cupcakes and zombies

because cupcakes are yummy and people aren't. unless you're a zombie.

How to give your kid medicine the wrong way….

So…let’s say your almost 8 month old has a nasty old double ear infection that’s affecting his eyes as well and the nice doc puts him on a really strong antibiotic. Then, let’s say this 8 month old HATES the way it tastes. Like HATES HATES HATES the way it tastes. Oh, but, you don’t know that yet.

So, you try to give him his first dose. It clearly says to give with food. You give him his regular 6 oz bottle. Then you start to give him his medicine. By start, I mean you put the medicine dropper in his mouth and he gags. So, you take it out. Then you try again, because, well, that was just a coincidence, right?  Nope. No it was not. Puke. Volumes, so much more than could possibly come from this little body. Ok, try again tomorrow.

Somehow your husband manages to get the full dose in no problem. Cool. Baby has a relatively good day at school, awesome. Baby pukes a bit in the afternoon and after the medicine at night, well, at least he sort of had one dose, right? You figure he’s draining all this gross stuff in his head, why wouldn’t it make him puke?

Fast forward to morning. Lots of gagging, coughing, choking, saline and suctioning. He only eats 2 oz. Then he pukes. And falls asleep. Husband tries to give him his medicine, but, more gagging. Husband tells daycare you think the antibiotic is making him a little queasy so please, for the love of unicorns, don’t feed him his whole bottle at once. They feed him his whole bottle at once. He pukes. On the Director. Daycare calls. You must pick up your son, we think the antibiotic is making him sick. Get angry calls from husband. Get frantic calls from husband. Puke, everywhere, gross, lots, over and over. Baby doesn’t look so good. Leave work to take baby to doctor. Doctor thinks antibiotic is making him sick. Interesting. So do I. Switch antibiotic to the yummy pink stuff.

Feed baby 4 oz. He happily drinks it all. It stays down. Get yummy pink medicine. Put dropper in baby’s mouth. Baby gags and spits up bottle all over jeans. Copious amounts of baby ick. Think rationally. You probably just put the dropper too far in the back of baby’s mouth so try again. But first, take off gross jeans. Put baby on lap and try again. Puke. All. Over. Bare. Legs. Gross. Disgusting. Horrid. How can one 16 pound baby make so much gross stuff.

Greet Husband and Older Son at door with gross pukey baby and no pants. Hand gross pukey baby to Husband with medicine and say you’re taking a shower. Take shower. Husband tries to get yummy pink medicine into baby. He pukes. Try to trick baby by mixing medicine with pear puree. Not fooling baby. Half an hour later Husband has succeeded in getting medicine into baby by shoving a spoon into his mouth and quickly replacing with pacifier so he sucks it down. Baby not happy. Husband not happy. Momma not happy. Older Son, happily playing with Baby’s toys.

Set alarm for half hour earlier tomorrow to account for spoonfeeding baby medicine “hidden” in food. Rethink and set alarm for 45 minutes earlier to allow time for a shower. Just in case.

Please don’t pee on me…..

Today I was peed on by my littlest one. Twice. On two separate and distinct occasions. I mean, seriously, he peed in the pocket of my sweatshirt. How is that even possible? He got my shirt too, right at the wrist. Its bad enough that I hate damp wrists, but to be damp with baby pee?? Intolerable. Then I had to sit there in the doctor’s office, after I cleaned up the puddle on their table, and be damp. And try not to put my hands in my pocket accidentally.  Yeah, yeah, fault, right? Well try to juggle a wiggly hungry naked baby when you left his spare diaper in your bag out of arm’s reach.

So, then I guess he realized he didn’t do a thorough job and while I was assisting with a diaper change as my dear husband was trying to track down where the 2 massive boxes of 600 baby wipes could have disappeared to, he peed all over my pants, the kitchen floor, and my shoes. Its not like I could have just put him down. So, I had to keep holding him while he did his best impression of a certain infamous bronze statue in Brussels. If you don’t know what that is, look it up and consider it something new you learned today (you’re welcome). Since I was still wearing my already peed on other clothes, I figured it was a win for me. I mean, its not like I changed into clean clothes and then got peed on. So….score.

I gave him a bath. Which is great, because somehow the poor second child gets bathed like this:

“Frank, when was the last time we gave the baby a bath?”

“Huh, I’m not sure.”

“Ok, we should give him a bath tonight.”

And then we proceed to not give him a bath. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not dirty. He’s just washed really well with wipes. Which is why we have enough to clean a herd of baby elephants. Hey! Did you know that another term for a herd of elephants is a “parade”? Really, its true. Look at that, you just learned something else today. You should celebrate with a beer. And while you’re at it, have one for me, I’m too tired to drink. All that will happen is I’ll try really hard, then get sad as it gets warm. Eventually I’ll give up and dump the remainder and go to bed feeling old. And tired.

Oh, by the way. Do you think I’ve changed out of my peed on clothes?

No. No, I have not. I’ll get to it. Eventually. Only because I can’t sleep in these jeans. Or sneakers. Oh, and because that’s totally gross and I’d never do a thing like that out of tired desperation to possibly get 4 straight hours of sleep. Nope. Never happened before. I swear.

Stressed Out

Ok……I haven’t written in a while. I realize this. Sometimes life gets in the way of things. So do the 13,919 pending comments that I need to “approve, spam or send into oblivion”. So, let’s chalk it up to being overwhelmed.

This has turned out to be a particularly stressful and not so pleasant week. So I thought that a good idea to make myself feel better after moping around the house for a couple days, was to take my newest little guy out for an iced coffee and to run some errands. Ok, the coffee is for me, not him. But you know, get out of the house and pretend I am a contributing member of society and not someone really bad at being a stay at home mom. JOKING. I’m totally an OK stay at home mom. But seriously, if anyone knows the key to getting stuff done around the house and entertaining a 12 week old, I’m all ears.

I made it out of the house and onto the highway before I remembered that it was Friday. In the summer. A nice Friday. I live on the shoreline. On Shore Road. Sooooooo…traffic. Yeah. Good stuff. No worries, I was out, little guy was sleeping and my iced coffee was imminent. I managed to procure it with no problem and was enjoying its watery goodness when I forgot and hopped back on the highway. Ooops.

Made it to my destination, finally…wait for it…Babies R’Us. WOO HOO. Living large, over here. Don’t get too jealous. I really needed to pick up another pacifier clip and I had a $5 certificate. You know, those little ribbons that secure the ever elusive pacifier to your kid or carseat or stroller so it doesn’t get lost?  Well, somehow in my son’s short 12 weeks of life so far I’ve managed to lose 2 of them.  The clips, not the pacifiers. There’s some irony for you.

So, I roll through the store, knowing I only had a solid 2, maybe 3 if I’m feeling lucky, hours before the little guy needs to eat. I grabbed the clip, 5 other items I didn’t need, diapers and wipes and I’m in line to pay. That’s when it happens. Poop. Everywhere. I don’t know if its the kid, or the carseat, but it most often shoots up his leg and out. He was wearing shorts. Sigh. I pretend its no big deal as I pay. I’m sure they see it all the time. I mean, they are in the business of baby stuff right? Poop like this is definitely baby stuff.

No problem, I roll him to the convenient Mother’s Room and try to determine the least toxic way of picking him out of his carseat without suffering a traumatic amount of collateral damage. I somehow managed to secure his shoulders and a leg and hoist him up. Dripping. I kid you not. 14 wipes, 2 diapers and 10 minutes later I’m staring at my wailing, half undressed child trying to figure out how to get his little jumper over his head when it is covered in baby slime, AND not get it all over his face. This NEVER happens when he’s wearing something that doesn’t require an over the head removal. Somehow, I succeed, but he’s still screaming and now I’m sweating.

So, kid is clean(ish), I am clean(ish) and I now have to figure out what to do with the icky clothes and how to get him home in his poop covered carseat. So I scrub it as best I can and throw down a diaper for him to sit on. Pretty smart, right? For his clothes, I rip open the plastic bag of swim diapers I just bought and toss them in there. I am congratulating myself as the MacGyver of baby poop accidents as I’m rolling him out the door. Finally.

Then the screaming begins. Yes, because it has been 2 hours and 34 minutes since he’s eaten. All. The. Way. Home. He calms down a bit after we get home, but really gets going a few minutes later. And then he won’t stop screaming even though I am trying to feed him. Like, its in his mouth and he’s screaming. Um. Ok. What do I do now??? The answer to that is let him scream apparently since nothing else worked. Finally he realizes that he’s eating and stops screaming.

So, he’s calm, I’m calmer, and all is looking up. Until my husband comes home with our crying 3.5 year old.

Moral of the story here is, yes, I am stressed out, yes, this week wasn’t so fabulous, but it could always be worse. I should be really happy it wasn’t. And I should bring more wipes when I go out. Just in case.


Dining out with a cranky toddler…

NO. Just NO. Don’t do it.

Ok. So assuming you ignore my advice, just as I ignored my own advice this evening, here is what might happen.

Let’s start at the beginning of the evening, just to explain how this all came about. After an absolutely, insanely hectic day at work where I barely had chance to chow down a sandwich at my desk all day, much less actually sit there and do work, I was looking forward to spending some one on one time with my little guy, since his Daddy is away for a couple of days.

I picked him up at daycare and was greeted with a crazy sweaty, red faced, wild child with curls and sand plastered to his face. I was puzzled at the ladies offhand comment about “oh, he’s not so bad” and quickly ushered him out the door. Naturally he wanted me to pick him up and carry him to the car. I thought 2 seconds about my nice silk shirt and new skirt and jacket and scooped his sweaty, gritty self up and didn’t flinch when he squished his icky face against mine.

I told him we were going to the store to look at “Momma shoes” something my husband assured me he likes to do at Marshall’s, although I suspected he may have been exaggerating how much he enjoyed it. But, I always see fun pictures of Jax and Daddy when they go out to eat so thought it would be super fun. My husband warned me that if I took him home first to clean him he wouldn’t want to leave, so instead I drove home and left him in the car with the dvd player on while I ran in and grabbed the wipes and diapers. I was moving so fast the cats ran in horror when I burst into the house and frantically made a beeline for the diaper changey to-go case thingy. Well, I’ll worry about that later.

I got back to the car and Jax was still watching Nemo and seemed not to have noticed I was even gone at all. Until I turned the car on and began backing out of the driveway. Instant tears “NO I WANT TO GO HOME”. Whimper whimper whimper. “But Jax, we’re going to go look at Momma shoes and then we’re going to go to the restaurant.”  “Sniffle sniff-ok”.

Silence and back to Nemo.

We get to the store and after giving him a quick swipe with some wipes to make him look a little more presentable for the general public, he willingly held my hand and walked in and I got him loaded into the little mini cart at Marshalls. I supplied him with goldfish and water and all was right in his little toddler world. We looked at shoes, and indeed, he seemed to enjoy it and was quite opinionated on which ones I should try on. “Jax, do you like these?” “NO”. Um. Ok, I didn’t think he’s actually have an opinion on it, but he had a point, they were kinda bright. He confidently pointed to the crazy rainbow pair with 5 inch heels and sparkly things all over the straps. “THESE”. Oh, dear son, no. Not a chance those are going on my feet. A couple of nice, conservative-compared-to-my-son’s-taste shoes in the cart, on to trying to find a shirt to match a skirt I purchased over the weekend.

It was going fine until Jax lost interest in the goldfish and decided that pulling as many shirts off of the hangers as possible was super awesome fun. When the rows of clothes were very long and so close together this resulted in a waterfall of sleeveless shirts on the ground and a very frazzled Momma trying to keep up with the mayhem by getting them all relatively back on the hangers. I swear I heard some snickers from the next row over.

Toddler positioned in the “circle of emptiness” as I call the one zone in the store nearby where his surprisingly long reach couldn’t reach anything, I managed to get the racks back in order.

I realized then that I did not have anything to occupy him while he waited for his food. OH THE HORROR. So I let him pick out a book, “The Little Engine that Could” which he seemed to love since he hugged it to his little face. We got in line where he was super cute and let me know, as well as everyone else in line “We’re waiting our turn Momma!” He handed over the book to the lady at the register when she asked, and then on the way out said with a wave “Thank you Lady” and made her smile.

Ok, this is going well, right?

We get to the restaurant and I walk in with my small son and already he is saying “Grilled cheese, grilled cheese”. So I wisely asked for a highchair rather than a booster to keep him contained. Anytime a waiter got close to our table he tried to get their attention by saying “Gimme grilled cheese in 5 minutes??” I tried to explain we had to wait for someone to greet us, which unfortunately failed to resonate.

Our waiter came over prepared with a kiddie cup of water, with a straw and I quickly ordered grilled cheese for my suddenly silent little guy. I ordered my meal and a beer. That’s right a beer. No glass please.

By this time Jax was “All done” with his book. Ok. Um. HOORAY for the Iphone. He amused himself with my game of Pocket Frogs, until I realized he was randomly trying to text people the current status of my game and started laughing maniacally loud for a semi-reserved restaurant at 6:45 in the evening. So, apologies to anyone who may have received a text noting I obtained a certain rare type of frog. But hey, the food’s here!

My little guy, who ONLY eats grilled cheese when we go out took one lick of his sandwich and declared “ALL DONE”. Um. Hmmm. Ok, distract with french fries, which I normally don’t care for him to eat at all. Lick. “ALL DONE, I want somfing else Momma.” Ok, well, “I don’t have anything else Jax.” “SOMFING ELSE”. Scrunchy face quickly followed, which means crying is imminent. “Oh wait!!  Jax, Momma found a bark” (his word for Nutrigrain snack bars, for some unknown reason). Smiles. Until…GASP…it broke in half.  Instant meltdown. “Its bwoken, bwoken, noooooooooooo” And cue the stares from the tables next to us. Where’s the waiter. Or the hole that I want to open in the floor and swallow me up. Ok, waiter, calmly walking over asking if there is anything we need. Um, yes. “So, he’s not so into dinner (as my son is trying to squish his “bark” back together through his tears begging me to help) can we just get the check and a to-go box?” The nice waiter offered to box the food up for me, probably figuring it would help speed our exit since it may have been impossible for me to do this and manage the meltdown. Wait….where’s the meltdown. Oh, his mouth is full of his broken “bark” so he can’t cry. Ok, maybe we can escape further embarrassment. Somehow I managed to gather him up, my purse “MY APPLE JUICE”, his apple juice, and our food and managed to chug a few sips of beer before I ran as fast as I could out the door.

By the way. I’m darn hungry at this point. So we finally get home and I convince my little guy to eat a PB&J since he’s on a grilled cheese fast to prove some political point or other (assumption, I can’t think of any other logical reason why he decided all of a sudden he just doesn’t like grilled cheese). And I finally get to eat some of my cold, yet tasty spinach dip.

After dinner, bath, vitamins, teeth brushing, medicine and bed, we snuggled up and read his new book. Which heavily revolves around a clown. I am not fond of clowns. At all. Like, not one little bit. But that’s a story for another night. I shuddered through it in my best I’m so happy to be reading this voice.

He started to cry when I stopped reading and picked him up to put him into bed. We have a special little thing where I ask if he’s my big boy, or my baby, and I cradle him in my arms and swing him back and forth as we walk from the chair to the bed. Sometimes he’s a baby, and sometimes, he’s my big boy, depending on his mood. Tonight he said, with a smile and giggle, “I’m your big boy”.

I know that the special times I get to spend with my little guy will be over far too soon, so I’ll take my cranky toddler out to dinner anytime, knowing that it may not involve eating dinner at all, but at least I tried, and maybe when he’s older, he’ll remember that. Although-perhaps I’ll wait until the grilled cheese strike has ended.



Conversations with a “Carnataur”

Somewhere along the 5-7 minute drive home from daycare I became aware of the actual conversation I was having with my son.

“Carnataurs are nice, they don’t push”

“No, not nice, I’m a Carnataur and I push Graham”

“You’re not a Carnataur, you’re a nice boy”

“No, I a Carnataur”

“Ok, you can be a Carnataur, but if you push anyone, you won’t be allowed to be a Carnataur anymore, do you understand? You can stomp and ROAR and do anything else but push anyone or you’ll get a timeout, ok?”

Pause for thoughtful toddler thinking. “Ok Momma….”

“…I push Ashlynn”

Sigh. I preferred last night when he was “Spiderman the Great, a SUPERHERO!”

If you don’t know what a Carnataur is, let me enlighten you. Its a type of bloodthirsty carnivorous dinosaur. I think is actually supposed to be Carnataurus, but there’s only so much dinosaur a 2.5 year old can handle. He likes to stomp around pretending he’s a Carnataur, and apparently likes to do this at school as well. I have discovered that being stubborn is one of their main and surprisingly toddler-ish characteristics.

I suppose that beats the usual conversation of “I not pooping” “Are you sure? I think you are” “NO I NOT” “Really?”

“Momma, I pooped”



Dear Cat….

Let me explain a couple of things to you, please, while you sit there for the next hour blinking slowly and staring at me for no reason. Which is creepy, by the way. But I think that’s why you do it.

1. Not every can I open is a can of tuna. In fact, I’d say, 9 times out of 10, its not tuna. It could be beans, or soup, or tomato sauce. Not tuna. If I tell you its not tuna, its NOT TUNA. So don’t turn up your nose and flick your tail at me when I put the can down and let you sniff it to assure you its not tuna.

2. I don’t want to share my yogurt, milk or ice cream with you. Nope. I just don’t. If I wanted you to have some, I would put it in your bowl. You know, that one on the floor. Not the one in my hands on the couch. Just saying.

3. Sometimes, I like when you snuggle up next to me when I am sleeping. You’re warm and I’m cold a lot. Let’s discuss what is not acceptable behavior if I let you into our room at night, because this deserves its own list:

  • When you jump up onto the bed, please don’t jump right up onto me. Its a king size bed, so trust me, there’s some empty spots to accomodate a cat’s leap. 
  • I do not enjoy being woken up by an 18 pound cat traipsing across my stomach. I’ll tell you why. It hurts. The end.
  • Please, please don’t tangle your claws into my hair. I know my hair is awesome and fun, but its not cool. And ditto for nipping my scalp. Why, kitty, why do you do that?
  • Don’t hide in my room until I get under the covers and start to drift off and then start meowing to get out. Just don’t.
  • Its not a free for all, take turns. Its extremely uncomfortable when the three of you need to sleep on me at the same time. It’s not necessary, you can learn to take turns.
  • If I want to turn over, I will. Its not cool for you to make yourself as heavy as possible so I have to squish and poke and prod you until you’re so irritated you move over an inch. Its MY bed. Not yours. So there.
  • I like when you’re happy, trust me, I do, but try not to show your affection by purring louder than an airplane, directly in my ear.
  • Never, ever, put your stinky kitty rear-end on my pillow. EVER.
  • And on that note, when you lay next to my head, please turn and face me.
  • If you wake up in the middle of the night feeling spunky and hunter-like, please recognize that I am trying to sleep and stop hunting imaginary mice in the room. And please don’t smack around your jingly toys either. I mean, you never want to play during the day, so why now??
  • Finally, do not let me open my eyes to see your face 2 inches away, just staring at me. That’s why cat’s get a bad name. Creepy critters.

4. I don’t really want to feed you at 5:30 in the morning. I do it because you are so annoying meowing as a trio outside my door. No problem on the weekdays, but on the weekends, couldn’t you sleep in?

5. Not every patch of sunlight is yours. You can feel free to share.

6. That fly is on the outside of the window. You can not catch or kill it. So stop.

7. Stay off the counters and table. Don’t think I don’t know. Who else leaves dirty paw prints, huh?

8. Flowers are not food.

9. You ripped a hole and shredded my armchair, what do you get out of that? Satisfaction? Not cool, kitty, not cool.

10. Why are you obsessed with crayons? I’m tired of chasing you around while you try to run away with them, and I would like to stop finding them in weird places.

11. You see this seat on the couch? It’s mine, not yours. When I get up, it is not an invitation to take my place, believe it or not.

12. And finally, I appreciate your consistency and all, but can you try to puke up your hairballs on the hardwood, and not every single carpet?


The Hand That Feeds You.


Acts of Selfishness

I haven’t written in a while, not having the inspiration or motivation to do so. My Muse went missing earlier this year and took all of my thoughts worth putting down on paper, or screen, I suppose.

But the tragic events today in Boston, piled up on the tragic events in Newtown this past December, following the obscene tragedy of 9/11 that will always be one of the events with the most impact on my life, leave too much unspoken. And I don’t mean to neglect any of the other horrific tragedies that have occurred before and after these events that come to mind so easily.

I dislike the use of the word terrorism. I understand what it means, someone doing something so utterly horrific to spread fear in a society or group of people so it disrupts normal life, all in the name of some agenda they deem as being worthy of taking lives of others. Its too often in the context of making a political statement. But I would rather consider these acts the epitome of selfishness. The act of hurting others to further your own agenda, or the name of your cause. The ultimate selfish act. Cowardly. Even when these people take their own lives. Cowardice. They can’t even face the reality of what they’ve done so instead of not doing it they follow through and then take the easy way out.

Terrorism, to me, means the act of spreading fear. It gives fear life, and it give fear power and control, and furthers a cause that is so unworthy that people need to resort to harming and killing others to promote it.  Selfishness, to me, means that the only way these people can think to bring attention to themselves is to commit a horrific act with no regard for anyone else. By definition it gives no power to fear, which is often one of the goals of these acts. Instead, calling it selfishness clearly points the finger and ownership of these crimes at the perpetrators.

I am in disbelief that my son is going to be raised in a world where when I kiss him goodbye in the morning I have to wonder if he will be safe at school, where he will see news stories about kids his age getting killed, or people trying to spread fear by  causing as much heartache and damage and death as possible. A world where these topics will need to be discussed in the classroom with an intent to inform out of necessity. In my day, a tragedy was an accident, like the space shuttle exploding. Today, tragedies are too often these acts of selfishness, supreme, unbelievable and disgusting acts of selfishness. There is nothing worse to consider than the thought of a human being who is so hideously selfish they feel vindicated by hurting or killing others.

But I refuse to be “terrorized” by them. I don’t want to give them even that small bit of power.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the families of these tragedies who were hurt by so many selfish people. I am saddened to know in my heart that this won’t be the last time I say or write those words. It is hard to have faith in humanity when so many humans are intent on hurting, rather than helping, each other. I hope that someday, my faith is restored.

Not good enough…

Not good enough…

This is a phrase that I wish I could erase from my brain. No one, that I recall, has ever told me that I was “not good enough”. So why does my brain jump to that conclusion, sometimes over the silliest things? I realize that I can be my harshest critic. And I have NO idea where it comes from.

For example, today, Jax came home with a bag of Valentine’s goodies from his classmates. Cute, handwritten and decorated cards, little candies, a full sized coloring book, little goodie bags, you name it, its in there. I mean, Twizzlers and lollipops??? People give their 2 year olds Twizzlers and lollipops??? All I sent him in with today was a batch of teeny tiny little paper cards that had his name and his friends name on them. He wasn’t even wearing red, except for his socks, because they were the closest pair to me when he asked for them. It was like Clifford threw up on the toddler room. I felt like I didn’t do a good enough job. Really? Because the kids aren’t going to notice. And if the Mom’s did those things to show off, well, they have bigger issues than I do.

But the self-talk in my head goes like this:

I didn’t have any time this week to clean in the evenings. Not good enough. 

Didn’t get that problem at work resolved quickly. Not good enough.

Didn’t get to the gym more than once this week. Not good enough.

Didn’t eat healthy for dinner last night. Not good enough. 

Can’t keep up with…well…anything. Not good enough.

Really? No wonder why I’m stressed out and tired and feel like I’m not in control. I’m my own worst enemy. How about I think about what I have accomplished, instead:

Yesterday I woke up at 5:25,  showered, packed Jax’s lunch, made and fed Jax breakfast, filled my car with gas, got Jax to daycare, made it into work after an hour commute for an 8:30 a.m. meeting, had 7 other meetings, drove an hour home, picked Jax up from daycare, fed him dinner while changing for the gym (yes, in my kitchen), bundled Jax up and took him with me to the gym, got to the gym in time for my 6:15 class, worked out for an hour, and I don’t mean I just walked on a treadmill either, retrieved Jax from the playroom, got him home and in bed by 8:00. Made my dinner, ate my dinner, wrote out 13 little Valentines for his class, loaded the dishwasher, thought about making cupcakes, washed all of Jax’s dishes, made Jax’s lunch for today, wrote a letter, and was probably asleep by 11 or so.

Going down the list, all very trivial, silly every day things, but adding them up, that’s not so bad for a regular day, right? I mean I’m not winning any awards for my super awesome contributions to society, but it’s not like I sat on my ass eating bon-bons and watching tv all day either.

So my Valentine’s day present to myself is to love ME more.  I don’t need to do something memorable or meaningful every day. I don’t need to be perfect, or praised, or know that people are talking about me saying, “wow, how does she DO all that, she’s awesome!?” My gift to myself is to promise to be content with knowing that I’m doing the very best that I can, and my heart is in the right place. And that’s more than good enough for me.


Stuff I don’t like…

I have a pretty long drive home from work so it lends lots of time to thinking and naturally over-thinking things, because that’s one of my particular specialities.

So today I started making a mental list of things, silly, and not so silly, that I really don’t like. Just for kicks. These are the silly ones. I’m not in the mood to be serious at the moment.

Like tabs on soda cans. I can’t stand them. I can not actually drink a can of soda without twisting that tab off. I mean, it’s great to have it to open the can and all, but after that, it’s really served it’s purpose, you know? Unless it’s secondary purpose is to poke me in the nose when I am trying to drink. Which is not cool.

We already have established my dislike of Twinkies, in a prior post so I’ll leave that one alone.

How about people who don’t even pretend to reach for the “Door Open” button on an elevator when you’re trying to get on? I mean, at least make an attempt; almost, almost…OOPS…didn’t make it in time. Don’t just stand there and stare at me through the ever shrinking door gap as the doors shut. I am so good at pretending I’ve mastered reaching for the “Door Close” button and pressing it furiously instead while giving my best “OH NO, it’s closing and I can’t stop it even though I’m trying really hard” face. Shh. Don’t tell. And if I work with you, I assure you I would NEVER do that to you.

I am not “cute”. Puppies and kittens and tiny baby seals are cute. They are small and furry and have big sad eyes. They fit in the palm of your hand and blink at you and telepathically say “Love me, I need you, you’re awesome”. I am not small, or furry, nor do I have big sad eyes. While I admittedly do think some people are awesome, I most certainly would not fit in the palm of your hand, nor am I in the habit of sending telepathic messages. So stop calling me cute. I am a grown woman, and except in certain very rare situations, cute should not be used to describe me. I think people do it when they don’t want to hurt your feelings. Like when they tell me “Oh, I like your haircut, it’s so cute”.

Oh, my hair. Yeah. I am not so sure I like that right now. I need to create a dictionary of client to hairdresser translations so I can clarify that “You can take a few inches off, it’s way too long, but I definitely want it below my shoulders” does not mean to cut over 5 inches off so technically it is below my shoulders, but only just so. Well played hairdresser lady, well played. I suppose it will grow back. Eventually. Until then. IT IS NOT CUTE. Try saying that to me and then put me in the palm of your hand and see what happens.

I don’t like when people eat my Pop-tarts. And then don’t tell me. Ditto my Girl Scout cookies, ice cream, or any other treat that I want to save for a special occasion. Particularly when they buy it for me. Here is this delicious snack I bought because I know you like it. You have to eat it within 24 hours because if you don’t, I’ll eat it. The whole thing. And I won’t tell you. Until you really want to eat it and its 9:30 at night and you go to get it and its gone. SURPRISE!

Why do they make support columns that are larger on the bottom? I’m talking about the ones in parking garages. I mean, its like an iceberg, bigger below your line of sight so just when you think you have enough room. SCREECH. HAHAHAHAHA. You don’t. Yes, that has happened to me. Three times. It may have happened recently. It might all be in the same parking garage. Sigh.

And finally-I hate spam that is not even remotely geared toward my demographic. (I also hate Spam the pink meaty spread-no relation). No, I do not want/need Cialis, Viagra, fake Calvin Klein stuff, pretend Uggs, knock-off Prada, and I do not want to mingle with anyone, be they Christian, Single, or Farmers. Really? Have you seen me try to grow tomatoes? I am the opposite of a farmer. No Farmer is going to want to mingle with this. I’m seriously bad luck when it comes to growing stuff. Don’t believe me? Check back over the summer when I’m sure I’ll be blogging about my “Garden of Broken Dreams”.

Damn. I really want a Strawberry Frosted Pop-tart right now.








By now you’ve probably read or been the recipient of a slew of well wishes and auld lang syne themed everythings. This person wants to lose 5 pounds, travel the world, reconnect with a lost friend, or quit smoking. People hoping for the best year ever, celebrating the end of the best year ever, or waiting for the clock to strike midnight to erase it all and start again with a full year ahead to fill with anything better than the last one had to offer.

Nothing distinguishes this day from the rest other than someone chose it to be different, and therefore it is. It’s a fantastic excuse and just the impetus some folks need to initiate a change, to break out of that cycle and approach the next day with a little more ownership. Maybe you’re going out to celebrate it in style. Maybe it’s a quiet night at home by your choosing (or not). But either way, it’s a time to put the past year to rest and look forward to time’s never ending and lately, all too rapid, march into the future.

You can’t possibly hold a year in your mind all at once. It’s too much to handle. But what you do get to hold onto are moments in time. Moments that have meaning for you that don’t mean the same thing to anyone else. Or moments that are shared with others and are special to each person who shared that moment in a different way. Because they are YOUR moments, seen, heard, or felt only by you, in the way that is unique to you. It’s impossible to define what makes a particular moment more meaningful than another, and I assume it’s a factor, or factors of circumstance and a whole lot of “what ifs” happening at the same time to create this snapshot of human feeling and emotion that imprints a “moment” into your brain, sometimes forever. And that’s nothing that the end of a year can erase at the stroke of a clock. Nor should it. You don’t really live a year, I think, but rather, you live in these moments.

So my wish for 2013 is simple. I want more “moments”. More bits and pieces of time that I can look back on and hold in my heart and add up at the end of the year so I can look back and say “Wow, now that was a great year”. These moments are like my heart and mind’s photo album-and not one I stick on the shelf and never look at again. I can bring them out when I’m sad, or lonely, or just not feeling the best about myself at any point in time.

So tonight I am going to raise my glass of Prosecco to those moments that have passed in 2012-because I have some amazing ones to remember-and those moments yet to come in 2013, and know that I don’t have to look at a full year as being empty and needing to be filled with important and noteworthy accomplishments. I can look forward to those little snippets of time where happiness isn’t a goal I’ve set out to meet, but rather, an amazing convergence of “what ifs” that happen when I’m ready and willing to take notice.

So here’s to 2013-May it bring to you some of the best moments of your life.