In Which Hugh’s Head Explodes Upon Opening the Credit Card Bill

I told y’all I was getting a little carried away with the holiday shopping this year.

On the plus side, should the Girl start her period today, she won’t be scarred for life by the thought that she bears responsibility for her father’s messy demise; I’ve got it covered.

In Which the World Conspires Against My Best Intentions

Although I fully intended to follow my diet and exercise program to a T lo these last precious weeks before the holidays, I have been foiled by circumstance at every turn.

Last night, my intentions were laid waste by a jewelry party that I hosted as pay-back for being invited to a friend’s party a few weeks back. The party was at six, and, since I had to work a full day, run to the grocery store and prepare food for my guests; Exercise was the first casualty of the night. Not long after, Diet died a mercifully swift death at the hands of mini hotdogs wrapped in flaky croissant, Mexican seven-layer dip on tortilla chips and deep-fried cheese and artichoke bites.

My best intentions are threatened again tonight due to a dinner invitation from one of Hugh’s suppliers; tomorrow isn’t looking too good for them either, courtesy of a cosmetics party at Jana’s. Because, you know; party=food.

It is the American way.

And, you know that old saying, the road to hell is paved with good intentions? Tis true! And, on the same road; Christmas!

Remember how I gloated over having accomplished my shopping for the out-of-town relatives? Yes?! And, how I intended to mail all of my gifts before Thanksgiving? Yes?! Well, guess who got a memo sent via the Mother-in-Law Communications System, requesting that; in lieu of toys this year, gift cards to the new bookstore being built in their neighborhood be purchased for the out-of-town children?

So.

I intend to return the toys and use the cash for gift cards.

Of course, we all know how well that has been working out lately.

It Takes A Special Kind Of Stupid….

….to fall off of one’s own office chair for no reason whatsoever.

Momma always did say I was special.

Also, my ass hurts.

Hugh and the Girl attended the annual Father/Daughter dance at the girl’s school on Friday night which left the Man-Cub and I to our own devices at home. We enjoyed a leisurely dinner which, to my shame, included processed potato flakes and mystery meat nuggets served in sectioned aluminum dishes. Then we watched trash television while cuddling on the couch.

Now, either I was feeling unusually generous or the copious amounts of preservatives in our dinner addled my brain because, when the Cub asked me to tickle his back, I complied. He didn’t even have to resort to the pouty lip and puppy-dog eyes; the two most deadly weapons in his guilt arsenal. Then, without so much as an argument, I agreed to make him an ice cream sundae topped with not one, not two but three of his favorite syrups, something previously unheard of in my home.

The only explanation I have for my actions is that the preservatives in the TV dinners had left my brain temporarily addled. Seriously; it is the only explanation.

I am also of the belief that there exists a conspiracy between the food industry and a global alliance of children determined to take over the world through the judicious use of processed carbohydrates.

You read it here, first.

Fortunately for me, the effects of the preservatives were, as I said, temporary and I was able to regain my normal capacity for denying the requests of my offspring for the remainder of the weekend.

Saturday morning, the Girl and I headed to town to help my fellow woman’s club members set up the displays for our annual holiday fund-raiser. I assisted in the assembling of two twelve foot Christmas trees while the Girl lent her mad sweeping skilz to a friend whose fully-decorated tree had not fared well during transport from her home to the event center. Luckily, she only lost two or three glass ornaments and her tree still looked fifteen times better than almost anyone else’s.

When the Girl and I were of no further use, we wandered through the event center looking at the various trees, wreaths, garlands, stockings and gift baskets that will be auctioned off later in the week. I set my sights on a centerpiece featuring a porcelain carousel that will go smashingly well with my Christmas village and the Girl was kind enough to call her father and urge him to bid on it as a gift for my birthday later this month. Here’s hoping.

We followed up the fantastically good time we were having volunteering for a good cause by hitting the Hellmouth for groceries where, as a tribute to the power of good karma, nothing unusually sucky befell us.

The rest of the weekend was a blur of housework, laundry and cooking. My father-in-law, Oscar, has been on his own this past week as his wife, Emily, has been away visiting relatives so; we invited him over for dinner last night and I cooked a meal fit for a king.

Then, I fell into bed, exhausted.

This brings us to this morning when I again fell.... on my ass while attempting to sit in my office chair. In my own defense, the chair is on wheels and the mat underneath it is unusually slick.

In the chair’s defense, I would totally roll away to escape my looming ass, too.

What Is It About Bad Boys?

Last night’s episode of Lost certainly was yummy. If you like hot dirty sex in a cage which, I do. Or, at least I would if it was hot dirty sex in a cage with Sawyer. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure it would just be really uncomfortable and, well, dirty. In a not good way.

Hey, just because I married a cop doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about the bad boys.

In news unrelated to my Holloway lust, the Girl has reached that stage of puberty dreaded by mothers the world over: Period Angst.

It seems that two of her classmates have recently welcomed Aunt Flo to the family fold and the Girl is beside herself with fear that she will be Next. Although she knows all about the mechanics of the menstrual cycle, she is understandably paranoid about the possibility of it happening at school since, as she tearily informed me last night “It could happen anywhere! At any moment!”

Like an alien invasion which, come to think of it, is really not such a bad parallel when you think about it.

Now, I don't actually anticipate this happening for the Girl for at least another year or so. After all, she is only ten and three quarters years old and I was twleve when it happened to me for the first time. Obviously, I have a whole year and a quarter left before I have to worry about this stuff for real. Right? (Won't you please excuse me for a moment while I breath into this paper bag while rocking back and forth in this corner)?

To make her feel better however, we discussed the topic at great length and together devised a priority-coded set of strategies designed to fit any possible scenario regarding the initial onset of the child’s lunar cycle including:

Def-Con One: PERIOD STARTS AT A FRIEND’S HOUSE (Explain situation to friend’s mother, call mother, and celebrate over chocolate bon-bons with friends! Mazal tov! You're a woman!).
Def-Con Two: PERIOD STARTS AT THE POOL (Excuse self to the locker room, call mother, execute safety word (hotdog) for immediate extraction).
Def-Con Three: PERIOD STARTS ON A FIELD TRIP (Explain situation to nearest female chaperone, call mother, safety word, extraction).
Def-Con Four: PERIOD STARTS AT SCHOOL (Excuse self to nurse’s office, call mother, safety word, immediate extraction followed by girls day at the spa).

And, lastly,

Def-Con Five: YOUR PERIOD STARTS AT HOME WHEN YOUR MOTHER IS OUT OF TOWN AND YOUR FATHER IS IN CHARGE (Explain entire situation to father using as graphic language as possible, watch father’s head explode, clean up blood and gore before mother gets home, throw a party celebrating both your initiation into womanhood and your status as an unchaperoned minor).

I think she feels better. To be on the safe side, however, I visited kidshealth.org and downloaded some articles for her to read pertaining to the situation. We are as prepared as can be expected for her first cruise on the crimson tide even though it won't occur for another one and one quarter years.

And, now we will put a period at the end of this conversation and return to our original programming…..

Sawyer. Shirtless.

Is it hot in here?

Leftover Night

My kids love Wednesday nights because they know they won’t be required to eat a healthy, balanced meal for dinner. Instead, they will be allowed to choose whatever they feel like eating from the plentiful stock of leftovers in the refrigerator. Which means that the Man-Cub will be eating something containing pasta and the Girl will be eating a ham sandwich, unless we have leftover Chinese on hand in which case, she won’t even need a clean plate; girlfriend likes to eat cold Chinese food right out of the take-out cartons.

Tonight is her lucky night.

I enjoy Wednesday evenings too, not only because I get a break from cooking delicious, well balanced meals for my ungrateful offspring but, I get to indulge in a similar gastric fashion. Looks like I will dine upon leftover chili tonight and, not just any chili but my special Blowout Turkey Chili, so named for its never-fail ability to, um….clear the way for future meals, if you know what I mean.

Sorry, I know you know what I mean.

Wednesday leftover night became a tradition because Wednesday is Hugh’s bowling night and, without him at home to complain about the abysmal lack of freshly prepared food, we are free to go wild with the Tupperware fare and can do so without fearing his disapproval; one can hardly disapprove of one’s family skipping several food groups at a meal when one is himself relying on greasy bowling alley pizza for nourishment. He might have a legitimate beef with the fact that we sometimes eat dessert before the main course though so, we’ll just keep that between us, ok?

Look! An entire entry about how I am teaching my children to make bad food choices! Who’s rocking this parenthood gig? I am! I am!

On an unrelated note, I picked up the proofs from our professional family photography session and, while I greatly respect the photographer and find her to be a generally fantastic artist-I was not blown away by our photos and, while I mostly blame that on the fact that I was in them, I'm still a wee bit disappointed. On the brighter side, I won’t be spending a ridiculous amount of money on prints. Now, I can feel a little less guilty about spending a small fortune on the photo books that I designed on Shutterfly yesterday as Christmas gifts for the in-laws and my sister.

It’s good to look on the bright side, no?

Since I was already downtown picking up the proofs, I stopped at the jewelry store to have the jeweler look at my wedding ring since one of the prongs has recently started snagging on my clothing and, that just isn’t normal. The jeweler agreed that it was a bad thing and took my ring for a procedure he called “re-tipping”. He then informed me that he is really swamped right now so I could expect to have my ring back in about a month. Or, you know, two. Ordinarily, I would have told the gentleman to shove his two months so far up his rectum that not even my famous blow-out chili would touch it but, I declined to unleash the Furies as this is the same jeweler who designed and fabricated my five-year anniversary band so that it fit seamlessly with my engagement and wedding bands, a spectacular feat considering the asymmetrical nature of the original bands.

Also, do I really want to wear the ring after it had been there? I do not.

So, I just have to get used to not wearing the ring; easier said than done considering I have not been without it in fourteen years and I now have a habit of rubbing the center stone when I am nervous or bored which, come to think of it, totally explains how the prongs got worn down enough to require “re-tipping”.

Heh.

I hope I don’t turn to nervous eating in the absence of the ring; random eating of everything in the fridge could prove detrimental to Left-over night.

The children would not be happy.

Back To the Grind

The rest of the annual Stay-At-Home Mother Project went remarkable well. I am now an avid daytime exerciser, my house is clean and organized, I have several casseroles in the freezer for nights when I don’t feel like cooking, I am mostly caught up on the children’s scrapbooks and I am an expert on daytime television which is to say; daytime television sucks. I will never get the image of Martha Stewart dressed like a Cat and crawling across the floor of her studio out of my mind, it will forever color any association that I have with the maven of domesticity. For shame.

On the other hand, without the distraction of a full time job, I found myself engaging in a wee bit of consumer over-load via the internet and the stores in the neighboring town. Since I am all out of hands, the other foot would like you to know that I now have the vast majority of my Christmas shopping for out-of-town relatives completed. If hearing that serves as a reminder of your own Holiday angst, feel free to hate the other foot.

Speaking of the holidays, can you believe Thanksgiving is only three weeks away? Neither can I but, the calendar doesn’t lie. It does get really pissed off when you imply that it might, however.

Also pissed off? My children who were torn from their beds an hour earlier than they have become accustomed to this past week making breakfast this morning a particularly ugly affair.*

So, now I am back at work and happy to be here. I might be happier at home but, in all honesty, I’m a whore for the money and baking cookies doesn’t pay nearly as well as my day job. If it did, those would be some damn fine cookies.





*No children were harmed during this unfortunate incident. Sadly, the same cannot be said for Captain Crunch.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

The annual Stay At Home Mother Project is going swimmingly. So far I have:

-Taken the children to the pumpkin patch where they enjoyed a hayride, roasted marshmallows and picked their own pumpkins which we then carved into fabulous jack-o-lanterns.
-Baked and decorated four dozen sugar cookies in the shape of Frankenstein.
-Cleaned the house four million times.
-Put to sleep and buried our thirteen year old female German Shepard (which broke my heart even though it was totally the right thing to do for her).
-Experienced a weird UFO moment when the radio, lights and gages on my car freaked out and flashed on and off for about twenty seconds during a quick run to the grocery store for Halloween cups. Hasn’t happened since. I blame it on Halloween. Or, you know, aliens.
-Volunteered as the classroom mother for the Man-Cub’s Halloween party where I led twenty-one hyper eight year olds in a rousing game of Mummy Wrap and an even more energetic game of musical chairs.
-Taken five children Trick-or-Treating and to the school Halloween Carnival.
-Cooked several gourmet meals plus pizza for five very hungry Trick-or-Treaters.
-Taken down all the Halloween decorations and replaced them with Thanksgiving decorations including a set of wooden pilgrims that are still scarred from a chewing given to them by our late male German Shepard chewed many, many years ago.
-Cried over my lost German Shepards.
-Went for a portrait consultation with the photographer who will be taking our family pictures on Sunday.
-Came to the office to download pictures, order prints from Shutterfly and update this blog before the cobwebs choke the mechanism.

Looks like I made it just in time.