Things about which I am freakish
Everyone has their little foibles, right? It sounds so quaint to say “foibles” instead of just saying damn, some people are unbelievably anal. Same meaning, different nuance. Foible: cute, adorable, fuzzy, and quirky. Anal: ewwwwwwww.
I am not anal. I have foibles. Tralala!
Several of my foibles converged today. I’m about all foibled out.
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Motivational chick rock
Santa knows me so well. He put a Veruca Salt CD in my stocking that he found in the dollar bin! (Let’s not even go into my incredulity at this album being in the dollar bin, but this isn’t California, ya know.)
It’s an excellent soundtrack for washing dishes and finally cleaning up all the trash from Christmas. And the kids aren’t here to tell me to “STOP SINGING.” Ha!
Might this break me out of my current funk? Well, for 45 minutes or so, at least…. Should things become dire after that, dial 911 and send They Might Be Giants!
In which I get back to basics
One of the things I’m supposed to be doing this week while my children are off with their father is Figuring My Life Out. And as tempting as it is to spend this time wondering what my little ones are eating, what they’re wearing, and how late they’re going to bed (oh, don’t forget where they’re sleeping, since Happy Fun Daddy encourages a rousing game of Musical Beds! Yay!), I made a decision to say a prayer and let it go; and focus, instead, on myself.
It works surprisingly well once you come to the realization that if anything went horribly wrong, someone would call. And if no one calls, they’re probably okay.
So, worry aside, that leaves me free to start working on My Grand Master Plan. Except that first, I needed a snack. And there’s several quality programs on TV I’ve been meaning to watch. Plus, there’s laundry. And then a friend invited me out. And… ummm… well, there’s sleeping to be done. Lord knows I loves me some sleep.
I’m making excellent progress. You know, in the sense that I haven’t actually made any progress, but I’m thinking really hard about doing so. Sometime.
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Actually, I do hear voices
A story in a series of short vignettes that are really only entertaining if you’ve had a glass of wine or three.
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The blue screen of death
My desktop computer refuses to boot. It acts like it’s going to, and then at the last minute it reverts to the maddening blue screen and starts all over again.
I have no idea what’s wrong with it.
I know it’s a piece of crap but it’s my piece of crap and–all things considered–I’d rather it be an operative piece of crap than a defunct piece of crap that leaves me curled up in the corner, rocking back and forth, wailing “I haven’t backed up the kids’ pictures for months.”
I have a feeling this is going to be a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day….
Live Free or Drive
Welcome to New Hampshah, where white stuff often falls from the sky in December. Sometimes, lots of white stuff falls from the sky very quickly and then if you happen to stay out late hanging with friends across town, you can experience the singular joy of driving home in second gear while feeling like the last living person on earth.
Unless, of course, you encounter another vehicle on the road. Should that vehicle approach you while fishtailing madly, you may experience brief concern over your own personal well-being given the other driver’s seeming inability to command the wheel in adverse weather conditions. But fear not; your annoyance will turn to incredulous giggles when you realize that the approaching idiot is, in fact, a police cruiser.
Don’t forget to phone your hosts after you get inside. “Hey, I’m laying in a ditch somewhere, because a cop ran me off the road. No, not really. I’m fine; go to bed. Thanks again.”
Merry Christmas to all, and thank goodness it’s over
I hope that everyone had a wonderful holiday weekend.
We made it through with a minimum of tears–for either me or the kids–and for that I am truly grateful. My Christmas Eve plans ran into a snafu when my destination turned up with another round of the Icky Tummy Bug (“You’re more than welcome to come over, anyway…” “Oh, thanks, but I think I’d rather go stick something sharp in my eye”), so I had a quiet evening at home after church. Christmas morning, I slept late, showered and dressed as slowly as possible, and then kissed and hugged my children upon their return home until they cried, “Can we pleeeeeeeeease go open our presents now??”
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The stockings are hung by the chimney with care
Today dawned sunny. Over 48 hours have passed since the last spew here at Casa Mir, and I think I shall declare myself free and clear. There were a few hours, last night, when I wondered if I would be the next to fall to the dreaded stomach bug. But all is well and I think–for once–I dodged a bullet.
And there was much rejoicing!
The children are off with their father. This allowed me to:
1) Sleep late.
2) Have coffee ice cream for breakfast.
3) Assemble the world’s most annoying nativity.
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Cute furry little puppies are also delicious
So you know how earlier, I confessed to my previous baby-eating penchant, tying it all together (poorly) with the tale of the flower delivery that was not, in fact, for me?
I feel the need to come completely clean with all of you, since my prior admission was so liberating. Puppies make delightful between-meal snacks. With ketchup. If you pinch their necks just so, they hardly ever even get away.
Phew! I feel better, with that off my chest.
Also, the darndest thing happened today. A guy came to the door with a suitcase of money in one hand, and a gorgeous hunk in the other. But it turned out that his delivery was for someone else, at a different house. Oh well.
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Exactly as I pictured it… sort of
There are certain things every woman wants out of friendship with her girlfriends. She wants a ready shoulder when she needs to cry. She wants a comrade-in-chocolate when desperate times call for desperate measures. She wants a “OH NO THEY DIDN’T” when righteous indignation is needed. She wants a buddy who both agrees that her children are the cutest ever and that she deserves several medals for not beating them senseless.
Now, when I started blogging, and found myself actually meeting and befriending women whom I considered to be worthy writers, I looked forward to the riches of information I would be gleaning either through osmosis or actual conversation. These women would teach me how to improve my own writing, I knew. They would show me how to make a go of it in this business, and the secrets to producing publishable work. I would be a member of a coveted society where craft was KING and the members held the keys to the secret chambers of heavenly treasure!
Or, you know, we would just have entire conversations about our BUTTS. Either way.*
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