math class. Ah, for the days when math class was spent doing, um, math!) I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Today: I get to do laundry and you get this mess of a post. We're ALL winners!!

The Post Where I Start Out Talking About One Thing And End Up Talking About Donuts (Mmmm...Donuts...)

I am a hot mess. I have been face-first in closets and cabinets for the last week, cleaning out, purging, organizing, and de-crapifying STUFF. Y'all. We have some STUFF around here. Too much STUFF. Like, I can't believe how much STUFF. Some of it is useful, some of it is pretty, some of it is memories. But much of it is crap. And I am not done. Not by a long shot. But other things have come into the picture that are causing me to have to pull my nose out of cabinets and closets and pantries.

I am leaving in six days for warmer climes. My beloved has a sales meeting in a warm place and the spouses have been invited to tag along. This has caused me jubilation because WARM! SUN! BEACH! But also panic, because ACK! Leaving for several days and relatives are coming in to care for my offspring and my house is sort of, well, a hot mess. Much like the housekeeper.

My parents are off enjoying their annual February in Florida trip, so we weren't able to bribe ask them to come watch the kids. This time, the punishment duties fall to my fabulous sister-in-law and her husband, Aunt Heather and Uncle Steve, whom we shall henceforth refer to as Aunt Hes and Uncle Buck. (Not the unemployed, betting on rigged horses part. And not because of a physical similarity to John Candy. But some of the other stuff? Um...maybe. The whole hatchet thing? Could totally see it happening.) The kids are very excited to have their aunt and uncle coming to stay for a few days. Aunt Hes has already promised a dance off. (Sort of wish I was going to be around for that...) And I'm terribly grateful for their willingness to come over and care for my kids. But you know, it means that I have to lay out routines and phone numbers and appointments and emergency stuff in pretty good detail. And also I need to cook a few meals ahead of time so that Aunt Hes won't have to cook. And I need to get the laundry as caught up as possible. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Shut up.) And I need to get the house cleaned so that they won't see how we really live.

Things are also tough because I have a severe case of PWS. This is not to be confused with PMS (which, at times, I may or may not have but you probably shouldn't go down that road because it can only lead to bad things...). I'm talking about a full-blown, Midwestern wintertime induced case of PWS-Pasty White Skin syndrome. If you know someone who lives in the Midwest, then you know what I'm talking about. The sun is pretty fickle 'round these parts during the winter months. Sometimes it doesn't come out for days. And when it does, it's as weak as Chuck Hagel during confirmation hearings. No? As weak as the NRA's reasoning behind their defense of assault weapons. No? As weak as my similes?  Bingo! Anyway, my point is: the sunshine, it is not so great in the winter. And the skin? Well it is covered virtually 24/7 with clothing. Because winter around here? Brrrr. And what does the combination of weak sunshine and virtual burqa-wear equal? Pasty White Skin. Hence my need to lurk around the tanning salon.

Yep. I'm outing myself. I have, for the first time in my 40-something years, been to a tanning salon. Now, I'm not talking about the spray tan that my daughter talked me into a few years ago that caused me to have carrot fingers. I'm talking about the lay-yourself-down-on-the-bed-with-the-cancer-causing-lights-that-your-mother-doctor-and-every-health-class-warned-you-about-tanning-bed. I know better. Really, I do. I am an SPF 50 kinda gal. True story. But vanity has overridden all of my common sense. And so I have found myself pulling up to the tanning salon, furtively glancing around before I get out of my car, and pulling my collar up around my face in hopes that I won't see someone I know. And it's not just because I'm not wearing makeup and I look, as my daughter would say, ratchet. (This definition is much easier to swallow than the one on urban dictionary.) I am afraid of running into someone and then having to justify myself for going to a tanning salon. The fact that the tanning salon sits right next to the doughnut shop is not a bonus. When you park in the lot, you are only going to one of two places, and neither of them look good. Hmmm....tanning or doughnuts? This is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't quandary. I mean, it's not as bad a quandary as say, Heroin Den/Brothel, but still. Tanning salon? Skin cancer! Doughnuts? Stuck in bathing suit yet again! It's a suburban mommy quandary.

So far, the tanning salon is winning. But if I start looking carroty, I'm thinking that a Bavarian may be the cure.

**I'll be busy tanning cleaning this hot-mess-house this week and then gone to warmer climes for most of next. But look for pictures to come the week after. And also, there could possibly be a wisdom tooth story as well. My daughter is having her wisdom teeth extracted immediately upon our return. Sad panda! However, this might produce significant blog fodder. Happy kitty! (Or something...)

What I Know

I know some things and it's mostly stuff that you won't give a hoot about, but I'm sharing them anyway.

I know that I never remember kitchen conversions so I have to keep a chart posted inside one of my kitchen cabinets.

I know that I am getting stronger because my trainer made me do some things yesterday that I wouldn't have been able to do a month ago.

I know that I look like this when I'm done with Zumba:

Well hello, Miss Sweaty McStinkerton! What have you been doing?

Sorry. I know that was scary. Hope I didn't make you spit your beverage all over your computer screen.

I know that Sean's last two games were rained out--one in the 4th inning and one before it started. So I also know that even though we've only had 2 games so far this season, we will already be having make up games.

I know that my husband is flying out on business this week. I know that it will be hot where he is. I know he is not looking forward to it. (But it's a dry heat! ;) )

I know that it's going to be in the 80's here this week and that means I will finally get to plant some flowers and get my garden going.

I know that Tilly gets nervous when I do Zumba and cowers in a corner.

I know that I still watch reruns of "Friends" and it still makes me laugh.

I know that Phoebe is still my favorite.

I know that my children have no idea how to replace a lid on the toothpaste tube.

Ditto with the toilet paper.

I know that I have no idea what I'm making for supper tonight.

I know that a trip to the grocery store is in my imminent future.

I know that a trip to the pet store to buy a net for the fish my kids have is also on the list.

I know that we used to have a net.

I know that I have no idea where it went.

I know that "Parks & Recreation" makes me snort.

I know that watching "Awake" with my daughter on Thursday nights is something I look forward to all week. (Oh Mr. Malfoy! Look at you with your American accent and your blue eyes and your weird problem with whether or not your are dreaming your realities!)

I know that I have some graduation gifts to find and I know that I don't really know what to get.

I know that my daughter has already filled in my beloved on what to get me for Mother's Day.

I know that my beloved is trying to act like it's his idea.

I know that watching Mary and Sean play "Double Fine Happy Action Theater" on the Kinect is hilarious.

I know that playing "Double Fine Happy Action Theater" myself is even more fun.

I know that "Double Fine Happy Action Theater" sounds like a horrible Chinese translation.

I know that someone found my blog by using the search term "Patty Prayer doll".

I know that it makes me happy to think that someone else out there had one.

I know that the idea that someone else tortured their own "brother Jon" makes me ecstatic.

I know that my children are all (okay, not Maggie. She knows she needs her sleep and polices herself well.) staying up too late because the daylight hours are getting longer and they are outside doing stuff.

I know that I have a hard time calling them in on time because I love that they are out doing stuff.

And also because I get distracted.

I know that one of my children (*cough*Mary*cough*) is a complete grouch pouch in the mornings if she doesn't get enough sleep.

I know that she is a bit of a hypochondriac.

I know that I was a bit of a hypochondriac at the same age.

I don't know how my mother put up with me.

I know I should quit writing this ridiculous post.

I know that I should go shower.

I know that I'm having a hard time quitting because I'm on a roll with all the things I know.

I know that you are happy this post is done and I also know that you didn't come away knowing any more than you did when you got here.

Truth Is...

The truth is, I am not feeling very inspired to do much lately. Even writing here is hard because I just feel as if I have nothing to say and why should I inflict myself upon people by writing something that isn't worth reading?

The truth is, I have been feeling so uncreative lately that just walking through a craft store yesterday made me angry because I looked at all the stuff and thought, "Ugh!"

The truth is, I love working out. AFTER I have worked out. Because the truth is, I don't like it at all beforehand.

The truth is, I've been working out for almost a month now and I'm not seeing much of a difference. Oh, a pound here or there and a few inches, but the truth is, as hard as I've been working, I feel like I should see a bigger difference than I am.

The truth is, I'm tracking every damn calorie that goes in my mouth.

The truth is, I really like the website that I'm using to do it. (www.myfitnesspal.com)

The truth is, it's a lot harder to eat back all my exercise calories in a healthy way.

The truth is, what I really want to do, is cram about 8 Oreos in my mouth and be done with it.

The truth is, I feel like all I do these days is work out, do laundry, and clean up after slovenly children.

The truth is, I haven't cleaned out my garden yet and I'm going to need to do it soon.

The truth is, Little League has started and while I enjoy watching the games, I don't enjoy watching practice.

The truth is, that when my beloved is out of town and can't take Sean to practice, I have to. And the truth is, I sit in the van, all anti-social like, and read while practice is going on.

The truth is, I love it.

The truth is, I still help Mary get dressed in the mornings. She's seven and has been quite capable of dressing herself for years.

The truth is, she's a little lazy about waking on time and I'm a bit of a control freak and don't trust her fashion choices. Although considering most of her wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, I'm not really sure how she can mess things up.

The truth is, I foresee my helping her dress herself until she's 40. And then she'll have to help me.

The truth is, the passenger side van door has been non-functioning for over a year.

The truth is, if my beloved had to drive the van everyday it would already be fixed.

The truth is, I am TIRED of asking my beloved to have it fixed and so I suffer along in martyred silence.

Okay, the truth is, I suffer along in martyred muttering under my breath.

The truth is, I need to paint the living room, but I'm so worn out after working out most days, that the idea of painting the living room makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and hum soothing songs to myself.

The truth is, I love watching Tilly stretch out in a sun patch and listening to her snore.

The truth is, I could really go for some of my mom's potato salad today. And trust me, I have enough calories left today that I could have plenty.

The truth is, I watched "War Horse" over the weekend with my beloved and James and had a big ol' ugly cry during a very climactic scene. Seriously. Bad. I just don't do that in movies. Patrick gave me a quizzical look and asked if I was going to be all right. I had to pull myself together before having a full blown McConnaughay fit.

The truth is, I love eating salads, I just don't enjoy making them.

The truth is, I don't drink Diet Coke anymore. (I know, right?!?!) I now drink so much water that I have to pee all the time. (You're welcome.)

The truth is, I'm sure that this is better for me, but sometimes I miss the ritual of my morning Diet Coke, even though I don't even crave them anymore.

The truth is, I have now started talking about bathroom habits, and that is just wrong on so many levels. So the truth is, I'm going to stop now and go cook some turkey bacon.

And the truth is, I'll want to eat seven slices, but after killing myself this morning at the Y, the truth is, I'll only eat one.

What are some of your truths? Feel free to share!

Working Out

As I type this, I am sitting here thinking that the only muscles not hurting are the ones in my fingers. And my calves. My hamstrings are okay. And my glutes. But everything else? I feel like I've had whole body whiplash. Why? Because I started my sessions with a personal trainer yesterday.

I received a gift certificate from my beloved for my birthday for some sessions with a personal trainer. Now, before you go thinking that he is a horrible husband and a neanderthal, let me assure you that he only gave me what I asked for. He asked me what I wanted and I told him that I would like to have some time with a trainer who can help me get myself back into shape. Trust me when I say that he asked me about 467 times if I was sure that was what I wanted. He kept telling me that it felt like he was giving me an appliance or something equally unlovely. (Actually, I asked for a stand mixer for Christmas and he gave me one. What can I say? I am practical. Perhaps I should start asking for different things? A trip to Ireland?) I reminded him that I asked for it. It's not like he was giving it to me and dropping a hint into my lap at the same time. He told me that when he went to the Y and bought the sessions, he made sure to tell the ladies behind the counter that it was my request. I think he was afraid they would come after him in the parking lot.

So. After a few weeks of trying to work out the schedule, I met with my trainer last week for a consultation and to set some goals. And yesterday was the day. It was good. And horrible. And exciting. And tiring. And stimulating. And exhausting. I discovered that I could both do more and less than I thought I could. Does that make sense? The trainer was great and I can't wait to meet with her again. But today I am, as predicted, sore, but not so sore that I can't move. In fact, I'll be heading back to the Y this morning to do some torture cardio. Should be a blast. What with the fact that my quads have decided to go on strike. Seriously. Walking upstairs last night? I didn't know I was grunting until my children mocked me. Then this morning I discovered myself grunting on the way downstairs. Yes, things should be interesting this morning.

I thought that I might start painting our living room this week, but the thought of trying to climb a ladder and also kneel down to paint along the baseboard is anything but appealing right now. Actually doing the 37 metric tons of laundry waiting for me upstairs sounds more doable. Although it does have me cursing my beloved 2nd floor laundry room.

Maybe after I work out, I'll just mentally fold the laundry while I sit on the couch and watch Mad Men on Netflix. Oh, and my shower is upstairs too. But you know what? My 7 year old tells me that hygiene is overrated. Perhaps she's right.

Dream A Little Dream

I had a dream the other night. It was weird. Not the part that I had a dream. I mean, I'm sure I dream every night, but I don't remember most of my dreams. No, the weird part was the dream itself. I know some people dream very vividly quite often, but I am not one of them. Occasionally I'll wake and remember my dream and while it may have a strange part in it, it's not like I'm dreaming that I'm a chameleon on a rug and that I blend into the rug and nobody can see me, which is a dream my sister-in-law once had. No, it's more like I'm dreaming that I'm running errands and instead of being in my own van I'm in a van that's different but I know that it's my van. What I'm trying to say here is that most of my dreams are rather like my life--average and not very exciting. (I'm not complaining. There's a lot to be said for average and a noted lack of excitement, really.)

But this dream I noted not only because I remembered it the next morning, but also because it was just so darn strange. I need a Joseph-esque dream interpreter to tell me what it means. Would you like to hear about it? Too bad. Here goes:

I walk into the Subway shop down the street from my house. I'm alone and I just want a turkey sandwich. I know exactly what I want on my sandwich because I always get the same thing every time. (See? Average. Not exciting.) I'm going to order a turkey on nine-grain wheat with American cheese, lettuce, onion, green pepper, cucumber, and mustard. I won't ask for chips or a drink. I just want to order my sandwich and get going, because in my dream I know that I have to be somewhere else soon, but I'm not certain about where it is I have to go.

I step up to the counter to order, and I notice that instead of the usual family that are the owner/operators of the shop, two new people are behind the counter. Standing there, ready to take my order is Christopher Moltisanti, and next to him is Paulie Walnuts. (Both in Tony Soprano's crew on The Soprano's.) Christopher asks me for my order. He says it politely, but I can tell he's agitated, as if there's something happening somewhere and he's missing it. I stand there non-plussed, because, well, there's a Mobster asking to take my order at my local Subway. I shake it off and step forward. I am the only customer in the place and suddenly I am very nervous. I don't want to do something to make this guy mad because, hey, I've seen him whack people and I don't want to be next. Part of me wonders if he is in the Witness Protection Program and they've relocated him to Fishers, Indiana of all places. I calm my jitters and order my sandwich exactly the way I want it.

Meanwhile, Paulie Walnuts is standing down the line in front of the condiments. He's leaning on his hands against the counter and he's chewing gum. He's watching me but doesn't say a word. I offer a timid smile.

Christopher gets the bread ready and puts on the turkey and the cheese and passes the sandwich to Paulie. Paulie gives me a long look and then looks down at the sandwich as if he's considering something. I don't know what. Probably if he wants to whack me. Which makes me jittery again. I quietly repeat what I want on my sandwich.

"No," Paulie says. "What you want is a little salami with that. And some provolone. You need some pepperoncini and some olives. And mustard won't work here. You need some vinegar and oil."

I feebly protest that I just want my turkey sandwich.

It does no good. Paulie goes on throwing whatever he wishes onto my sandwich while Christopher looks on with a little triumphant smirk.

Finally, Paulie Walnuts finishes my sandwich and hands it to me. I quickly think that I will pay for the sandwich, leave the store, throw it away, and find another Subway to get my usual turkey sandwich. I just know that I want to leave. Now.

As I take the sandwich Paulie says, "Try it."

"Oh, that's okay," I respond quickly. "I'm sure it's very good, but I have to go."

"Try it!" He says again. This is no suggestion.

I nervously take a nibble. Black olives and pepperoncini are not my favorites.

Paulie and Christopher look at me expectantly. "It's good, right?" Paulie says in his Jersey accent.

And then I wake up.
**********************
Seriously, what does this even mean?

I don't know if I liked the new sandwich because I woke up before I could find out. Does it mean I should try something new at Subway, or am I simplifying things? Should I be trying new things in my life? Because, really, I'm comfortable in my average, non-exciting life.

I just don't know.

What I do know, is that next time I go into that Subway, if I see someone from the Soprano's behind the counter I'm turning around and running out the door.

Quirks

If you have spent any time at all with me--or reading my rantings on this here blog--then you know that I have my share of quirks. "Quirks" sounds much nicer than "BatPoo Crazy," don't you think?

Well, today I thought I would share a few with you. Because, um, well, frankly I have nothing better to write about. But let's just call it "creativity," shall we? Because that sounds much better than "laziness."

Quirk the first: When I go grocery shopping, I don't just toss my groceries into the cart willy nilly. (I am totally bringing back that word. And shenanigans, too. Oh! And monkeyshines! There aren't nearly enough monkeyshines these days!) I place them in the cart in an orderly fashion, like with like. And then I place them on the checkout counter the same way. In the misguided hope that the bagger will bag them the way I have arranged them. But if the bagger doesn't--and they usually don't--I never say anything. Because that would be confrontational and I am a wussy. That's right. I am an anal retentive control freak about how I put my groceries in the cart and on the counter, but a scaredy cat when it come to making sure they are bagged the way I want. Perhaps it's because I have a million billion things that cost a million billion dollars and I'm just grateful that someone is actually going to bag them for me that I don't want to make waves.

2. If there is a song on the radio that I love and I turn it up to listen and people (read: usually my children) talk through it, it makes me crazy. "Really? I want to screech? This story about who walked with who during passing period/dubstepping/video games/what your friend did during bathroom break can't wait 2 minutes? Three at the most? REALLY? Sweet Mother of Pearl? Did you not get the hint when I turned the radio up again that you could stick yourself on pause and give me 2-3 minutes of silence whereby I might derive the merest hint of pleasure from something besides your voice?" But I don't say that. In fact, I rarely ask the offender to quit talking. And I suffer in martyred silence because I am a non-confrontational wussy. Okay. There might actually be some heavy sighing on my part.

3. I cannot sleep in pajama pants. If you ever get me pajamas (But really, unless you're my mother, why would you? That would be weird. And slightly creepy.) you should know I will not use the pants. Well, I might use them when I'm not actually in bed, but I will not sleep in them. They make me claustrophobic. And do not get me started on nightgowns/nightshirts. Whoever invented them is the spawn of Satan. All nightgowns do is creep their way up your body until you are essentially clothed in a tee shirt, so you may as well wear a tee shirt--which is what I wear--an oversized tee shirt. (Me so sexy.) And they get all twisty around your legs so that if you ever need to leap like a Ninja from your bed because an assassin has crept into your room in the dark of night, you will lose. You will be dead before you leave the sheets, my friend. Nightgowns are an assassin's best friend.

4. Using the wrong word like "weary" for "leery" or, God forbid, "volumptuous" for "voluptuous". It's like fingernails on a chalkboard. But I will never correct you. I will just suffer in silence. Unless you are in my family. Then I will make fun of you mercilessly.

5. I am a top-sheet-tucker-inner. I like to have my top sheet tucked in nice and snug when I go to bed. This is only really a problem if you are sharing a bed with a top-sheet-un-tucker. Guess which kind I am married to? We leave his half untucked and my half tucked. The problem here is that my side invariably comes untucked because of my beloved's need to make sure his toes don't curl over. Sheesh. Some people! Anyway. When he is out of town, one of the first things I do is go and tuck in the sheet all the way around. And then I throw my head back and laugh the laugh of the maniacally evil. BWAHAHAHAHAHA! It's awesome knowing that I'll have 2 or 3 nights of fully tucked bliss.

6. Jello is the worst food ever created. I can't stand the smell or God help me, the creepy jiggly-ness of it. I am shuddering just thinking about it. If you love Jello, that's fine. But keep it to yourself or we can't be friends.

7. I can't abide stepping on a wet bath rug. I will just about knock people over to get to the shower first so that I don't have to step on their cold, soggy footprints on the bath rug. I don't understand why my family doesn't understand that it is possible to dry off--and I mean completely dry off--before stepping onto the bath rug, but they just don't get it. And worse than that is stepping on a sopping bath rug in sock feet! Urgh! It both squicks me out and enrages me at the same time.

8. I have a near pathological fear of driving into a body of water. I'm sure I have mentioned this before. But whenever I drive I go through the scenarios in my head and imagine what I would do should such a situation arise. It doesn't make me change my route or anything--I mean, I don't avoid driving near water--but it does enter my head every single time I get into the car.

Okay. So now that you have a crush on me because yo, I am so normal, it's your turn. What quirks do you have? Hate wooden spoons? Love to bite through popsicle sticks? Wear the underwear of the opposite sex? Do share! (Okay, maybe not that last one. I mean, we're friends and all, but that might be over sharing.) Please make me feel normal and share. I promise, I won't tell.

Because Apparently 5 Straight Days Of Posting Has Rendered Me Boring And Stupid

I remember way back when when I first started blogging and I wrote every day--and sometimes even on the weekend. That hasn't happened for a very long time. Mostly because I don't have all kinds of stories to tell. Mainly because the dumb dog has seemed to find her equilibrium and doesn't leave me with a whole lot of blog fodder. And even though some of you have been kind enough to say that you would read my grocery list, I'm not brave enough to actually find out if that is true. Trust me, I'm not nearly as entertaining on my grocery list. Mostly because grocery shopping makes me want to punch someone in the throat.

I have some more Christmas related things to show you, but because November is trying to slowly kill me with its gray days, I haven't shown you. And not just because the lack of sunlight makes me want to crawl in a hole, curl up in a fetal position, and hum myself to sleep like some inmate in The Snake Pit. Mostly it's because the lack of sunlight makes taking good pictures really hard. I mean, I suppose I could take some inside, but that would mean an excruciating photo session, because have I mentioned that the previous owners of this house had four fluorescent light boxes installed for the kitchen lighting? No? Well, they did. Instead of opting for can lights or pendants or even some butt-ugly chandelier like they installed in the dining room, they had the genius idea of putting fluorescent boxes all framed out with crown moulding. The are the nicest framed fluorescent lights you ever did see. Too bad they suck. Especially when you are trying to take decent pictures. Oh, and just so you can see the special brand of crazy that happened when they built this house, there are two can lights over the planning desk where I am typing this. What the....? I just don't get it. Don't even get me started on the Circus Tent bathroom.

Ahem. Sorry. Tangent and rant over. Somehow I started writing about Christmas projects and my lack of blog fodder and wound up telling you the tale of our kitchen lighting. Scintillating!

I guess I would have been better off making the post that pops up here the one with the cute but dumb dog. Anyway. Barring more clouds (Please, Lord, part them like the Red Sea! This girl needs some sunlight!) and children coming down with strep (Please, Lord, may that particular scourge pass over us this home!) I should be back tomorrow with a variation on the glitter birds that I posted last week. And maybe some other stuff. Rest assured I will not give you a detailed description of the lighting plan in the rest of the house.

Unless I really can't think of something to write about.

Oh. My. Bob!*

Boy am I ever glad it's a new week! Last week was one of the longest weeks ever in the history of like, ever.

Something has been going around Mary's classroom and we discovered on Halloween night after all the candy was sorted, much to our horror and chagrin, that Mary caught it.

What was it? It was--*shudder*--lice

Sorry if you were eating breakfast. I know how squicked out you may be. Trust me. I reached a level of squickitude that I didn't know was possible. This is a problem our family has never had to deal with, but one, which after to speaking to people and doing some research, I've discovered is unbelievably common. Still, there is a stigma and a stereotype associated with lice that makes people (me too!) uncomfortable. But let me assure you, as much as I talk about our house being demolition worthy and dirty and as much as I lament doing laundry, we are not living in squalor or hoarding conditions. The health department would not have issues with the cleanliness here. My children shower daily (or very near--those with dry skin in the winter go every other day--just in case you were madly interested in our personal hygiene) and despite their issues with locating the laundry basket, they wear clean clothes. What I'm saying is, we ain't dirty, folks.

Lice happens. And this time it happened to us.

So I spent Halloween night administering Lice MD to Mary's hair and going over it with a nit comb. Then, I stripped her bedding and washed everything in hot and dried it on the highest heat setting. Then I bagged up her stuffed animals and any pillows that couldn't be laundered. And because she had "slept over" in Sean's room over fall break, I did the same to his room.

The next day, much to Sean's amusement and Mary's chagrin, I slathered their heads with mayonnaise and covered their heads with shower caps. And, because I am often in head-to-head contact through snuggles and such with Mary, I did it to myself too, just in case. Again, me so sexy! We left that mess on all day.

Then I washed more bedding, vacuumed floors and mattresses, and basically tried to wear out my washer and dryer.

After a day of having a head that smelled like turkey sandwich gone rogue, it was off to the tub to wash the mayo out of the kids' hair and give a rinse with vinegar. Mmm! Smells like pickles! With the added benefit of being sting-y! Delightful! (Particularly fun with my youngest, who is more sensitive in the sensory areas than the rest of us.) And then I got to go through every one's hair again. Good times.

Lather, rinse, repeat the nit-picking for the rest of the week. Hence, the rather busy life with no time for blogging.

So far, (and believe me, I am knocking on every piece of wood in range, throwing salt over my shoulder, crossing my fingers, and anything else that may spare us a repeat performance) Mary's head has been clear and the rest of us have remained louse-free. (Oh my Bob, I never thought I'd be saying those words!) It was a lot of work and I don't feel free and clear just yet. We are going to do one last treatment tonight or tomorrow just in case I missed anything. Good times.

I guess my point in this post is two-fold: 1. I wanted to share our story so that in some small way, on some little corner of the innerwebs, someone else who has a child with an itchy head might find this post and he or she won't feel like the world's worst parent. And 2: This should explain my absence to anybody that was keeping track. (What am I? In junior high? Do I have to explain my absences? I am a huge dork!)

So there you go.

Stay tuned because later this week I will have some lice-free posts. God willing and the creek don't rise, every post for the rest of my life will be lice-free!! In fact, those posts may or may not have something to do with a holiday that is less than 2 months away.

Okay. They totally have something to do with that holiday. Believe me, I won't be rushing through Thanksgiving, as it's one of my very favorite holidays, but I'm sharing, in case you, like me like to steal copy ideas (while of course giving credit to the originator) and have plenty of time to implement them before the crush of December busyness is upon us.

Here's to the rest of the week! (Oh please, Lord, may it be lice free!)

* That's the phrase we've adopted around here so that we don't use God's name offhandedly.

I Got Nothin' So You Get This

Hey! Guess what?! I have absolutely nothing to write about! Are you as excited as I am about that! Let's pretend that you are so that I can keep using exciting punctuation!!

Ahem.

So. It was a rather busy week last week, what with my mom visiting and all. Actually, I think it might have been busier for her, as she took on all laundry duties while she was here. Seriously. I only went into the laundry room to tell her what clean clothes belonged to whom. I think my washer and dryer went into shock at their constant use. My mom did several loads of laundry every day. Our drawers were always full and our laundry baskets were always empty. My kids were all...huh? They are not used to that sort of efficiency. My laundry usually gets done in frantic spurts--you know--"I'm out of underwear!!" or "I need those football pants tonight!" or "I'm headed out on a business trip tomorrow and I need those pants!" type of frantic bursts of laundry doing. Around here, laundry gets done around the other stuff in bits and pieces as I have time and until I get sick of the piles of clean folded clothes sitting on my bedroom floor and I demand that the children come get it NOW before the dog undoes all my folding again by going on a zoomy run and hurdling over them. When my mom is here, she goes into full on Mistress Laundress mode and the laundry gets whipped into shape and it likes it! (Did I really just compare my mother to a Mistress? Perhaps it is time to talk of something else...)

Let's see... Oh! I know!! You will not believe this! (And no, it doesn't have anything to do with the rather stylish 3/4 length wool coat I got at GW. For six dollars. Wow. That looks so awesome I have to type it again: six dollars! And now: $6! And also: $6.00!) Are you sitting down? I think you might need to, because this is kind of big. (No. Despite Mary's wishes for a younger sibling, I am NOT pregnant. Bite your tongue for even thinking that. Or something.) Okay, so you know how much I love Diet Coke? (If you have read here for any length of time, you know that my love for the dc runs hard and deep.) Well, I broke up with Diet Coke.

That's right. Diet Coke and I are over. And it's not because I'm cheating on it with Diet Pepsi. (Sheesh, people! I would never sink that low!) I have quit drinking it altogether. Yep. I am clean and Diet Coke free for 6 days now. I did it for a variety of reasons, but the main one is that I know it wasn't healthy and I'm just trying to make some better choices.

That doesn't mean that I don't want one--or four--every day. Especially in the morning. Especially when my beloved runs to McDonald's for his tea and comes back holding one cup instead of two. Especially when I have pizza. Or a migraine. Or oh...just anytime. But I'm doing it. I've been drinking lots of water.

I'd like to say that I've noticed changes already, but I haven't. My skin isn't glowing from all the increased hydration. Instead, I just have to pee more. My energy level hasn't increased. Cravings for sweet things haven't stopped. But I'm continuing because I just have to believe that it's better for me over the long haul. Wait! I know! I probably have a very shiny spleen right now! (I realize that the probability that the dc has anything to do at all with my spleen is very low. I also realize that the probability that my spleen is shiny is even lower. But right now, a shiny spleen is keeping me happy, so I'm going with it. Don't kill my dream.)

Okay...so...let's see...lots of laundry....superdedooper fabulous coat at Goodwill...Diet Coke...what else can I tell you that you could give two figs about?

Um...I got two pairs of fabulous shoes at GW as well. (Don't squick out. One pair looks like they were never worn and the other looks like they were only worn a couple of times. I sprayed them and they are great. Really, it took everything I had to get over myself and buy them. I'm just not usually a buy-somebody-elses-already-worn-shoes kinda girl, but these were really all kinds of awesome.) And my mother found some bargains there as well. I also introduced her to the wonder that is Garden Ridge and I took her shopping at a couple of furniture consignment stores. We also had a fantastic patio lunch at a local place for her birthday. Plus, she helped me with dinners and cleanup. AND she packed lunches and got Sean off to school the morning after Mary was up barfing all night and I got two hours of sleep and a very monster migraine to thank for my job of cleaning up vomit.

I really hate to end this post with vomit-speak. That isn't good at all. So let me leave you with this conversation:

Maggie: I hate this asthma. I feel like I'm better when I'm away from home and then I come home and it gets worse.

Me: Well, it might. I have a feeling that Tilly may contribute to that--her fur and stuff, you know.

Maggie: Well, geez! Don't you love me? Get rid of the dumb dog!

Me: We can't just get rid of Tilly. There are some other things that we can do that will help you.

Mary: Get rid of Tilly!!!! We CAN'T get rid of Tilly! I love her! Let's just get rid of Maggie instead.

Me: BWAHAHAAHA!!

Maggie: Gee, thanks, guys. I feel so loved.

My Life, It Is So Fun*

You know how there are times in your life that there is so much going on, so many things happening, so much news to share that you are just breathless in the midst of it all and don't know where to begin?

This isn't one of those times. Ahem.

I am sorry to say that the most interesting thing I have to report is a rather aggravating case of plantar fasciitis. Would it make it more interesting if I told you that it's totally self-diagnosed (I had a consult with Dr. Google, who, by the way, completely concurs with my diagnosis) and that I am now an expert in taping my own feet? No? Well, you might change your mind about that if you saw me actually trying to tape my own feet. I have to get rather acrobatic with myself and it turns out that I am not so bendy any more. I guess if I injure myself whilst taping my feet that could sorta kinda be entertaining but I dunno, saying that you injured yourself in a foot-taping accident lacks a bit of glamor, don't you think?

I can report that the dumb dog has been given the most evil gift ever. It is a jingle collar. What's a jingle collar, you ask? It's a piece of elastic wrapped in red and white velour--a canine scrunchy, if you will--that has bells attached around it. It is a torture device for the dog. When she wears it and hears it jingle, she looks behind her and runs as if she were being pursued by a rabid gopher. It's seriously hilarious. Guess who gave it to her? (Insert maniacal laughter here.) I couldn't help myself. It was calling my name from the shelves at Petco. I just thought it was cute and that the dumb dog would look festive in it, I didn't know that it was going to freak her out. That was just a lucky bonus. But I'm not cruel. I've only put it on her twice. I'm saving the real fun for Christmas when she can wear it and tear around the house and knock people over.

I can also report that the Christmas lights that I've put up in several places around our home are conspiring to make me crazy. They were all working perfectly when we put them up. Now they are taking turns burning out and dying--but only half a string at a time. You'd think I'd have wised up and purchased several boxes and kept them stashed here so that I'd have them when the lights decide to fizzle out. But that would be what a smart, sane person would do. I, on the other hand, have made at least three trips to big box stores to purchase a new string of lights. I am a jeenyus. Nothing makes me lose my will to live faster than having to stand in line at a store that has 35 register lanes but only four of them are open.

And do you know what else is fun? When the credit card you pay off every month through electronic banking somehow hasn't posted yet and so when you are paying for your stuff--the single box of lights among that stuff--with the credit card that you think has a zero balance, it comes back declined. So fun!

Know what's even more fun than that? When you scratch your head and ask the clerk to please run it again because it must be an error and the clerk runs it and then says loudly "You denied," to which you reply, "That must be a mistake. We pay off our cards monthly. Would you try one more time?" while nodding apologetically to the man behind you in line.

And the most fun is when the clerk runs it, then says very loudly so that people in the other three open lanes can hear, "YOU DENIED!" while giving you the stink eye. So fun! Yeah.

I can now report that that problem is resolved and that instead of doing more Christmas shopping, I stayed home. I'd like to tell you that I did some wrapping or baking, but what I really did was watch "Elf" while I taped my feet. Nothing screams Christmas like Will Farrell and sports tape.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that I don't know how to have a good time.

*Only if today is Opposite Day.

Things I've Recently Learned About Myself

I like Mexican hot chocolate. I've always loved hot chocolate, but had never tried Mexican hot chocolate before. I must say, it's a fiesta en mi boca!

I can tolerate my own clutter better than I can tolerate the clutter of other people. I don't know why this just occurred to me, but it was like a light bulb went on somewhere inside my little brain. I'm not sure how knowing this will help me out, but for some reason just being able to put my finger on that makes a difference.

I feel guilty honking my car horn at someone--even if it's justified. I recently honked my horn at a young woman who was texting and driving. She was not paying any attention to where she was going and was weaving back and forth between my lane and hers and I was seriously worried that she was going to cause an accident. I honked at her. Twice. And when I passed by her, I looked at her and said very loudly (because of course she could hear me) "PUT THE PHONE DOWN AND PAY ATTENTION, SWEETHEART!" and honked again. I don't think she noticed because she didn't even look my way and was still looking at her phone. But even after I got home, I felt bad. I was all "ohmygoshIhonkedmyhornIhopeIwasjustifiedwhatifthatdriverthinksI'macrochityoldwoman!?"

I think I may suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. I am seriously grumpy and kind of sad. I'm sure there could be other reasons for my grumpy sadness, but SAD seems reasonable enough to hang blame on and much easier to say out loud to other people than to say "Oh, I'm not really sure why I'm feeling this way. Now go away while I curl up into a ball and cry."

I am a procrastinator of the first order. I usually pin this label on my beloved. I don't think he would deny it. Much. But after seeing some things that I really need to take care of get shuffled around and put on the back burner, I have discovered that I am indeed The Pot. (But hey, I'm married to The Kettle and he's one hot fellow.)

I'm not sure about blogging anymore. I still love to write. I just am not sure that I have anything at all to say that anyone wants to hear. Not that that has ever stopped me before. Heh heh. I'm not sure I have anything to say that I want to hear. I'm kind of sick of myself, you know?

Okay. So there you go. Just a few more things about me that will only matter if you are ever: a) on The Newlywed Game with me, which just seems silly since I am already married and definitely not a newlywed, b) stuck on a deserted island with me, in which case I must say man, I hope there's some wild boar around because I'm not much for seafood and also pick up your socks already!, or c) making hot chocolate for me, in which case I say add that cinnamon!

I Have A Cold. You Have Too Much Information.

I have a cold. Or allergies. I don't know. Whatever it is, it is killing me, y'all. I sound like a cross between Eartha Kitt and Barry White after they've stayed out all night singing karaoke, swilling whiskey, and smoking stogies in a seedy cocktail lounge. (Now that I think about it, it might be kinda cool to see that.) Oh, me and my phlegm--so sexy. The worst part is that when I cough, I cannot cough and do anything else, for coughing requires that I stand still and cross my legs. I've had 5 children. They have all tap danced on my bladder. My bladder cannot take the stress. I can't cough with confidence. (That should totally be a tag line for an adult diaper. "Peepee Pads--Cough with confidence!") Too much information? Yeah, well, you should know better than to expect a filter from me.

The worst part of that is when you are walking along with someone, carrying on a conversation and all of a sudden, you have to stop, cross your legs, and cough. If it's someone who knows you well, they just sort of wait for you to recover and catch up before they respond with a snarky comment like: "Need a bucket?" If you are walking with someone you don't know well and you stop, cross your legs, and cough, well, let's just say it's awkward and leave it there, shall we? If it's a first grader that you are walking with, one of two things will happen: they will either be completely oblivious that you have stopped walking and just continue on in their own little world, or they will absolutely notice that you have stopped walking and then ask 742 questions about why you have stopped, why you are coughing, what causes coughing, when you think your cough will go away, and apropos of nothing, if you knew that their grandpa wears suspenders.

I love first graders.

Also? I love Nyquil. Although I'm betting my beloved wishes that I would figure out another way to sleep. Evidently Nyquil makes me snore--or snore worse than I do when I have a Nyquil-free night. I'm not sure if he'd rather have me coughing or snoring.

Yeah. I know. My poor beloved. He's married to a coughing, snoring, leg crossing woman with sexy phlegm that makes her sound like the love child of Eartha Kitt and Barry White. (Insert wolf whistle here.) Lucky, lucky man.

You Be Snow White...

Many years ago when my niece was four or five, she was sitting next to my brother in church. My brother and his family are always notoriously late. This makes my brother a little out of sorts. So as he was stewing in his pew, my niece asked him if he wanted to "play Snow White." When my brother quizzed her about this game she said, "I'll be Snow White. You can be Grumpy."

Henceforth on this blog, my dear brother shall be known as Uncle Grumpy. (Not to be confused with Uncle Fuzzface, who is sometimes known as Uncle Crabby. He is my beloved's brother. Also, he has a fuzzface and has been known to be crabby on occasion, so, you know, the nicknames. [Thank you Madame Obvious!]) Anyway! In the spirit of my niece's creativity, I am asking you to play Snow White to my Grumpy so that I can be allowed to grumble and vent my spleen.

Let's play, shall we?

Why the cuss* does my 9 year old son need to cussing practice at cussing 8 a.m. on a cussing Saturday morning? Why does this cussing practice coincide with one of the few weekends my cussing beloved is out of town? Why the cuss must it be cussing raining? How the cuss will I ever get those cussing white football pants clean? Why the cuss does this first cussing 8 a.m. practice have to occur on the first cussing Saturday after the first cussing full week of school when we are all so cussing tired?

My crock pot lid broke several weeks ago. It exploded when I pulled it out of the dishwasher and I had to clean up glass from every nook and cranny all over the kitchen.I love my crock pot and use it all the time. When I emailed the company, they told me that since I didn't have the receipt (who keeps receipts from 5 years ago???) I needed to get some code from the plug. Have I done this yet? No. I just use aluminum foil and a lid that sort of fits. My crock pot is sitting on my counter right now. I am too lazy to go look at the plug and then sift through my email to find the correct one and send the information.

There are 7 pairs of shoes, 4 pairs of socks, a shirt, and two blankets sitting in my family room. I have asked my children umpty-billion times to pick them up and put them away. I am met with the blank stares of non-comprehension. It's a shame. I sort of always thought my children were smart. Guess I'll be teaching them how to say "would you like fries with that?"

Last night was the first time that all four children were home at the same time for dinner. It was the first night that I was with them. We had Subway at 7:30 p.m. because I was too lazy to cook. They ate at the kitchen table while arguing over the television. I took my sandwich and hid from them retreated to the patio with a book. I am a bad mommy.

The dog stinks. Her claws are so long and sharp that every time one of us plays with her, we are at serious risk of being sliced open and disemboweled. I have barely had time to get her dog food so a trip to the groomer has been out of the question. (Also, apparently I am the only one who knows the super-secret phone number of the groomer and is able to make those appointments. I am not, however, the only one capable of complaining about her stench. Huh.)

My mudroom is a wonderful thing to have. I wish it were functional. I keep trying to find ways to get it better organized so that my children will actually hang up their backpacks and stow their shoes and sports gear. So far nothing has worked and now I am discouraged and too lazy to try to fix it. Today I tripped over 4 backpacks, three lunch bags, two sets of football shoulder pads, cleats, and helmets, two drink coolers, and two boxes of my beloved's work stuff that came out of his trunk and never made it back in while I was trying to take the dumb dog out. I might have said a bad word. Or seven.

I have paid almost $400 in book fees alone for my three eldest children. So much for a free public education.

Someone keeps leaving used tissues by the computer. Nobody admits that they are theirs. So I wind up being the one to throw them away. GROSS.

I have nothing fun to write about, so I end up grumbling and venting my spleen about things like smelly dogs and used tissues. That's some stellar blogging right there.

Okay. Enough of playing Grumpy. All this whining has made me tired. You can still be Snow White, but I think this time I'll be Sleepy.

*Thank you "Fantastic Mr. Fox" for letting me cuss without being offensive.

Just 30 Minutes

It has been one long week, my friends. I haven't had a meal with my family all week. I thought I might get one tonight, but then I remembered that apparently I am the only one in the family who knows the super-top-secret location of the pet store. Ahem. And the dog, well, she needs to eat and I fear that if I left her without a regular meal, I would wake up to her feasting on my toes. So when three of my family members were sitting down to dinner, I hied off to the pet store to get the dumb dog some food. I am so tired that I just couldn't face the idea of sitting down for a few minutes and then having to get right back up again to buy dog food.

After I got back, I discovered that my three offspring had dined and dashed and left me with the utter destruction left behind after they hoovered their food. As I cleaned up the mess, I supervised homework for Mary, sifted through the papers from Maggie's Parent Night last night, filled in some forms for Sean, ran a load of laundry, and longingly eyed the wine bottle wishing for just 30 minutes to call my own.

After the week I've had, I decided that life would not come to a grinding halt if I actually took those thirty minutes. So I grabbed a glass of wine, a book, a candle, and my camera and hot-footed it to the patio to hide relax before Patrick and James came home from football practice.

I didn't actually ever open my book. I just sat and drank in the green. I checked on my forlorn and neglected but still growing garden. I watched the goldfinches cluster around the feeder. I enjoyed the hummingbirds that darted around the flowers along our patio. I admired the gold-tinged green leaves of the willow tree. I reflected on the last several days and offered up prayers of grief and thanksgiving and praise and supplication.

And then my husband broke the spell by asking if I would come in and serve he and James supper. I'm pretty sure that if he hadn't been protected by the door, the glare that I shot at him would have knocked him flat.

It's been a long week. I am tired. I feel overextended. I am sad. I wish it were still summer. But I am grateful for 30 minutes' peace and will be trying to grab 30 more very soon. Do you suppose they would mind if I brought my wine and candle to school?

Above Water And Sinking Fast

Hello! Did you think that I had been abducted by a roaming band of feral goats? Nah. Just in the drink and barely keeping my head above water.

School has started back again and I started back to work again. The kids are all in the same schools, but EVERYBODY has some major changes--including me. I am working 5 days a week (not all day, but 4.5 hours each day, so you know, enough to cause a fatal backlog here on the home front) and I'm working in first grade this time around. But I'm with the same dear teacher. We're a bit like Naomi and Ruth--you know, "wither thou goest" and all that. She moved up to first grade and I rode on her coattails. We are on a steep learning curve. Yowza!

The kids are all trying to get used to new teachers and new lockers and new bus drivers and different principals and, for one of them, uniforms. Plus football has started for both James and Sean, so they've had the extremely lovely experience of running drills and such in 90+ degree heat for 2 hours each night. We are all already exhausted.

On the upside, my new mattress gets delivered today so I'm looking forward to some blissful slumber. So if my posting is light for the next week or so, you'll know that it's because I've been busy making drool stains on my new mattress trying to figure out how to serve dinner to 6 different people at four different times. I get to have all the fun. Aren't you jealous?