Keeping it Lite and Merry, All Year Long.

It's nice to be inside, all warm and cozy, with my tea made in my new cast iron pot from my sister, which makes me feel all special and important (it's like so much better than a regular tea pot. And much more expensive).
My class tonight was canceled due to the snow. Damn snow. I don't remember the snow being such an inconvenience when I was a child. In fact, I hardly remember it snowing more than twice my entire childhood. Everyone always wanted snow, everyone was always talking about the drought and how if we could just get more snow...and now it seems my son plays in snow the entire winter while I shovel our driveway over and over and then drive three miles an hour in the slippery mush sweating like a cooking pig over one of those hot Hawaiian fire pits.
Even today, on my way to work, driving way slower than grandma (cars were passing on both sides!) I still slid, two times, one right into the middle of a red light intersection.
I just don't get it. My tires aren't bad. I'm in third gear for gosh sakes.
Other than snow writing has also been on my mind. Specifically, this blog.
Over three years it has slowly and quietly crept into almost all aspects of my life: friends, family, work.
It's interesting, this writing.
If I may get a little sentimental, it's all very near and dear to my heart. It enables a certain aspect of myself to come out that otherwise doesn't--in person I can be quiet and maybe shy (I like to think sweetly demure but I think it can also come across as being a capital B) and hard to get to know. It takes time for me to feel comfortable, and sometimes time doesn't even help. I like my old friends, girls who have known me since my memories begin. Or at least friends from my early twenties.
But this blog...this blog makes it's own friends. And that is perfectly OK with me. I never feel so loved as when someone comes up and gives me a hug who I hardly know, but who I know reads the blog.
Writing in an open, public way takes a lot of courage, or stupidity--I keep going back and forth and I can't really decide. But when I think about it, I tend to land on the latter--you throw yourself out there, your inner most thoughts (OK, not really. I am not that dumb, really.) But you open up a great deal more than you ever would otherwise, and you find yourself walking around in your real life feeling quite naked, wondering who read what post, and hoping some were skipped over by certain people, or, The Worse Thought Ever: no one is reading them at all.
Sometimes it's awfully cold, being so naked, and I feel so awkward I literally want to curl my naked body up in a little ball to hide and cry. And some sentence, some damn sentence, will keep rolling over and over in my mind...why oh why did I publish that? Great Gawd! On the INTERNET!
My husband has suggested (or maybe it was me, I can't remember) that I let him read through my posts before actually publishing them in efforts to not completely ruin my life via The Blog. Which in the moment sounded like such a sane and mature thing to do, but then other times I really don't care because we all feel whatever I write on here, and that is one of the reasons I write the thing to begin with: even when nobody comments...OK, so not so much when nobody comments, but! when somebody does comment, it makes me feel less alone.
I love writing. The process itself takes on a life of it's own....sometimes it's absolutely torturous and just looking at the screen makes me want to throw the dumb laptop into the toilet and other times I have this fun, sneaky little smirk on my face the whole time because typing the words gives me just as nice of a buzz as a glass of good shiraz.
But most of the time writing makes my life complete. My experiences don't really have an end until I push "publish" and then I take a deep breath and can be done. I can move on.
I get to experience things I like twice by writing about them. They almost can become more real than the experience itself, and many times when I look back and remember, it's the writing I remember, not the experience. Just like a picture.
And if it was a bad experience, I write about that too because writing usually will make it better, if only because I can step back and laugh at her, because, she is so crazy, and her life is so normal, and through it all she is really handling things quite well and you just want to reach out and hug her and let her know everything will be OK and she just needs to calm down.
Writing has let me laugh at myself and helped me to begin to not take myself and my life so seriously. This, by the way, is my 2011 New Year's Resolution: To Not Take Myself So Effing Seriously.
It's all just too funny really. And even if it's not funny, if you can see something funny in it, it makes it so much easier to survive (I'm thinking here specifically of changing the millionth nasty, stinky, dirty diaper....you know, with the pre-toddler just wriggling out of your hands like you are trying to brand the poor baby and poop everywhere and instead of getting all bent out of shape, taking a deep breath and in your best baby happy voice making up some poop song or something of that sort...K, maybe that was a dumb example but you get my drift).
Having a sense of humor just might be the key to surviving The F***ing Fours as well. Nothing else has really been effective.
And through it all, this blog is there. Letting me vent. Letting me yell. Keeping me sane, letting me laugh at me. You, people who read this, are all apart of that, and that makes me love you too.
Peace and a blessed 2011 to you all.

My Christmas Present.

We had so much fun last weekend. I keep thinking about it, certain moments, and smiling.
It all started with a snow storm. Not just any snow storm, a significant snow storm, with so much of the slippery, deadly mess falling from the sky the county canceled all after school activities. Right away I started to feel anxiety rising at the thought of not being able to go to Christmas party number one. I had gone tanning for gosh sakes. This was all I asked for for Christmas! And it would be so not fair if we couldn't go due to some dumb snow. Despite putting our lives--including those of my two precious children--in danger, we loaded the truck with all their stuff, a bottle of wine for our host, and our contact cases just in case we couldn't get home due to the weather (or, maybe, not due to the weather) and started out going at top speeds of fifteen miles an hour on the freeway.
Since my accident last January, I basically become a freak case driving in the snow. My palms get all clammy and I see delusional accidents happening right before my very eyes and I can't stop sweating like an absolute pig.
Forty five minutes and a massive headache (due to muscle tension in my neck) later--oh and sweaty palms, don't forget the sweaty palms--we pulled up to my mom's. We made it without an accident or killing the kids and I couldn't wait to get them dropped off and be on our way.
Then we could finally start this long anticipated, dreamy weekend!!

We slowly made it over to the party at a beautiful home in a neighborhood Joey and I only dream about and walked inside. I got a Blue Moon, stuck my booty on the couch, started talking, and the evening finally slowed down. It became relaxed, beautiful, timeless. We ended up up staying the night which was fine because the house had a least one extra master bedroom, so we had our own bathroom and everything.

Which is where things took their first turn for the worst.

I don't remember dropping my contact, but really, after a night like that, who's going to remember? The next morning when I went to put my right contact in, I felt like someone had just taken a piece of jagged glass to my eyeball, which is sorta what happened because at some point my hard contact broke right down the middle and, failing to notice this, I put the dumb thing in my eye.
It took me four years in eyeball hell to get the stupid thing out. At which point I washed it real good and still not noticing it was broken, stuck it back in my eye thinking it probably had a bit of mascara on it.

Well, it definitely was not mascara.
Now, if I could only begin to describe to you the pain of what I was feeling--having a broken contact on top of my now scratched cornea--you'd probably want to shoot yourself.

Anyway, I decided to do the smart thing and leave the contact out, even though I couldn't see worth beans. At this point I looked like a semi truck had run me over and then backed up a couple of times. I mean, with the alcohol factor, the not-taking-off-my-make-up factor, the staying-up-till-wee-hours-of-the-morning factor, no shower, and then the war I just fought with my eye (with globs of day old party mascara on), I looked pretty much like I had been on meth for the last six years or so. At least I had my teeth.

So now, without so much as a q-tip to tidy up my eyes, we had to go say goodbye to our host which I did as sweetly and charmingly as possible, despite looking like a beat up whore. Thankfully I couldn't really see his face to tell if he was making any sort of weird faces at me. I am sure if he thought I was cute last night (and oh! I looked so cute!), this morning he most certainly was thinking it must have been all the alcohol he was drinking and he would be wondering what in the name of all goodness happened to her?

We picked up the boys and drove home, ready for a big nap. I thought maybe resting my eyes for a couple hours would heal whatever damage I had done and the broken contact wouldn't be so bad to wear for just one evening. I had to be able to see at Christmas party number two! There would be all sorts of new people! What if I got people mixed up, or I couldn't see the food or a glass of wine and I dumped a glass right in some poor chap's lap?
These, however, were the least of my worries because in the middle of our nap the day took it's second turn for the worst when Ethan came into our bed moaning and crying and complaining that his ear hurt.

Ethan never complains that his ear hurt, even though he has had countless ear infections. I tried to ignore it, then I tried to act like it really wasn't that big of a deal, and then I just gave up and wallowed in hopelessness. I had to accept the fact that we couldn't go: I couldn't see, Ethan had an ear infection, or worse, he was dying. And all I could think about was going to some dumb Christmas party.

Joey got up to take Ethan to the Urgent Care, and I stayed behind to take care of Noah, who was screaming in his crib. So fun!

I got real sorry for myself. It was nice to dream about a night away, all dressed up with new people and amazing food and drinks with hotel California King bed to fall into at the end of the evening.
I took some deep breaths and at first asked why: why the snow, why this weekend, why my contact, why the ear infection. Whhhyyyyyy???
Then I decided God must be punishing me for drinking too much the night before. Then I had to tell myself God doesn't really work like that (although the contact thing could have been a legitimate consequence or it could have just been really, really old), and accept that in life this sort of thing is going to happen.
Surprisingly, my despair passed quickly as I made the bed and thought about how our evening at home was going to go: dinner, bedtime routines, snuggling on the couch. Wouldn't be that bad. And I'd be with Joey, which is all that really mattered....but the dancing!...and the food!...and our suite!...I said a sweet, desperate little prayer. And it turns out God wasn't really really really mad at me because just then Joey called and even though Ethan's eardrum ruptured, his pain had subsided and he still wanted to go to Grandmas.

Oh hallelujah how the angels were rejoicing!!!

I started getting ready and thankfully my eye felt a lot better after the nap. So I decided to try my contact one more time (why didn't someone just shoot me?).

After wrestling the gnarly thing out one last time, I finally gave up. I'd go blind. Wouldn't be able to see a darn thing but at least I'd be there. And hey, after a drink or two, I wouldn't notice it anyway and neither would anyone else. It would just be that awkward, first-forty-minutes-stone-cold sober phase I'd have to get through.

One more time we loaded up the truck and all the boys stuff and we headed over to Joey's mom's. Got the kids dropped off, and we were off again!

On the way into the hotel it was raining just a bit but after all the mishaps we'd had, I was thankful it wasn't a massive storm. When crappy things happen, it sure makes you appreciate normal life, even if it is boring or not perfect (so what's a little rain flattening my hair? Who cares?! I was there! Blind, and with flat hair, but there!)
Our hotel suit made me feel like Kate, William's finance. It was so majestic and beautiful and there was a hot tub right by our bed! I touched everything because I couldn't see it very well and pretended for a couple of seconds I was Helen Keller. Then we got ready quickly and headed down to the ballroom. This party was quite different than the one the night before because it was so big, more like a wedding reception. The people were all new to me and I tagged along behind Joey as he introduced me to some of them before the party got too big and everyone stopped introducing people all together.
No one seemed to notice the eye problem.

We ate, we danced, and we talked. Then we danced some more, went pee, danced, and went pee again.

It's always so fun to see my husband party. He works hard and he plays just as hard. I love to see that smile that only comes out when he's relaxed and having a really good time. It reminds me of when we were eighteen, with no responsibilities...but I never live in the past (haha).

We danced for a long time, until the huge party had dwindled down to just those of us on the dance floor.
Some of Joey's friends had gone upstairs to dance some more and I could tell Joey really wanted to go, but I was done. We had been sipping on pure Patrone all night and instead of making me happy and wanting to dance it was making me extremely sleepy. Plus, my shoes were rubbing raw hot blisters all over my feet and I was so sick of seeing everything in blurry double vision.
I told Joey my feet hurt, but that didn't do much. Then I tried to be more direct and let him know that I was sleepy and getting cranky and was on the verge of turning into a total bitch, but I think he had drank too much for that to really sink in. So we found ourselves upstairs in a club that reminded me of Brazil: people. lights. music. headache...my feet were on fire. In the middle of all that chaos I told him I was done and was going back to the room. Then I walked away.
Which I realized ten seconds later was a really bad idea seeing as I had never been in the club before and couldn't tell up from down (due to the crazy amount of people jammed in there, the lights, the booze, and my poor, dear eyes) and was totally lost, not to mention I didn't have our hotel key, he did.
I reluctantly turned my body around, thinking, well, if I came from this direction, I will go back in this direction...
And bam! There he was. My night in shinning armor. He was a little pissed, but still he was there and I was so relieved to see him. We left and we went to bed a little upset but too tired to dwell.
I thought the morning would be awkward but it wasn't anything we couldn't work through.
We had a delightful breakfast of greasy sausage and eggs and fruit and coffee that just about made your tummy turn it was so strong. Everything was all so delicious, I can still taste it.
And that's how I remember this weekend. I think about it and smile because it is so not us. And then at the same time it is completely us and I am so glad we got to have it together.

Noah's Diet.

Reason number four hundred million billion and ten why I feel like a failure as a mother: Noah's current diet consists of milk and graham crackers. OK, and an occasional Christmas cookie. I try to feed him other things but they almost instantly get chucked on the floor to be devoured by the dogs with an innocent (but not so innocent) "Uh-oh!" from little picky pants.
Oh and raisins, he will eat raisins. But they don't count because they come out the other end whole and undigested.
I think it would be such a cool experience to be a mom and not feel like a freak'en failure ninety nine percent of the time.

Chicken Noodle Soup.

I'm sipping on some Lipton instant chicken noodle soup, which has no chicken in it. I bought it at Wal-mart the other day with my Grandma, who I call Grammie. She actually bought it for me, because even though I am grown up now and perfectly capable of buying my groceries, I think there is some Grandma rule out there that says Grandmas cannot let their grandchildren pay for anything if they are in a store together.
Sometimes I just crave this soup. It's salty and so full of MSG it might just turn me into a mutant tonight. But the smell, even just ripping open the pouch, is beyond comforting. I even debated today for about twenty minutes if I really wanted it today. If the MSG was worth it, if I really really really wanted to taste it today or if I should wait and have it when I am sick or something. I finally gave in, and I am so glad I did. It is so warm and good!
Sometimes all the crap is totally worth it.

Tanning, 101.

So I went tanning a couple of days ago for the first time since, oh, maybe ten, possibly fifteen years ago. (It's shocking to me that I can even use the phrase ten or fifteen years ago, but I'll get into that a little later).
I learned that tanning has become big business, and gone are the days of five dollars for twenty minutes under the blue bulbs.
I needed a tan quickly so I went with the Platinum Bed, with supposedly bulbs so powerful they penetrate the fourth layer of my skin, guaranteeing a deep dark tan with bonus skin cancer at no extra charge. (I learned this in one of my classes at UNR. A girl student did a whole research project on it and I specifically remember her talking about the light "penetrating" the fourth layer, and how it changes your cells, or something, and that for sure it will give you cancer. I couldn't stop thinking about this the entire twelve minutes I was laying in the bed. I'm sure thinking about the lights only cause the cancer to grow more quickly, at least if you are the type of person that believes in the power of ones' thoughts), Ironically, this "fourth layer" bed was the most expensive, and the chic behind the counter was selling it like it was a Mercedes.
Before making my choice, the chic (who could have been anywhere between the age of twelve and twenty three) tried to sell me every tanning package imaginable, including lotions and potions guaranteed to make me look as luscious and dark as she was. She even used herself as an example of what certain beds and lotions combined were capable of. I was almost buying into her whole deal (for a fourteen year old she was a cut throat sales person), until she said she would sell me her "special" : fourteen days of unlimited tanning in the most powerful beds.
"It's a really good deal. You can come fourteen times in two weeks. Just stop by everyday..." And that's when she lost me. I shook my head out of tan world and took a breath and remembered my life and what it took in order for me to come ONE day. One day. For twelve minutes.
But let me rewind.
I decided that what I really wanted for Christmas was to enjoy one night out with my husband. I mean really enjoy it. So that's where the tanning and nails and shoes all came in. But in order to get to these appointments, I need someone to watch my boys. So I planned this tanning trip like three weeks ago. At the last minute, Joey had a meeting come up, so it was almost lost, until at the very truly last minute, they rescheduled it. Tanning salvaged. But I knew there would be no way on this beautiful green earth I was going to get back there more than maybe two times, if I was lucky.
So I opted out of the fourteen tans, and stuck with three and a five dollar packet of goo that did nothing for me except make me smell like flowery barf. But like I said, she was a really good sales woman/girl.
Before I went back into my little room I told her I just had some piercings done and would it still be alright to tan. She said yes even though she had no idea what she was talking about and then at the word "piercing" she just lit up like a little Christmas tree. I could see she had her nose and her lip pierced, but she went on to ask me what I got, and when I told her she almost started squealing. It was like someone had just loaded her up on tequila for the first time. We become instant bff's. She then proceeded to show me all of her tattoos, including the mustache on the inside of her pointer finger that her and her real best friend got as a joke--and to tell you the truth it did make me smile when she held it up over her lip-- and to talk about her belly piercing and how she wants to pierce her hips (I tried to not look surprised here, like old people do when young people say crazy things that they've never heard of, but I don't think I succeeded). Then she went on to ask if I was going to the Santa Crawl.
"Santa what?"
I had no idea what she was talking about but quickly started nodding my head like I did. And I felt a little relieved that I at least looked like a person who would go bar hopping all dressed up like a cute little Santa girl, even if that is the farthest thing from my current life.
When she customarily asked if I needed help to know how to use the bed and I said "yes", she looked like someone had just dropped their pants in front of her.
"You've never been tanning before?"
"No," I lied. I thought it was a better answer than bringing up the last time I went tanning was probably twelve years ago, when I was her age, and that I was also a little scared of the beds. She seemed to think we were sort of the same and I thought it was OK to leave it like that; live in that little fantasy land for a minute or two of a life filled with nights out on the town and tanning every day, just because I wanted to.
On the way home I called my husband and could hear my boys in the background, and I felt tired despite my afternoon away, to myself. It is exhausting to stay pretty. I missed my boys and my husband, and taking an afternoon for myself, though needed, also took away precious time with all of us together, and suddenly I had this huge desire to be home.

Expectations, Denied. Again.

I got my dermal yesterday in my tattoo. It's a little sparkly and so fun. I decided to re-pierce my belly as well, thinking that I have the scar anyway, there might as well be a cute sparkly thing in there.
Well.
Turns out your skin isn't in the exact same location as it was pre-pregnancy. So my belly button ring is all off to the left of where it should be. It's like I got a side-belly button ring. Maybe it'll be the new hip thing, but probably, no.
Gawd. It looks a little weird and really off. It almost makes me dizzy.
I'm trying to roll with it, sometimes telling myself it's just the scars of motherhood, and every time I look at the crooked thing I could think warm lovely thoughts of my children...but mostly it just irritates me and makes me touch it, trying to get the darn thing in the center so I am surely going to end up with an infection because you aren't supposed to touch it at all. And I can't stop trying to shove it over to where it should be, only to watch it slowly sag back to the left.
It's pitiful, really.
The dermal is where it should be though. And getting one thing right out of two isn't so bad. Maybe it's a good thing I can't see it very well because I can't analyze the crap out of it and find some reason as to why it has failed my expectations, too.
Other than that, things are going well. We are going to a crazy Christmas party this weekend, and my Christmas present is that I get to go tanning (HELLO??? When did tanning get so dang expensive? It's more money per minute than a massage. I seriously got ripped off). But I am going anyway, three times before next Friday. Then I get to get my nails done and my toes and I got new shoes to go with my favorite little black dress. I know what I will be wearing down to my earrings and purse, even my make-up.
I get a little excited about these things.
And I am just praying my dermal doesn't get infected because that would be a huge rain on my parade, since my back is totally exposed in my dress and some nasty red oozing thing would not be attractive, and I would end up wearing a turtleneck and be really pissed off the whole evening.
So if you want to say a prayer for me and my piercing too, that would be great.

I'm a Yellow.

I need some relief today. Crack would be good. I feel in the midst of four years of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I have completely forgotten how to be a me that I actually like. A me that is fun and carefree and happy and all those things that color quiz on fb said I should be (if you haven't taken it, it's a whole lotta fun. You can find the link on my profile page.) I feel like all I do all day is bark: "Pick up!" "Get your jacket on!" "Go to bed!"
Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon trying on cute clothes that I buy to make me feel good but then hardly ever wear because they are going-out-and-having-fun-clothes, not work-at-a- preschool-come-home-and-clean-clothes. I tried them on with different shoes and earrings and smiled at myself in the mirror for the first time in like seven years. I used to spend afternoons doing this all the time.
Then I got my guitar out and sang some horrible music but it felt good anyways. After exercise I had on my new black beanie from Banana Republic. When I wear it I feel like a hipster (what the heck is that? I don't know.) So I turned on my Pandora Bruno Mars station and danced my heart out in the kitchen while my boys ate their microwave chicken nuggets, wondering what the heck happened to their mom.
And for the first time in forever when Joey came home I didn't feel weak like I needed him to kiss me and adore me to feel good, I just felt good. By myself. For myself. It's hard not to build a wall here between me and Joey called I don't need you.
I'm still working through all that.
But I am learning to not feel guilty for being me, and even, maybe, liking myself. I mean, that yellow person seemed so dang likable. Fun and inviting and sociable. Like the color quiz said, I am spontaneous, I crave adventure, I don't like people controlling me. I can be irresponsible and forgetful (Um hello? children? Yes I have them, and yes I need to pick them up from the sitter after work), but I am a happy person! A likable person.
It's that dang responsibility that gets me. And the feeling of stuckness. The lack of some awesome dream and adventure waiting to be experienced. That and the whining.
Oh God! The whining!
I can be so lost in the moment (like, say, blogging) I give myself five minutes to get myself and two kids ready for work. And then, of course, hell.
But what's hard about that is I feel the best when I am lost in a moment, making a mess, not thinking about the things I SHOULD be doing and just doing what I WANT to be doing.
When all I do is things I should do I get very angry and mean or worse depressed; my face freezes over and my eyes stare out into the distance like I am on a lot of medication.
I haven't yet figured out how to live out both of these things, responsibility and fun. Cleaning and dressing up. Getting ready for work and writing.
Speaking of, the kitchen is an absolute disaster. There are dirty dishes everywhere. Food left out from dinner. I should be getting Ethan ready for bed.
So...maybe I will put on my rap music and clean up, a step, at least in the direction of merging the two extremes.

Christmas' Past.

There aren't many Christmases that stand out from the others, but there are a few. If I try to go in order the first one was on Christmas Eve. My little sister got a doll I wanted and I could have killed her. It was one of the most disappointing nights of my life and even the next morning when I opened the exact same doll for me, I was still a little sad. And mad.
Then there's the Christmas away from home, in Brazil, where everything is hot. I started early, like we do here, asking where I could buy Christmas cards and buying everyone I could think of presents and saying "Feliz Natal!" to the store clerks on my way out. Everyone looked at me like I was nuts until I realized Christmas isn't a huge money making scheme over there: it's just a day to eat and be with friends and family.
Then there's that Christmas Eve with my first grown-up love. We had broken up days before, but decided to see each other in order to exchange our gifts, as friends. We opened them together in a stolen moment on my couch, sneaking out later to go for coffee at some tiny coffee joint neither of us had ever been to. It was cold, and the coffee was so hot. Everything felt warm and intoxicating, my blood bubbling with thankfulness to be with him, despite having called it off days before. I've always been a spaz like that.
Then there's the Christmas where I was huge, ready to pop with my first baby. I can't remember ever being so uncomfortable in my life. Some people hate being pregnant in the summer...I'll take sun dresses and a pool over huge coats and Christmas parties where everyone is so close you can't help but knock them over with your humongous belly any day.

Hooky.

Ethan's drawing of me and my friend Jen. I think we kind of look like flies.

The new 'do.

My Little Barfymuffin. When he's not barfing.

What a funny day today. Woke up and after asking God to forgive me for secretly being happy we weren't going to church (Noah was barfing all last evening) so that I could get a bunch of errands done, the day basically turned into a pile of poo.
We were just about forty five minutes behind and everyone was crying and cranky and hungry, so our errands turned in a nightmare. Then Ethan's attitude has been like an army general on crack, and add Noah's barfyness to the mixture, and I am pretty much sick of being a mom.
Joey however is home, so the planets seem to be lined up right in at least one area. We're back to getting through the bedtime routines and then snuggling on the couch under a blanket with a glass of wine and Bones or House or Lie To Me.
It's so good to have him home, close, so I can touch his skin, smell him. He goes back to work today, and life goes on.
It's just been one of those days where I underneath everything that we are doing I am pleading with the Lord, God! Redeem this damn day!
Sex helps. Writing helps. Going and getting my nails done or shopping or tanning helps too, but those things need babysitters, or at least a husband who is not sleeping. I find myself lately going from one form of relief to another, and it makes me feel like I am not on good terms with God, because if I were I would be OK without my drugs of choice.
I wanted to wrap Christmas presents today, and write our Christmas letter and stuff them in cards, and think warm gooey thoughts of friends and family as I addressed envelopes. Instead, I realized we somehow forgot the bag with the two boxes of cards in them at the store, and when I sat down to write the letter the first two sentences I managed to get out sounded really over the top and cheesy, like I was trying to cover up some really crappy day with exclamation points.
In other news I chopped my hair as a surprise for Joey coming home. I decided this would be better than me trying to re-paint the whole house while he was away, which turned out to be a good idea seeing as I barely got the dishes done. It's a compromise cut: he likes my hair short, and I like it longer, so I got sort of like a mullet in reverse: the front is long and the back is short. It makes us both happy.

More Patience...More Pictures.

It was 29 degrees outside (And I really don't know if I am exaggerating that number or not) but as soon as we pulled out the cupcake it was as if Noah was in the Bahamas. He could have stayed there all night.

What you don't see is his poor face when I took the uneaten cupcake away so we could return to the car and de-thaw. He got so mad, his face red like a little lobster. Then, if he could talk, he would have said, "You are a bad, bad, BAD mommy!!!"

I like this one. You may be seeing it in some Christmas card or something.

Happy Friday!!

We Are Family.

Ethan is almost five. How'd that happen?

It's Joey, Little Joey, and Mini Joey.

I'd post a picture with all of us but I have no patience and my computer can't do two things at once.

Good Morning, Miss Ogre.

Why is it that as you get older you get uglier and uglier in the morning? I seriously scared myself this morning when I looked in the mirror right after getting out of bed. Then I happened to yawn and my breath could have wilted a flower.
It's like I turn into a ogre in the middle of the night, and then after I shower and get my makeup on and my hair dried I turn back into me. It's making the thought of camping more and more impossible, especially tent camping. I think the biggest thing is my left eyebrow, which I over-plucked a few years back (OK, OK, I plucked the entire second half off), and I can't let it grow back because it grows all funky and grandpa like, so I keep it plucked and have to draw it in every morning. But until I can get my hands on that essential little pencil I just look really weird, like I am going through chemo.
Also, I am hoping that by writing this dumb crap my mojo will be back in town at about the same time Joey is. I have this strange hunch that writing is secretly connected to my sex drive. We'll see.
Some other stuff going on in my head:
Sometimes, against all better judgment, I want to have another baby. The other day I had decided that this is what I wanted and so I spent all day dreaming of a third, probably a girl, and thinking of names and picturing meadow scenes with all three of my children frolicking in the muted sunset light.
Of course, when I let Joey in on my plans we almost got divorced, but we worked through it.
Then today I am thinking about wanting a job that makes a lot of money and has some sort of title that would make me feel good every time I told anyone what I do.
And of course, those two little things (a baby and a job) don't really go together. In fact, in my life, from past experience, they sort of create an atomic bomb in my life: BOOM!
Anyway, just crap in my head.

The Funk's Passing.

Well, that dumb funk is passing. I exercised on Monday and Tuesday night, didn't read anything except for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to Ethan but I still think that helped, and have been having pretty good hair days the last two days so the funk is rising, thank God. Oh and I spent yesterday morning with a girlfriend and tea which is pretty much balm for the soul.
I know this funk is totally connected to The Flow: two weeks out of the month I am a normal, functioning, life-loving (normally), woman, and then the other two I am this crazy mofo that cannot stop eating and has to try every second to keep her mind from going into nuts-o land.
Today though, I feel almost great. I got up after only hitting the snooze twice (usually I am more of a four or five times snooze-button woman), got all dressed and ready to go to work without the boys getting out of bed, and then wa-la: Ethan is sick. So here I am, up nice and early, all dressed and feeling good, with no plans.
Which is fine by me. I get to write and I get to do some more "deep cleaning" as my husband puts it: his ultimate surprise gift for when he comes home. He's so weird. He is going to be thrilled to see the bookcases all neat and dusted, the plant sheddings gone from the huge tree plant I have on my nightstand which he hates but I insist stays put to half-way disguise the ugly printer we have in our bedroom.
So, today I say goodbye to the Funk, until about Christmas time, when I know she'll be back.