tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14342889997440299762024-03-13T12:44:28.523-04:00Dirty Socks and PizzaDebhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.comBlogger228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-39144795751082461772010-04-22T15:08:00.001-04:002010-04-22T15:08:34.931-04:00He's supposed to be keeping ME awake<div class='posterous_autopost'><p><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/debwilliams/HnlDbtuaduaJvnbxHbnCIECDlnnEdtAgIFxjlHmkdxAFDEkGbyfuHdzqpjwj/image.jpg.scaled1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/debwilliams/HnlDbtuaduaJvnbxHbnCIECDlnnEdtAgIFxjlHmkdxAFDEkGbyfuHdzqpjwj/image.jpg.scaled500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> </p> <div class="posterous_quote_citation">via tweetie</div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via web</a> from <a href="http://debwilliams.posterous.com/hes-supposed-to-be-keeping-me-awake">The Socks Are Still Dirty</a> </p> </div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-26858848634349330862010-03-11T20:40:00.000-05:002010-03-11T20:40:27.731-05:00Moving DayIt's an interesting feeling I am experiencing as I prepare to close up shop around here, and begin again at <a href="http://www.dirtysocksandpizza.com/">my new home</a>. I know many of you will be lost in the mix, and that's okay. Who knew there would be so much comfort in silly statistics that may or may not accurately reflect the number of eyes that fall on my words?<br />
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I started alone and was prepared to remain alone... typing out words that had been locked in my head for so long, with the reward being in the exercise, itself. But, lo and behold, you read my words and accepted them. And accepted <i>me</i>. And supported me. And helped me. And guided me. And reassured me. Such a surprise... such a gift.<br />
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And so now the thought of being alone isn't as freeing as when I first began. But it's an opportunity to change and to grow. To do some things, perhaps, a little differently. Which is good. <br />
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So, for those of you who want to tag along to help keep my sanity in check, <a href="http://dirtysocksandpizza.com/">come on over</a>. For the rest of you...<br />
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Thank you.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-65585616664186866012010-03-09T15:20:00.000-05:002010-03-09T15:20:13.198-05:00Under the KnifeAttention: For anyone who is remotely interested in my whereabouts, I am currently undergoing blogger reassignment surgery (BRS). I am having to use every last brain cell I own to make the switch from Blogger to Wordpress, basically because I am an idiot and have no idea what I am doing. I do, however, pride myself in being an excellent direction follower, and since you can find directions for just about anything on Google these days, I am determined to succeed. My new friends in the tech support department over at Bluehost are being very patient and have talked me off the ledge more than once.<br />
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So until further notice, go about your blogging business. And don't miss me too much. <br />
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PS: As absurd as this all sounds, it is true. I am not being held hostage by my teens and being forced to create a cover story for my absence. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-943955544786291022010-02-24T17:02:00.009-05:002010-02-24T19:16:45.677-05:00A Cat TaleOur sweet little kitten, Sassafras, recently came down with some sort of eye thing. So, I did what any responsible pet owner would do, and tried to resolve the issue on my own, rather than do something crazy like take her to the vet. You may not know this, but veterinary medicine is a scam. I found this out a few years ago, when the vet suggested I give my dog valium (long story). Here I had been buying all these expensive official pet drugs for years, <i>only to learn they were the same as people drugs, but with expensive official pet drug names</i>. Ever since, I have been operating under the assumption that pets are basically just humans with fur. So, take note: When your pets get sick, you can just do to them what you would do to your kid. Or your grandma. Whichever one weighs less.<br />
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So, I pulled out my Armageddon kit filled with emergency tampons, Ensure, and drug samples to see if I could find anything that might cure Sassy's eye. Thanks to Moody Teen's disgusting bout of pink eye a few years back, there was some ointment that was sure to do the trick (regardless of what the expiration date might have indicated).<br />
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After about three days of treatment, Sassy was slowly getting better. But not quickly enough for my impatient family. They were all concerned and kept begging me to take her to the vet. I was confident in my treatment plan and didn't waiver. I insisted that due to the whole species exchange rate, the medicine might take a little longer to work.<br />
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The next morning, we all noticed that her eye had gotten significantly worse! The boys were distraught and blaming me, and my husband was all prepared to launch into I-Told-You-So mode, when suddenly, I noticed something strange...<br />
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"Poor" little one-eyed Sassy was favoring <i>the wrong eye</i>. Didn't think we'd notice, huh, Sass?<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-68924913687809771792010-02-12T12:53:00.000-05:002010-02-12T12:53:44.895-05:00Teen Talk: Survivors' StoriesSo here we are... alive. A little brain-dead, but alive. Since I have apparently lost the ability to write, I thought I'd break out the camera. I was lucky enough to score an exclusive interview with a couple of survivors of the Mommy Wars. Keep in mind I had only one take, as they were threatening to unionize.<br />
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I have been more than a little fixated on all of the angst over the standard, kid-raising fare, that always seems to result in finger-pointing, judging, and general mommy self-righteousness. Breast v Bottle, Cloth v Disposable... you know what I mean. I just don't get it, but maybe I am too far removed. But then I think, maybe it <i>does</i> matter, and I am simply justifying my own actions. That's when I decided to find out from those whose little lives had been molded by my decisions... for better or for worse.<br />
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The verdict? Well, although it appears on video that I really screwed up, since my boys can barely string two words together, the truth is they are awesome, and they made it. They are funny, they are kind(ish), they are not in jail (yet), and they brush their teeth. What more could a regular ol' non-green, reluctant breastfeeder, epidural-loving, tv-watching advocate mother ask for?<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qvZWZzemi1I&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qvZWZzemi1I&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-83397633297966742712010-01-27T10:00:00.000-05:002010-01-27T10:00:59.566-05:00Three of A KindOh, these boys of mine... And to think, for all these years, I have been taking the blame for their big mouths. I'm fairly certain that this photo is proof that their blonde hair and blue eyes aren't the only things they inherited from dear ol' Padre.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHK8_On9KmSg8BVG2a8Kj8sf3kA686Nzn-BNttKELK0ETE7PPtSGB3s-BPIFfa7AKfu_avauU_tz_KuYhFmDZYzCDGjohhZRaRg7sXbsZfJ230ArEk6ysiHcdXouooyRx2hw7dXOqUNs/s1600-h/IMG_1642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHK8_On9KmSg8BVG2a8Kj8sf3kA686Nzn-BNttKELK0ETE7PPtSGB3s-BPIFfa7AKfu_avauU_tz_KuYhFmDZYzCDGjohhZRaRg7sXbsZfJ230ArEk6ysiHcdXouooyRx2hw7dXOqUNs/s320/IMG_1642.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-12363219405720746432010-01-20T13:12:00.009-05:002010-01-20T13:50:24.297-05:005 Easy Ways to Raise Girl-Friendly BoysSo my boys have their flaws. Lord, Lord, do they ever. However, it might surprise you to learn they have some decent characteristics, too. One of which is their ability to interact with the opposite sex in a fairly healthy manner. Not to pat myself on the back, but I think I have played a large part in this. So let me share with you my suggestions for successfully raising girl-friendly boys. <br />
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<b>1) Make sure your boys are comfortable around tampons.</b> Preferably still-packaged ones, please! For the younger set, just having the box in plain sight is enough. Once they are driving, there is no reason they can't go buy them for you. If you do try this, be sure to have them purchase a few innocuous items, as well. After all, your goal is to desensitize them, not completely humiliate them. I tried this last weekend and my boys didn't blink an eye when they saw tampons on the list. That's more than I can say for most husbands.<br />
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<b>2) Expose them to chick flicks and soaps.</b> This can be tricky. Do not force them to actually watch. However, having General Hospital on the TV, as sort of background noise, will probably be enough to make them subliminally want Luke to finally settle down with Laura (once she is out of her catatonic state, of course).<br />
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<b>3) Make sure your boys have at least one good female friend. </b>This is one you have to start early, before they get to the cootie-fearing stage. I remember Moody's very first friend was a girl. In fact, they would have sleepovers, which as toddlers, was perfectly acceptable. Better than at 16, that's for sure!<br />
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<b>4) Get them used to apologizing.</b> This is <i>key</i>. They'll need to perfect their technique by the time they're in their first relationship.<br />
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<b>5) Insist that your husband pamper you.</b> This is the best way for your boys to see for themselves how a girl should be treated. You should have no problem recruiting your husband, because, after all, doesn't he want your boys to grow up to be respectful and loving men? Of course he does! For beginners, I'd recommend starting with the nightly foot rub.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="-moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous; -moz-background-origin: padding; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-23176888508914667222010-01-19T19:28:00.003-05:002010-01-19T19:36:44.735-05:00Growing PainsI know you are all dying to read yet another post about how my parenting skills are being tested like Job's faith in God (hyperbole aside, I am being driven out of my mind), but I thought I would try to distract myself into a good mood. Yes, I am dumb (and desperate) enough to fall for my own tricks.<br />
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I have been thinking that if I do manage to fail miserably at this whole parenting thing, and my kids end up on the streets (or behind bars), maybe I can salvage a few shreds of dignity and self-worth by being a successful person in my own right! As silly as that sounds, I do see many parents heavily invested in, and buoyed by, their kids' success, and alternatively, completely devastated if things don't work out exactly as they'd hoped. Believe me, good parenting definitely increases the probability that your kids will turn out okay, but it is, by no means, a guarantee (don't I sound wise? I think I must have read that in a book somewhere).<br />
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So instead of living vicariously through my kids, which at this point would be a big, smelly nightmare, I am going to invest some time and effort in me. I have already spent many years growing as a person, but honestly, it has been with my family in mind. Doing what I could to become a better mother or wife (although my husband is probably reading this, thinking, "?"... so let's just leave it at better mother). <br />
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Anyway, now it's time to focus on being a better <i>me</i>. Period. Yes, I am aware that by improving myself will most likely make my family's life better, but frankly, at this second, I don't care very much about that aspect of my self-improvement plan. <br />
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So let's talk about me! What do I want to be when I grow up? How can I help others (that aren't my own blood-relatives)? What makes me happy? What do I like?<br />
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Well, hopefully my little <a href="http://commonthreadproject.blogspot.com/">pet project</a> will take off. I am going to take it slow and see where it leads. I have a good feeling about it, and I know that moms in my position could really use some support.<br />
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I am going to take a class. I've never been afraid to try something new, but I have yet to find anything that I can do with confidence and claim as my own. Maybe I never will, but I am going to keep searching. Photography? Basketweaving?<br />
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And, I should probably include something about exercising and eating better, but I don't like to make promises I can't keep. <br />
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I realize this sounds like the standard midlife crisis of the suburban set, and I guess maybe it could be. But really, I am tired of being so involved in my kids' lives, and I know they are ready for me to start loosening up those apron strings (since I have never even been in the same room as an apron, I guess we should call them sweatpant strings).<br />
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So, that's it. I guess this is the resolution post I hadn't planned on writing. I know you are all on the edge of your seats, waiting to see where this goes.<br />
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You know, now that I think about it, I may need to hold off extracting myself from everyone until Moody actually passes Algebra II and Beans remembers to bathe on a semi-regular basis. Ugh, I think I have officially become part of the problem instead of part of the solution. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="-moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous; -moz-background-origin: padding; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-47768705079154654592010-01-14T08:30:00.010-05:002010-01-14T10:40:16.269-05:00Psst... Get Over Here Before It's Too Late! And Make Yourself Useful, While You're At It.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1NCt3n4HVxv_jxFVV1pZHnV-ZHtwc3LagnjTaUJ7ArUNrZ4Bhrz-lC7Qpg9Ms82fpfSAXTO9mLA7f_7Gc5w86MSeD5Hf5DI5adjDmhT2yvGe0dpi5RjOZUqUv14y9K0bdOI8xj1UaWY/s1600-h/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1NCt3n4HVxv_jxFVV1pZHnV-ZHtwc3LagnjTaUJ7ArUNrZ4Bhrz-lC7Qpg9Ms82fpfSAXTO9mLA7f_7Gc5w86MSeD5Hf5DI5adjDmhT2yvGe0dpi5RjOZUqUv14y9K0bdOI8xj1UaWY/s320/photo.jpg" /></a>I probably can't keep this photo up too long, as the subject wasn't so pleased about it being taken in the first place. If he knew I was using it for my own self-promotion, he'd have kittens.<br />
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So why am I in love with this photo? Because watching my son eat makes me happy. Seriously, chills were running down my spine and I was feeling all giddy. Weird? Hell yes! Understandable? Yes, again. <br />
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Calories, fat, salt and protein are this kid's lifeline. He can eat all he wants, and while the rest of us blow up like artery-clogged balloons, he grows stronger, his lungs stay clearer and all is right with the world.<br />
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And now, the self-promotion that I promised... Due to a serious of recent events, I have had a bit of an epiphany. I have come to realize that I don't have to use my corner of the internet solely for my own whining, self-pity and craziness (although believe me, that will continue)! I can try to flush out others that are in the same proverbial boat, and perhaps do a little good while I am at it.<br />
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I have started something called <a href="http://commonthreadproject.blogspot.com/">The Common Thread Project</a>. Don't ask me to define it, because at this point, I don't have a very good answer. Here's who it is for: moms of kids with chronic illness. They're a unique group, with a unique set of responsibilities, feelings and needs, and frankly, they are ignored. And I don't say that to sound bitter. They are ignored because they <i>want</i> it that way. They put their kids first. They put fighting for their kids' lives first. They don't want you to pay attention to <i>them</i>, they want you to get off your ass and help them find a cure for the disease that has taken a most unwanted chair at their table.<br />
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But, I feel that there needs to be a place where these moms can go to let their hair down. Maybe even be treated to a little TLC. And that place is <a href="http://commonthreadproject.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>. What the site will ultimately become, and how many moms it will help, is yet to be determined. But I have big dreams for it and am committed to helping as many women as I can.<br />
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So, if you have any desire to spread the word to those that the site might help, that would be awesome. <br />
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And by the way, although it may appear that Moody is eating sour cream straight out of the container, there really is part of a baked potato somewhere on that spoon. <br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="-moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous; -moz-background-origin: padding; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-79828043819340427782010-01-12T17:01:00.003-05:002010-01-12T17:06:23.944-05:00Panic at the DiscoOkay maybe not at an actual disco, but there certainly is plenty of mayhem, confusion and havoc-wreaking here at home to fill multiple discos. And yesterday, I attempted to face all of it head on, almost like a real grown up, and identify, and tackle, some of the indigestion-inducing issues.<br />
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As I see it, there really are only two main sources of stress in my home... Child Numero Uno and Child Numero Dos (although little Sassy with her kitty cold and infected eye is gaining as a strong third). And I treated you all to a little of my bilingualism just then because I was up past midnight typing Senor Moody Teen's Spanish essays he had previously hand-written, but realized at bedtime, needed to be typed. Since teen sleep is in short supply around here, I thought it best that he get to bed and I would type. What else did I have to do (Yes, sleep is the correct answer)? But Spanish isn't what we're talking about here... my children are. Oh, and my incredible parenting skills and insight.<br />
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So yesterday evening, I sat the older one down (I figure I have more time to save young Bean from himself, so he got shelved). I explained to Moody how important it was that he start to take on some responsibility for himself. Unfortunately, he was one step ahead of me, and politely agreed with everything I had to say (as it all went gliding smoothly out his other ear). There was no arguing. No negotiating. No threats of military school. But obviously none of it sunk in. He was just beating me at my own game. <br />
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I was highly suspicious, but what could I do? Just smile and wait until it all comes crashing back down again? I would think 24 hours would be sufficient time for that to occur, wouldn't you agree? Well that, my friends, is in T minus 2 hours. Do you think that is enough time to find, purchase and read a Parenting Self-Help book, or should I do what any self-respecting parent of teens would do, and have a stiff drink and a bubble bath?<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="-moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous; -moz-background-origin: padding; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-16785205617571249102010-01-05T15:08:00.014-05:002010-01-05T16:31:26.473-05:00DecompressingI know it's not <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> men, but it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> certainly all of <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> men. They are just so...so slovenly. And unorganized. And smelly. And clueless. Which I know is not the end of the world, and I don't hate them or anything because of their awful, disturbing habits, but surely on my own blog, which is frequented by people who interact with me and not them, I get the luxury of a little complaining every now and again, right?<br /><br />Oh, and did I mention forgetful and obnoxious?<br /><br />It's all just so constant. Constant chaos, constant laundry, constant "Oh, I need black felt, a non-fiction book, and a potato by tomorrow"**, constant "You owe me $40 for January's allowance and I need it now," constant noise, constant underwear lying on the floor with the leg holes still intact, as if they just stepped out of them, when in reality they've been there since Sunday, constant everything.<br /><br />Which, for an above average wife and mom, might not be a huge deal, but for me, it is overwhelming. I need time to think. I need time to assess. I need time to plot revenge. But with all these men of mine up in my grillz 24/7, I find myself having to just react.<br /><br />And I am not so good at reacting. I snap. I yell. I become catatonic. Oh, and now that my kids are old enough to get it (but young enough still, I suppose, to feel the cruelty), I am sarcastic. And sometimes, I just capitulate. Capitulating when beaten down may actually be the worst reaction of all. Because that means they have sensed my vulnerability and moved in for the quick, decisive kill, prompting my cowardly surrender.<br /><br />Did I mention I am glad everyone is back at school/work?<br /><br />And can someone please explain to me how I have managed to go to Target on three separate occasions, looking for some sort of miracle cream to put on my haggard old mug, only to come home, ALL THREE TIMES, with the same stupid stuff that does nothing but make my skin itch?<br /><br />**no, I'm not making this up.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-14472379145183034542010-01-03T13:08:00.005-05:002010-01-03T13:12:17.947-05:00You Know What They Say...The family that performs emergency surgery on Moody's hand at the kitchen table together, stays together!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVx-g7vjKEQQtBFMCTPkuSuOHrn8V-bPu-73DfellwjEND-wUXttmDIKN9Fkp3AC_8tmOsuFKcf6LGh5mCtDd_Dg2vqY4J8XxJKOOCdtdvM_cnMSKLdLxC5i-TO2GbKVK0XWQBVxDSp3Q/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVx-g7vjKEQQtBFMCTPkuSuOHrn8V-bPu-73DfellwjEND-wUXttmDIKN9Fkp3AC_8tmOsuFKcf6LGh5mCtDd_Dg2vqY4J8XxJKOOCdtdvM_cnMSKLdLxC5i-TO2GbKVK0XWQBVxDSp3Q/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422577632692993794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bYotHuvgDvQV3HMvIZl_0ea_PFj1wHMCFLq0I5vAAT1AFPE132qH7MtnRdyygYkzZgF5KcJaG_7hVcJmZg04fthbMQNQ7qZGwI3ZAjCI5eZGGFbdO9gAbla3GUX0QFVal0TETDebO1k/s1600-h/photo1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bYotHuvgDvQV3HMvIZl_0ea_PFj1wHMCFLq0I5vAAT1AFPE132qH7MtnRdyygYkzZgF5KcJaG_7hVcJmZg04fthbMQNQ7qZGwI3ZAjCI5eZGGFbdO9gAbla3GUX0QFVal0TETDebO1k/s320/photo1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422577503831819490" border="0" /></a>And a Happy New Year to you all!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-88910088713431618162009-12-23T13:00:00.002-05:002009-12-23T13:06:13.118-05:00And As If Right On Cue...The UPS man just appeared at my door with none other than our second annual nightmare... <a href="http://www.dirtysocksandpizza.com/2008/11/for-1st-panic-attack-of-christmas-my-in.html">The Turducken</a>.<br /><br />Is it considered a tradition if it is thrust upon us unwittingly?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-44534811851248220132009-12-22T14:38:00.007-05:002010-01-06T13:32:40.955-05:00AftermathHere's what I have learned...<br /><br />A little snow = frolicky fun. A lot of snow = hell, in many different forms.<br /><br />Let me share...<br /><br />So, things were going swimmingly for the first 3-6 inches. Dogs were prancing, chasing after the wet snowflakes. Kids were red-cheeked and buzzing with anticipation of even more snow to come. I had actually gotten off my ass and hit the store and was prepared to be snowed in indefinitely.<br /><br />But then, the snow kept falling. And falling. 12-18 inches later, the scene had changed drastically.<br /><br />The school bus carrying Moody's swim team home from the meet Friday night got stuck on the icy roads, with the scantily clad and still damp team on the bus, until well after 1:30 in the morning.<br /><br />Our entire little outdoor winter scene, complete with lighted snowman, arctic seal and penguin was buried, shorted out, and declared DOA by Saturday morning.<br /><br />The dogs have become overwhelmed and disoriented and have no idea where their <a href="http://www.dogfencediy.com">invisible fence</a> is. Since they no longer wear their collars, they have been venturing way past our yard and are thisclose to being official runaways. Look for them on this week's edition of 20/20, living under a bridge and selling crack for dog biscuits.<br /><br />Moody keeps insisting he should be able to be out driving in all this mess and is making our lives miserable. Truly.<br /><br />Apparently, I miscalculated at the grocery store, and while we still have about $200 worth of cookie dough left, we have been out of actual <span style="font-style: italic;">food</span> food since Saturday afternoon. And who the heck wants to eat cookies without milk?!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-56359064391733168642009-12-20T13:04:00.006-05:002009-12-20T14:03:28.557-05:00Digging OutWell, it snowed. And snowed. And today, we are digging out, not that we have anything to do, or anywhere to go. The streets haven't been plowed, but Hubby has been hitting the pipe stem pretty hard, snow blowing every 4 hrs or so. We haven't gotten any word about school tomorrow, but I forced the boys to get some homework done, just in case. Once the work was done, we decided to play a little...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73g2JqHlNCNwd85zfcAcCkM7MBLbKzLmFrKCxNDe_vb-uX1Rj_TzlK576kd3V8nVLxCTMB5kJOXncr3wq77nl7VFWArvIJYA0Drwx7ANxSH10Z8H05dhxdWmgmWtWDET-FYZD-9tHOdo/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73g2JqHlNCNwd85zfcAcCkM7MBLbKzLmFrKCxNDe_vb-uX1Rj_TzlK576kd3V8nVLxCTMB5kJOXncr3wq77nl7VFWArvIJYA0Drwx7ANxSH10Z8H05dhxdWmgmWtWDET-FYZD-9tHOdo/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417395471121882370" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW8qJgaRHb7-imUc_CeLB4hjvmYBZiwyP8aup4yyJ-ACQLuvzoGs-Hm5BAQVBBTuDpysrBPMm2ZOE0wqkXiTa6jSI-CamX38SJP4QK46HRMpJ5vY99k6BtS5ij3Tf_wXTVaPWSkvi2F8Q/s1600-h/P1010017.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW8qJgaRHb7-imUc_CeLB4hjvmYBZiwyP8aup4yyJ-ACQLuvzoGs-Hm5BAQVBBTuDpysrBPMm2ZOE0wqkXiTa6jSI-CamX38SJP4QK46HRMpJ5vY99k6BtS5ij3Tf_wXTVaPWSkvi2F8Q/s320/P1010017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417381528318383842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAew6ZbLEvNDELlPnQXQrbKr_Gw99gIi8f9qS5iBdDvH7JiufRPcRlyYi1cXr5Qq1weFlDTCCYhzTY9VrMadwXux-yYOEpy3aloaVIdFNvSM0xGLNz-zn_nn8x2ju718y08BBGjTL08c/s1600-h/P1010015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAew6ZbLEvNDELlPnQXQrbKr_Gw99gIi8f9qS5iBdDvH7JiufRPcRlyYi1cXr5Qq1weFlDTCCYhzTY9VrMadwXux-yYOEpy3aloaVIdFNvSM0xGLNz-zn_nn8x2ju718y08BBGjTL08c/s320/P1010015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417381387212179810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgDhYE2ktZk4wLZ3l9GNySFPSozwTf4VyT0lZEG_dCVN17LCnQ0MThptXkl94B29wX_SMD-shslMMp2j4OKHOCEjQycaAndbHnugWuV-ea7TS_KzIuwoCLleGYso5PlKCBwIqB1OW0eg/s1600-h/P1010020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgDhYE2ktZk4wLZ3l9GNySFPSozwTf4VyT0lZEG_dCVN17LCnQ0MThptXkl94B29wX_SMD-shslMMp2j4OKHOCEjQycaAndbHnugWuV-ea7TS_KzIuwoCLleGYso5PlKCBwIqB1OW0eg/s320/P1010020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417381195005876354" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-23449571132912501912009-12-18T07:07:00.007-05:002009-12-18T07:22:01.293-05:00Do You See What I See...?<div style="text-align: center;">I have noticed for the last few days that there was something amiss with our tree (other than it being mildly pathetic and small). It took me a while to deduce what was happening, and then another little while to actually catch the perpetrator in the act.<br /><br />In other, somewhat related news, I hear fur is back en vogue. I am picturing a nice muffler and perhaps a matching hat?<br /><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih69a2sYONsEVET3uDr0Se7zJaNzH8dt99ekWf0doYFcxFZcXEylUAmzbaSrwxNCjcokvk2ODzrm3UaIPyRMrgo76JZHFxoxp76zHP9Q37mSj0FqbDFtTQbbpLsZgDfhtqUQFxCVNIlao/s1600-h/P1010016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih69a2sYONsEVET3uDr0Se7zJaNzH8dt99ekWf0doYFcxFZcXEylUAmzbaSrwxNCjcokvk2ODzrm3UaIPyRMrgo76JZHFxoxp76zHP9Q37mSj0FqbDFtTQbbpLsZgDfhtqUQFxCVNIlao/s320/P1010016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416547719806266738" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXN6kgyKT-Q2LafVFeqNNJJYfj-BCHAcl3TvmHCTBEKUnPS90irAb-gmNLfP2noJvtFaCNckKstMfdrK68_rgFZoVh5Y_CVzwOMWridl3W9HRhyphenhyphen648wigfSAYazZwT22kyHsGQiSrMs8/s1600-h/P1010013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXN6kgyKT-Q2LafVFeqNNJJYfj-BCHAcl3TvmHCTBEKUnPS90irAb-gmNLfP2noJvtFaCNckKstMfdrK68_rgFZoVh5Y_CVzwOMWridl3W9HRhyphenhyphen648wigfSAYazZwT22kyHsGQiSrMs8/s320/P1010013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416550243310299010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-59885222142946611852009-12-16T14:29:00.011-05:002009-12-16T16:17:45.673-05:00Christmas Miracle, Part IIWell, it turns out, the real Santa can bite me. I was out of my jolly mood, and back in the saddle of irritation, panic and distress, by sundown yesterday. <span>Whatever, Santa.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>However</span>... I adore my Secret Santa Soiree partner<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>. She is an angel. A bonafide gift from the heavens.<br /><br />I must confess that my Secret Santa wasn't much of a secret for very long. Due to my own crass pushiness, and a SSS partner that is such a good person that she is horrible at lying, <span style="font-style: italic;">even through email</span>, I was able to figure it out PDQ. Am I officially kicked out of the SSS program now, <a href="http://georgienba.blogspot.com/">Georgie</a> and <a href="http://www.lifeofanguyener.com/">AmyBo</a>?<br /><br />Anyway, my unSecret Santa sent me the most wonderful (and needed) box of goodies that, because of the intensity of my emotional crisis, were put to use immediately. Therefore, the photos below may not truly emote the festivity, care and love put into my gifts.<br /><br />So, without further ado, I present to you my goodies! Lotion and body wash and comfy socks and yummy chocolate... All to de-stress this crazed scrooge. Oh, and they were accompanied by the most hilarious and perfect Christmas card, <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span>.<br /><br />Here we have the "before"... yay!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_yRUDEqgP9LBrrEAaInsT-4ZMRzzGvE096rbNhJCGo4gus5l_SLtdXGLYLlBzoF8PtNM0sfp90-PVb18t56DWZS0pYiSZJYRn9Pk4ZcX8m89PymZ2j7R7zu9-M5DzbGylZLkysCFCqk/s1600-h/package.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_yRUDEqgP9LBrrEAaInsT-4ZMRzzGvE096rbNhJCGo4gus5l_SLtdXGLYLlBzoF8PtNM0sfp90-PVb18t56DWZS0pYiSZJYRn9Pk4ZcX8m89PymZ2j7R7zu9-M5DzbGylZLkysCFCqk/s320/package.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415937907382690914" border="0" /></a>And then the boys got home from school and things began a pretty swift downward spiral...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgih6vEgwHnsLXZZLUBrDI6-NOmGqmmVhZRwphZlfdUp6fESoZJsfpPxFlAlqbTmINMa4N2NPja6zeNvNbIj4LiOLzp_p324cnhuGBcu9I_ycx3ztJXRyWPrY2fCJ1-luDgeiasMJw39bU/s1600-h/candy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgih6vEgwHnsLXZZLUBrDI6-NOmGqmmVhZRwphZlfdUp6fESoZJsfpPxFlAlqbTmINMa4N2NPja6zeNvNbIj4LiOLzp_p324cnhuGBcu9I_ycx3ztJXRyWPrY2fCJ1-luDgeiasMJw39bU/s320/candy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415938779941500306" border="0" /></a>No, my unSecret Santa isn't stingy... the pail was brimming before I got my hands on it. My mood lifted a bit, until the sugar high passed and I started to crash. Coincidentally, about this time, Moody's math progress report landed in my inbox. I grabbed the 'stress relief' body wash and took a nice, hot shower.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO_UMO73_qVDEU0TXtzs9qsDV2tuu4tBcswsfeaHRct7ES-d877t5UTSA_XEkDdMFOWtdK9Pa09IReF602qAbmyeCOA4aWCIg1RUzCXEShIgK8jw_Mf4pK-hU63wrcAKTQhdnl_E8js8/s1600-h/bodywash.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO_UMO73_qVDEU0TXtzs9qsDV2tuu4tBcswsfeaHRct7ES-d877t5UTSA_XEkDdMFOWtdK9Pa09IReF602qAbmyeCOA4aWCIg1RUzCXEShIgK8jw_Mf4pK-hU63wrcAKTQhdnl_E8js8/s320/bodywash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415939340450047858" border="0" /></a>And no, I didn't use the razor next to it on my wrists or Moody's throat! Oh, and I didn't get a chance to photograph the cozy slipper/socks because Sassafras, the rogue, evil, Christmas decoration destroyer kitty, had run off with them somewhere. Take my word for it... they're heavenly.<br /><br />Thank you, my dear unSecret Santa for being an excellent seasonal Santa, and a true <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">year-round friend</span>!<br /><br />Oh, and muchas gracias to those big hearted elves, <a href="http://georgienba.blogspot.com/">Georgie</a> and <a href="http://www.lifeofanguyener.com/">AmyBo</a>! I love you both for your commitment (I am sure you are feeling like you are ready to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> committed about now, right?) to the season and to us lowly bloggers. I am thankful that there is always room at your inn.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-52439831293741209752009-12-15T13:56:00.007-05:002009-12-15T18:14:21.407-05:00A Christmas Miracle, Part ISo, I was speeding way too fast along the parkway this morning, in a hurry to just be done with my Christmas errands. My mood was crap, and I was full of dread. Suddenly, flashing lights and sirens caught my eye and I hit the brakes. In the distance before me, I could see that there were motorcycle cops at the next two intersections, and a <span style="font-style: italic;">large</span> police escort was headed my way. My first thought was that it was a funeral procession. A funeral for someone very influential, mind you, but a funeral, nonetheless. I strained to spot a hearse, but couldn't see one.<br /><br />My next thought was it was some sort of diplomat/politician (Obama in the suburbs? Making a quick arugula run, perhaps?). I live within close enough proximity to "The Beltway," that it was a real possibility. Those fat cats (See, I can use that term fast and loose, too) are always zooming about in their tinted-windowed town cars, enjoying the expensive and ridiculous perks of the job, using those HOV lanes at their own whimsy, since, if you count their huge egos, their vehicles, indeed, carry quite a high occupancy.<br /><br />No such luck. Turns out it was someone even <span style="font-style: italic;">more</span> grand than any politician. Someone alive and well in Fairfax County... it was Santa Claus! My jaw literally dropped as I watched 12 police motorcycles escort a Suburban with Santa peering happily out the window, waving to us all. And if <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> weren't surreal enough, the Suburban behind dear Santa was carrying Rudolph, the one and only reindeer!<br /><br />I couldn't help but smile. I would have expected my response to have been more cynical. But it just didn't occur to me to question the expense or the necessity or the appropriateness. It was what I needed to snap me out of my yearly bad mood. And it worked. The mall didn't seem so crowded, the lines didn't seem so long, and even though I didn't find everything I needed, it didn't matter.<br /><br />Santa was on the scene, spreading his jolliness to all. By God, I was going to let it rub off on me, even if it killed me! But it <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> kill me. Maybe reveling in Christmas cheer isn't as difficult as I always seem to make it.<br /><br />And if that weren't enough of a Christmas miracle, when I got home, I had a simple, brown package waiting patiently for me on my front porch, courtesy my own, lovely, Secret Santa.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-1325608552634487622009-12-10T18:35:00.005-05:002009-12-10T20:48:16.221-05:00My Brain is FriedThe weird thing about my relationship with french fries is I don't absolutely love them. Given the amount of time and brain power I dedicated to them yesterday, you'd think they'd be at the top of my fave foods list (sidebar: that would be thin crust cheese pizza from Vocelli's and Breyer's cookies & cream ice cream). I mean, I like them, and everything, and I certainly never order my burger sans fries, but I don't really obsess about them, like I do other foods (such as: thin crust cheese pizza from Vocelli's and Breyer's cookies & cream ice cream).<br /><br />In other, marginally related news, I have become a shopping addict.<br /><br />So, after what is now apparently my <span style="font-style: italic;">daily</span> crazy, overstimulating, expensive trip to Bed Bath & Beyond, I was famished. I made a quick drive through Wendy's, which is, by no means, my preferred choice of fast food, but I was fairly desperate. The burger (with cheese, cut the lettuce and pickles) was a necessity. The fries? Well, why the heck not?<br /><br />I found myself doing what I always do when eating fast food in the car. Burger sat half unwrapped in my lap, while the fries remained in the bag, which was resting on the console, for easy access. As I drove, I started to think about the deliciousness of the food I was eating. The burger was gone before I could render an accurate verdict, which left me alone with the fries...<br /><br />The first step was purely tactile. I reached blindly into the bag (I was driving, after all) and began to feel each individual fry. The ones that were shorter than, let's say, 1.5 inches were immediately discarded. The next to go were those that came to a point on either end. The only fries to make it to phase two were those long, luscious, perfectly rectangular specimens.<br /><br />Which was followed by the visual examination. Any green or black discoloration was grounds for immediate disqualification. If I overlooked any hard or too pointy fries during the touch test, I got rid of those.<br /><br />What I was left with was the cream of the crop. My mouth is watering right now, just thinking back to those golden, soft but crispy, little gems.<br /><br />So anyway, back to yesterday. I was munching my way back towards home, with a trunk full of Beyond, when I had to quickly throw on my brakes (Hmm... distracted much?). The carefully screened fries went flying. I managed to bend down and reach most of them, but I saw that, much to my dismay, the fry that I had been saving for last (we're talking <span style="font-style: italic;">at least</span> 3 inches and not a flaw to be found) had landed under the gas pedal. The three second rule, along with the red light, came and went in a flash. I gnawed on my bottom lip all the way home, trying to decide if I had really sunk low enough to want to still eat that fry.<br /><br />Trust me, you don't want to know how this ends...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-58495332842778497372009-12-09T18:31:00.009-05:002009-12-09T19:02:11.827-05:00(Gray) Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow!So, being around my parents and basically having my self-esteem captured, water-boarded, shredded into little bits, and then thrown out with the trash has left me feeling worn down and blue. Suddenly RootWatch '09 feels like Sad Old Worthless HagWatch '09.<br /><br />It's been quite a journey that I have taken with my own head of hair these last few months. We've reconnected, and I have to say, I appreciate my hair, crazy flaws and all. I had taken it for granted for years. I had been dying it various shades of wonderful and not-so-wonderful <span style="font-style: italic;">since I was thirteen years old</span>! I really had no idea what would be waiting for me underneath.<br /><br />Now, after letting all the color grow off, I have gotten the chance to see the fascinating pattern of gray around my temples and widow's peak (sort of a Lily Munster/Eddie Munster hybrid). I've watched as the natural curl slowly bounced back, after being suffocated by bleach and peroxide. Life has officially returned to my hair.<br /><br />But as wonderful as that all sounds, it is seriously time to start chasing the elusive fountain of youth, once again. While a part of me feels free, an even bigger part of me feels dowdy. And that's no fun. I have many, many years ahead to try this little experiment again, and I know when (or if) I am ready to permanently go au naturel, it will be just fine.<br /><br />Until then, Viva L'Oréal #62B!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-71776911779101552172009-12-07T17:38:00.008-05:002009-12-07T19:55:34.356-05:00Naughty Again This YearI have known that they think all of the following for a while now, but it was all reaffirmed for me in many spoken and unspoken ways this past weekend...<br /><br />I spend too much money.<br />I spoil my kids.<br />I am enable my in-laws.<br />I eat out too much.<br />I don't call enough.<br />I watch too much TV.<br />I am materialistic.<br />I am wasteful.<br />I am difficult.<br />And my personal favorite...<br />I appear bloated.<br /><br />One thing is for certain... The message is strong, clear and consistent.<br /><br />I get it.<br /><br />But what I <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span> get is why anyone wants to be around someone as awful as I, any more than I want to be around anyone that feels this way about me.<br /><br />PS: Can someone please check my grammar on that last sentence?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-29044002384067263182009-12-05T16:32:00.003-05:002009-12-05T16:50:20.140-05:00Purging<div>I tell you what... I am pretty tired of looking inward when things get complicated with people. It can't <i>always</i> be me, can it? Do I really need to just be more tolerant and patient and compassionate when others are acting selfish and silly? </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I want to feel like the injured party, for once. Today I want to be annoyed that everyone around me is being childish. Today I want to feel secure enough in myself to know that I am taking a stand and saying what I want and calling people on their accusations and careless words. </div><div><br /></div><div>You'd think that the people around me would think twice about judging others and calling people cruel names, such as "alcoholic", especially having one in their own immediate family, and all. You'd think they'd pause before putting others down, yet congratulating themselves on their apparent redemption, while their deep-seated dysfunction remains <i>firmly</i> intact. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe miracles do happen, but I am not buying it. Sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am irate. I am sad. I am annoyed. I want it to be Tuesday, so I will have my house all to myself and I can finally exhale and relax and try to get these crazy people out of my mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe then I will go back to feeling guilty and bad and put the weight of the world back on my own shoulders. For now, I will mope and whine. Maybe I'll even do a little judging myself. </div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0 !important; background: transparent;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-11988283850529473642009-12-02T06:59:00.005-05:002009-12-02T10:39:43.208-05:00Armageddon IIOh, who am I kidding? There won't be any grandiose display of diamonds <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> cookware under the tree this year (see <a href="http://www.dirtysocksandpizza.com/2009/12/seventh-sign-of-apocalypse.html">Part I</a>), and that is just fine with me. My self-preservation strategy this year is to simply ignore Christmas. Call it a desperate measure to keep the anxiety in check, if you'd like.<br /><br />So, speaking of the Apocalypse coupled with an unhealthy dose of stress...<br /><br />Those four ominous horsemen have been replaced by an elderly couple, driving a red Toyota Camry cross-country, due on my doorstep in about 10 hours. And if you think I am exaggerating their power to incite mass hysteria and plagues of locust, you obviously weren't around when the whole Texas showdown, precipitated by my brother's near-death experience/alcohol intervention, took place.<br /><br />Take cover, my people. Take cover.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-15125925419141698042009-12-01T17:43:00.006-05:002009-12-01T19:58:28.743-05:00Seventh Sign of the ApocalypseThose horsemen better saddle up because either the world is coming to an end, or I have officially lost my mind (once again).<br /><br />My husband is quite an amazing gift-giver. He is stealthy and he is generous. Anything I want is mine... and he doesn't even need hints!<br /><br />So last night, in an apparent act of desperation, he flat out asked me what I want for Christmas. I gave him my standard answer, "Ohhhh, nothing," with that slight martyr inflection, inferring that there might be <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> little ol' thing that I could think of to put on my list.<br /><br />And then he let it drop. I began brainstorming. Panic set in. There really <span style="font-style: italic;">wasn't</span> anything I could think of that would put a little extra spring in my step. Except...<br /><br />It is no secret that I am not so hot in the kitchen. I don't like to cook, and I really don't have a problem with that. That being said, I have been inexplicably drawn to some cool looking non-stick cookware at Target. But honestly, as much as I think I would love it, and how desperately I want to believe that it will make me enjoy cooking, I fear I will just be depressed on Christmas morning when I sit down in front of a really big, heavy box filled with a bunch of Teflon-coated metal just waiting to be used. Which means I would have to actually cook. Ick.<br /><br />So maybe me wanting cookware isn't the seventh sign of the Apocalypse. Maybe the Pale Horse of Death, as the embodiment of my family's starvation from my lack of cooking (yet abundance of diamond-wearing), is the seventh sign.<br /><br />Sounds reasonable to me.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434288999744029976.post-82099696004379427212009-11-20T07:01:00.008-05:002009-11-20T07:44:24.060-05:00And So It Begins...We've certainly already endured our fair share of 'grown up' problems here at our house. But yesterday seemed to usher in a new era, one in which the blinders are off, and things will never be the same, no matter what we try to do about it.<br /><br />My father-in-law died. My husband's dad...the boys' grandfather. I look at the facts, and it really isn't shocking or, if I am being honest, terribly tragic. He was 90. It was peaceful. Life on this Earth, as he would want to continue living it, was over.<br /><br />My husband is being strong and stoic. But I know he's feeling guilt and regret. But I also know that as seemingly destructive and useless as guilt and regret can be, he will transform it into something worthwhile... More time with his boys. More love shown to those around him now. Being a better father than he already is, if that is even possible. And while that is all good, I hate the weight he puts on his own shoulders.<br /><br />And I also hate that this is just the beginning. One down, three more grandparents to go. It's inevitable, but it is still jarring. Watching my boys absorb the reality while remaining firmly entrenched in their teen lives of friends and games and homework and<span style="font-style: italic;"> life</span>. Should they be sadder? Are they too sad? Do they really get it? <span style="font-style: italic;">Should</span> they really get it?<br /><br />And while we pass through this final arc of but one great, honorable circle of life, I am humbled by all the other tragedy and heartbreak around us. On one hand, our problems<span style="font-style: italic;"> feel</span> so big sometimes, yet, it is very, very obvious that others have so much more to bear.<br /><br />Why, then, are we always so blindsided by things like this? If it is everywhere, everyday, why are we not calloused and shielded? Do our souls regenerate with new life after each little piece is ripped away?<br /><br />Who knows, I guess. I suppose our ultimate task is to persevere.<br /><br />"In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins - not through strength but by <em>perseverance</em>." ~H. Jackson Brown. <em></em><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/123/9023EFF378A2EB91BB8D6E79BE4CC534.png" style="border: 0pt none ! important; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 0%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" /></a>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896271627723253157noreply@blogger.com25