Procrastination Kills.

I'm unaware of how this happened, but the Holidays are only a few days away. I NEVER NEVER NEVER like to wait till the last minute (HAHAHAHAHA) but here I am, and it is blinking at me, waiting to see what I'll do.
This year, I completely blanked and could not come up with ANY ideas for gift giving. I was at an utter loss. I always intend to have these spectacular, perfectly appointed, deeply moving and personal gifts. Usually it ends up with a handmade card with a handpicked giftcard in its belly. Bummer. In the craziness that has been this year, I completely forgot my intentions. Now... I'm scrambling.
I have the usual purchased fare, I even think some of it will be appreciated, but the hand touch that I adore just wasn't there. There was no heart. Some of those gifts, though beautifully and tastefully wrapped by moi, are screaming at me from the tree: "YOU GRABBED ME WHILE YOU WERE IN LINE TEXTING PEOPLE!", "No one ever EVER wants socks.", "You only bought me because that wretched woman in the next aisle was looking for me, and you were feeling competitive.". SHUT IT GIFTS.
I feel guilty. No... I feel gggggguuuuuiiiiillllltttttyyyyyy. (
Now, with mere days away until the Festive Throw Down, I'm scrambling. Yes, everyone has a present. Yes, they all match my tree (that no one will see) and they all have an individual complimentary bow, and cute little tags. Woo hoo, I accomplished something, but why can I never feel that I did what I set out to do? Why do I forget that last year, on January 2nd, I vowed to take my monsters to a paint your own pottery store and put them to work in a mock-sweatshop of clay? Where is the heart?
So I went to the local craft emporium, and I think I've purchased just the right amount of heart. Now it just has to be assembled. I will probably be chained down for the next few days, crafting my heart, swearing, and then drunk sewing/crocheting. I know there'll be tears, feelings of inadequacy, and probably lots of fires, but I'm going to pretend that the saying "it is the thought that counts" isn't just what people say when they gift you boxes of crap. Will it work? I have no idea. Will it turn out as planned? Oh absolutely not. Will the intended recipients ever see what I will spend the next 48 hours of my life slaving over? I'm betting a big fat no. If the positively fugly hat I fashioned last night is any indication. But maybe it will make ME feel better. Like a present to myself. I may still only give them the gift certificates, and Christmas Blend coffee beans, but I'll know that at home, I have an absolutely horrendous tea towel with mutated images of my childrens' hands stitched on them.

Feigning Festive.

It is that time of year, (And I won't say "again" because, frankly, it only comes once in a year, so it can't be that time of year again in this year, but I digress...) and I'm battling inner turmoil and an inability to properly embrace the impending holiday season. I'm in a frosty funk, if you will.

As the mother of two small boys, you'd think I'd be positively brimming with spunk and inspiration. Please people, in theory, this is MY kind of holiday: lies, bribery, bending the purpose of the season to fit my will. It was tailor made for me. But I can't get there, not yet. I've been Kringle-blocked. No tree up (which is good considering there has been no "fall decor down" session.) no redundant viewings of Elf, no plotting and ploying my insane gift wrap scheme for the year. Nada. What in the butt has happened to me?

As a means of invoking the holiday spirit, I've come up with a logical (for me) game plan, and because I love you... whoever you are out there.... I'll share it with you:

Step One: Establish Proper Holiday Smell.

That's right folks. That says "smell". As the proper word escapes me, and I'm far too lazy to google it, I'll say that I am an Odor Whore. I am scent obsessed, and I can't set the stage without the proper odiferous gesso being applied to the blank canvas. (I miss you Bob Ross!) So, I know you were all fretting, but have no fear! I have found the ever-ellusive best scent of the season. No real shocker that it is by Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day as I'm fairly certain I've been implanted with a microchip that requires me to do their bidding. It is an adorably simple glass jar, petite and sweet, filled with the most delicious Orange Clove scented soy candle in the world. It is positively delightful. I'm not sure what sort of James Bond technology has been put in there, but it is absolutely mind erasing. I completely forget that I have eleventy-seven other things I should be doing aside from sniffing a freaking candle like a huffer.

Step Two: Lay the Scene.

This one is proving to be much trickier. It isn't that I don't want the proper festive decor to both invoke the mood and ram in the fact that I am a good Martha Stewart drone, it is just that I don't want to CLEAN up enough to actually set the stage. Not only will there be furniture-moving involved, as this is a new house with an untapped tree-friendly layout, but I'm fairly certain that I've discovered my children are fully aware that there is only one of me cleaning, and two of them destroying in tandem. Also, WHY is it that uncleaning is so much faster than cleaning??? That is for another day. This also requires the husby to come home at a reasonable hour and cooperate in unearthing the decorations... which I'm fairly certain are strewn all over this house like Christmasy Easter eggs. I've seen some of the storage area combinations our moving company came up with. If the extra bathroom giblets are stored with the excess kitchen gadgets and my wedding dress, I can only imagine where the Christmas tree will be. Plus... I'm plain dreading the moment Niblet Number 2 discovers the glory that is undressing the tree.

Step Three: Bake Tons of Crap.

I love to bake. It is no surprise, I enjoy it... and it's fruits. But more than that... the BEST facet of this holiday tradition: Thinking about making other people fat. Yes, I'm that deep. I'll take a tiny bit of pleasure in the caloric-laden bites others will consume thanks to me. If I can't get skinnier... I'll make them all heavier. It is a simple joy. I also adore coming up with tedious little treats that look cute in cellophane bags. I don't even care if they taste good. I'll come up with anything that looks like Christmas: Marshmallows in chocolate covered top-hats, coconut covered snowballs, jingle bells dipped in chocolate because.. really, there is no good way to make a chocolate jingle bell that LOOKS good, and it really is an under appreciated niche... and they are sure to throw Dr. Grandma D.D.S. some work to make up for any lame gift I may give her.

Step Four: Make Christmas Cards.

This one is really bugging me this year. I used to hand make cards. It would take HOURS, and I'd be in that sort of glorious, delicious pain that says "yes, I've hammered 700 grommets into paper for 8 hours and no one will notice or care, but I AM HAPPY". Now, I choose to exercise my Photoshop muscles. Unfortunately, they aren't core muscles, and they're out of shape... so I'm behind... and the price of postage is daunting.

Step Five: Select the Holiday Fashions.

This one is a real road block this year as, suddenly and inexplicably, I sort of don't care. I got the boys cute lil matching outfits... and I am contemplating just dragging something from the bottom of my dresser drawers that I haven't seen in ages (as my husband has an unreal talent for packing things SO tightly into those drawers that you'll never see the stuff on the bottom again. I'm not certain he hasn't squished them right through the bottom of the drawer and into an alternate dimension), throwing it on and calling it a statement. I don't feel cute. I don't have the budget for cute, and today I have the first blemish I've had in months so I am sure it will never go away and only continue to grow exponentially erupting into a full-fledged parasitic twin by Christmas, complete with fully blinking eyes.

Step Six: Project Gift Wrap.

This one usually gets me all amped up in a big way. I am uber compulsive about my gift wrap, carefully selecting the colors to compliment my tree, the perfect paper for Santa to use, the coordinating bows and different ways to adorn the packages... I've even embossed gift tags before. This year, all I can think is "When in the frig am I going to have time to wrap gifts, and how will I hide the scotch tape from the kids?". Also, I'm seriously lacking in hiding spaces. So, for now, those gifts are stowed away in my car... (For all you would-be burglars out there... unless you have a dire need for environmentally friendly, somewhat novel children activities, and whatever random bits I got for a steal on black Friday, I'd avoid it.)

Step Seven: Enlist Proper Sidekicks.

For me, this is the simplest and most effective of all of the steps. Homemade cocoa and Buttershots... heavy on the Buttershots, and Burt's Bee's Peppermint and Honey lip balm. May be chintzy, but these are my holiday must haves. And I drink the cocoa nearly as much as I apply the balm... so I walk that fine line of ingesting enough spirits to be spirited and tolerable, and not getting so drunk that I forget that I was alive during Christmas 2010.

So... It is time for me to push through my Bahumbugs and soldier on until the spirit slaps me in the face. I'll make the traditional cocoa, and we'll trim the tree and hang the coordinating stockings, and the Elf on a Shelf will watch over us with his creepy, almost sadistic smile, and I'll get there... eventually. For now, I'll snuggle with my red glass full of white (because it is SO MUCH BIGGER), sit on my fanny, and make my list, check it twice, and then burry it under the junk mail so I can do what I do best: procrastinate.

Perspective is Key.

I won't go into how this cropped up. I believe, by now, we are well familiar with the inner workings of my gray matter. In the interest of saving time. It just popped in there. I've realized that, while events in our past have remained prime and unchanged, our view and perception of them can shift dramatically. I'm hoping this theory will apply in the near future so I can look back at present me and have a good giggle.

*Disclaimer* Should the person, I'll call her "Mary", that this memory represents happen upon this paltry blog and actually put herself through the monotony of reading all of these ramblings... know that I remember your family fondly and think you were all as sweet as they come. Really, the tone of this should convey the fact that I respect your mother more now than I ever could've as a child. I'm in awe at her strength, resilience, and obviously deeply rooted love for your father. With that being said, please excuse the snark...

As a child (and let's just say this was roughly *cough*twenty*cough) years ago a new girl began at our school. Ah Mary, she was as sweet, bright, and bubbly as they come. I just had to be her friend. We had a quick bond, and seeing as how my mother was opportunistic and eager to pawn me off on other guardians, we began having play dates. At her house.

Looking back, I thought her house was the single coolest thing ever. EVER. This will require a tiny bit of backstory to set the scene: Imagine, if you will, a new house. A BRAND new house. Err, and unfinished brand new house. That's right peeps. This family was living in their, as of yet, incomplete new house. Mother, Father, Mary, token adorable little sister, and my fogerty ol' brain forgets if mama was knocked up, or if bouncing baby brother had made his arrival yet. Either way, you catch my drift. Heinous. And don't miss my point when I say "unfinished". I'm not being exaggerative (as I am 154% of the time). I'm telling you, the entire first floor, save for the kitchen, was plywood. PLYWOOD. Not subfloor, not "missing trim", but wood and nails AWAITING subflooring and trim. And this was the livable part. Upstairs was, as of yet, unusable. Read that again and let it ferment..... I'll pick a cuticle while you ponder. Oooo, get it? The WHOLE family was living together in the plywood "family room" (not sure that was the intended use when the room was given that name).

Well, 10 year old me thought this was beyond awesome. I mean, seriously?! It was so cool! They bunked out in the cavernous living area, the echo's alone were sublime. I'm fairly certain I ran straight home that day and told my mom "You can ROLLER SKATE in Mary's living room!" Can't get much more boss than that. What kid doesn't love a house where the rules pretty much consist of "Don't go in bare feet or you will get tetanus"? Their kitchen was the sole completed room in the house, so that is where the parents were usually hiding while we had full reign. The basement was full of boxes, and if we could find it... we could play with it! Their lot backed up to woods, complete with creek and ravine. Now, my elderly brain has long since forgotten why this was, but there was a TON of old china in the woods. Yes, china.. as in cups, saucers, etc. Mary told me it was a dumping ground, but why would there be a china dumping ground? Whatever, in all honesty, it was far more likely that thrift store whores or divorcees took the china to the woods for target practice. Either way, we had a blast digging around for the rare complete dish or matching chunks. The stuff of childhood dreams.

I hung out with Mary quite a bit that first year before the hustle and bustle of Brownies and elementary school got the best of us. I'd say at least one solid, fun filled year of play dates. What I now remember with distinct clarity is that I'd never seen Mary's house complete. I do remember progress. Stairs were built to the second floor, drywall was put up. The bathrooms eventually got actual fixtures and showers/tubs. I specifically remember the vent covers being put on as the youngest daughter would throw things down them endlessly. So that was a YEAR that the family lived in an unfinished home.

I don't remember why. Maybe dad was a DIY king, maybe some unforeseen circumstance came up that even the most wise 10 year old guest hadn't been privy to. Either way, a FULL year had passed. A baby had been born and began walking... on plywood. Now, keep in mind that nothing has changed about that year except my perception.... (well, in all truth, I sincerely hope that the house was finished some time in the last 20 years, and it is my assumption that Mary and siblings eventually grew up and moved out, but I'd hate to be presumptive.)

Looking back, now as a mother and a wife.... how in the hell did Mary's mother not lose her everloving mind? Actually, to be honest, I now assume she had. How could she be in her right mind and agree, while very pregnant and with two young daughters in tow, to live in what was, essentially, a grown-up tree house? Sleeping on beds in a plywood living room? Showering in an unfinished bathroom without flooring or towel racks? RECOVERING from a delivery without a cupboard to keep the chuck pads in?! Absurd! There is no way I'd ever sign up for that.

She must've had one of those deep, crazy, against all odds/come what may cinematic romances where he: eccentric, scatterbrained genius with golden intentions a'la Rick Moranis, meet she: beautiful pixie-ish wife with glowing personality and no desire for personal space or window coverings. And the bells peal and the birds sing and they just KNEW. Pretty much an on-the-verge-of-being-committed commitment. That, or she was being held hostage. Those are the only two conceivable scenarios I can imagine. I know they remained married, because I saw them occasionally around town and they were together and not yelling or glaring. I just don't know HOW they remained married.

Yes, as I child I thought it was awesome squared, but now as an adult and a mom... it is my idea of the perfect hell. Control freak tendencies aside, I just don't think I could live in a construction zone for such an extended period of time. To move in and not be able to unpack anything because there is no where to put it. To have zero clue where anything is other than the blanket phrase "in boxes". Sure, material possessions are really unimportant and blah blah blah... I NEED to know where my stuff is. What if I want to make fondue?

Everything was always coated in a fine white dry wall powder. You couldn't go bare foot because of splinters or nails. There weren't outlet covers on all of the outlets.. let alone safety plugs. Just the echo of the children screaming will haunt me to this day. I have no idea how she did it. How she even came to the point where she actually agreed to sleep there, even if it was only a promised week would be beyond me. She spent a YEAR there.

So, as neat as I thought it was, and as cool as I thought Mary's parents were for living like this... now? Now I see either the craziest effing woman to ever roam the planet, the strongest woman I've ever met with an intense love for her husband that sees past insanity, or the best captor a kidnapping victim ever had... because not once in that year did she ever slip me a napkin that said "help me" and she had every opportunity to... I was there all of the time.

Making, yes MAKING, your own laundry detergent.

Damn the man.

Yes, damn him. I will not be a slave to you or your oppression via highway robbery... I will no longer let you bleed me dry one mega-jug of detergent at a time.

Well, it'd be a slow road to robbery, but still. As a stay-at-home mom, I feel my job (amongst the 1,000 other facets of my career) is to save us money. Save. Money. save... I'm always looking for little ways to curb spending so I can save up for...more spending? Anyway, the fact that this is natural and tingles the little green bits of my heart is simply an added bonus. It is so simple, so cheap, and so a way to kill a day when I want to sell my kids to the gypsies but opt to put them to work in my kitchen sweatshop instead.

Here is what you'll need... though I must first preface this by saying, in my long-winded fashion, that I have two kids. Both must be engaged in some safe activity before I attempt to do anything. Desperation is the mother of invention, so I'll throw in mini tip. A tiplet, if you will. I took yogurt, yes yogurt, put it in a ziploc, and let the baby go ape. Random and worthless, but he enjoyed it.

What you need:

Borax (again, can you hear the angels singing?)

Washing Powder

2 bars of Fels Naptha. This is a bar soap-thing that can be found in the laundry aisle.

Measuring cups (uh, duh)

A grater/processor of some sort.

Here is the recipe, if you can call it that, and it is as easy as can be:

1. Grate the Fels Naptha into fine bits.

2. Measure out 2 Cups out.

3. Add 1 cup each of borax and washing powder.

4. Combine! Et Voila!

You'll use about 2 Tablespoons per load, 1 in an HE machine. It makes a TON, rinses clean, and is safe to use on cloth diapers. Oh, and did I mention it is CHEAP? And up in the pictures... the baggie full of soap bits? Pop those left over bits, the ones you can't grate down unless you aren't afraid of grinding your fingers to bloody stumps, in a clean jar with hot water, and when it "melts" down, you have a killer stain remover. See? You just got 3 tips for the price of one! Enjoy! You'll feel like Martha, Laura Ingalls, and the Planet Green channel all into one.

Quick tip O' the day: Clean Commode

So, in an effort to blog more... a quick drive-by! You're welcome! ;)

I have a new home. Said new home has three bathrooms. Three. Glorious, yes, but oh so fun to keep clean. I've decided to do kamikaze maintenance scrub downs. Little visits from the cleaning fairy as an effort to keep down the massive hours of scrubbing, and seriously, who loves to scrub bathrooms? Well, I'll admit I do have a sick joy when looking at a gleaming toilet, but I'm the first to admit that there is nothing normal about me!

Now that we've established that I have three water closets and an unhealthy relationship with the toilet brush, here is how I get all of the party zones clean, top to bottom (heh heh) in under 20 minutes... Yes, I timed it. Oh, and as an added bonus: It's all natural baby.

Borax. Yes, again, my bestest buddy. I am aware we all know how to clean, and that we all know what to use, but this is back to the basics. Here is what you'll want before you start the oven timer in an effort to prove me wrong:

Borax

Spoon/scoop/shot glass... basically a sprinkling vessel. If you were smart and stealthy in the DIY tip area, you may think ahead and carefully empty out (or use, whatever) a tiny travel-sized baby powder conainer. Whatever floats your boat.

Empty Squirt bottle

5-6 junky wash cloths. I happen to love loading up on these at the local large chainstorefromhell (take your pick) when they are 6 for $3. I can always justify the purchase.

First, put on your best wreath of wildflowers. Obviously you'll have one on hand for just these instances. You'll see why... Scoop/sprinkle/Chuck the borax into the bowl of your potty. Make sure to get it on the dry parts, and some in the water for good measure. I typically use 3-4 tablespoons. Next, and this is the best part... LEAVE. Take your box of Borax under your arm, and (and this is where the wreath halo comes in) flit around your home like the nymph of clean. Let out a "tra la la" if you must. Head for the next bathroom and go sprinkle crazy there too. Hell, do the same in the next! Man! Don't you already feel like a goddess of domesticity? So, in under a minute, you've sprinkled borax in all of the bowls, left to sit, and skipped around your home like a damned fool. Process has begun.

As your bowls are soaking in their natural glory, pick a bathroom and squirt warm water all over the mother. Then wet your first cloth. Sprinkle some Borax on the cloth and wipe down surfaces. ALL surfaces. This works on everything. Rinse as needed, and then use a clean damp cloth to rinse again for good measure. I then like to polish with a dry cloth. I use a colored cloth for the toilets so as not to risk .... um, toilet germs? on other surfaces. Repeat on other bathrooms. It doesn't take long, remember, this is to maintain between those big "Someone is sleeping here overnight so I KNOW they'll look at every surface with a microscopic eye and a heart full of judgement" cleans.

After that is done, return to each gleaming toilet. Run the toilet brush on the inside of the bowl, flush, repeat on all bathrooms. Stand back and enjoy the rewards of your effort. SPARKLING, and clean! Now, go make a margarita to offset the productivity. We don't want our husbands getting any ideas about us making cleaning a regular thing here....

Welcome to the Jungle

Yes, it has been awhile. I've missed you, I've thought about you, I've never let you slip from my heart. I've found that the idea of blogging has been alluring, but I can't cultivate a direct path to a post. I have the ideas, but the thought of sitting, organizing my thoughts, EDITING (HA!!!!!!) and publishing is daunting as hell. So, solution? Revamp the blog!
I honestly want to blog more, but current format doesn't fit into current brain processes, so I figure it is time for a change. Words are the beginning of action... in theory! Feel free to hold me to this on Facebook. I need interweb mothers telling me to "Do my Homework".
As a leap into this fancy new methodology I'm going to do something I'd never normally do in public. I'm going to let my brain ramble and show ya what I'm working with. *Spoiler alert* This will preview a future (hopefully) post. I KNOW, SO exciting ( to my tiny subscriber list) but I can fool myself!
I've been thinking of this post for weeks now. Why I should've been born in the Victorian Era. Sounds odd, I know, but trust that there is a rhyme and reason. As I'm plotting away, my mind wanders, and this is how it goes. You may want to look away now, as this might be a bit "Being John Malkovich" and you can't get these moments back. Also, if you know me and like me, you may realize that there is an iceberg of crazy under this hair... you typically only see 10%.
I should TOTALLY be Victorian. I was practically built to use a corset, and thus, a fainting couch. The mere idea of a fainting couch is cute and all that, but to get the vapors from the tiniest bit of manual labor and then require the use of said fainting couch (In The Parlor... CUTE) appeals to me on a deeply intense level. Society wants me to look skinny, but gave me the bustle so I can put the 'ass' in massive, so I can't possibly clean the house today or I'll pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, so..... *I need coffee*. Thank you LORD for giving me the foresight to get that french press!!! Now I don't have to drink 8 cups of coffee in an hour to prevent waste and that burning roast smell! I can progressively drink 12 cups of coffee in 3 sharp bursts thanks to this lovely fellow! I LOVE YOU FRENCH PRESS!!
The batteries on Huddo's Laugh and Learn chair are dying. It is a slow and creepy death. I've never heard "This Little LIght of Mine" sound so melancholy. When finished with the crayon's rendition of "La La La La" (If you have this hellish child's toy, you totally understand) in a LOW SLOW voice... it is straight out of the Tim Burton's worst nightmare. I love watching Hudson dance. Neither of my children is equipped with any rhythm... but he wiggles his hips in the most endearing way... I hope he never dances in a club. Though, to be fair, if I keep to my plan of forever helicopter parenting my boys, he'll never leave the house to go to a club. He'll stay home and we'll keep our couch dates, and watch HGTV, DIY, and FLN, my three favorite letter channels, and eat gourmet popcorn and give facials. Who needs daughters?
I need to go to Walgreens today. That requires a shower. And Makeup. I have a new outfit but I need to hem the jeans. What am I going to put the boys in? It looks like rain, but not cold rain. What the hell is "cold rain"? Why did I just think of that?
If I were Victorian I, or one or both of my children, would probably be dead. Probably from Cholera. Do people still get Cholera? Did I hear that someone had Cholera, or was that a dream? My dreams are so vivid, it is hard to tell. Remember that dream where Jared and I went down the hill in the rolling bar chairs from my old house, and the bathroom door was halfway up the stairs, but at regular 2nd-floor height so you had to climb in. Weird, yes, but in my dream all of this was perfectly normal. Wonder what that all means... probably a tumor.
Yes buddy, I'll get you water, but I'd be happier about it if you'd ask instead of the current, rapid-fire squeals of "WATER!". "WATER MOMMY". Is the stuff in the dishwasher clean? Meh, I'll run it again for good measure. I need to make the bed.
Scooby Doo needs to get lost. Not the character, but the DVD's. I'm about over listening to the portable DVD player in the background. I don't want him watching tv this much, but he screams when I turn it off. It isn't the screaming I mind... it's the whole now-I-have-to-entertain-you thing. It's like a freaking security blanket. He doesn't even watch it, he just checks in to sing the song at the beginning and the end.
What band IS THAT? It sounds like one of those popular bands that I hate and don't get why anyone likes. I know it isn't Nickelback... I hate them enough to recognize them, but it is something like that. Did the Hubby ever download that Ting Tings album? I asked him to do that months ago! I also asked him to fix Huddy's crib. He never listens....
I'm hungry. Well, I'm not hungry but I want something salt..... I get it Hudson! You're angry! I'd still realize you were upset even if you didn't crawl ALL of the way over here, pull your chubby self up using your talon-like nails on my feet, and wail in my face. You're tonsils look clear. I want soup. That's it. That's what I'm craving, soup. And strawberries. We need groceries. I don't want to get groceries. I love Target, but I'm not looking to spend $300 today, so I can't go there to get groceries. I wish we had a Whole Foods store. I wish I cooked more. I wish I had a self-cleaning kitchen and self-eating kids. Wait, would that mean my kids would eat themselves? Hmmmm. I'm going to invent something. I'm going to invent something to make my life easier and richer. What that is, I don't know. Hud is crawling into a tiny space and growling. I think he is more like a mean cat than a baby. He prefers to eat off of the floor, he growls and hisses, he's moody, and .... wait, what was I saying???
*End Scene* There's a glimpse. A few moments of uninterrupted crazy to justify the lack in cohesive blogs. I'm not going to make myself create "perfect" (heh heh) thought out blogs any longer. I'll come, pop in for a sanity break, and post a tidbit of whatever I feel like. I'll try and share more pics, make it more personal (um, yes, it can get more personal!), and more versatile. Maybe I'll even go in a direction?! DIY, tips, ideas. Yeah, that's it. We'll see what this mess will morph into. Thanks for bearing with me and letting me be flawed and scatter-brained! I'll try and do what I say... what was I saying?......SΩß≈zaHBN

State of the Union

My vocabulary is inhibitive. I fear there are words out in the universe yet to be unearthed that would succinctly explain the current "status quo" at household, but as they haven't been discovered... I can't simply write "Felquib" and be done with my blog entry, so here it is folks!

Moving. This blogger is moving, and while it in no way actually affects my blog (thank the good LORD some addresses are permanent!) it will affect my blogging (Verb: it is what you do!). Roughly 3 weeks ago it was thrown to me that my hubs would be getting a new job. Yippie! Um, but the new job is in a new city... three hours away. Boo hiss. At the time, the powers that be at said corporation providing current and future income prospects had intended for my life partner to begin in two weeks. I informed my life partner that there would be a termination to our partnership if he were to up and vacate in 2 weeks. Extended to 3... it isn't looking much brighter folks! My husband departed yesterday to the song of screaming children and the tough facade of yours truly. I'll admit to you only (shh, don't tell) that I'm certain I 80% miss him. It isn't that I DON'T miss him, I absolutely do, but I more miss the HELP! Let us paint a picture here of our situation as it is...

House. Our decrepit dwelling is rapidly deteriorating around us. I should rephrase this, as we are prepping this shack for a quick sale. "This charming family home is seeking new management. Look at the yard! What a beautiful yard! OH, and do you like deer?? We have them coming out of our ass! Look at the pretty wall, the cobblestone pavers, the large wooded lot... *look away from the house... do not look at the actual house...* and have you SEEN the neighborhood?". In short, we've got some work to do, and when I say we, I mean I. Contractors and I do not mix well. I'm an A-type personality. I like order, I like honor, I like promptness, I like direct thinking and actions, I like hygiene. See how this poses a problem? I also like my savings account, and to that aspect contractors are like krypotonite. Some may know that last spring we had a bit of a home mishap. Well, I suppose you could call the porch literally sliding off of our house a "mishap". Cut to the fact that I, at the time, was pregnant, and our lovely city chose that moment to tear out our entire street and give me the use of a GOLF CART (yes, that's right) for the last 14 weeks of my pregnancy. Unless brick masons dig golf carts, there would be no porch repair over the summer months. Fast forward to July... baby born, 2 weeks later road is done and golf cart is removed from my sight before I bitch slap it. Now I'm strapped with a new born and ZERO desire to deal with home repair, let alone bathing and teeth brushing. Here we are, in the throws of winter and I still have this ugly scar on the face of my home. Bids go out, bids come back... money is being pried from my death grip and snuggling up warm and cozy in the pockets of a lovely local renovation company.

Our garage door went on the fritz, so my hubs ordered the part. Correction, he ordered 2 parts at the suggestion of the manufacturer. Let's just cut the preamble and get to the part where none of it was ever fixed. I shelled out more clams and waited for my install call. Apparently the independent contractor is a total douche nugget (yes, that is a technical term adults use in casual company, I'm on the phone with the people at Webster now...) and thinks nothing of pulling random times out of the air and then not even bothering to show. And he has my $300 garage mechanism in is douchey truck. After many calls to Home Depot (who I still love, I just am launching a campaign to have them fire this contractor) he came on a Sunday afternoon and we now have an operating garage door as opposed to manual lift technology (get out of car, lift garage, etc.). This did not happen without several lies on his part, the accusation that I'm a ditzy ninny with no aspect of how to work a new-fangle telephone doohickey, and the inability to understand a simple conversation. I will hunt him down and key his car later, when things settle.

Carpet is expensive. It is expensive, and it requires moving furniture and cutting and dust and filth. All of my least favorite things. I place my order and promptly bend over for payment. "OH, and the specific flooring of choice will be here approximately 2 weeks after your husband has abandoned you and your two small children ma'am, so you'll be emptying your home and removing your current floor covering and underlayment yourself in the twilight hours assuming your children ever sleep. Will that be cash or check?" Check. I try not to plot how to off my husband on the drive home.

PACKING. I typically enjoy packing. It is mindless, mundane, I can be as OCD as I care to be. I caress all of my belongings, mentally cataloging, lovingly packing away for safe keeping. My idea of heaven, as I'm awesome at solitary tasks. How solitary can a task be with kids and a dog following you around, popping packing bubbles, eating newsprint, and bumping you with their tail as you handle all of your Tipperary and Waterford crystal. By the way, that last one was the dog. I had all tails removed from my children. Not only do I have to pack an entire household, but again, I'm doing it alone. Sure, I can make roughly 400 lists about it, but those lists don't do heavy lifting, and they don't move all heavy boxes to the garage, nor do they wrangle children. Stupid lists. I'd love to call my friends and have a perfect Sex and the City moment where we drink copious amounts of wine while packing my literary awards and Manolo Blahniks, but in reality my house is a disaster and I'd hate admitting to anyone the state it is in. If I drink wine my baby cries, and I've never won a literary anything other than A's on book reports.

Home purchase. We found the perfect home. Honestly, it is just the right fit. That being said, it is roughly a mere $20,000 dollars more than I wanted to spend, and we'll be rocking a double mortgage and accessorizing with a swing loan. How en vogue. Also, guess who will be handling all of the details such as hook ups, hiring movers, signing the paperwork, dealing with the miniscule details that come along with the move? Moi. Oh, and let us not forget the parasites that are ever in tow.

Husband. Gone. Working at a new job he is, as of yet, unsure about. Many uncertainties and unknown variables lurk around the corner and while he needs/has my support... I'd be lying if I wasn't more than a tidge peeved that he gets nights of uninterrupted sleep and he'll be walking around for a month without other people's food or slobber on his shoulder. We are that corny couple that is only apart a day or two here and there. This should be interesting to see what life is like a month apart.

So. That is the state of life as of this moment. The blogs will be spread out for a bit. They'll be more frantic and less technical... yes, that is possible. There may be an increase in swearing and a decrease in sanity.

*Edited to add*... the plague has hit me. All the denial in the world won't wipe away this rudolph nose and sexy smoker's voice. I asked someone last night why the Universe thought now would be the appropriate time to throw all of this at me to which she replied: "Why would you assume the Universe is thinking of you."

Touche.