For My Children, On The First Day Of May

My Dear Lovelies,

Today is the first day of May. You have a scant four weeks of school left. You are in the final count down. (Sorry for the '80s ear worm, btw) There are about 20 days left in which you must pack up your things and tote them to school. This means, by my calculations, that you have already been packing and toting for about 8 months. Or approximately 32 weeks. Or somewhere around 160 days, give or take a snow day. That is many, many days, my sweets.

What I'm saying is, you've had lots of days to practice at being organized. You've had quite a bit of time to get your, um, "stuff" together. They say it takes 30 days to form a habit, so you've had the opportunity to make or break 8 different habits.

My question for you is, why isn't Remembering All The Things I Must Have With Me At School In Order To Properly Get Through My Day one of them?

Why, for the love of Pete, am I still receiving frantic ALL CAPS texts shortly after you have left the house for the day? Why, am I still asked to bring x to school at y time? I have never liked algebra and these different equations which I am being asked to solve before I have even had a cup of coffee make me want to weep.

Today, for instance, I was asked to please, pretty please (Gosh, you're pretty, mom!) bring a jar to school. Before first period. Shortly after that, another child asked if I was feeling nice. That sent my spidey senses to tingling, because I try really, really hard to always be nice. But I knew something else was going to follow that sentence. And really? It left me feeling not so nice.

Do I look like a Fed Ex driver? Nope. I drive a crappy, white minivan with a sliding door that refuses to budge and a piece of red electrical wire holding up my cracked front bumper and an odor of rancid french fries that permeates the interior. (This is not a rant complaining about my van. I will drive Blanca until she dies and I will love her for taking all the abuse we have heaped upon her, lo these past 10 years. This is merely to compare and contrast the differences between what I drive and what a Fed Ex driver drives.) Do I look like a UPS delivery person? Nope. Brown is so not my color. It makes me look washed out. My point here, in case for some reason you are unable to suss it out, is that I am not paid for or compensated in any way for making deliveries.

And no. Texting me that I'm so pretty or I'm the best mom ever do not count as compensation. At least not in the context in which they are being used.

I have driven to school in the pouring rain. I have driven to school on icy roads. I have driven to school in the snow. I have driven to school during the peak of the high school rush hour! You have no idea how I have endangered my life for you! I have run to the school in my pajamas. I have run to the school in exercise gear. I have run to the school with no makeup. The secretaries have seen me without makeup almost as much as your father--and we've been married over 20 years! Those poor women don't get paid enough to have to encounter the Crypt Keeper as often as they do. I'm begging you, don't worry about my pride; think of the secretaries.

I love you more than all the sand on all the beaches on the planet. But hear me now and know that I say this because I love you and want what's best for you: I am not afraid to let you fail. Many of life's greatest (and hardest) lessons come from failure. I speak from experience. I know you are all smart and resourceful and resilient and you will be okay. Even if you don't have x at y time. I have worked hard for you and with you all year. You are in the homestretch. You are nearly there. You can do it! I'm sure of it. I will continue to cheer you on from the sidelines until you reach the finish. But me? I'm out. Dunzo. Finished. I have responded to my last ALL CAPS EMERGENCY PLEASE DELIVER text. Unless your hair is on fire and I am the only person left on the planet who can help you, DO. NOT. PUSH. SEND.


Now, my preshus snowflakes, have a great day. Only 21 non-emergency-text, non-please-bring-me, non-are-you-feeling-nice-you're-so-pretty more days to go!

Love,
Mom

Ugh: A Post-Migraine Poem

It's a new morning,
my migraine has fled,
I look around the house
and am filled with dread.

The cat was down
 for just one day
and in that time
the mice did play.

The dishes are dirty
 and stacked in a heap,
the laundry is a mountain
stinky and steep.

There are millions of socks
strewn about the floor,
and smudgy dog nose prints
all over the door.

The island is stacked
with papers and stuff,
the dog hair blows about
like so much brown fluff.

The tables and couch
of the family room
are littered with crap
adding to the gloom.

The people that live here
are rabid feral goats
that haven't even a clue
about how to hang up a coat.

Toothpaste globs dot
every mirror and sink,
the garbage is overflowing
and starting to stink.

The fridge is empty
and the goats all whine
that there's nothing to eat,
on what will they dine?

I survey the sorry
state of this place,
and I scratch my head
and I grimace my face.

Where to start? What to do?
With which task to begin?
This is a losing battle.
There's no way to win.

But I know that the answer
lies in my brainy little head:
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"
So I'm going back to bed.

In Which I Make Light(s)

YOU GUYS! I am amazing. I created light! Like, first, there was no light, and then BAM! Light!

Okay. Before y'all think I've seriously lost my mind (right, I know, debatable. Shut up.) and have some sort of delusional God complex, let me explain.

Remember my last post about my problem with pillows in which I included this picture?

Dude. I MADE those lamps.

Can you tell I'm just a wee bit proud of myself? I think it mostly stems from the fact that the finished product came out just like I envisioned it in my head. This does not often happen. Mostly what happens is, I have an idea in my head, I try it. It doesn't work out right so then I have to try 432 different ways to fix it before it's either fixed enough to sorta kinda come close to the picture I had in my head, or I declare the project dead to me and walk away vowing never to ______ ever again. (Hey sewing machine, I'm blaming so much of this on you.)

Anyway, I had seen in various places in blogland where people had made their own lamps out of vases or bottles. They swore it was simple and cheap and they swore they weren't electricians. (What exactly is up with the prices of lamps? Why are they so darn expensive? I know for a fact it's not because they're made of gold. I walk through lamp sections with a furrowed brow and think, "Really?! Um. NO.") This made me happy because I, too, am simple and I, too, am cheap, and I, too, am not an electrician. The equation in my head went something like this:

SIMPLE + CHEAP + NOT ELECTRICIAN = LAMP.

True to form for me, there was a little more to the equation than I first thought, but not much more. The true equation looks like this:

SIMPLE + CHEAP + NOT ELECTRICIAN + VASE + BOTTLE LAMP KIT + A LITTLE MCGYVERING = LAMP.

I ran across these gold speckled vases at Home Goods. (Hello, Home Goods! I shall have to start referring to you as my Dealer.) I spied one and thought it would be perfect for a lamp for my living room. I started looking for another, and spied its mate, shoved behind a bunch of other merchandise, almost like someone was hoping to hide it and come back for it later. Sorry, sucka! (For those of you into hashtagging, I'll just say #sorrynotsorry) I quickly scooped them both up (for $12 each!) and ran for the checkout.

Then I stopped at the Lowe's next door and picked up two bottle lamp kits (around $10 each) and Target for a lampshade (around $20). I only needed one lampshade because I already had one at home. Then I went home and started to put this thing together.

And then my head exploded and I pictured the picture in my head crackling into a bazillion little pieces because the rubber nipple thingy (oh dear Lord, save me from the weird google hits that will come from that phrase!) was too small for the opening in my vase and the lamp part wasn't going to fit right into the vase part and I was going to wind up in that special circle of hell reserved for my projects that don't turn out and I was going to have to forsake my gold sparkly vases. This made me want to cry.

So I thunk and I thunk, and I figured I could make a circle out of cork to thread the lamp thingy through and make it fit the size of the vase. I know this sounds confusing, but trust me, I have photos and all shall be revealed, Young Grasshopper.

This McGyvering turned out to work (I needed a little hot glue to keep it stable, but you can't really see it.

I had my beloved help me with the wiring of the first one just so that I would be certain that I was connecting things correctly and wouldn't cause the house to burn down just because I needed gold sparkly lamps. It was extremely simple. I mean, like, I'm pretty sure I could've done it while consuming a glass of wine, simple. It involved a couple of screws and a couple of wires. Easy peasy. And YOU GUYS. When I turned on the switch and actually had light? I danced around like Tom Hanks in Castaway when he finally made fire. Seriously. My husband just shook his head at me and walked out of the room. I am woman. I can wire a lamp with a lamp kit. HEAR. ME. ROAR!

Now, before I show the photographic evidence, let me apologize for the quality of the photos. I took them with my phone. Apparently I am not so lazy that I can't run all over God's green earth to find all the things I need to make a lamp and actually make the lamp but I am too lazy to walk into the other room to grab my good camera so that the pictures will actually be decent. Priorities. I has 'em. Um...or something?

Anyway! Pictures!

See? Gold and sparkly! Hello my love! Also: the walls are not actually that weird purple/blue color. Thanks, iPhone.

*Sigh* Luuuurrrve. Also: Dear Laziness, You have made so many things about this picture bad. It's a good thing the lovely lamp makes up for it.  Also, also: The walls are not actually that color.

See how I McGyvered the cork below the ribbed nipple (ugh. google.) to make the lamp part fit? See the hot glue holding it stable? You cannot see this in real life. I was a champ and got super close to take this photo just for you. You're welcome. Also, also, also: The walls are not that weird brown.

Yes, the cord hangs from a weird spot. You cannot see it from most angles. If this bothers you, you could take some sticky tack and stick it to the vase to make it less obvious. Or, you could just have a glass or 3 of wine and then you'll be all "Cord, schmord! Another tankard, please!" Also, also, also, also: The walls are not tan and the word "also" is starting to look and sound weird to me.

So, dear children, what have we learned from this post? Let's see:
Home Goods is my Dealer.
Sparkly gold lamps are the bomb dot com.
Making your own lamp is fairly easy and inexpensive.
The new feminism involves wiring a lamp from a lamp kit and being an independent woman who don't need no electrician.
I am lazy.

Now, I urge thee: Go forth and make some light! (And if you do, can I see it?)

I Think I May Have A Problem

Hello. My name is Sara and I am an addict.

I didn't know my problem was this bad. I thought I could handle it on my own. But I've come to believe that I cannot control this myself. I need help.

I am addicted to throw pillows.

It was harmless fun at first. I would buy a fluffy pillow thinking it would solve my decorating problems. But I'd get the pillow home and after a brief high, I'd realize that I was still unhappy. And so I'd go to Home Goods or Target thinking that I could handle myself. I could get out of there without a pillow. I'd just avoid the pillow section.

But we all know how that works out. You think you are strong enough and that you can just stroll through the pillow section and take a peek. You won't buy anything. Because you definitely don't need a throw pillow. You can get by without a throw pillow.  Throw pillows don't rule you, you rule throw pillows.

And then you see it. The color is perfect! The texture is divine! You have the perfect spot for it! And you say to yourself: Oh what's one throw pillow? I'll just get this one pillow this one time and then I'll quit. So you buy it and take it home and put it in the spot that would be perfect for it and you look at it and it just... isn't. Oh well, you think. It's just a pillow. I'll put it in the closet and when I re-do the  next room, I bet it will work in there.

Except it doesn't.

And you promise yourself you will just. stop. And you do.

Until the next time.

And you keep going this way on this crazy throw pillow train, collecting pillows and tossing them in closets and collecting pillows and tossing them in closets.

Then you discover that you can make a pillow using place mats.

And you think to yourself, this is it! This is the solution I've been waiting for! Place mats are cheap! Fiberfill is cheap! I can totally make a pillow that will be the perfect pillow and all of my problems will be solved!

Place mats are like the methadone for throw pillow addiction. Soon you find yourself addicted to them as well.

So now you find yourself trolling all your old haunts and instead of just being drawn to the pillow section, now you are also drawn to the tableware section.

You find your children pulling you by the arm and hustling you away saying "NO! Mom. Come. On. You do not need another pillow or place mat. This is not okay. It's time to stop."

And you are embarrassed because you have been found out. You thought you had hidden your little addiction so well. But now your kids are on to you and things are just going to have to change.

So. You force yourself into your closet and you pull out your stash of pillows. And it looks like this:

And your face flames in shame as you realize that none of these pillows have solved one decorating problem for you. So you go through them one by one, pat them lovingly, and relive the memories of their purchase or creation. And then you force yourself to choose. Some of them must go. You will allow yourself to keep a few which come into play around the holidays, but after that, you will make yourself be brutal and get rid of the rest. Even--horror of horrors!--the matching ones that came with the couch that is now covered with a slip cover and don't even match any part of your house anymore. Yes. Those, too, must go. You were holding on to them "just in case." But you have realized that just in case never happened. And even if it did, you would be okay without those pillows.

So here are the last throw pillows I've made: (the floral ones)

Yes, they are lovely. Yes, they bring in a burst of color for spring. But you have seen the light. Pillows will not get you out of any sort of decorating dilemma. They will only steal space in your closet.

So now my living room looks like this:

And I'm going to live with it. And it's going to be okay. Because I've done the hardest part; I've admitted that I have a problem.

But see those lamps? Did you know you could make a lamp out of a vase? Want to meet me at Home Goods? I'll see you in the glassware section. I mean, I know I was just there, but I could go again. I don't have to buy anything. I totally have this vase/lamp thing under control...

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.

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

*Decide that today is finally the day to work on lining the wire shelving with adhesive tiles in the pantry. It's been put off long enough.

*Set your mouth in a grim line of determination and set your mind to the task.

*Gather tools.

*Realize that utility knife blade is dull. Understand that dull blades lead to accidents and go on hunt for replacement blades.

*While hunting for replacement blades, trip over vacuum cord and decide that putting away the vacuum would be a good idea. Someone could get hurt.

*Notice while winding up vacuum cord that the Dumb Dog has distributed her hair everywhere yet again and decide that the downstairs could use a quick once over with the Dyson before putting it away.

*Start to vacuum.

*Stop vacuuming every 6 seconds to pick up a stray sock or shoe.

*Realize the futility of vacuuming without first having picked up the eleventy billion stray shoes and socks.

*Smack self in forehead.

*Mutter things about living with feral goats disguised as children.

*Pick up eleventy billion stray shoes, socks, hoodies, pens, pencils, coins, remotes, games controllers.

*Resume vacuuming.

*Finish vacuuming and put vacuum in closet.

*Notice that the Dumb Dog looks awfully warm and snuggly lying there in the sunshaft on the floor.

*Go over and lie down next to the dog.

*Talk to the dog in some weird form of baby talk that only dogs understand and rub her face.

*Notice that with every stroke of your hand, enough fur flies off of dog to completely undo all the vacuuming you just did.

* Shake fist in the air.

*Pet dog again and tell her you wish she was hairless.

* Get up and notice that the kitchen table has not been wiped down after breakfast.

*Head to the sink and grab the dishrag.

*Notice a funky smell emanating from said rag.

*Bring rag closer to nose and inhale deeply.

*Reconfirm that rag is definitely funky.

*Shudder while trying not to gag.

*Get new rag from drawer and place on counter.

*Gather up dishrag, towels, and hand towel from downstairs bathroom and run them upstairs to the laundry.

*Switch out clothes from the washer to the dryer.

*Fold a load of clothes.

*Start a new load in the washer.

*Go around to every upstairs bedroom shutting off every overhead light, table lamp, and closet light.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Mutter things about living with children who have no sympathy for drowning polar bears.

*Head back downstairs.

*Notice that the spider who has taken up residence in the foyer has built, yet again overnight, a stunning tangle of webs from the chandelier to the stairs to the doorway to the entry table.

*Get vacuum back out of closet.

*Attempt to vacuum the spider's transport routes.

*Put vacuum away.

*Notice the mess in the living room that the two eldest children left when they were putting together their school supplies.

*Remember that these children swore they picked up after themselves.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Make mental note to go over what "picking up" means with two eldest children.

*Pet Dumb Dog who is now making circles around your legs and whining.

*Realize that Dumb Dog needs to go outside.

*Take Dumb Dog outside.

*While strolling with dog, notice that your Garden of Neglect has more tomatoes that need picking.

*Go inside and take dog off leash.

*Grab basket and head back outside to Garden of Neglect.

*Pick eleventy billion tomatoes.

*Smack self in forehead and ask yourself again the need for three tomato plants when only one person in the house eats tomatoes.

*Curse self for being greedy about tomatoes.

*Take tomatoes inside and wash them.

*Notice overabundance of tomatoes on counter.

*Decide to make salsa.

*Check fridge for jalapeño peppers and cilantro.

*Realize that not only are there no jalapeños or cilantro, there is no sour cream for dinner.

*Decide to start a grocery list.

*Grab a pen.

*Scribble with it in mad circles on the paper and realize that it doesn't work.

*Throw it away and try another.

*Repeat this process at least 8 more times.

*After writing grocery list, notice Post-It note on cupboard about thank you notes.

*Move thank you notes to a prominent spot in the kitchen so that they can get written in a timely manner.

*Laugh at yourself, because it's way past timely.

*Remind yourself that even a late thank you note is better than none at all.

*Say a little prayer that the receivers of the notes feel the same way.

*Notice your cell phone.

*Wonder if you have any lives in Candy Crush.

*Decide that it won't hurt anything to just check.

*Play 5 rounds of Candy Crush, check email, nose around on Facebook, admire photos on Instagram, check the weather forecast, see if you have any moves on Words with Friends, look at the kids' school websites for information on upcoming meetings.

*Notice that 45 minutes has passed since picking up the phone.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Curse self for falling into a black hole of time-suck.

*Realize you heard the dryer buzzer 15 minutes ago.

*Run upstairs and switch out laundry and fold a load.

*Come back downstairs and notice that the reusable grocery bags are still sitting next to the fridge where you put them a week ago.

*Gather up bags and take out to van.

*Open up van door and get knocked backwards by the funk.

*Go on a search and destroy mission for the source of the funk, even though you've done this for three days running with no success.

*Grab a few stray pieces of trash, an asthma inhaler, two pairs of sunglasses, a hoodie and an umbrella while you are on the search mission.

*Decide mission is futile and spray Febreeze around the car like a teenage boy applying Axe.

*Dispose of garbage.

*Put other random items where they belong.

*Walk by computer and decide to check a few blogs for inspiration for a project idea you have in mind.

*Get sucked into other people's creativity.

*Realize that 20 minutes has passed.

*Shake fist in air.

*Curse self for not only not being as creative as the people whose blogs you just read, but also for being weak-willed for stopping at the computer when you have a job to do.

*Wrinkle brow and wonder, what was that job I was supposed to do again?

The Longest Shortest Summer Ever

Well howdy there, stranger! How have you been? Me? I've been busy crazy holed up in my room with the door closed for the last two weeks trying to avoid my offspring fine, thanks for asking!

Our summer was a combination of long days laced with cries of "I'm hungry!" and whines of "I'm bored" intertwined with frenzied days of travel and go-here-do-this-have-fun-dammit! (Hence the title of this post.) It seems we just finished the manic final days of school and now here we are starting them all up again. But in between, we crammed stuff in there, man. We crammed like a BOSS. To wit:

*My children were out of school for two days before heading over to my folks' house for a week of VBS, visiting, eating ice cream, swimming, fishing, and, according to my ever-hungry-never-full offspring, absolutely starved by my mother who would not let them raid the pantry willy-nilly as they are wont to do here. (My mom fears she is a mean grandma. I tell her no, I'm just a lazy mother too tired to fight with my children. They have me way outnumbered. Never mind that they have her outnumbered, too. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

*At the same time 3 of my children were at my folks' home, my eldest son and my beloved were in Canada, fishing, hiking, avoiding stumps that look like bears (no lie--three different times they mistook the same stump for a bear such was their wish/fear of seeing a bear. That stump/bear came to be known as Stumpy the "bear.") and checking out the ER of a Canadian hospital just for grins. Oh, and maybe to get stitches in a thumb because, as my son learned, knives are sharp.

*While my children and my beloved were gone, I painted my kitchen. Why yes, it seems I did just paint the kitchen a couple of years ago. But, now that the family room is painted (the color has grown on me. It's grown on me so much that I painted the kitchen the same color. Who knew that "Tattered Sail/Not Tattered Sail/Lavender Swine/Who Knows What Color This Is" would look so good? Now, I must share that the kitchen is not actually completely painted. My beloved told me he would paint the wee crevices above the upper cabinets with his special painting device he used last time we painted. I also left the area behind the fridge for him for two reasons: 1) I am a delicate flower and moving the fridge by myself seemed too overwhelming, and 2) I was afraid I would scratch the hardwood floors and then be given the stinkeye by my beloved. So now, my kitchen is totally painted. Um, if you don't you know, actually look above the cabinets or behind the fridge. Chances are very good that it will get painted. Sometime in 2017 when my husband gets to it on his very long To Do List and he actually has a day or two strung together that doesn't require his attention somewhere else. Until then, I'm pretending. Yellow? I don't see any yellow! Have you been to the eye doctor lately? I'm concerned for your vision.

*My eldest daughter spent 8 days in Guatemala with other students from her school's Spanish department. If we are Facebook friends, perhaps you will remember my request for prayers and good thoughts as she spent the first 3 days sick with the stomach flu and I spent the first 3 days alternately praying for her, answering her frantic texts, and being wracked with guilt for not letting her come home. It ultimately turned out just fine--just like I kept calmly telling her in my texts and just like my Sane Brain kept telling me over the very loud, very scary protests of my Insane Brain. She had a marvelous trip--ziplining at a coffee plantation, hiking up an active volcano, going to a black sand beach, working with kids at an after school program, visiting a local market, climbing pyramids, and trying not to die from being much to close to a poisonous snake. And, oh yes! Speaking and improving her Spanish.

*My family came in from my hometown and Chicago and Texas for the 4th of July. There was no burn ban in place this year, so we spent a great amount of time blowing things up to celebrate our country's independence. We also ate. A lot. And laughed. A lot. And just all around crammed as much enjoyment and togetherness as we could into a couple of days. Oh! And the Dreaded Owls never made an appearance. Will wonders never cease?

*My sweet mother-in-law left the bonds of this Earth to meet her Lord in Heaven and we spent a few days with my beloved's family celebrating her life--talking, laughing, looking through photos, crying, hugging, and remembering the countless ways she loved us all.

*We spent waaaay too many hours in a car together driving to, around, and from Florida. But, along the way, we got to see my sweet Aunt Bonnie, my beloved connected with a buddy, we had a weird little yodeling contest with the people in a truck next to us in a traffic jam, we saw a shark, we saw dolphins, we met up with my folks at a rented house and spent a wonderful week with them, swimming, eating, laughing, walking the beach, and playing approximately 827 games of SCAT.

*We celebrated three birthdays. Mary turned 9, Sean turned 12, and Maggie turned 17. I'm not sure how this is possible, given that I'm only 18 myself. Mary went to her first concert--with her big sister--and had a blast. Sean received a cell phone as his right of passage. And Maggie got a job. So you know, all is good in the 'hood.

*We returned from vacation to the windup to back-to-school. There was school shopping and more school shopping and meet the teacher and registration and orientation and so much paperwork that I'm sure several trees were harmed in the making of this school year.

*The kids started school on the 14th. On the 16th, I had one sick kid--two days in and his immune system went Holy Schnikes! Look at all these people! Look at all these germy surfaces! I know, I really feel the need to battle these. Oh! And I know what else sounds fun: Let me battle this virus while I'm already battling the allergens already in your body. Ready, Set, BOOM! Aaaaaaand he was down for the count. The same day, my eldest son, you know the one with the smart phone attached to his body permanent-like? He missed the bus. Let me say it again: Third day. Phone that not only does fancy things, it also shows the time to the minute, attached to body. Bus missed.

It was at that point in the program friends, that I knew. I might have had the Longest Shortest summer ever, but that was just a lead up to what may become the Longest Longest School Year ever.

Random Thoughts: Spring Break, Gnats, and Dog Walking

Do you hear that? That sweet sound of silence? My children are back in school after Spring Break. Now the fact that I'm enjoying the silence is not to say that I didn't enjoy the little darlings while they were home, because I did. But I didn't particularly enjoy the trail of kid garbage left wherever they went. If my kids were Hansel and Gretel, they wouldn't drop only bread crumbs, they would drop shoes, dirty socks, bath towels, candy wrappers, soda cans, water bottles, juice pouches, dirty dishes, jackets, blankets, and sporting equipment. They would have absolutely NO PROBLEM finding their way home, methinks.

We spent Easter weekend in my hometown with my parents and took a day to visit my beloved's mom and sisters just down the road. It was a strange Easter as my brother (Uncle Grumpy) and his family were in Florida instead of with us (where they should have been). That's the first time we've spent an Easter without their family. It was strange. And my kids were very disappointed as they very much wanted to pal around with their cousins. To assuage this disappointment I planned a different Easter egg hunt this year.

Usually the eggs are hidden by the kids over 13 for the kids under 13. Since the cousins were gone, the only ones under 13 were Sean and Mary. I decided that we'd have an egg scavenger hunt around town instead. It was a hit. Maggie, James and I hid eggs with clues (and candy) around town, then my mom drove Mary and my dad drove Sean to find the eggs. We had a good time going to different places that the kids knew and loved. It would have been even better if I was good at math and didn't have more clues than eggs. Ooops! Things worked out anyway and it ate some of the daylight that the kids normally would've spent moping about their cousins being gone. (Hey Uncle Grumpy's family?! Have I made you feel guilty enough now?)

Then there was the traditional beating of the pinata. As I've said before, nothing says 'He is risen' like taking a whack at a papier mache duck with a long stick. ;)

The day after Easter, we headed about 90 miles south to Saint Louis. (For the purposes of trying to sound like we vacationed somewhere exotic over Spring Break, we have been pronouncing that city's name with a French pronunciation. Think: Sahn Leweee. You are more than welcome to join us in this. I think if enough of us do it, it could be A Thing.) Even though we grew up a short hour and a half away, my beloved and I had never taken our children there. We decided to take a day and rectify that situation. We first headed to the Arch where we waited in line for security while embarrassing ourselves in front of our fellow line-waiters. One son was attempting parcourt on the sloped sides of the entrance, another was desperately trying (and mostly failing) to take panoramic shots of the Arch from underneath it with my phone, one was taking photos on her phone while being accosted by a strange man dressed like a '90s rap artist, and one was doing everything she could to aggravate everyone else by either mocking them or not being satisfied with things. We are delightful to be in line with.

Once we got in and purchased our tickets, we had just enough time to buy some salt water taffy and root beer barrel candy at the mercantile before waiting in another line to board the 5 seat tram/pods to the top. Then we split up (boys/girls) and took the 4 minute ride to the top with strangers (who we discovered, were from nearby places--hello boys from Sacred Heart-Griffin! Hello couple from South Dakota with family in Chatham where we have family!) who were probably quite happy to be shed of us once the trams came to a stop.

When we got to the top, we elbowed our way through the crowds to the windows and took pictures and oohed and ahhed. Except Sean, who is afraid of heights and decided that just making the trip up was enough for one day and who stood in the exact center of the milling crowd so he wouldn't have to see out the windows.

After the Arch, we stopped for some lunch and headed to the zoo. There we saw lots of animals--including Sean's favorite, the Somali wild ass. You know why it was his favorite? Because it gave him a legitimate reason to say the word ass. And like any 11 year old boy, he was very creative in finding ways to work it into conversation throughout the day. We also ran into friends from our neighborhood--causing everyone to muse about what a small world it really is. And then I had that stupid, insipid song in my head all day and willingly shared it with my family by singing it loudly and poorly as often as possible because I love them and I am a giver.

After the zoo, we dropped Patrick at his hotel (he was staying behind on business) and I drove the kids home to my folks' house to spend the night before heading back to Indy. And I only almost wrecked the car once because of a McConnaughay fit, brought on by my eldest son's Cartman voice and the town of Raymond. Now if we want to give something or someone particularly high praise, we call it/them Raymond.

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Maggie, James, Mary, and I went to drum circle last week. Sean opted not to go as he didn't "see the point of having some dirty hippie* tell me about hitting a drum" when he could be outside playing with his dudes. We had a great time. It relieved our stress (but did make our hands a little sore) and had us laughing. The folks at the drum place said as the weather warmed, they'd move the circle outside. We have all agreed we are going back. Maggie even said she's going to go with a group of friends. It was an hour well spent.

*The instructors might lean toward hippie just a skosh, but were not in the least bit dirty.

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I have been trying to teach the Dumb Dog manners. And part of this requires me taking her for leashed walks and teaching her how to be sociable without appearing ridiculous. This means that when people approach, I shorten that leash to nothing and often make her sit until the people have walked by. This is so hard for her, since what she really wants to do is bound up to them and wag them into submission, that while she's sitting her hindquarters quiver. Then when I give her the command to continue walking she does a full body shake. If you happen by when we are walking, you'll be able to easily identify us: I'll be the weary human with several loaded poop bags walking the yellow hound that looks as if she's suffering from fits.

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I have floaters in my eyes. Nothing to be alarmed about, just the occasional black spots floating by. However, sometimes I think the floaters are gnats out in front of me and I wildly wave my arms about my face trying to clear the air. Then I realize what I'm seeing are floaters, NOT gnats, and I look around to see if anyone saw me.

This morning while walking the dog, I was walking and noticed the floaters again. Rather than embarrass myself in front of the neighborhood by flinging my arms about at nothing, I took a deep breath and kept walking, thinking that the floaters would settle in a minute. This would have been a great plan, if the floaters were really floaters. Instead they really were gnats and as I took a deep breath, one flew up my nose. So instead of waving my arms about my face, I stood there hacking and honking and snorting and doing a little dance because I was totally squicked out about inhaling a gnat.

That was so completely NOT RAYMOND!

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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!!

Umm...Awkward...

Recently, I was in Puerto Rico. On our final full day, my beloved sat on our balcony enjoying the view while I went to the beach to capture the boogie boarders in action. Upon my return, I spied my beloved and thought I would take his picture from afar. The dude in question was wearing a red shirt, navy swim trunks, and a navy ball cap--the same apparel my beloved had worn all afternoon. I had my telephoto lens affixed to my camera and was all ready to take the stalker-like picture, catching him all unawares-like. As I was focusing on the dude, we happened to look at each other at the same time. And then, in a split second, this is what went through my head:

Hmm...I don't remember our floor being up this high...wait...do Pat's swim trunks have a stripe on them? And why is he standing? Is he looking for me? And why is he looking at me with my big, long, stalkerish zoom lens?  Maybe he'll wave. That would be a fun picture. ZOMG! That's not my husband!! That's just some random dude that is wearing similar clothing and ZOMG he's looking right at me with a quizzical expression on his face!! ACK! He's wondering why there's some strange woman pointing her zoom lens at him! Point it somewhere else! ANYWHERE ELSE! YES! YES! AIM YOUR ZOOM LENS AT THE SKY!! THAT MAKES ABSOLUTE SENSE!

And so I swung my camera skyward and literally whistled, like they do in the cartoons, and I was all, HI-HO! JUST MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS SHOOTING CLOSEUPS OF THE SKY! And then I swung around towards the ocean and I was all HI-HO! WOULDJA LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIFUL OCEAN! OHMERGEHRD! LOVELY! MUST! TAKE! PICTURES! And then I pretended to take pictures of the ocean for a few minutes. And then I ran with my head down into the hotel and proceeded to slink into our room and out onto our balcony, whereupon I breathlessly told my beloved of my stalkerish photo session. I am so smoove, yo.

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...)

Looking For An Eight-Legged Lifesaver: Why I'm Ready To Become An Arachnomaniac

I'm thinking of buying a tarantula. It's not so much that I'm a fan of arachnids, I just think that having one could help me out right now. My 8 year old has slept on my bedroom floor for the last month. This isn't a non-sequiturial paragraph. Those two ideas really are related.

My 8 year old daughter has, one way or another, found her way into my bedroom and onto my floor for at least the last month. There were a few nights in there that she wasn't on my floor. Twice, she slept in her big sister's room (that would be December 23rd and Christmas Eve) and once she had taken a dose of Benadryl (for itching--a whole 'nother post) and passed out in an antihistamine-induced haze. And once in there we were at my folks' house, so she was camped out in a room with her siblings.

Her explanations about why she winds up in my room are varied. She told me she was 'uncomfortable' in her room. She told me her room didn't have enough room in it. She told me she walked through the kitchen when her older brother was watching "The Walking Dead" and caught a glimpse of something that 'freaked her out'. She told me she was afraid of ghosts. She told me her stomach hurt. She was itchy. She was just scared. She didn't know why, she just was.

At first I was understanding. We've always had a policy that if you have a bad dream and "flipping your pillow over to the good dream side" doesn't work (something that worked for all of her siblings when they were her age), you are welcome to quietly come into our room and sleeping bag it on the floor. So when she first showed up at my bedside waking me up telling me that she was scared, I whispered for her to get her things and find a place on the floor. When she showed up again in the wee hours, I explained that she need not wake me (mama likes needs her sleep) but she could just get her things and quietly come in if it happened again.

It happened again. A lot. I would wake in the night to go to the bathroom and find Mary curled up in her blankets next to the Dumb Dog. Some nights I would wake to the glare of the bathroom light and as I walked by her, a little voice would startle me by saying "I turned the light in your bathroom on because your room in the dark freaks me out." In my head, I said, "then why don't you go sleep in your room where the lights are ALWAYS ON," but at 2:47 in the morning, I lack the verbal capability and fine motor coordination to string together a sentence, so what usually comes out is "bleerrrggh".

The last few nights, I've reached my limit. Girl child has kept herself awake (not a hard task, she has always been my worst sleeper) until I come to bed and then just as I'm ready to go to sleep, she has come in and asked to sleep in my room. I've said no. She has wheedled. I've said no. She has whined. I've said no. She has cried. I've said no. She has blustered. I've said no. She has refused to sleep. I've said no. She has stood in the hallway just outside my door silently staring at me. (I admit to freaking out a little at this. She totally looks like one of those "bad seed" children from a horror movie, plotting the grisly ways she will torture me and make me die.) I've ignored her. And you know what happened? She waited until she heard me sleeping (I'm NOT admitting that I snore. I am a delicate flower, you know.) and then she has come into my room with her many blankets and pillows and camped out next to the dog. I find her sleeping there in the morning.

And then, after all of these late night shenanigans, guess who's a bit of a grouch pouch in the morning? (Well of course I am, you big silly, I already explained that mama needs her sleep. But guess who ELSE.) If you guessed Princess Mary, then you guessed correctly. In the mornings I am met with a whole litany of reasons why she can't get up. And my response is always the same: If you would go to sleep at your bedtime and stay in your room all night, you would be well rested in the morning and ready to face the day, much like your bright and happy morning person mother. Well, yeah, I say that but leave out the whole part about me.

I am at the end of my rope, thus embracing arachnids. You see, my sweet 8 year old is a dyed-in-the-wool arachnophobe. Not kidding. If there's a spider anywhere near, she will holler and give that area wide berth for days, even after um, "removal", of the offending spider. I'm thinking that if I get a couple of tarantulas and keep them in my room, the problem of a certain 8 year old crashing on my floor like a party girl after a frat bash will resolve itself.

Anyone have a spider they are looking to get rid of?

A Short List Of Things That Induce Humbuggery And Their Antidotes

It's officially the Christmas season? Did you notice? Way back in October? It feels more and more like the Christmas season is a marathon rather than a sprint. I try really hard to enjoy the season and not to give in to negative feelings about worldliness and commercialism, but sometimes, even with my Pollyanna alter-ego screaming "HAPPY THOUGHTS!" in my head, I still fall into a Scrooge-like frame of mind that makes me want to say 'Bah! Humbug!'.

In no particular order, a short list of things that make me humbuggy:

Hearing Christmas carols before Thanksgiving. I like my holidays like I like my boobs. Firmly separated--the uniboob isn't a good look for anybody.  And running holidays together is like having a uniboob on the calendar. Or something like that. Whatever. You know what I mean. One holiday at a time, please! Humbug!

And while I'm speaking of Christmas carols, once we are past Thanksgiving and the stamp of approval has been given for the aural free-for-all of carols heard everywhere around the clock, nothing will cause me an irrational flash of holiday rage like hearing my least favorite carol in the history of ever: The Little Drummer Boy. There's so much about this "carol" that I dislike that I can't even list everything. Humbug!

Something else that makes me want to crawl in a hole and wait for January: The Elf on a Shelf. Now, I understand how this little guy makes some people happy. In fact, when we first received him, I thought "how fun!" But that was before I was subjected to my subconscious awakening me in the middle of the night with a mental forehead slap because I forgot to move that damn elf. Then I would have to drag my bleary-eyed self downstairs before the younger children to make sure that the elf had "traveled" during the night. This was bad enough. But through the magic of the interwebs, I caught wind of some overachieving parents whose elves allegedly cause mischief in the night. I was seeing elves making "snow angels" in flour on the countertops, elves using a hanger as a zipline from the Christmas tree, an elf and a Barbie sipping syrup straight out of the bottle through straws like they were on some demented date, elves replacing the stockings hung by the chimney with care with dirty socks or underwear. Folks, I'm pretty sure that I have enough messes on my countertops because I am apparently the only one who knows how to wipe them down. So I'm supposed to fling four on my counter so that the elf can roll around in it? Nope. Nope. Nope-itty-nope-nope. And I've mentioned here before my childrens' fondness for taking their dirty socks off and leaving them where they fall. Who needs an elf for that?! I can't be certain, but I think the Elf on the Shelf makes the Baby Jesus cry. Humbug!

And finally, on this very ranty list: I hate having to do the majority of holiday preparation by myself. I do most of the shopping, all of the wrapping, organize the putting up and taking down of holiday decorations, and I bake and cook enough food to feed several families. Granted, my beloved works hard and travels a lot, making it hard for him to pitch in. Also, he wraps gifts like a drunken three-fingered gnome, (and that's being generous to him and disparaging to drunken three-fingered gnomes.) so other than whatever he buys for me, he is granted dispensation from wrapping duties. Okay, maybe "hate" is too strong a word, but it's only December 3rd and I'm already dreaming of drinking adult beverages all by myself on a tropical island somewhere.

I promise I'm more fun to be around than I just made myself sound. Mostly. And part of the reason is because whenever I start to get humbuggy, I have a short list of antidotes to Humbuggery that works wonders . Humbugginess? Humbugishness? Whatever. Here you go:

* I turn up some of my favorite music and dance. And I don't mean that I shuffle my feet anemically and snap my fingers. I dance. Now, understand that I'm no great dancer. I'm more Elaine Benes than Martha Graham, but what I lack in style and form, I make up for in enthusiasm. Let's just say that if the neighbors are watching, I'm confirming everything they ever thought about me. But it doesn't matter. When I'm dancing, there is no room for the humbug. Jitterbugging? Yes. Humbugging? Absolutely not.

* I turn up some of my favorite music and sing. I've been told that I have a nice singing voice. I used to sing solos in church. I'm not talking about that kind of singing. I'm talking about window-rattling. I sing loud enough to make dogs howl. And I sing badly. On purpose. For some reason, it releases something in me that makes me feel better. I'm pretty sure that if scientists somewhere studied it, they would say that all the feel good juices in your body pour into your brain and marinate it causing feel goodyness all over your body. Why no, I never taught science. Why do you ask? Anyway. Loud, bad singing. I highly recommend it.

* I head over to the Little Drummer Boy Challenge and read about others who hate the song as much as I do. I read the hilarious stories of how they were knocked out of the game and I feel a connection. I read about the avoidance tactics people employ to avoid hearing the song to stay in longer and I root for them. Even though I was knocked out of the game early on (like last week) from the unholy pairing of Little Drummer Boy and Bob Seger, (certain proof of Satan's existence) I pop over now and then to visit the Wall of the Fallen and see how people were slain by the boy with the drum. Misery loves company. Especially if it's hilarious company.

* Sometimes, I find a quiet spot where I can't be bothered--yes, I hide--and I close my eyes and just breathe in and out for five minutes. You wouldn't believe how often this occurs in the van in the garage. For some reason, no one thinks to look there for me. (Please don't tell. I'm begging you. They've hunted me down everywhere else.) But just five minutes of quiet, focused breathing sets me to rights again.

* And finally, every time I kvetch and complain about the many holiday tasks ahead of me, I stop and mentally shake myself. And then I make myself list three ways in which I am blessed. Believe me, it's hard to maintain any sense of humbugishness when you are listing blessings.

So now y'all, it's your turn. What makes you say "Bah Humbug!" and what do you do to keep yourself from becoming your family's version of Scrooge? Do share. We can help each other out. After all, it is the season of giving.

Also, I need you all sane and healthy so you'll keep coming back here. Apparently it's also the season for self-absorbed bloggers to pander for comments. Ahem.

It Started Out As A Reasonable Conversation...

...and then, as so often happens when my beloved and I talk, one of us turned into a 10 year old and things sort of went downhill.

Scene: Patrick and I are in our bedroom. He is at his desk going over finances and I am making the bed. (Why hello, 1952!) (And no, I wasn't wearing a dress and a string of pearls.) We are talking about things like putting money in the kids' college funds, paying down the mortgage early, and life insurance. My beloved will be hitting a rather big milestone birthday this year, (It rhymes with "shifty.")
and so I think he's having some of those thoughts about getting things in order. As you do.

Patrick: So my life insurance expires when I'm 58. But I'm going to have to keep working until I'm at least 70.

Me: Blame that on Mary Rose. Or my extreme sexiness. So sorry you couldn't keep your hands off me. How did you ever get so lucky, by the way?

Patrick: *eyeroll* Yeah. Um....Anyway. Maybe I should look at adjusting my life insurance terms so that it will expire later.

Me: Yeah. If you're going to be working until you're 70, that's probably a good idea. I'm pretty sure the kids don't want me living with them. They've done their time. And I'll eat lots of things, but I don't like cat food.

Patrick: What about your life insurance? All we have is that big policy on you, so that if something happens to you it'll take care of your burial and allow me to get some help around here. Like a maid.

Me: Yeah, I guess someone has to clean up around here when I'm gone.

Patrick: So a maid.

Patrick: And a concubine.

Me: ...

Patrick: A concubine. That's like a live-in hooker, right?

Me: Sometimes I can't believe where our conversations go. It's fun being married to you. It's like living with Forrest Gump's box of chocolates--you never know what you're gonna get.

Priorities

I have a lot to do. School started today and my house looks like a group of drunk frat boys decorated. I just didn't see the point in the last week in trying to keep the house picked up after my children. Despite my constant haranguing, they did as they are wont and left their stuff all over the house, preferring television, swimming, playing with friends, and playing video and computer games to cleaning up after themselves. I, who was busy shuttling people to various big box stores to spend my retirement savings on school supplies, had neither the time nor the energy to fight entropy.

And so, I am now living in our neighborhood's version of Delta Tau Chi. Well, if dirty socks, dog hair, and video game controllers were beer cans, kegs, and dirty underwear, anyway. It's a smidge unkempt around here is my point.

I have about 4 loads of laundry to fold. (I'm not sure what constitutes a load at your house, but at our house, a load=filling the washer to capacity and then stuffing in about 6 more items and asking your 13 year old to help you close the washer door. My appliances hate me.) Every flat surface in my kitchen is covered and needs to be decluttered. And the dirty socks and shoes in the family room? The dirty sock/shoe to person ratio is about 4 to 1. The dog hair bunnies have dust bunnies. The globs of toothpaste in the kids bathroom sinks have grown, if not to toothpaste mountains, then at least toothpaste foothills. There are 11 post it notes on the cabinets above the desk where I am writing this. They all contain urgent messages/reminders of things that I need to get done. They have been up there for three weeks. I like to think of them as my own Mondrian-type art. It makes me feels sophisticated. In a hillbilly sort of way. My vacuum cleaner has been sitting in a corner mocking me since last weekend when my beloved installed some new appliances in the kitchen and I had 3 minutes to string together to vacuum up styrofoam from the packaging.

I hear that swine flu is making the rounds at the State Fair. I am afraid that the health department will be ringing my doorbell any day now, quarantining us as Ground Zero for swine flu virus development, such is the state of our piggishness around here.

And yet, in spite of all that, here I am sitting at my computer all lackadaisical-like, typing my little heart out because I feel as if I have been maintaining radio silence for the better part of 3 months, only emerging from the underground to publish birthday posts, and dagnabbit! I am ready to write a little more. Priorities, people. I has 'em! I can totally ignore all the dust bunnies, dirty socks, and the lady from the health department on my doorstep while I am sitting here writing. You know where I learned all my mad prioritizing skillz?

From my children.

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.

The Plan

Hey, didja hear? Indianapolis is hosting the SuperBowl this year. If you've been living under a rock, you haven't heard. If you've been living anywhere in the United States, you are probably aware. If you are living in the Indianapolis area, you have heard about this nonstop for the last 60 days. (Not even kidding. Since before Christmas!) And this evening, my family is heading downtown to see what all the hoopla is about.

I'm looking forward to it. I know that the city has worked hard and planned for years to make everything slick and smooth. My youngest son--our resident Giants fan--is just about out of his tiny, little mind with excitement. Guess how many times I've had to wash his #10 jersey since the Giants clinched the title? He's pretty much wearing it every other day. When we mentioned that we were heading down to the SuperBowl Village, it was like his birthday and Christmas all rolled up into one shiny expensive package.

The plan is to see the Village. The plan is to head to the NFL Experience. The plan is to gaze at the big XLVI on The Circle. The plan is to watch the lucky ducks on the zipline and wish that we had tickets. Oh, yes. All of that.

But my plan is to find Jimmy Fallon. Because I love him in a totally sane, non-weird, unstalkerish sort of way. And when I do, I will yell:

Jimmy! I think you ah wicked Ahhhsome!

And then, because my plan is also part fantasy, he will have never heard that before in his life, he will find it incredibly droll and amusing, and he will yell back:

No, YOU ah!

And then I can die happy. The end.

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.

At Least I'll Be Noticed

A while back my beloved came down from his office with the news that our family is going to have an adventure over spring break. We are going to Lake Tahoe and, if all goes well, we are going to ski. This news was met with several different responses: James was excited, Sean thought it was cool, Mary thought it would be fun, if scary, I was elated, although I haven't skied in well over 20 years, and Maggie thought it was ridiculously stoopid because, God, didn't we know that you are supposed to go someplace warm over spring break?!! Oh, the torture!

My first response was to want to smack her upside the head, because, um...spoiled brat, much? My next response was to remind her that there would be plenty of dudes on snowboards and skis to make her trip down the mountain more scenic. Her response: *eyeroll* They're going to be covered with ski gear! How will I even know what they look like? DUH! My response to her response: It is wrong to eat your offspring....it is wrong to eat your offspring...it is wrong to eat your offspring.

So. We will be heading west in late March and I am right this minute praying for fierce snowstorms out there because I understand that they are having the sort of winter that we in Indy are--mild temperatures and very little snow. I will not complain about that type of winter when I have to live through it, but when you are hoping to ski, well, skiing without snow is a bit extreme.

Now, the children have snow gear because they go out and build snowmen and snow forts and have snowball fights and just basically roll around in the white stuff as if they are polar bear cubs. I, on the other hand, am sorely lacking in the winter gear department. I haven't owned a lot of snow stuff since living in Minneapolis some 13 years ago. And so my beloved and I found ourselves at the mall shopping for snow gear for me. I was willing to wait a bit for prices to come down, but my beloved insisted that I have something now because the early bird gets the snowsuit and all that.

The first coat I looked at was a lovely turquoise. It fit well and had all the necessary bells and whistles. I modeled it and I am sure that people in the store mistook me for Heidi Klum. My beloved thought that perhaps the hot pink coat in the same style would be better. I shook my head, raised my hand to stop him in mid-sentence and put the kibosh on that. I am not really a hot pink kind of girl. I was satisfied and told him I could find some snow pants online. He, however, is a member of The Church of Our Lady of the North Face and would not be denied the chance convert me. (I am a member of The Church of I Don't Want To Pay A King's Ransom For A Coat.) I threw my head back and groaned and then I sighed in resignation (Hey look! I can act like a martyr and a teenager at the same time! I am so talented!) and reluctantly followed behind him to the North Face section.

After looking through the ladies coats for a few minutes, I quickly came to realize that they were pretty well picked over and the only styles they had in my size were a wild lime green on neon green plaid and a white coat with red and blue accents. The green one was about 20 years too young for me to even contemplate, so I tried on the white, red, and blue number. It fit me fine. Which then meant that instead of black snow pants, which might have the oddest chance of slimming my backside, I had to find white ones, which have no chance in hell of slimming my backside and every chance of making me look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I found some pants in quick order and schlepped everything to the fitting room to try it all on. Meanwhile, I left my beloved with my purse as punishment. Why should I be the only one humiliated?

After trying the gear on and deeming the fit acceptable, I donned my own clothes and brought the snow gear out. I shook my head at my beloved.

"Doesn't it fit?" he asked.

"Oh, no. It fits," I replied. "It's just that I have the feeling that people out on the slopes are going to be expecting a lot from me."

"Really? Why?" queried my beloved.

"Because I have a feeling that in this get-up I am either going to be mistaken for a retired and possibly disgraced former member of a U.S. Olympic ski team or Evel Kneivel's daughter. Yep. You can just call me She-vel Kneivel."

It has a nice ring to it. I think the name might stick. I'm hoping to find a ski helmet with red and blue stars or flames on it. And possibly a stars and stripes cape.

I don't know if I'll be any good on the slopes, but at least I'll be noticed.