Maybe the leprechauns are to blame

It was a rough weekend. One kid has the coughs which means he coughed so hard a little of his dinner came up, which means soon I will have the coughs yadda yadda yadda weak bladder yadda yadda yadda.

Also the Husband stepped on a rusty nail and had to get a tetanus shot.

He told the nurse that his wife made him come get the shot when really he was the one googling tetanus and showing me a little drop of blood on his sock. I couldn’t see it (maybe because I didn’t have my eyes in yet). Also the nurse told him the mortality rate for those with a tetanus infection wasn’t good so, yeah, he got the shot. True story.

Word of advice to those who have a husband who might step on a nail in their life time, the tetanus shot will turn your man into a horrible, horrible version of the man cold sufferer, i.e. whining, incessant whining, more whining, mixed with demonstrations on how high he can’t lift his arm, with a little crazy eyes thrown in for good charm. Well I hope the shot works and the Husband doesn’t get the tetanus. I sort of feel bad for pinching him right in the spot he got the shot, but he wasn’t wearing green and he only cried for a little bit.

Also I took down all my lingering winter paraphernalia and then it snowed the next day. I hate to say I told you so, but I told me so. As I was removing the hanger I used for a winter wreath, Bosco said, “Hey, are you using those Command hanging strips?” and I tucked this away in my brain as proof that my son has a great memory and that the brain filtration power of commercials is frighteningly awesome. I’m still not sure though how or when my four year-old saw a commercial for this product.

Well that was my weekend, with a whole lot of corned beef and cabbage on the side. How about you?

Just when I thought I'd gouge my eyes out . . .

I finally figured out that the culprit for much of my angst was a pair of contact lenses that needed changing. It’s amazing how blinking less can be such a positive mood changer.

Little things indeed.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still just as agitated as ever, but now there’s a simultaneous brightness in my eyes along with the scowl. Some might call this a cute handful or a feisty asset. Both seem like a valid description of me currently.

For example, I am still annoyed that the Husband sees a pile of his folded clean clothes on the bed (that I put there) and moves them to a chair instead of hanging them up. But then I remember that he did the dishes last night, so I must call it good, for now.

Then there’s that mystery stain on my shirt that looks like yellow crayon, but then I remember Bosco did tell me I was his favorite so . . . bygones be bygones.

And let’s not forget that Bubba has subjected me to the most heinous of diaper changes (his, not mine) this week, but he did cuddle with me for five whole minutes today without telling me to move, so now I can face one more diaper if need be. Plus he made me the loveliest imaginary sandwich I ever did see and he even remembered to hold the pickles. Can’t let that little nugget of thoughtfulness go unnoticed and unrewarded. He get’s extra ice cream tonight I think.

Then there’s the high probability that I broke my nose while sleeping last night (bad dream I guess) and it hurts to nasally inhale. But who really cares about that when there is cheesecake to be had? Exactly.

And I don’t even really feel the need to address this sore throat I’ve had for a week!

Let’s just hope this euphoria can last a few more days. I’m off to turn thirty-one this weekend. Wish me luck!

I just happen to have a picture of me putting in a contact lens. Is that weird? More like kismet I think.

Did you know flags are everywhere? EVERYWHERE!

We're in a lot of trouble around here, phonetically speaking. The English language is currently one large, nerve wracking landmine of !#$&@ and %*!&$.

You see, Bubba is on the brim of being able to say every word he will ever need to know to have a pleasant conversation. I can just feel it. Yes, we are indeed so proud.

But he does have a few hurdles to overcome. A few rough edges to smooth out.

Here's a break down of the problem(s):

1. 'g' is pronounced with a 'k' sound

2. some sounds are left out entirely, usually 'l' or 'r' sounds

3. 'p' is usually pronounced with a 'b' sound

4. the occasional flip flopping of sounds. The last becomes the first and vice versa.

5. The general inability to decipher precise vowel sounds. 'a', 'e', 'i', 'o', or 'u' normally sound like all five vowels are being said all together at once with a slight emphasis on the 'uhhh' sound.

This is of course not something I fret over, except with certain words.

FROG- problems 1, 2, and a little of 5

FLAG- again, problems 1, 2 and a little of 5

CHIP- combination of problems 3 and 4

And obviously there has to be a 6th problem as well: the word 'PICTURE' is lazily shortened to 'pitch' with the added problem of number 3.

But really how often does a two-year old find need to say any one of these red alert words, really?

Well, enough that we usually find ourselves praying to the heavens above that there are no flags or frogs or chips in sight while we are in a public place, which it turns out is basically asking for a miracle to occur every two minutes, sometimes every thirty seconds depending on the area (think patriotic city, full of ponds and Frito Lay lovers).

We were indeed blessed that Bosco only had one foul mouth issue and it lasted merely a day, be it one of the longer days of my life.

Insert some sort of Harry Potter or Shakespeare reference here.

I’m not really a doer or a believer in New Year’s resolutions. I’m just as likely to procrastinate on my goals in January as I am in October so why make a big guilty to-do about it.

And if there are life changes I need to make then surely I shouldn’t be saving them up for the start of a new year. I should resolve to tackle them right then and there, even if I am in the heated throes of July. This is all in theory of course. I’ll do a follow-up post when and if I take my own advice.

But I do have a sort of New Year’s ritual though, that I find really does do wonders for me all year long. January 1st (or somewhere’s in that general time period) is usually reserved for buying half-priced calendars. I find that it’s hardly ever a bad idea to know what day it is. And there’s something satisfying about turning the page at month’s end. Like a, “Hey, I made it.” And a, “How old am I again?” Really gets my serotonin level up you know?

Anyway, this year for "the office" I chose a lovely collection of Japanese woodblock prints, and in doing so had an unexpected confrontation with my inner self. I think it was just a coincidence that it happened in January though.

When I approached the young man at the check out counter, I told him I was ready to make a purchase and he said, “Are you sure?” Apparently he was a mind reader who loved to torture passersby. I paused and wondered if I should have gone with the Monet prints instead. I answered him briskly, “No I’m not sure. But I’m getting this one anyway.” Take that indecisiveness!

The cashier seemed disappointed in my choice. Perhaps he thought the Kittens in Teacups would have better suited me, but instead he changed the subject and commented on the music playing over the store’s speakers. At the precise time that I was subconsciously humming along in my head to the Frank Sinatra and probably even discreetly tapping my toe, he asked me, “How do you like this music? I sure didn’t pick it.” My antithesis! Placed right before me! I replied, “Oh, what would you pick instead?” sure that he would reply with something like Metallica. “Oh I don’t know. Probably the Eagles.”(???) Then he somehow segued into talking about France is a sarcastic tone and it took a mighty effort not to roll my eyes. But I was triumphant. Take that inability to act mature in tense situations!

As the Husband and I left the store, I let that eye roll fly. Then I told the Husband that I rather enjoyed the store’s music. He agreed. Take that fear of opposing views and being the odd one out! I also told him France was my dream vacation. The Husband remained silent on that one.

Like I said before, I don’t do New Year’s resolutions, but maybe the year 2012 is trying to hint at a few things that need a little attention. How else can I explain meeting my own real-life foil character?

P.S. Lest my mother think of me as an abomination, I like the Eagles just fine. But as calendar shopping music? Please.

Now let's just hope everything arrives in the mail

Without really thinking things through, I visited a popular mega super toy store the other day. I did this on the pretense that I am a good mom, and as a good mom I am willing to go to stores I typically loathe because something my child wants for Christmas lies inside the walls of one of these stores (this is a bologna belief by the way or btw).

The minute the automatic doors swooshed open I regretted my good momness.

People everywhere. Displays everywhere. Kids running to and fro all hopped up on holiday greediness. Parents all focused on grabbing whatever’s left.

Immediately my skin itched with sensory overload. And the germs right?

I contemplated leaving then and there. I had a minimal amount of time, and a minimal amount of blood sugar. The Husband had dropped me off while he and the kids went to gas up the car. Twenty-five minutes tops. I figured I could handle that and find at least one of the five things on my wish list.

Wrong.

I scoured aisle after aisle, and was getting rather hot under the collar, literally. Bad day for the itchy wool coat. I had been to this store before (gasp!) so I should have remembered that usually I had to rely on an employee to help me find the hidden treasure. Me and my foolish ways. But how was I going to explain to an employee what I was looking for when I wasn’t exactly 100% sure of what it was called. I only had a picture in my head and a hope in my heart and a child’s description.

So I forged ahead, through cart traffic and wailing toddlers and toy ATMs

Even when I found an area where a certain item should have been I couldn’t even get front row access because there were two other rows of people huddled around looking too.

And before I knew it my time was up and I had NOTHING to show for my good intentions. Plus, I hated any and all toys, especially the ones that could launch things.

So I went home, decided some toys weren't all that bad, whittled down and changed a few things on that list to better match my mother sensibilities, and ordered everything online.

Then I made myself a steaming hot cup of cocoa, plopped in three (or four) Candy Cane Hershey Kisses and drank it by twinkle light.

I recommend you do so too, if you haven’t already. It helps restore those depleted of Christmas spirit.

Et tu, Herbert?

Our car Herb (short for Herbert, also generically called Subi) decided to disinherit us. I know this for a fact because five hours and fifty minutes into our anticipated six hour road trip to visit family for Thanksgiving, he done lost his timing belt at freeway speeds and ruined his engine. I still wonder why he did this to us, and ultimately himself because, I’m sorry Herbert, you should have known it just didn’t make fiscal sense to spend more to repair you than you were worth moneywise, and if you know anything at all about us you know that we prefer not to do stupid things. Yes, I’m sure you knew this so I’m even more convinced this was a conscience decision to sit in a junk yard rather than be loaded to the brim with all of our crap for even one more road trip. I don’t blame you of course. I tend to over pack, and the kids are just so messy, and the Husband probably didn’t wash you enough, and we probably talked about getting a new car too much while in your presence. Still, the betrayal stings a bit. We’ve had fond memories and such.

I must admit though, our Herbert had impeccable timing. This was the hilarious chain of events for forty-five seconds: I was reading Harry Potter (Book 7 by the way!), two boys were in the back yelling for drinks, the Husband said something was wrong, we had no power, we looked up, we saw a rest area exit ramp, the car had just enough steam to pull into a parking spot, the car was dead on many levels, we called for help, my cell phone died. Luck or miracle or just a car with a wicked sense of humor, and a little compassion? I’m going to go with a mixture of all three. Mostly miracle though cuz that’s how I roll.

But sometimes miracles can be disguised or camouflaged I’ve learned because in the moment it feels more like confusion with a shot of hysteria. I had three new pimples by nightfall.

The scariest and most stressful thing that came about as a result of Herbert’s decided demise was not even that we had to buy a new car. The Hubso and I had already been shooting the breeze on that topic for forever and a day. It was that the V-A-N word was mentioned multiple times, in a serious context. Like, “Hey, I don’t know. Eight seats? We only need like four or five right now, but who knows. Maybe a soccer team will need a lift someday. And sliding doors just make so much more sense.” I found myself willing to give up a piece of my soul in exchange for a stupidly obscene amount of space. You know so the kids would have room to play tag or at the very least duck, duck, goose. And that compromise I made in my head scared the monkeys right out of me because I suddenly saw myself as a grown-up. And it just didn’t feel right on me, you know?

It was also very taxing on me emotionally as a stawlart thinker-througher to have to make big decisions in a small amount of time, which would have been obvious if you could have seen the tenseness in my shoulder and lower lumbar regions. It takes me two months to pick out a new set of towels. Imagine the horror when faced with choosing color, style, make, model, year, mileage etc.! I was having a mental fit!

Basically, what I guess I really want to convey is that I haven’t had any time to think about Christmas decorations and if this should be “The Year of the Garland” or perhaps “The Year of the White Lights.” So maybe don’t ask me yet.

I'm not kidding, about any of this.

It’s official. I have now had the same pimple for over a month. Same place, same degree of pestilence. Ever vigilant and ever glaring.

{Sketch artist's depiction}

I hold candy mostly responsible. But then again those winds coming in from the north are hardly blameless in this.

If you see me, be sure to point out the monstrosity and ask me, “Didn’t you have that during Halloween and maybe even Columbus Day?” I love to have conversations like this. I really do because it shows that people pay attention to me and pretty much love me with their whole heart and soul. I’ll take some of that any day. Then maybe you could follow up with a comment on how adorably pixie my feet are, and also point out that my age spots are looking mighty visible these days, and even mention all the hair repositioning happening on  my face and how it’s obvious the war is on like Donkey Kong. Then, if you really want to make me giddy, tell me that it looks like I've recovered nicely  from the whole falling off the toilet thing over four years ago. That would solidify your true bosom friend status in my eyes.

Just, whatever you do, don’t point out The Pimple, touch "IT", and declare "IT" as having reached mole status. The Husband already made that mistake.

Getting lippy

Every year, about this time, my lips go through a process. A “getting used to the dry heater air hitting me all about the face” phase. It’s how I know the beginnings of November have arrived, nevermind the superfluous amount of leftover Twix all over the house that I always buy knowing full well we will not have enough trick-or-treaters to merit such a purchase.

No, it’s my lips that signal a change in month and season is afoot.

In this month long process, first there is an all around chappiness that no soothing balm or nectar can cure. Then there’s general agitation, soon followed by a sloughing of the lips. With the lips now rid of old skin, an irritation takes hold that could rival Carrot Top or The Song That Never Ends. On top of this irritation, there is an undisturbed stinging sensation with of course the complimentary redness that spreads far beyond the normal layout of the lips. This in turn leads to small, minuscule new lip growth surrounding the lip perimeter, trying ever so valiantly to take hold, but ultimately resulting in pain and cursing if anything were to touch or disturb its efforts. It goes without saying that salt is the enemy of enemies at this point.

And this is when I have to remind myself that it is always darkest before the dawn.

For just when I think I can never kiss again, I wake up one day, drink a glass of orange juice, then lick my lips without thinking. But just as I’m about to scream in anticipated pain I realize that there is none. My lips have returned unto me, out of the ashes of the fire.

Seeing as how November has just begun, I am still in the all about chappiness stage, with much tediousness before me, so I’m eating all the potato chips I can before the thought of such an action seems pure insanity. Yes indeed, there are greasy fingerprints all over the house.

P.S. My lips are telling me it's time to change the clocks! Don't forget! Courtesy of My Lips.