You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Old Lang Syne that I will be back in 2010!
As a younger self, I would greet each coming New Year with a renewed sense of hope, that THIS year would be the year that I would ... whatever it was. Stop smoking, exercise every day, eat healthy, care about my job, be a better friend, stop being late, go to class, drink less Coke, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Now I am a realist. I realize that I am going to be the exact same person on January 1st as I was on December 31st. And it is going to take a hell of a lot more than 12 dongs on the clock at midnight to make me into the person I wish was. I have a lot more to write on that subject, but I have 3 more posts to write before my husband takes the 'good' computer back.
I do have blog resolutions, though. I resolve to begin doing a pod cast at some point. In addition, I vow to create a SFTC Facebook page and Twitter page. And who knows, maybe someday I will vlog. The rest of the world deserves to see how awesome my new highlights look.
So what is your take? Are you a resolution kind of person or have you abandoned all hope? Do you have blog resolutions? If so, what are they?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
YES, YOU CAN REMOVE A SKIN TAG WITH TOE NAIL CLIPPERS, I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I JUST DID IT FIVE MINUTES AGO
Back by popular demand. You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Old Lang Syne that I will be back in 2010!
And really, what more is there to say about that topic? I wanted a short post today, well, actually I wrote this really long post -my normal length, ya know- and then my husband put this seed of doubt about it in my head, and I decided to not post it. We'll get to that in a minute.
So anylateedodaday, I'm sitting in the bathtub shaving my armpits ... as you do, and I am staring at this revolting skin tag that just hangs there screaming GOD, YOU'RE OLD AND HAG-LIKE and inevitably has a hair growing out of it, which can never be removed by the razor blade, no matter how many times you shave over it, and I got really just ... I've had it with this skin tag, it's been there since like, winter or something, ruining my ability to wear tank tops (actually a lot of things have done that, including my Oprah arms and pendulous knockers) and just making me miserable.
So I grabbed the toenail clippers and removed the offending tag. I clipped it. I snipped it. I flipped it. In the trash. Post op: pressure applied with 3 plies of TP. Bleeding stopped. Skin tag: thing of the past. Farewell extra flap of unwanted skin. Farewell.
And really, what more is there to say about that topic? I wanted a short post today, well, actually I wrote this really long post -my normal length, ya know- and then my husband put this seed of doubt about it in my head, and I decided to not post it. We'll get to that in a minute.
So anylateedodaday, I'm sitting in the bathtub shaving my armpits ... as you do, and I am staring at this revolting skin tag that just hangs there screaming GOD, YOU'RE OLD AND HAG-LIKE and inevitably has a hair growing out of it, which can never be removed by the razor blade, no matter how many times you shave over it, and I got really just ... I've had it with this skin tag, it's been there since like, winter or something, ruining my ability to wear tank tops (actually a lot of things have done that, including my Oprah arms and pendulous knockers) and just making me miserable.
So I grabbed the toenail clippers and removed the offending tag. I clipped it. I snipped it. I flipped it. In the trash. Post op: pressure applied with 3 plies of TP. Bleeding stopped. Skin tag: thing of the past. Farewell extra flap of unwanted skin. Farewell.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
THE POST-CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS GUEST POST. JUST HUMOR ME, OK? CHECK OUT PEELING AN ORANGE WITH A SCREWDRIVER.
You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Old Lang Syne that I will be back in 2010!
I meant to run this guest post BEFORE Christmas, but I ran out of days before Christmas. That being said, I still think it is wonderful and can now be applied to the dread we all feel towards taking down all of this Christmas garb. Big self-defeating sigh.
Without further ado, I present this late Christmas goody written by The Girl with Flour in Her Hair at Peeling An Orange With A Screwdriver. You should definitely check her out and follow if you do not already. She's great.
Every year, I picture my kids, husband and I putting up the Christmas tree together. We're laughing and hugging and drinking hot cider (mine might have a little rum in it). Outside the window, the snow is falling in big fluffy flakes and we're telling stories about each ornament, recalling where we got them or when we made them. We're smiling and stringing popcorn, (I'm not sure why, I don't really want popcorn on the tree. The dog would eat it. But it just looks like something a happy family should do) as we sing Christmas carols.
You know, like the freakin' Hallmark movie channel would do it.
Somehow, it never turns out that way.
I made the mistake of mentioning Christmas decorations to my son.
"Now!?! Can we put them up now?" he asks, excited.
"No, no, not right now. I said sometime soon."
"Oh," he says, bummed out for about a half a second. "How about now?"
"No! Stop! Go watch tv or something."
5 minutes later.
"Now?"
"No!"
Now imagine having this conversation at least 250 more times the next few hours. I couldn't even make eye contact with the boy, he was like a rabid dog, waiting to pounce, looking for an opening.
"NO!"
"But I didn't say anything!"
"You were going to, I could tell."
Finally, because I am weak, I give in. My husband is not home yet, so I venture into the garage and dig out the Christmas tree. To get to it, I have to move several boxes of junk, a tool box and a greasy seat from a Peterbilt semi. Grunting and groaning, covered in dust, I drag the thing into the house, three small children trailing behind me, talking excitedly about Santa.
"Santa will love our tree!" Delaney says. I wish "Santa" was here, I think, to help put the damn thing together.
"He sure will!" I say sweetly. Because I am. Sweet.
I dust off the spider webs and open the box. Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, Thy leaves are so unchanging. Because you're plastic. I lug the parts out of the box and put it together. It's the kind with the lights already on it. You know, to make things easier. I plug it in.
They don't light. Of course they don't light. Silly me.
"Why don't they light?" Nick asks.
"Because mommy's out of wine," I say.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Several minutes of switching out bulbs, jiggling wires and turning switches on and off seems to solve most of the problem. I decide that a lot of large ornaments will disguise the remaining dark parts of the tree. So, now the fun part! Ornaments!
We open the ornament box. The baby is hypnotized by the sparkling garland. The other two kids shriek and dive in like they're bobbing for apples.
"No! Slow down! You're going to...CRACK...break them." Ok, shake it off. It's a small fatality. No one's bleeding, there's plenty more ornaments.
"Sorry mom."
"That's ok, we just need to be more careful. Here, I'll hand them to you, ok? And then you can hang them up." Ah, mom, the voice of reason. I hand him and Delaney an ornament.
"AHHHH! NO! I WANT THAT ONE! I HATE THIS ONE!"
"NO! I LIKE THIS ONE! YOU CAN'T HAVE IT."
"OH GOD! Would you please stop screaming at each other? Give me that one, here, take this one. There! Is everyone happy now?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Ok! Let's decorate this tree!"
"AHHHH! DELANEY PUT HERS ON FIRST! I WANTED TO BE FIRST!"
Oh, why am I out of wine? I contemplate calling the neighbors to see if they have any wine. You can borrow sugar right? Why not wine? But I don't want you to think that I'm the kind of person that has to have alcohol to deal with stress. Because I don't. I usually use valium, but I'm all out.
"Mom, the baby has that sparkly stuff around his neck."
"Mom, remember when I made this in preschool?" Nick asks, holding up a decorated paper ornament. Yay! Here we go! Just like my little happy family fantasy.
"I sure do, it's a pretty one!" I say.
"WHY DON'T I HAVE AN ORNAMENT LIKE THAT!?" Delaney cries.
"Because you were too little for preschool last year. I bet you'll make one this year!"
"BUT I WANT ONE NOW!"
"MOM!" Nick screams. "THE BABY TORE MY ORNAMENT!" He falls to the floor, crying in distress.
The baby is chewing on the ornament. I take the paper out of his mouth. It's not very pretty anymore.
"Um, don't worry Nick. We will fix it!" I discreetly slip it into my pocket, to throw away when he's not looking. "Here, put this one on instead. No, no! Higher! The baby is going to get it!"
Somehow, we decorated the tree. Somehow, I made it through without wine (although we had plenty of "whine").
My husband comes home, very late, after the kids are in bed.
"The tree looks nice," he says. "I wish I could've been here!"
Sigh
I meant to run this guest post BEFORE Christmas, but I ran out of days before Christmas. That being said, I still think it is wonderful and can now be applied to the dread we all feel towards taking down all of this Christmas garb. Big self-defeating sigh.
Without further ado, I present this late Christmas goody written by The Girl with Flour in Her Hair at Peeling An Orange With A Screwdriver. You should definitely check her out and follow if you do not already. She's great.
Every year, I picture my kids, husband and I putting up the Christmas tree together. We're laughing and hugging and drinking hot cider (mine might have a little rum in it). Outside the window, the snow is falling in big fluffy flakes and we're telling stories about each ornament, recalling where we got them or when we made them. We're smiling and stringing popcorn, (I'm not sure why, I don't really want popcorn on the tree. The dog would eat it. But it just looks like something a happy family should do) as we sing Christmas carols.
You know, like the freakin' Hallmark movie channel would do it.
Somehow, it never turns out that way.
I made the mistake of mentioning Christmas decorations to my son.
"Now!?! Can we put them up now?" he asks, excited.
"No, no, not right now. I said sometime soon."
"Oh," he says, bummed out for about a half a second. "How about now?"
"No! Stop! Go watch tv or something."
5 minutes later.
"Now?"
"No!"
Now imagine having this conversation at least 250 more times the next few hours. I couldn't even make eye contact with the boy, he was like a rabid dog, waiting to pounce, looking for an opening.
"NO!"
"But I didn't say anything!"
"You were going to, I could tell."
Finally, because I am weak, I give in. My husband is not home yet, so I venture into the garage and dig out the Christmas tree. To get to it, I have to move several boxes of junk, a tool box and a greasy seat from a Peterbilt semi. Grunting and groaning, covered in dust, I drag the thing into the house, three small children trailing behind me, talking excitedly about Santa.
"Santa will love our tree!" Delaney says. I wish "Santa" was here, I think, to help put the damn thing together.
"He sure will!" I say sweetly. Because I am. Sweet.
I dust off the spider webs and open the box. Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, Thy leaves are so unchanging. Because you're plastic. I lug the parts out of the box and put it together. It's the kind with the lights already on it. You know, to make things easier. I plug it in.
They don't light. Of course they don't light. Silly me.
"Why don't they light?" Nick asks.
"Because mommy's out of wine," I say.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Several minutes of switching out bulbs, jiggling wires and turning switches on and off seems to solve most of the problem. I decide that a lot of large ornaments will disguise the remaining dark parts of the tree. So, now the fun part! Ornaments!
We open the ornament box. The baby is hypnotized by the sparkling garland. The other two kids shriek and dive in like they're bobbing for apples.
"No! Slow down! You're going to...CRACK...break them." Ok, shake it off. It's a small fatality. No one's bleeding, there's plenty more ornaments.
"Sorry mom."
"That's ok, we just need to be more careful. Here, I'll hand them to you, ok? And then you can hang them up." Ah, mom, the voice of reason. I hand him and Delaney an ornament.
"AHHHH! NO! I WANT THAT ONE! I HATE THIS ONE!"
"NO! I LIKE THIS ONE! YOU CAN'T HAVE IT."
"OH GOD! Would you please stop screaming at each other? Give me that one, here, take this one. There! Is everyone happy now?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Ok! Let's decorate this tree!"
"AHHHH! DELANEY PUT HERS ON FIRST! I WANTED TO BE FIRST!"
Oh, why am I out of wine? I contemplate calling the neighbors to see if they have any wine. You can borrow sugar right? Why not wine? But I don't want you to think that I'm the kind of person that has to have alcohol to deal with stress. Because I don't. I usually use valium, but I'm all out.
"Mom, the baby has that sparkly stuff around his neck."
"Mom, remember when I made this in preschool?" Nick asks, holding up a decorated paper ornament. Yay! Here we go! Just like my little happy family fantasy.
"I sure do, it's a pretty one!" I say.
"WHY DON'T I HAVE AN ORNAMENT LIKE THAT!?" Delaney cries.
"Because you were too little for preschool last year. I bet you'll make one this year!"
"BUT I WANT ONE NOW!"
"MOM!" Nick screams. "THE BABY TORE MY ORNAMENT!" He falls to the floor, crying in distress.
The baby is chewing on the ornament. I take the paper out of his mouth. It's not very pretty anymore.
"Um, don't worry Nick. We will fix it!" I discreetly slip it into my pocket, to throw away when he's not looking. "Here, put this one on instead. No, no! Higher! The baby is going to get it!"
Somehow, we decorated the tree. Somehow, I made it through without wine (although we had plenty of "whine").
My husband comes home, very late, after the kids are in bed.
"The tree looks nice," he says. "I wish I could've been here!"
Sigh
Monday, December 28, 2009
MY CHRISTMAS SUCKED. AND HOW WAS YOURS?
You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my sick family, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Old Lang Syne that I will be back in 2010!
Gift-wise, it was my most lucrative Christmas yet. I received the Coach bag of my dreams and my new Canon Rebel EOS blah, blah, blah, camera with fancy lens, et al. My son got his Wii and my daughter got her Elmos and her baby dolls. My husband got his new phone complete with mp3 player.
As it turned out, none of that mattered.
My daughter started running a high temperature the 23rd which had us at the doctor's office on Christmas Eve. We were advised to treat her symptoms and keep a close watch on her and to return on Saturday if there was no improvement.
I called my parents to let them know that I wouldn't be there on Christmas Day, the first time, I think, ever. We missed the Candlelight Service at church. We did have our Christmas feast, read Twas the Night Before Christmas, but it was all done without true merriment, because my little girl was so sick.
And then my sister called to warn me of the seriousness of the Swine Flu and that I should have her tested asap or she could be dead in a day. I called the doctor and they said to not worry, but that seed of worry had been planted.
At around 1:30 am Christmas Eve, I awoke to her whimpers and her little body was on fire. A temperature of 103 and I was calling the ER. I gave her a dose of medicine and laid with her until I felt her body slowly begin to cool.
My son was up at 6:20 but I insisted he let his sister sleep. An hour later I received a text message from my BFF that their beloved family pet had just passed away after a short illness. Another kick in the proverbial Christmas teeth.
An hour later we were up and opening gifts. My son's level of excitement was at about a 3,000 and my daughter didn't want to open anything, but just sat on my lap.
I refused to let anyone open her gifts. I knew she would do it if she weren't so sick. Long story longer, her fever continued, she refused to eat and eventually refused liquids, and she began to vomit. Christmas night we were in the ER, watching a continuous run of Elf on a 13 inch TV bolted to the wall.
She tested negative to both the flu and strep, given a strong antibiotic (which causes severe diahrea) and continues to get better.
Silver lining? I got to spend Christmas day with my little family. I didn't have to run or rush anywhere. That was nice.
Lesson learned? No matter how much you buy, or plan, or try to create a wonderful holiday for your family, sometimes God has other plans. And you just have to accept it. And be thankful that you had a family to spend it with, sick or not.
But I feel really guilty because we were so focused on my daughter, that my son had to take a big back seat, and he was such a trooper about it, but that doesn't mean that my heart does not ache for him. My poor sweet boy.
So here is hoping that your Christmas was healthy and wonderful. I will be doing scheduled posts and old favorites this week in an effort to nurse my daughter back to health and I will be in Orlando, Florida, next week to see the Mouse. And his entourage of princesses.
See you in 2010.
Gift-wise, it was my most lucrative Christmas yet. I received the Coach bag of my dreams and my new Canon Rebel EOS blah, blah, blah, camera with fancy lens, et al. My son got his Wii and my daughter got her Elmos and her baby dolls. My husband got his new phone complete with mp3 player.
As it turned out, none of that mattered.
My daughter started running a high temperature the 23rd which had us at the doctor's office on Christmas Eve. We were advised to treat her symptoms and keep a close watch on her and to return on Saturday if there was no improvement.
I called my parents to let them know that I wouldn't be there on Christmas Day, the first time, I think, ever. We missed the Candlelight Service at church. We did have our Christmas feast, read Twas the Night Before Christmas, but it was all done without true merriment, because my little girl was so sick.
And then my sister called to warn me of the seriousness of the Swine Flu and that I should have her tested asap or she could be dead in a day. I called the doctor and they said to not worry, but that seed of worry had been planted.
At around 1:30 am Christmas Eve, I awoke to her whimpers and her little body was on fire. A temperature of 103 and I was calling the ER. I gave her a dose of medicine and laid with her until I felt her body slowly begin to cool.
My son was up at 6:20 but I insisted he let his sister sleep. An hour later I received a text message from my BFF that their beloved family pet had just passed away after a short illness. Another kick in the proverbial Christmas teeth.
An hour later we were up and opening gifts. My son's level of excitement was at about a 3,000 and my daughter didn't want to open anything, but just sat on my lap.
I refused to let anyone open her gifts. I knew she would do it if she weren't so sick. Long story longer, her fever continued, she refused to eat and eventually refused liquids, and she began to vomit. Christmas night we were in the ER, watching a continuous run of Elf on a 13 inch TV bolted to the wall.
She tested negative to both the flu and strep, given a strong antibiotic (which causes severe diahrea) and continues to get better.
Silver lining? I got to spend Christmas day with my little family. I didn't have to run or rush anywhere. That was nice.
Lesson learned? No matter how much you buy, or plan, or try to create a wonderful holiday for your family, sometimes God has other plans. And you just have to accept it. And be thankful that you had a family to spend it with, sick or not.
But I feel really guilty because we were so focused on my daughter, that my son had to take a big back seat, and he was such a trooper about it, but that doesn't mean that my heart does not ache for him. My poor sweet boy.
So here is hoping that your Christmas was healthy and wonderful. I will be doing scheduled posts and old favorites this week in an effort to nurse my daughter back to health and I will be in Orlando, Florida, next week to see the Mouse. And his entourage of princesses.
See you in 2010.
Friday, December 25, 2009
CELINE DION PLUS SILENT NIGHT PLUS BABY JESUS = ME ON THE FLOOR IN A PUDDLE or MERRY CHRISTMAS! WARNING: HIT MUTE AS THIS POST MAY CONTAIN MUSIC.
Welcome! You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family and make this holiday happen, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Jingle Bells that I will be back on Monday! Merry Christmas!
When I am at home, I tend to continually blare Christmas carols from our 24 hour Christmas carol radio station, 102.1 WDOK. They are playing as I make breakfast for the kids, as I feed the dog and cats, do laundry, load the dishwasher, vacuum, shower, and write out my to-do lists. To do: listen to Christmas carols until you bleed from your ears or suffer mild hearing loss. Totally. Check.
My son was at school, and I was having lunch with my daughter, who was in her high chair, refusing to eat whatever I had given her, and feeding the dog the few scraps left on her tray. And that's when I heard it.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
ALL IS CALM.
ALL IS BRIGHT.
No music.
Just the piercing angelic voice of Celine Dion.
Queen of the leather pant suit.
And the voice of a generation.
ROUND YON VIRGIN.
MOTHER AND CHILD.
HOLY INFANT SO TENDER AND MILD.
The tears begin to flow.
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE.
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE.
Openly weeping.
I start singing along.
Singing to my daughter.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
SHEPHERDS QUAKE AT THE SIGHT.
GLORIES STREAM FROM HEAVEN AFAR.
Buckets. It is coming down in buckets.
HEAVENLY HOSTS SING ALLELUIA.
CHRIST THE SAVIOR IS BORN.
CHRIST THE SAVIOR IS BORN.
She looks kinda scared at first.
But then she starts to smile at me.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
SON OF GOD.
LOVE'S PURE LIGHT.
I start thinking how my daughter is love's pure light.
She's baby-singing nonsense words with me.
She loves my singing.
Have now morphed into ugly Oprah cry.
RADIANT BEAMS FROM THY HOLY FACE.
Start thinking of Mary with her newborn baby.
In a manger.
A holy baby.
Sent to save a wretch like me.
I'm on the floor.
In a puddle of gypsy tears.
WITH THE DAWN OF REDEEMING GRACE.
JESUS, LORD, AT THY BIRTH.
JESUS, LORD, AT THY BIRTH.
Celine Dion plus Silent Night plus Baby Jesus plus my own sweet baby.
God is good.
AMEN.
When I am at home, I tend to continually blare Christmas carols from our 24 hour Christmas carol radio station, 102.1 WDOK. They are playing as I make breakfast for the kids, as I feed the dog and cats, do laundry, load the dishwasher, vacuum, shower, and write out my to-do lists. To do: listen to Christmas carols until you bleed from your ears or suffer mild hearing loss. Totally. Check.
My son was at school, and I was having lunch with my daughter, who was in her high chair, refusing to eat whatever I had given her, and feeding the dog the few scraps left on her tray. And that's when I heard it.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
ALL IS CALM.
ALL IS BRIGHT.
No music.
Just the piercing angelic voice of Celine Dion.
Queen of the leather pant suit.
And the voice of a generation.
ROUND YON VIRGIN.
MOTHER AND CHILD.
HOLY INFANT SO TENDER AND MILD.
The tears begin to flow.
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE.
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE.
Openly weeping.
I start singing along.
Singing to my daughter.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
SHEPHERDS QUAKE AT THE SIGHT.
GLORIES STREAM FROM HEAVEN AFAR.
Buckets. It is coming down in buckets.
HEAVENLY HOSTS SING ALLELUIA.
CHRIST THE SAVIOR IS BORN.
CHRIST THE SAVIOR IS BORN.
She looks kinda scared at first.
But then she starts to smile at me.
SILENT NIGHT.
HOLY NIGHT.
SON OF GOD.
LOVE'S PURE LIGHT.
I start thinking how my daughter is love's pure light.
She's baby-singing nonsense words with me.
She loves my singing.
Have now morphed into ugly Oprah cry.
RADIANT BEAMS FROM THY HOLY FACE.
Start thinking of Mary with her newborn baby.
In a manger.
A holy baby.
Sent to save a wretch like me.
I'm on the floor.
In a puddle of gypsy tears.
WITH THE DAWN OF REDEEMING GRACE.
JESUS, LORD, AT THY BIRTH.
JESUS, LORD, AT THY BIRTH.
Celine Dion plus Silent Night plus Baby Jesus plus my own sweet baby.
God is good.
AMEN.
The staff at
Speaking from the Crib
wish you and yours
a very Merry and Blessed Christmas
And I know this is Barbara Streisand,
not Celine Dion,
but Celine was not available
Thursday, December 24, 2009
DEAR SANTA, IT IS IMPERATIVE THAT YOU READ THIS BEFORE YOUR ARRIVAL IN THE MIDWEST AREA OF THE U.S.
Welcome! You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family and make this holiday happen, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Jingle Bells that I will be back on Monday! Merry Christmas!
Dear Santa,
I know I have written some not-so-stellar accounts of my children and their attitudes towards Christmas. It is mere fodder for my blog. In all honesty, they are really great kids. But you already know that.
This year my son is dying for the Wii and the multitude of extensive and expensive accessories to go along with it and that the majority of which are related to Star Wars. I hope you can find it in your heart to place these under our tree. He really does deserve it.
He is a loving and generous son. A kind and loving brother. A smart, hard-working, and earnest student. A thoughtful and sincere friend. I could not ask for a better son. It is an honor and a gift to be able to witness him becoming such a wonderful young man. So let's do our best to get the Wii, k?
And as for my sweet little lady. I don't know what she wants outside of anything Elmo. She loves that high-pitched fuzzy freak! And secretly, so do I. What a wonder this little Elmo-loving lady is! She's the unexpected member of the family who completed it! What a privilege and a joy it is to watch her become her own little person.
No longer an eating and pooping and crying machine. She has opinions. She fights everything ... eating food, getting dressed, brushing the hair, putting on shoes, going in the car seat, you name it, she's not doing it. But I have to admit, I like her spunk. I am just so thankful for my beautiful precious daughter. So let's throw a few Elmos under the tree for her, k? And it wouldn't kill you to get her a baby doll too. I mean, it is Christmas.
As for me, Santa, my wish list has already been granted. All I ever wanted were these two amazing kids. So for me, every day is like Christmas. Every single day.
That is, if you take out the moments I lose my mind because they are making me mental and then I yell and make them cry and then I cry and then we're a total wreck.
But other than those specific times, every single day is like Christmas.
So that about wraps it up. Merry Christmas to you Santa! Travel safe! Watch out for space garbage from Russia. And reindeer flatulence. We love you! See you next year!
Love,
Kelly @ Speaking from the Crib
Dear Santa,
I know I have written some not-so-stellar accounts of my children and their attitudes towards Christmas. It is mere fodder for my blog. In all honesty, they are really great kids. But you already know that.
This year my son is dying for the Wii and the multitude of extensive and expensive accessories to go along with it and that the majority of which are related to Star Wars. I hope you can find it in your heart to place these under our tree. He really does deserve it.
He is a loving and generous son. A kind and loving brother. A smart, hard-working, and earnest student. A thoughtful and sincere friend. I could not ask for a better son. It is an honor and a gift to be able to witness him becoming such a wonderful young man. So let's do our best to get the Wii, k?
And as for my sweet little lady. I don't know what she wants outside of anything Elmo. She loves that high-pitched fuzzy freak! And secretly, so do I. What a wonder this little Elmo-loving lady is! She's the unexpected member of the family who completed it! What a privilege and a joy it is to watch her become her own little person.
No longer an eating and pooping and crying machine. She has opinions. She fights everything ... eating food, getting dressed, brushing the hair, putting on shoes, going in the car seat, you name it, she's not doing it. But I have to admit, I like her spunk. I am just so thankful for my beautiful precious daughter. So let's throw a few Elmos under the tree for her, k? And it wouldn't kill you to get her a baby doll too. I mean, it is Christmas.
As for me, Santa, my wish list has already been granted. All I ever wanted were these two amazing kids. So for me, every day is like Christmas. Every single day.
That is, if you take out the moments I lose my mind because they are making me mental and then I yell and make them cry and then I cry and then we're a total wreck.
But other than those specific times, every single day is like Christmas.
So that about wraps it up. Merry Christmas to you Santa! Travel safe! Watch out for space garbage from Russia. And reindeer flatulence. We love you! See you next year!
Love,
Kelly @ Speaking from the Crib
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS PAST or CRAP I NEED TO GET OFF MY CHEST BECAUSE I HARBOR A LOT OF PENT UP ANGER TOWARDS MY PARENTS AND OTHER CHRISTMAS STUFF
Welcome! You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family and make this holiday happen, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Jingle Bells that I will be back on Monday! Merry Christmas!
Since my mother chose to not document my life via scrapbooking, organized photograph albums, or journals, I only have a very few disturbing memories of Christmas. Let this be a lesson to you anti-scrappers. If you don't tell the story of your kids' lives, who is going to? Them? They'll only remember the bad stuff. This is proof.
One year I opened the box my baby doll was supposed to be in. It was empty. In all honesty, I don't even remember this, but my own mother was so scarred by the incident, she has told me about it every year since the year it happened. Yes, mom. I remember the year there was no doll in the box. Well, I actually don't remember it, but how could I possibly forget because you can't get over the fact that one Christmas your little girl had no baby doll and no little girl should have to be without a new baby doll on Christmas. I get it. Let's move on.
My older sister and I begged for years for a real pony. We lived on a farm. We'd had ponies in the past. It was totally doable. My parents would not budge. One year the little and let's just say it, shall we, favorite sister cries for a pony. Surprise, surprise. Guess who got a pony. Why not take out an ad in the paper, PARENTS FAVOR YOUNGEST CHILD WITH OUTLANDISH GIFT OF PONY ON CHRISTMAS MORNING. The gesture was clear. We got it. She's chubby and cute and your baby. We're annoying tweens with braces and zits. We're not getting the pony. Over and out.
My mom couldn't be bothered to disguise her own hand-writing and thus the truth of Santa was revealed to me. That got its own post over here
One year I left my fake tree up until May. I was unmarried, had no children, and worked ungodly hours. Surprisingly enough, it went really well with the rotting pumpkins on the front porch.
In college, my boyfriend (and future ex-husband) got me the clapper. Every year. It doesn't work, people. Save your money.
When we were kids, every Christmas we had to sit and wait for my dad to finish milking the cows, tend to the calves, take a bath, go next door and wheel (my grandma had polio as a girl and was in a wheel chair) my grandmother over to our house, before we could open presents. This is the equivalent of torturing seven small fluffy white kittens with white hot pokers or at the very least, super sharp sticks.
That's it.
For now.
So, what are some kooky Christmas/holiday memories that you have? Or what are ones you have created for your own children? Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
Since my mother chose to not document my life via scrapbooking, organized photograph albums, or journals, I only have a very few disturbing memories of Christmas. Let this be a lesson to you anti-scrappers. If you don't tell the story of your kids' lives, who is going to? Them? They'll only remember the bad stuff. This is proof.
One year I opened the box my baby doll was supposed to be in. It was empty. In all honesty, I don't even remember this, but my own mother was so scarred by the incident, she has told me about it every year since the year it happened. Yes, mom. I remember the year there was no doll in the box. Well, I actually don't remember it, but how could I possibly forget because you can't get over the fact that one Christmas your little girl had no baby doll and no little girl should have to be without a new baby doll on Christmas. I get it. Let's move on.
My older sister and I begged for years for a real pony. We lived on a farm. We'd had ponies in the past. It was totally doable. My parents would not budge. One year the little and let's just say it, shall we, favorite sister cries for a pony. Surprise, surprise. Guess who got a pony. Why not take out an ad in the paper, PARENTS FAVOR YOUNGEST CHILD WITH OUTLANDISH GIFT OF PONY ON CHRISTMAS MORNING. The gesture was clear. We got it. She's chubby and cute and your baby. We're annoying tweens with braces and zits. We're not getting the pony. Over and out.
My mom couldn't be bothered to disguise her own hand-writing and thus the truth of Santa was revealed to me. That got its own post over here
One year I left my fake tree up until May. I was unmarried, had no children, and worked ungodly hours. Surprisingly enough, it went really well with the rotting pumpkins on the front porch.
In college, my boyfriend (and future ex-husband) got me the clapper. Every year. It doesn't work, people. Save your money.
When we were kids, every Christmas we had to sit and wait for my dad to finish milking the cows, tend to the calves, take a bath, go next door and wheel (my grandma had polio as a girl and was in a wheel chair) my grandmother over to our house, before we could open presents. This is the equivalent of torturing seven small fluffy white kittens with white hot pokers or at the very least, super sharp sticks.
That's it.
For now.
So, what are some kooky Christmas/holiday memories that you have? Or what are ones you have created for your own children? Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
HOW YOUR KIDS CAN RUIN YOUR HOLIDAY TRADITIONS or WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER
Welcome! You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family and make this holiday happen, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Jingle Bells that I will be back on Monday! Merry Christmas!
If you want some ideas for great holiday traditions for you and your family, visit my real life gal pal, Sandy Toes at Shell In Your Pocket.
I don't remember if I got this idea from her or not, but for whatever reason I decided that I would do this Christmas Eve tradition:
Christmas Eve we go to Candlelight Services at church. Once we're all in the car to leave, I say I forgot my purse, rush back inside, and put a present under the tree, so when we get back home, there's a surprise present for my son under the tree.
The present was always the same: new pajamas to wear to bed on Christmas Eve! Great idea, right?
This went over so well with him and I was so proud of myself for starting a tradition with my little family.
He was really big into Thomas the Tank Engine, so I'd get him a Thomas shirt and some fleece bottoms to match. He would tear open the present, rip out his new PJs and run to his room to hurry and put on his new jams so we could read Twas the Night Before Christmas.
That was until Christmas 2005 when he was three years old. He opened his gift, pulled out the shirt, and yelled,
WHAT'S THIS? I WANTED A TOY, MOMMA. I WANTED A TOY!
And then proceeded to throw the shirt across the room, where it landed on my husband's head.
And this tradition's short life was ended post haste.
Tradition update: Four years later, my now 7 year old son helped me wrap the pajamas for him and his baby sister and put them under the tree, so that he could open ONE present on Christmas Eve. Tradition revived. It's just not a surprise. I couldn't take that reaction twice.
What is a holiday tradition that has gone awry on you OR just tell us a holiday tradition you share with your family. Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
If you want some ideas for great holiday traditions for you and your family, visit my real life gal pal, Sandy Toes at Shell In Your Pocket.
I don't remember if I got this idea from her or not, but for whatever reason I decided that I would do this Christmas Eve tradition:
Christmas Eve we go to Candlelight Services at church. Once we're all in the car to leave, I say I forgot my purse, rush back inside, and put a present under the tree, so when we get back home, there's a surprise present for my son under the tree.
The present was always the same: new pajamas to wear to bed on Christmas Eve! Great idea, right?
This went over so well with him and I was so proud of myself for starting a tradition with my little family.
He was really big into Thomas the Tank Engine, so I'd get him a Thomas shirt and some fleece bottoms to match. He would tear open the present, rip out his new PJs and run to his room to hurry and put on his new jams so we could read Twas the Night Before Christmas.
That was until Christmas 2005 when he was three years old. He opened his gift, pulled out the shirt, and yelled,
WHAT'S THIS? I WANTED A TOY, MOMMA. I WANTED A TOY!
And then proceeded to throw the shirt across the room, where it landed on my husband's head.
And this tradition's short life was ended post haste.
Tradition update: Four years later, my now 7 year old son helped me wrap the pajamas for him and his baby sister and put them under the tree, so that he could open ONE present on Christmas Eve. Tradition revived. It's just not a surprise. I couldn't take that reaction twice.
What is a holiday tradition that has gone awry on you OR just tell us a holiday tradition you share with your family. Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
Monday, December 21, 2009
MY VERSION OF A PERFECT CHRISTMAS or HOW YOUR KIDS AND YOUR HUSBAND USUALLY RUIN EVERYTHING INCLUDING YOUR WILL TO LIVE
Welcome! You are reading a scheduled posting. I am taking the week off to spend time with my family and make this holiday happen, so I will not be visiting any blogs this week, but you can bet your Jingle Bells that I will be back on Monday! Merry Christmas!
This was originally written for and published in my MOMS Club newsletter in December of 2005. Yes, I have been published. I also managed to weasel my other Christmas blog posts into this one post. I know. I am truly amazing. Enjoy!
Every year I have visions of the perfect holiday. The day after Thanksgiving, the first snow of the season appears with its bright fluffy flakes, prompting us to load up the family sleigh to search in a field of white for our perfectly triangular shaped live tree.
This was written before my whole put up the fake tree the day after Halloween epiphany.
After sipping on our not-too-hot-provided-free-of-charge-cocoa with the miniature marshmallows, we head home with our proud green tree, bathe and dress in our most comfortable, yet festive, attire, nibble on freshly-baked sugar cookies, while we listen to the sounds of the season and lovingly laugh and cherish each ornament as we place it carefully on our tree.
Nothing like this has ever remotely happened. Ever. Here is what actually does happen.
The first tree farm has no parking at all so you can't even get out of your car and look. PUH. I spit on them. The second tree farm has outrageously priced, shabby looking trees, and yes, it has been snowing, but now the snow has melted, and all that is left is 10 inches of mud. And your pick up truck is stuck in it.
And why is this happening to you? Because you've waited too long to get your stupid real tree and now it is easier to find a three-headed snowman than to find a decent tree.
This was written before I had my fake trees are the greatest epiphany.
You sneak this tree (which is actually just a really really tallish overgrown shrub, it should be embarrassed to even call itself a tree ... I mean, the gall) into your house because you know you've just purchased the most over-priced, ugliest bushy-looking thing in the world, and you don't want your neighbors to even see it. You are little more than a tinsel-covered farce.
Once inside, what do you then realize? This bush is much too tall to fit inside your home. This is when your husband decides it is going to take a bit more effort than he is willing to invest to take it back outside to cut it down. Instead he does it on your recently installed cream carpet.
I can still feel the anger welling up inside of me. Still.
This not only involves a mess that should be reported to CNN for its capacity to destroy berber, but it makes your tree even that much uglier, because your husband does not cut from the BOTTOM of the tree but from the TOP.
Now you have a quadrangle-shaped bush standing boldly in the middle of your living room, trying to pass itself off as a Christmas tree. It may as well be a big stinky dump with lights thrown on it. Both are just as disgusting.
Now you prepare for the decorating of the tree and are startled (as you are every year) that this is ALL you have to decorate with. There has got to be some Christmas bandit who steals half of your stash on December 26th of each year.
You are listening to your 17 year old boom box from college that is sitting on top of the fridge and can't play a CD without skipping at least 5 times a minute, because your kids will not stop shutting off the good stereo. Either way, there is no "easy listening" about it.
Your freshly baked sugar cookies are 2 week old store bought cookies that they had at the Home Depot check out line.
Your husband is zero help as he is snoring loudly in his chair or on the couch whilst the television is blaring some insignificant sporting event that Cleveland is probably losing. Except if it's the Cavs. I heart Lebron James.
Your kids are picking out the oldest, most valuable, and fragile ornaments to put on the tree, which has you yelling 'PUT THAT DOWN' and 'DON'T YOU DARE DROP THAT' and 'NO TOUCH ... NO TOUCH ... I SAID NO TOUCH' an ungodly amount of times.
Your mud-crusted mom jeans are feeling too tight from all of the cookies and eggnog you're consuming in an effort to find pleasure in something.
The tree is decorated and manages to look like little more than a very sparkly bush. Or a turd with lights. See above.
What a disaster, right?
WRONG! WRONG! YA BIG DING DONG!
This was originally written for and published in my MOMS Club newsletter in December of 2005. Yes, I have been published. I also managed to weasel my other Christmas blog posts into this one post. I know. I am truly amazing. Enjoy!
Every year I have visions of the perfect holiday. The day after Thanksgiving, the first snow of the season appears with its bright fluffy flakes, prompting us to load up the family sleigh to search in a field of white for our perfectly triangular shaped live tree.
This was written before my whole put up the fake tree the day after Halloween epiphany.
After sipping on our not-too-hot-provided-free-of-charge-cocoa with the miniature marshmallows, we head home with our proud green tree, bathe and dress in our most comfortable, yet festive, attire, nibble on freshly-baked sugar cookies, while we listen to the sounds of the season and lovingly laugh and cherish each ornament as we place it carefully on our tree.
Nothing like this has ever remotely happened. Ever. Here is what actually does happen.
The first tree farm has no parking at all so you can't even get out of your car and look. PUH. I spit on them. The second tree farm has outrageously priced, shabby looking trees, and yes, it has been snowing, but now the snow has melted, and all that is left is 10 inches of mud. And your pick up truck is stuck in it.
And why is this happening to you? Because you've waited too long to get your stupid real tree and now it is easier to find a three-headed snowman than to find a decent tree.
This was written before I had my fake trees are the greatest epiphany.
It takes 30 minutes to get the truck out of the mud, with your husband swearing at the tree farm staff the entire time, and this is when you want to get out of the truck, lie face down in the mud, and die slowly of embarrassment.
Don't ask why he yells at the tree farm staff about his truck being stuck in the mud. He doesn't need a reason. He does it because he is a male. Because he drives a pick up truck. Because he doesn't need chainsaws to cut down Christmas trees. But somehow it does make him feel better about being the idiot who got the truck stuck in the first place.
You drive off (eventually) and end up right where you should've started: Home Depot. You pick one of the three trees they have left, and go home.
Don't ask why he yells at the tree farm staff about his truck being stuck in the mud. He doesn't need a reason. He does it because he is a male. Because he drives a pick up truck. Because he doesn't need chainsaws to cut down Christmas trees. But somehow it does make him feel better about being the idiot who got the truck stuck in the first place.
You drive off (eventually) and end up right where you should've started: Home Depot. You pick one of the three trees they have left, and go home.
You sneak this tree (which is actually just a really really tallish overgrown shrub, it should be embarrassed to even call itself a tree ... I mean, the gall) into your house because you know you've just purchased the most over-priced, ugliest bushy-looking thing in the world, and you don't want your neighbors to even see it. You are little more than a tinsel-covered farce.
Once inside, what do you then realize? This bush is much too tall to fit inside your home. This is when your husband decides it is going to take a bit more effort than he is willing to invest to take it back outside to cut it down. Instead he does it on your recently installed cream carpet.
I can still feel the anger welling up inside of me. Still.
This not only involves a mess that should be reported to CNN for its capacity to destroy berber, but it makes your tree even that much uglier, because your husband does not cut from the BOTTOM of the tree but from the TOP.
Now you have a quadrangle-shaped bush standing boldly in the middle of your living room, trying to pass itself off as a Christmas tree. It may as well be a big stinky dump with lights thrown on it. Both are just as disgusting.
Now you prepare for the decorating of the tree and are startled (as you are every year) that this is ALL you have to decorate with. There has got to be some Christmas bandit who steals half of your stash on December 26th of each year.
You are listening to your 17 year old boom box from college that is sitting on top of the fridge and can't play a CD without skipping at least 5 times a minute, because your kids will not stop shutting off the good stereo. Either way, there is no "easy listening" about it.
Your freshly baked sugar cookies are 2 week old store bought cookies that they had at the Home Depot check out line.
Your husband is zero help as he is snoring loudly in his chair or on the couch whilst the television is blaring some insignificant sporting event that Cleveland is probably losing. Except if it's the Cavs. I heart Lebron James.
Your kids are picking out the oldest, most valuable, and fragile ornaments to put on the tree, which has you yelling 'PUT THAT DOWN' and 'DON'T YOU DARE DROP THAT' and 'NO TOUCH ... NO TOUCH ... I SAID NO TOUCH' an ungodly amount of times.
Your mud-crusted mom jeans are feeling too tight from all of the cookies and eggnog you're consuming in an effort to find pleasure in something.
The tree is decorated and manages to look like little more than a very sparkly bush. Or a turd with lights. See above.
What a disaster, right?
WRONG! WRONG! YA BIG DING DONG!
What I have realized is that while we all want the perfect traditions, the perfect Christmas, the perfect behavior, and the perfect memories, there will never be such a thing because we're human and we screw up. It's what we do. Especially the kids and the husbands.
But the screw ups are what make the best memories. How boring and unmemorable would the story be if the tree had been perfect, if the decorations went unbroken, if the cookies were home-baked and delicious, and if everyone were on their very best behavior?
It is the screw ups, the fiascoes, and the disasters that truly give us our best holiday memories; the things we will laugh about (eventually) and remember for a lifetime.
So this Christmas season when you feel things careening out of control, not going quite to plan, and (gasp!) less than "perfect," just take a minute to sit back, relax, watch, and remember these crazy moments. Because chances are those are the ones that will make this holiday season truly memorable for your family for years to come
So how about you? Do you tend to idealize situations ie Clark Griswold Christmas or do you tend to just go with the flow? Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments!
But the screw ups are what make the best memories. How boring and unmemorable would the story be if the tree had been perfect, if the decorations went unbroken, if the cookies were home-baked and delicious, and if everyone were on their very best behavior?
It is the screw ups, the fiascoes, and the disasters that truly give us our best holiday memories; the things we will laugh about (eventually) and remember for a lifetime.
So this Christmas season when you feel things careening out of control, not going quite to plan, and (gasp!) less than "perfect," just take a minute to sit back, relax, watch, and remember these crazy moments. Because chances are those are the ones that will make this holiday season truly memorable for your family for years to come
So how about you? Do you tend to idealize situations ie Clark Griswold Christmas or do you tend to just go with the flow? Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments!
Friday, December 18, 2009
SFTC PRESENTS: TOP BLOG OF THE WEEK - HOW NOT TO WRITE A BOOK
This Top Blog is a Canadian writer, wife, and mother of two. She sites numerous ways to prevent yourself from writing, including, having kids, reading, make taking care of your health, your family, and your home a priority, become a project junkie, and interact with the outside world. She makes it seem easy, no? Without further ado, you know her as The Waylaid Wordsmith. I know her as a wonderful, thoughtful, and interesting writer! Please give a warm round of applause for my Top Blog of the Week
So here's the million dollar question you ask yourself when you're invited to be the top blog of the week on Speaking From The Crib: what the hell do I write about when the words I spew are going to be read by 500-odd strangers who expect to be entertained?
After I stopped hyperventilating, I began to give the issue some real thought. I could tell you about accidentally balding my toddler, or the lengths I will go to just to avoid ironing, or expound on exactly how it feels to have a baby drool in your eye...but those are things I write about on my blog. This is SFTC! I need something bigger!
I know! Posts about poop and other bodily functions have been met with great fanfare all over the blogging world lately. I'm fresh out of hilarious pooping tales...but how about a puke story? I could tell you about the time in high school that I had a grape soda with my scrambled eggs for breakfast (oh, don't pretend like that doesn't sound delicious to you too), then hurled neon purple all over a bus stop full of strangers who no doubt went home that night to look up what scary new disease induces Grape Crush-hued vomiting. Or how about the two occasions my husband made me laugh so hard I threw up? True story.
No, forget the puke. I have a better idea. What's the only thing people like more than side-splitting bathroom stories? Confessions! Lurid, brutal truths you never thought you'd know about someone. Getting to know a person up close and personal, the TMI way.
So here you go, Crib lovers new and old, just for you...a list of things nobody else in the world knows about yours truly:
1. I look at my poop before I flush. Don't act so grossed out, I bet you do it too. I like to know what came out of me. And you know what else...if it's beyond a certain size, I never fail to feel a little pride.
2. The most crushing moment of my childhood was not learning that Santa Claus is a dirty rotten lie...it was being told that 'Indiana Jones' is not a viable career choice.
3. A lot of my basic life philosophies can be best expressed with George Carlin sketches, and I'm not sure what that says about me as a person.
4. At least three times a week I eat the tattered leftovers off my one-year-old's high chair tray because I'm too lazy to make myself lunch.
5. I would eat cookies for breakfast in a heartbeat if my five-year-old weren't watching. So I sneak them with my coffee instead.
6. When I write something on the internet that includes the word colour, neighbour, flavour, honour or anything similar, I always wonder anxiously if people think I can't spell. I can, I swear. I'm just Canadian, the extra U's go with the territory.
7. I think having kids is great because you can shamelessly fart in public and blame it on someone who can't talk yet. Hell yes, I really do this! And if you have a kid I know you do too (or if you didn't before, you will now!).
There you have it - a post about my favourite topic - me! It's been an honour to have the chance to post here at Speaking From The Crib, one of my all-time favourite places to come and be entertained when I'm procrastinating, need a laugh, or any other time at all. Thanks for having me!
Oh no, WW, thank you for entertaining me! Now be a good SFTC follower and give her a visit and a follow. It's really very simple and nothing says 'Christmas' like doubling someone's following. Nothing. No topic today... just give me a little wave to let me know you stopped by and have a great (busy) weekend!
Also, please take a sec to scroll down and check out this week's awards post. Thanks!
Oh no, WW, thank you for entertaining me! Now be a good SFTC follower and give her a visit and a follow. It's really very simple and nothing says 'Christmas' like doubling someone's following. Nothing. No topic today... just give me a little wave to let me know you stopped by and have a great (busy) weekend!
Also, please take a sec to scroll down and check out this week's awards post. Thanks!
NEW AND IMPROVED TIMELY AWARDS POST, DECEMBER 18, 2009
I received the Happy Award from Alissa at Slightly More than Dirt Thanks girl! I forward this award to Sarah from a life more exciting
I received the Lemonade Stand Award from Just Playin' at Real Life in A Minute Thanks JP! And Teresha at Marlie & Me. Thanks T! I forward this award to Boops Does Tulsa.
I received the I Heart Your Blog Award from The Stroller Ballet Thanks girl! I forward this award to The Boob Nazi at How Could You Not?!
I received the Circle of Friends award from Sara at Sara Spelled Without An H I forward this award to my blog roll. Because it's just easier and I am very lazy.
I received the Heartfelt Blogger Award and the Kreativ Blogger Award from Teresha at Marlie & Me You are pouring on the accolades madam! Three awards in one post! Wow! I forward the Heartfelt Blogger Award to Michelle Hoad at Table for Nine and the Kreativ Blogger Award to The Stroller Ballet.
Thanks to all of the bloggers who gave me these awards and please take a minute to check out these great blogs I've awarded!
I received the Lemonade Stand Award from Just Playin' at Real Life in A Minute Thanks JP! And Teresha at Marlie & Me. Thanks T! I forward this award to Boops Does Tulsa.
I received the I Heart Your Blog Award from The Stroller Ballet Thanks girl! I forward this award to The Boob Nazi at How Could You Not?!
I received the Circle of Friends award from Sara at Sara Spelled Without An H I forward this award to my blog roll. Because it's just easier and I am very lazy.
I received the Heartfelt Blogger Award and the Kreativ Blogger Award from Teresha at Marlie & Me You are pouring on the accolades madam! Three awards in one post! Wow! I forward the Heartfelt Blogger Award to Michelle Hoad at Table for Nine and the Kreativ Blogger Award to The Stroller Ballet.
Thanks to all of the bloggers who gave me these awards and please take a minute to check out these great blogs I've awarded!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
SFTC PRESENTS GUEST BLOGGER, MICHELLE HOAD, AUTHOR OF TABLE FOR NINE or MOST BORING TITLE EVER. SORRY. READ IT ANYHOW.
I came across Michelle Hoad's blog post at Table for Nine a couple of weeks ago and fell in love with it. Whether you are Christian, Jew, Buddhist, or other, I don't feel it matters. What it is about is recognizing what is important in our lives, being grateful for what we do have, and finding peace. Enjoy. And go follow her too. It wouldn't kill you. And it is Christmas/Hanukkah.
While I was unpacking all my Christmas decorations, I realized that I still can't find the baby Jesus from one of my nativity sets. I don't know how he got lost, but he is. Last year, I checked several stores to see if I could buy just Jesus, but the only ones I found were almost life size and I only need one about an inch long. So for now, Mary, Joseph and the wise men all stare at an empty cradle.
While I was unpacking all my Christmas decorations, I realized that I still can't find the baby Jesus from one of my nativity sets. I don't know how he got lost, but he is. Last year, I checked several stores to see if I could buy just Jesus, but the only ones I found were almost life size and I only need one about an inch long. So for now, Mary, Joseph and the wise men all stare at an empty cradle.
It for me is a symbol of what Christmas seems to have become. An empty cradle and people all dressed up, bearing gifts. I don't want to rob my kids of the thrill of waking up on Christmas morning and seeing all the goodies that Santa brought, but I would love to find a way to put Christ back in Christmas. This morning I read the following article from Dave Ramsey:
No matter what your budget is this Christmas, remember to be thankful. Take a deep breath in the middle of all this craziness.
You might have a lot. You might have a little. If you are driving a beater, be thankful for that beater. You would rather drive that than walk, wouldn't you? There is always something to be thankful for.
That's what contentment is all about. When you understand and really grasp contentment, it becomes easier to save money and invest. Stress slowly disappears. Budgeting is easier. Relationships improve.
Be happy with what you have. More than three billion people, almost half the world, live on $2.50 a day. Sometimes we need a little perspective to become content with our current situation.
Without contentment, it's easy to be bitter and apathetic. Happiness is sold to us, especially during this time of year. We think if we can just get one more piece of stuff that "true" happiness will be right around the corner.
We say things like, "I'll be happy when I get that house!" or "I'll be happy when I get that new car!" But happiness cannot be bought. Sure fun—in the form of a house, a car, a new LCD television—can be bought, but fun is temporary. True happiness, or contentment, is lasting.
You can get out of debt, save money, and get on a budget, but until you realize that stuff doesn’t bring contentment, you will always feel stressed and unhappy. Contentment brings peace. And isn’t this time of year about bringing "peace on earth and good will toward men"?
Remember what this deal is all about. It's not about trees, lights, gifts, baked hams, and shopping malls. It’s about a little child who was born in a manger and grew up to die on a cross. It’s about peace on earth and good will toward men.
So if the Christmas frenzy is wearing you out, you've missed the point of Christmas. Make a plan with your money, and make a plan to get back in touch with the true meaning of this special day.
You are invited to Dave's Give Like No One Else Christmas at DaveRamsey.com. Daily giveaways and great articles will make you want to check back every day to see what's new.
For now, I think I'll leave the manger empty. It will hopefully remind me to fill it up every day in other ways. Cause even though I'm leaving it empty, I still need Jesus.Wednesday, December 16, 2009
SPEAKING FROM THE LIBRARY: PEOPLE WHO WILL NEVER BE ZOOLOGISTS FOR $500 ALEX, EDITION
It's been awhile since we went to the library. It's high time, isn't it? If you are new around here, it is where my followers create captions based on a picture I post. This week we're using some great stuff from our good friends over at www.failblog.org.
The most laugh-worthy submissions will have their blog and comment featured in my next SPEAKING FROM THE LIBRARY post. But in all honesty I can't figure out what you would say about this week's caption. I just find it hilarious and wanted to share. But feel free to have at it. If you make me laugh, you could be featured in my next SFTL post!
Let's start off with our last submission, the Unfortunate Hitchhiker. If you want to see all of the comments, go here. Thanks to everyone who participated!
I think that is hilarious. Don't you? Leave me your submissions or just a chuckle to let me know you visited the crib and I'll be sure to repay the visit.
The most laugh-worthy submissions will have their blog and comment featured in my next SPEAKING FROM THE LIBRARY post. But in all honesty I can't figure out what you would say about this week's caption. I just find it hilarious and wanted to share. But feel free to have at it. If you make me laugh, you could be featured in my next SFTL post!
Let's start off with our last submission, the Unfortunate Hitchhiker. If you want to see all of the comments, go here. Thanks to everyone who participated!
The winner is Insanity Kim at
Dude, I'm axing you for a ride...
Now it is time for today's post. Working Title: Really Stupid People Who Know How to Read and Write and Make Posters, but Who Are Clearly Not Zoologists
I think that is hilarious. Don't you? Leave me your submissions or just a chuckle to let me know you visited the crib and I'll be sure to repay the visit.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
THIS YEAR'S MOST HIGHLY-ANTICIPATED POST: SANTA - THE LIE.
I was probably too old to believe in Santa. Third or fourth grade. But I was firm in my belief. Why? Because my mother told me he was real, and my mother did not lie. Ever.
I do not recall what caused me to question Santa's authenticity, but it occurred around the time of the Polaroid camera explosion. Every household had one. It was quick. It was convenient. And it was what I wanted. I wanted proof. I wanted Polaroids.
I left Santa a note in my stocking citing exactly what shots I needed to verify his existence. They were as follows:
A Polaroid of him with Mrs. Claus.
A Polaroid of him at the North Pole.
A Polaroid of him with his sleigh and reindeer, including Rudolph.
A Polaroid of him with his sack of toys.
A Polaroid of him inside my house.
Christmas morning arrives. I flee down the steps to my stocking, dump it on the stairs and shuffle through the mish-mash to find the Polaroids. Much to my dismay, instead of Polaroids, I found a note, clearly written in my mother's handwriting, giving some flimsy excuse about his camera being broken or being low on film or some such happy horsesh*t.
The room began to spin. I couldn't believe it. It was all a big fat hairy ... LIE! It's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie! My own mother lied to me. My own mother.
I didn't take it well.
Which brings us to the present day and my issues with Santa.
I struggled when my son was younger about whether or not to participate in the Santa mythology. I did not want to lie to him. I did not want him to be angry with me for lying to him. I did not want there to be an end of the magic for him. But I also didn't want to take away from his Christmas by not having Santa be a part of it.
In the end, I found myself caught up in the tradition and just going along with it. It felt normal and natural. It was what had been told to me. And quite honestly, I didn't know how to do Christmas without Santa being a part of it.
Now my son is seven and in first grade. I know the magic is not long for his world. He has told me here and there that this person or that says Santa isn't real. And in his most serious sweet baby boy voice, he tells me,
I believe in him, mom. Don't you?
And what is a mother to say?
Of course, I believe in him. Of course. He's as real as the nose on your face.
So, this is a tough one, and worthy of some discussion.
If you have kids, do you or do you not include Santa in your Christmas?
If you do not include Santa, how do you work that out with the kids?
If you grew up with Santa, how did you handle it when you found out it was a lie?
If you don't have kids, what do you think you will end up doing? Santa or no Santa?
There's something for everyone here. Whatever you have for me, please post it in the comments!
I do not recall what caused me to question Santa's authenticity, but it occurred around the time of the Polaroid camera explosion. Every household had one. It was quick. It was convenient. And it was what I wanted. I wanted proof. I wanted Polaroids.
I left Santa a note in my stocking citing exactly what shots I needed to verify his existence. They were as follows:
A Polaroid of him with Mrs. Claus.
A Polaroid of him at the North Pole.
A Polaroid of him with his sleigh and reindeer, including Rudolph.
A Polaroid of him with his sack of toys.
A Polaroid of him inside my house.
Christmas morning arrives. I flee down the steps to my stocking, dump it on the stairs and shuffle through the mish-mash to find the Polaroids. Much to my dismay, instead of Polaroids, I found a note, clearly written in my mother's handwriting, giving some flimsy excuse about his camera being broken or being low on film or some such happy horsesh*t.
The room began to spin. I couldn't believe it. It was all a big fat hairy ... LIE! It's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie! My own mother lied to me. My own mother.
I didn't take it well.
Which brings us to the present day and my issues with Santa.
I struggled when my son was younger about whether or not to participate in the Santa mythology. I did not want to lie to him. I did not want him to be angry with me for lying to him. I did not want there to be an end of the magic for him. But I also didn't want to take away from his Christmas by not having Santa be a part of it.
In the end, I found myself caught up in the tradition and just going along with it. It felt normal and natural. It was what had been told to me. And quite honestly, I didn't know how to do Christmas without Santa being a part of it.
Now my son is seven and in first grade. I know the magic is not long for his world. He has told me here and there that this person or that says Santa isn't real. And in his most serious sweet baby boy voice, he tells me,
I believe in him, mom. Don't you?
And what is a mother to say?
Of course, I believe in him. Of course. He's as real as the nose on your face.
So, this is a tough one, and worthy of some discussion.
If you have kids, do you or do you not include Santa in your Christmas?
If you do not include Santa, how do you work that out with the kids?
If you grew up with Santa, how did you handle it when you found out it was a lie?
If you don't have kids, what do you think you will end up doing? Santa or no Santa?
There's something for everyone here. Whatever you have for me, please post it in the comments!
Monday, December 14, 2009
YOUR EARLY CHRISTMAS PRESENT - A SHORT POST. I KNOW, I CAN'T BELIEVE IT EITHER.
Ten years ago, I had the worst Christmas ever. I was getting divorced from my first husband. No kids. Married four years but had been together fifteen. Our house was on the market but hadn't sold, so we were still living under the same roof. He decided to go to his family in South Carolina for the holidays, so I was alone. There was no Christmas tree. No presents. I just wanted the whole mess to be over so things could get back to normal. So people could stop reminding me how happy they were, which only made me feel even sadder.
Ten years later, and I am looking forward to Christmas Day with unbridled anticipation! I have two beautiful children, a supportive husband, my entire family, my wonderful friends, my health, my home, my faith, my Christmas tree, all the gifts to give, and so much more. When I stop and think about it, I have nothing to be sad about at all. Nothing.
It is a blessing.
So for those of you out there who may be having your worst Christmas ever, have faith! It won't always be so crap. Ten years can make quite a difference.
That is if you're still alive by then.
Let's have it, your WORST or your BEST Christmas ever. Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments!
Ten years later, and I am looking forward to Christmas Day with unbridled anticipation! I have two beautiful children, a supportive husband, my entire family, my wonderful friends, my health, my home, my faith, my Christmas tree, all the gifts to give, and so much more. When I stop and think about it, I have nothing to be sad about at all. Nothing.
It is a blessing.
So for those of you out there who may be having your worst Christmas ever, have faith! It won't always be so crap. Ten years can make quite a difference.
That is if you're still alive by then.
Let's have it, your WORST or your BEST Christmas ever. Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments!
Friday, December 11, 2009
SFTC PRESENTS: TOP BLOG OF THE WEEK, A NAME IN YOUR RECOLLECTION
He's an Aussie and he's a he and that's about all I know about him. He's appears to be funny and to weave a good tale and that's all I require in a blog. I have followed him for awhile and I think the first post was about a guy who had to wear a dress to his friend's funeral and then the next one was about his deceased dog. At the time I didn't know he only did a couple posts a week. So he would comment on my blog and I would visit his blog to return the favor, and again would be the story of the dead dog or the guy in the dress. Both wonderful and moving posts, but quite depressing. But it left you wanting more. Then he rocked it with his Friday Facebook Fails. This is where morons write stupid stuff on Facebook. It's wonderful. I look forward to this like you would not believe. He has been the recipient of my awards and I believe I have written the name of his blog wrong numerous times, and he is such a gentleman, he's never said one word. Without further ado, you know him as ScoMan, and so do I. Please give a warm round of applause for my Top Blog of the Week
Hello Listeners of the Crib! A few weeks ago, our kind and generous host asked us a question. Why Am I A Weirdo Magnet? Well, I read that post and thought "Really? Is that all you have? Because I've got plenty of weirdo stories".. and now she's given me the opportunity to share some of those with you.
But before I start, I would like you to consider this as you read. Why is it that certain people attract the freaks out there. The stories I'm going to share with you are both from family vacations. I have three brothers and my parents, but out of the six of us the freaks would always cling to me. And in the second story, there was also six cousins, uncles, aunties and my grandparents and I was the one who attracted the oddball.
One of two scientific theories could be used to describe this phenomenon. Firstly, as I am a positive ion of society, it would be logical to assume I would attract the negative ions. Alternatively, a great scientific fact as well as a passable schoolyard insult, birds of a feather flock together (don't worry, there's no more Science in today's post. I'll get to the weird sex stuff in a minute. There. That should keep you reading)
Now the first story I am going to give you today I have already commented on someone's blog. It may have even been the weirdo magnet one.. I'm not sure. It takes place up on the sunny Gold Coast when I was maybe 13 or 14. (This is Australia's version of Florida or California). I was sitting on the beach with my brothers who would have been about 11 and 9. I'm guessing here, I really don't remember.
Anyway, there we were probably stuffing sand in each others bathers or enjoying a peaceful conversation about world politics (as teenage siblings either one is a likely scenario) when this Scottish guy who would have been in his early 20's approaches us, making a beeline straight for me.
This is the bit where I went a bit hazy in the comment I left. I have since talked to my brother, who has helped clear things up.
This guy was in Australia for one reason only. To get laid. And he wasn't just going to walk up to a girl and try some cheesy pickup line. No that was so far beneath him. No this guy had a complex plan, and to pull it off he needed my help.
He wanted me to go out into the water, splash around a bit, scream for help and he'd dive in and save me making sure to drag me past the pretty girls so he could smile at them on the way back. What would I get out of all of this? Well, he said he'd claim not to know mouth to mouth and get one of the girls to perform it on me.
Being that this guy smelt of the whacky tobaccy, I really didn't trust his ability to drag me back to land safely. I saw flashes of him dragging us both under, and so politely I declined.
He kept pushing the point, telling me how beach girls all love David Hasselhoff and how this plan was foolproof and how guys need to stick together if they want to get the girl and help each other out but I just kept smiling and saying "No thanks".
The last time I saw him he was running up the beach screaming in a female voice "I love you David Hasselhoff!".. and I might have only been young at the time, but I was pretty sure that wasn't going to help him in his mission.
I believe these days he's writing Pepsi Max commercials.
The next one happened a few years later. It must have been the second last time I ever went camping, because the last time I went camping I locked myself in my tent for the week and read a lot of books.
So anyway, this day we must have been playing hide and seek or something... I can't remember, I just remember not wanting to be found, and my desire to not want to be found surpassed my dislike for new people, so I headed over to the next camp and walked into their caravan (an open door is an invitation, right?)
Being the observer of all things around me that I am, I knew I'd only find an old man there on his own. Okay, so technically this time the freak didn't seek me out, it was me that sought out the freak.
Anyway, I got to talking to him and after awhile my cousins came down and they started talking to him too. And then my brothers. And soon this old man had a caravan full of strange teenagers, but he didn't seem to mind.
I went back every day just after lunch and kept him company. He seemed lonely, and being a teenager I didn't mind having a break from my family, so it worked for both of us. Sometimes my cousins or brothers would join me, sometimes not.
With only a few days left to go in the week my brother said to me...
"I don't think you should take Mindi (our dog) down there any more" *Giggles*
"Why not? She seems to like playing with his dog. They get along great"
"It's not his dog I'm worried about"
*More giggles.. me wondering what's going on*
"What are you worried about?"
"Just look at his dogs arsehole next time you're there. That's all I'm saying"
*Laughter from my brother and my cousins*
And I did. And yes, the dog did have a very big bum hole for a very little dog. Whether the old guy was guilty or not, for a long time to my family I was "the one who became friends with the old man who bums dogs."
Safe to say I don't think Pepsi Max will be making a commercial about that.
As a side note, after we went home the old guy came down to the camp looking for me and telling the family that were left what a nice young man I am. My uncle got insanely jealous because I hardly say two words to him (his theory was because he'd never had sex with an animal. He asked if that would make me open up to him, and I didn't respond)
Those of you who are left standing, thank you for taking the time to read this. I know I tend to ramble once I get started, but I only write one blog a week so I put everything I have into it.
And thank you to the wonderful Speaker From The Crib for giving me the opportunity to share these stories of stoners and bestiality with the world. Because these stories need to be told too.
Thank you so much Scoman. Only you could make beastiality PG-13. Now God only knows what kind of whack jobs are going to start following both of us. Now be a good SFTC follower and head on over to Scoman's place to leave him a comment and follow. Seriously, this is such an easy blog to follow, he only posts 2-3 times a week, he does follow back, and is a faithful commenter. What more can I say? I love this blog.
I'm not even going to attempt to get a discussion going on this! Everyone have a great weekend, I will see you on Monday! Just leave me a holla holla holla to let me know you were here!
And please take a sec to scroll down and see this week's awards post. Thanks to all of the award givers and congrats to all the award recipients!
I Told You I Was Freaky...
Hello Listeners of the Crib! A few weeks ago, our kind and generous host asked us a question. Why Am I A Weirdo Magnet? Well, I read that post and thought "Really? Is that all you have? Because I've got plenty of weirdo stories".. and now she's given me the opportunity to share some of those with you.
But before I start, I would like you to consider this as you read. Why is it that certain people attract the freaks out there. The stories I'm going to share with you are both from family vacations. I have three brothers and my parents, but out of the six of us the freaks would always cling to me. And in the second story, there was also six cousins, uncles, aunties and my grandparents and I was the one who attracted the oddball.
One of two scientific theories could be used to describe this phenomenon. Firstly, as I am a positive ion of society, it would be logical to assume I would attract the negative ions. Alternatively, a great scientific fact as well as a passable schoolyard insult, birds of a feather flock together (don't worry, there's no more Science in today's post. I'll get to the weird sex stuff in a minute. There. That should keep you reading)
Now the first story I am going to give you today I have already commented on someone's blog. It may have even been the weirdo magnet one.. I'm not sure. It takes place up on the sunny Gold Coast when I was maybe 13 or 14. (This is Australia's version of Florida or California). I was sitting on the beach with my brothers who would have been about 11 and 9. I'm guessing here, I really don't remember.
Anyway, there we were probably stuffing sand in each others bathers or enjoying a peaceful conversation about world politics (as teenage siblings either one is a likely scenario) when this Scottish guy who would have been in his early 20's approaches us, making a beeline straight for me.
This is the bit where I went a bit hazy in the comment I left. I have since talked to my brother, who has helped clear things up.
This guy was in Australia for one reason only. To get laid. And he wasn't just going to walk up to a girl and try some cheesy pickup line. No that was so far beneath him. No this guy had a complex plan, and to pull it off he needed my help.
He wanted me to go out into the water, splash around a bit, scream for help and he'd dive in and save me making sure to drag me past the pretty girls so he could smile at them on the way back. What would I get out of all of this? Well, he said he'd claim not to know mouth to mouth and get one of the girls to perform it on me.
Being that this guy smelt of the whacky tobaccy, I really didn't trust his ability to drag me back to land safely. I saw flashes of him dragging us both under, and so politely I declined.
He kept pushing the point, telling me how beach girls all love David Hasselhoff and how this plan was foolproof and how guys need to stick together if they want to get the girl and help each other out but I just kept smiling and saying "No thanks".
The last time I saw him he was running up the beach screaming in a female voice "I love you David Hasselhoff!".. and I might have only been young at the time, but I was pretty sure that wasn't going to help him in his mission.
I believe these days he's writing Pepsi Max commercials.
The next one happened a few years later. It must have been the second last time I ever went camping, because the last time I went camping I locked myself in my tent for the week and read a lot of books.
So anyway, this day we must have been playing hide and seek or something... I can't remember, I just remember not wanting to be found, and my desire to not want to be found surpassed my dislike for new people, so I headed over to the next camp and walked into their caravan (an open door is an invitation, right?)
Being the observer of all things around me that I am, I knew I'd only find an old man there on his own. Okay, so technically this time the freak didn't seek me out, it was me that sought out the freak.
Anyway, I got to talking to him and after awhile my cousins came down and they started talking to him too. And then my brothers. And soon this old man had a caravan full of strange teenagers, but he didn't seem to mind.
I went back every day just after lunch and kept him company. He seemed lonely, and being a teenager I didn't mind having a break from my family, so it worked for both of us. Sometimes my cousins or brothers would join me, sometimes not.
With only a few days left to go in the week my brother said to me...
"I don't think you should take Mindi (our dog) down there any more" *Giggles*
"Why not? She seems to like playing with his dog. They get along great"
"It's not his dog I'm worried about"
*More giggles.. me wondering what's going on*
"What are you worried about?"
"Just look at his dogs arsehole next time you're there. That's all I'm saying"
*Laughter from my brother and my cousins*
And I did. And yes, the dog did have a very big bum hole for a very little dog. Whether the old guy was guilty or not, for a long time to my family I was "the one who became friends with the old man who bums dogs."
Safe to say I don't think Pepsi Max will be making a commercial about that.
As a side note, after we went home the old guy came down to the camp looking for me and telling the family that were left what a nice young man I am. My uncle got insanely jealous because I hardly say two words to him (his theory was because he'd never had sex with an animal. He asked if that would make me open up to him, and I didn't respond)
Those of you who are left standing, thank you for taking the time to read this. I know I tend to ramble once I get started, but I only write one blog a week so I put everything I have into it.
And thank you to the wonderful Speaker From The Crib for giving me the opportunity to share these stories of stoners and bestiality with the world. Because these stories need to be told too.
Thank you so much Scoman. Only you could make beastiality PG-13. Now God only knows what kind of whack jobs are going to start following both of us. Now be a good SFTC follower and head on over to Scoman's place to leave him a comment and follow. Seriously, this is such an easy blog to follow, he only posts 2-3 times a week, he does follow back, and is a faithful commenter. What more can I say? I love this blog.
I'm not even going to attempt to get a discussion going on this! Everyone have a great weekend, I will see you on Monday! Just leave me a holla holla holla to let me know you were here!
And please take a sec to scroll down and see this week's awards post. Thanks to all of the award givers and congrats to all the award recipients!
NEW AND IMPROVED TIMELY AWARDS POST, DECEMBER 11, 2009
I got the This Blog Rocks Award from Mimi at Living in France. Thanks girl. I forward this award to *uncorked
I got the Zombie Chicken Award from Insanity Kim at A Parent's Life to Behold, Through the Eyes of Insanity & Bliss Thanks girl. I forward this award to Wym at Texas Britches which her link is not currently working, but hopefully it will be by tomorrow.
I got the Happy Award from I'VE BEEN THINKING Thanks girl. I forward this award to my new blog roll. Check it out. The proud. The few. The SFTC blog roll. Don't be jealous. They had to do some ugly ugly things to get over there. Ugly.
I was given the Kreativ Blogger Award by Betty at CUT AND DRY. Thanks girl. I forward this award to Dual Mom at We're at Dad's That Week
If you do not see your award in this post, never fear, it will be featured in an upcoming one. I am only one woman, just keep your panties on.
Now go follow all of these bloggers. GO!
In addition, my dashboard is now telling me that I am not following any blogs. Hm. That's weird. Oh how I love blogger. So ... if I am missing from your followers widget, please let me know so I can fix that problem. Thanks!
I got the Zombie Chicken Award from Insanity Kim at A Parent's Life to Behold, Through the Eyes of Insanity & Bliss Thanks girl. I forward this award to Wym at Texas Britches which her link is not currently working, but hopefully it will be by tomorrow.
I got the Happy Award from I'VE BEEN THINKING Thanks girl. I forward this award to my new blog roll. Check it out. The proud. The few. The SFTC blog roll. Don't be jealous. They had to do some ugly ugly things to get over there. Ugly.
I was given the Kreativ Blogger Award by Betty at CUT AND DRY. Thanks girl. I forward this award to Dual Mom at We're at Dad's That Week
If you do not see your award in this post, never fear, it will be featured in an upcoming one. I am only one woman, just keep your panties on.
Now go follow all of these bloggers. GO!
In addition, my dashboard is now telling me that I am not following any blogs. Hm. That's weird. Oh how I love blogger. So ... if I am missing from your followers widget, please let me know so I can fix that problem. Thanks!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
YOU MAY NOT NEED A CHAINSAW TO CUT DOWN A CHRISTMAS TREE, BUT, YA KNOW, IT WOULD BE NICE TO USE ONE IF THE OPTION WAS THERE
In honor of my first Australian Top Blog of the Week being featured this week, I will tell a tale of an Australian Christmas. Sort of. By the way, Aussie is prounounced OZZIE. Get it right, retards.
My new Australian husband and I were making our way to the Christmas tree farm on a cold and blustery December day. It was taking a long time to find the right tree. I am picky about my tree and since we lived in an apartment, size was an issue too. Suffice it to say, it was not a brief visit.
We are cold and tired and on the verge of looking elsewhere, when at last we find it. The light shines from the heavens and wah-lah, the INSERT OUR LAST NAME HERE Family Christmas tree was in no time going to be strapped to the top of our car for the trip home.
Just need to cut it down. Right?
It was then that we heard a faint buzzing sound. We thought for a minute about what could that sound be? And then we realized: they were chainsaws. I looked down at my husband's cold red hands and saw clasped in them: an old rusty hacksaw.
Son of a we wish you a Merry Christmas
I suggested we ask the staff to help. Ah hell no. Maybe borrow one from another family? Not necessary. Flag the tree and go get our own chainsaw? Not gonna happen.
My husband sweated and he cursed and he sawed in the freezing cold until that tree crashed to the earth in all of its pine-needle-shedding glory. And that took a really really long time.
I suffered as well. The entire time, I had to yell words of encouragement to this stubborn moron who wouldn't just borrow a freaking chainsaw from someone:
AUSTRALIANS DON'T NEED CHAINSAWS! CHAINSAWS ARE FOR AMERICAN WUSSIES OR PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO GET STUFF DONE STUPID FAST OR NE'ER DO WELLS WHO ARE WILLING TO TAKE A CHANCE THAT THEY MIGHT NOT COME HOME WITH ALL TEN FINGERS AND THEY'RE OKAY WITH THAT. WHO NEEDS A CHAINSAW? NOT US! I DON'T EVEN THINK WE OWN A CHAINSAW, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, BECAUSE USING A CHAINSAW JUST DEFEATS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF CUTTING DOWN YOUR OWN TREE. I MEAN, THEY SAY 'CUTTING' DOWN THE TREE FOR A REASON, RIGHT? I DON'T THINK A CHAINSAW EVEN CONSTITUTES CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN, DOES IT? I MEAN, WHO SAYS, I'M GOING TO GO 'CHAINSAW' DOWN MY CHRISTMAS TREE. IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. NONE OF IT. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE.
What have I learned from that experience? Two things. Australians have no use for chainsaws. None whatsoever. And I am an awesome wife.
I want the stupid Christmas stories. The time your Aunt Jean's cat pooped in the punch bowl (true story) or your husband cut off the top of the Christmas tree to make it fit in the house and you were blessed with a Christmas BUSH (true story). Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
My new Australian husband and I were making our way to the Christmas tree farm on a cold and blustery December day. It was taking a long time to find the right tree. I am picky about my tree and since we lived in an apartment, size was an issue too. Suffice it to say, it was not a brief visit.
We are cold and tired and on the verge of looking elsewhere, when at last we find it. The light shines from the heavens and wah-lah, the INSERT OUR LAST NAME HERE Family Christmas tree was in no time going to be strapped to the top of our car for the trip home.
Just need to cut it down. Right?
It was then that we heard a faint buzzing sound. We thought for a minute about what could that sound be? And then we realized: they were chainsaws. I looked down at my husband's cold red hands and saw clasped in them: an old rusty hacksaw.
Son of a we wish you a Merry Christmas
I suggested we ask the staff to help. Ah hell no. Maybe borrow one from another family? Not necessary. Flag the tree and go get our own chainsaw? Not gonna happen.
My husband sweated and he cursed and he sawed in the freezing cold until that tree crashed to the earth in all of its pine-needle-shedding glory. And that took a really really long time.
I suffered as well. The entire time, I had to yell words of encouragement to this stubborn moron who wouldn't just borrow a freaking chainsaw from someone:
AUSTRALIANS DON'T NEED CHAINSAWS! CHAINSAWS ARE FOR AMERICAN WUSSIES OR PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO GET STUFF DONE STUPID FAST OR NE'ER DO WELLS WHO ARE WILLING TO TAKE A CHANCE THAT THEY MIGHT NOT COME HOME WITH ALL TEN FINGERS AND THEY'RE OKAY WITH THAT. WHO NEEDS A CHAINSAW? NOT US! I DON'T EVEN THINK WE OWN A CHAINSAW, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, BECAUSE USING A CHAINSAW JUST DEFEATS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF CUTTING DOWN YOUR OWN TREE. I MEAN, THEY SAY 'CUTTING' DOWN THE TREE FOR A REASON, RIGHT? I DON'T THINK A CHAINSAW EVEN CONSTITUTES CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN, DOES IT? I MEAN, WHO SAYS, I'M GOING TO GO 'CHAINSAW' DOWN MY CHRISTMAS TREE. IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. NONE OF IT. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE.
What have I learned from that experience? Two things. Australians have no use for chainsaws. None whatsoever. And I am an awesome wife.
I want the stupid Christmas stories. The time your Aunt Jean's cat pooped in the punch bowl (true story) or your husband cut off the top of the Christmas tree to make it fit in the house and you were blessed with a Christmas BUSH (true story). Whatever you have for me, post it in the comments.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
YANKEE SWAPPING WEASELS NEED NOT APPLY OR WHY MY CHRISTMAS TREE ALWAYS MAKES ME CRY OR WHY WAS I EVEN IN THAT DUMB CLUB? I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
What does your Christmas tree mean to you? Sweat, tears, and pine needles in the carpet until June? Hacksaws and chainsaws and traipsing through waist-high snow in sub-zero temps to find 'the perfect one'? Tinsel the pets eat, requiring a $300 visit to the vet? Lights tangled in a hopeless ball? Bulbs the kids argue over and finally break resulting in a few shots of egg nog to drown it all out?
Not me. I love my tree.
I take out my $20 fake tree (got it on clearance the day after Christmas about 4 years ago - I know, yay me), cautiously and carefully organizing each branch by color and size. Much the same way I imagine Oprah would. Probably Gail. Oprah would just supervise. Inserting and fluffing branches. Checking lights. Hanging garland.
And then it is ready for the ornaments. Each one is different and means something special to me. I hope my children take these ornaments and memories with them when I am gone. I know they'll probably throw them in the garbage or my son will pawn them off on his sister, and she'll only keep them because of the guilt I've instilled in her since she was a little, and her kids will end up throwing them away or they'll all be broken...
But still. I dream.
We take each ornament out and I tell the stories to my son.
This one was from Aunt G. You never met her. She died from breast cancer when I was pregnant with you. They called her a lesbian at her own funeral. It was funny yet awful. She died too young.
These belonged to my grandparents. I know they are the tackiest looking things ever, because they are. What do you expect? Their retirement home was a double-wide on two acres of land. She had a perpetual garage sale, so they always had to park in the front yard. We live in Ohio. It makes no sense. No one is going to a garage sale in January. They were simple country folk and cheap and tacky folk, but also good hard-working folk. I miss them. I would buy everything at that dumb garage sale now.
This is my dead cat, Chelsea. And my other dead cat, Jack. And my dead dog, Puppy. And my other dead dog, Buttercup. And my other dead cat, Nick. And my other dead cat, Dominick. Well, we think those last two are dead. We don't really know where the hell they are.
This was the ornament I got when your sister was born. It says Tis A Gift From God because she is. You are too. Your ornament says the exact same thing, see, here it is. Yes, I bought it last year. I know you were born seven years ago. Can't we just agree I bought it when you born? No? Really? I think you might forget I bought it when you were six. No? Okay, I never thought to buy you an ornament when you born. So sue me. I was an awful mother but after seven years I've made some improvements. Why are you crying?
This was the ornament we picked out when we went to Disney. Yes, I see the paint is chipping on it. Why? Because Disney loves to sell you cheap crap and mark it up 300%. I think I paid $20 for that stupid thing and it is already chipping. Damn you Disney and your retail mark up.
These keys and fleur-de-lis are some of my favorite ornaments because they remind me of the best times of my life. The best times. My college days and my Kappa sisters. Oh no honey, these are the best times of my life too. Yes, it's even better now than my college days. I didn't really like being skinny no matter what I ate and smoking a pack of Marlboros a day without any guilt and having no wrinkles or weird crap on my body and seeing someone pretty when I looked in the mirror and sleeping in every day and no consequences or responsibilities (school doesn't count) and drinking and clubbing four nights a week. Now is so much better. So. much.
Silently contemplating hanging self with last-year's tinsel.
These are the ornaments I got at all of the MOMS Club ornament exchanges. Remember MOMS Club and our Christmas parties? All the stay-at-home mommies would get together and eat and laugh and relax and have so much fun. Until the ornaments came out and the Yankee swap began. I had to fight really hard for like two and a half hours to get these ornaments. I know I brought them to swap, but when I really looked at them, I realized how much I loved them, and I had to do whatever was necessary to keep them. And you know what, when it comes right down to it, those women were desperate and vicious and I left in a pissy mood. They stole a hand-made scarf made especially for me one year too. Bunch of filthy thankless dirty weasels. Why was I even in that dumb club? God. So stupid.
Oh honey, look! These are the ornaments that you made with your tiny precious hands and they are the ones that are most dear to my heart. They are made of torn pieces of construction paper and glitter and yellowing string and puffy paint and glue and if I only had a tree with these ornaments on them, I would have the most beautiful tree in the world. In the world.
What? Why am I crying?
Because.
Because I love my tree.
What is something you have that takes you down memory lane during the holidays? Or what is your biggest Yankee swap horror story ever? And for those of you not aware of what a Yankee swap is, you know what? You should be watching NBC's hit show, THE OFFICE on Thursdays at 9 pm and then you would know. Bunch of Yankee swapping weasels.
Not me. I love my tree.
I take out my $20 fake tree (got it on clearance the day after Christmas about 4 years ago - I know, yay me), cautiously and carefully organizing each branch by color and size. Much the same way I imagine Oprah would. Probably Gail. Oprah would just supervise. Inserting and fluffing branches. Checking lights. Hanging garland.
And then it is ready for the ornaments. Each one is different and means something special to me. I hope my children take these ornaments and memories with them when I am gone. I know they'll probably throw them in the garbage or my son will pawn them off on his sister, and she'll only keep them because of the guilt I've instilled in her since she was a little, and her kids will end up throwing them away or they'll all be broken...
But still. I dream.
We take each ornament out and I tell the stories to my son.
This one was from Aunt G. You never met her. She died from breast cancer when I was pregnant with you. They called her a lesbian at her own funeral. It was funny yet awful. She died too young.
These belonged to my grandparents. I know they are the tackiest looking things ever, because they are. What do you expect? Their retirement home was a double-wide on two acres of land. She had a perpetual garage sale, so they always had to park in the front yard. We live in Ohio. It makes no sense. No one is going to a garage sale in January. They were simple country folk and cheap and tacky folk, but also good hard-working folk. I miss them. I would buy everything at that dumb garage sale now.
This is my dead cat, Chelsea. And my other dead cat, Jack. And my dead dog, Puppy. And my other dead dog, Buttercup. And my other dead cat, Nick. And my other dead cat, Dominick. Well, we think those last two are dead. We don't really know where the hell they are.
This was the ornament I got when your sister was born. It says Tis A Gift From God because she is. You are too. Your ornament says the exact same thing, see, here it is. Yes, I bought it last year. I know you were born seven years ago. Can't we just agree I bought it when you born? No? Really? I think you might forget I bought it when you were six. No? Okay, I never thought to buy you an ornament when you born. So sue me. I was an awful mother but after seven years I've made some improvements. Why are you crying?
This was the ornament we picked out when we went to Disney. Yes, I see the paint is chipping on it. Why? Because Disney loves to sell you cheap crap and mark it up 300%. I think I paid $20 for that stupid thing and it is already chipping. Damn you Disney and your retail mark up.
These keys and fleur-de-lis are some of my favorite ornaments because they remind me of the best times of my life. The best times. My college days and my Kappa sisters. Oh no honey, these are the best times of my life too. Yes, it's even better now than my college days. I didn't really like being skinny no matter what I ate and smoking a pack of Marlboros a day without any guilt and having no wrinkles or weird crap on my body and seeing someone pretty when I looked in the mirror and sleeping in every day and no consequences or responsibilities (school doesn't count) and drinking and clubbing four nights a week. Now is so much better. So. much.
Silently contemplating hanging self with last-year's tinsel.
These are the ornaments I got at all of the MOMS Club ornament exchanges. Remember MOMS Club and our Christmas parties? All the stay-at-home mommies would get together and eat and laugh and relax and have so much fun. Until the ornaments came out and the Yankee swap began. I had to fight really hard for like two and a half hours to get these ornaments. I know I brought them to swap, but when I really looked at them, I realized how much I loved them, and I had to do whatever was necessary to keep them. And you know what, when it comes right down to it, those women were desperate and vicious and I left in a pissy mood. They stole a hand-made scarf made especially for me one year too. Bunch of filthy thankless dirty weasels. Why was I even in that dumb club? God. So stupid.
Oh honey, look! These are the ornaments that you made with your tiny precious hands and they are the ones that are most dear to my heart. They are made of torn pieces of construction paper and glitter and yellowing string and puffy paint and glue and if I only had a tree with these ornaments on them, I would have the most beautiful tree in the world. In the world.
What? Why am I crying?
Because.
Because I love my tree.
What is something you have that takes you down memory lane during the holidays? Or what is your biggest Yankee swap horror story ever? And for those of you not aware of what a Yankee swap is, you know what? You should be watching NBC's hit show, THE OFFICE on Thursdays at 9 pm and then you would know. Bunch of Yankee swapping weasels.
Monday, December 7, 2009
THIS IS PROOF THAT I WATCH TOO MANY TV SHOWS HOSTED BY BILL KURTIS. GOOGLE HIM. BUNCH OF MORONS.
I know this is another I was walking my dog post, but a lot of weird crap happens to me when I am walking my dog. So sue me.
So I'm walking my dog, and I'm going past this turn-of-the-century house. The house looks pretty dark inside. It's pretty dark outside. Can't see much of anything. Only a white van belonging to a construction company.
And that's when I hear it.
Knock, knock, knock.
It stops me dead in my tracks. And then I hear it again.
Knock, knock, knock.
And this is what my deranged mind computes:
A young female slash co-ed has been abducted by the guy-next-door mildly overweight construction worker and is now being held hostage in his dungeon slash basement, left only with the ability to move her elbows, and she is at this very moment tapping on the warped paneling that lines her cage slash coffin in a last ditch effort to alert authorities and be rescued.
I continue the walk.
I ponder my role in this escape slash rescue.
Approximately one minute later, I promptly forget about the whole thing.
I have little to no short term memory.
What?
I walk past the house again on my way home, which jars my memory of the knocks coming from the house. I stop to listen. And I decide based on the continual knocking noise, that it is just the construction guy hammering at something in his house and not a hostage situation.
Crisis averted.
Or else she's been dead for weeks.
Now that's not even funny.
Are you paranoid? Are you an amateur investigative detective? Do you come up with weird theories about potentially harmless situations? Please tell me there is someone out there who is as mental as I am. Whatever you have for me, please post it in the comments.
So I'm walking my dog, and I'm going past this turn-of-the-century house. The house looks pretty dark inside. It's pretty dark outside. Can't see much of anything. Only a white van belonging to a construction company.
And that's when I hear it.
Knock, knock, knock.
It stops me dead in my tracks. And then I hear it again.
Knock, knock, knock.
And this is what my deranged mind computes:
A young female slash co-ed has been abducted by the guy-next-door mildly overweight construction worker and is now being held hostage in his dungeon slash basement, left only with the ability to move her elbows, and she is at this very moment tapping on the warped paneling that lines her cage slash coffin in a last ditch effort to alert authorities and be rescued.
I continue the walk.
I ponder my role in this escape slash rescue.
Approximately one minute later, I promptly forget about the whole thing.
I have little to no short term memory.
What?
I walk past the house again on my way home, which jars my memory of the knocks coming from the house. I stop to listen. And I decide based on the continual knocking noise, that it is just the construction guy hammering at something in his house and not a hostage situation.
Crisis averted.
Or else she's been dead for weeks.
Now that's not even funny.
Are you paranoid? Are you an amateur investigative detective? Do you come up with weird theories about potentially harmless situations? Please tell me there is someone out there who is as mental as I am. Whatever you have for me, please post it in the comments.
Friday, December 4, 2009
SFTC PRESENTS: TOP BLOG OF THE WEEK WINES CONSTANTLY
This gal does not mince words. She describes herself as in my late 20's, recently knocked up, and attempting to adjust to sobriety and losing my waistline. She's a bold character, full of humor, brash talk, and an entertaining read. Please go check out this blogging gal and spread some crib love! May I please have a warm round of applause for my top blog of the week:
Yes, we are going to talk about my A** today, in honor of the second baby bump photo I have allowed to be taken. And which I promptly deleted. Somehow, I managed to photograph an a** that does not belong to me. How did it get there? Who put it there? Where did my A** go? Surely this bait and switch must have involved major surgery. So...where are the stitches? The bruising? The pain? (Aside from the annihilation of my ego...)
My A** has long been a popular topic of conversation amongst my circle of friends. Way back when other girls were growing boobs, I grew a JLo instead. Now, this of course can be balanced out easily thanks to the miracle of Victoria's Secret and gym socks, but there was no denying that I unfairly received everyone else's share of back.
Sometime around age 16 or 17, my dear male friend J gave me a special name. This name, and it's accompanying explanation, resulted in permanent ball damage for him and a convenient memory lapse for me. See, J has a thing about small butts. He likes them tiny and tight, and if you think I'm being crude in my explanation, you should be so lucky as to hear him tell it. Anyway, despite my otherwise slender build, my A** stuck out like a hitchhiker's thumb. I did squats. I did Tae Bo. I Nordic-Tracked my evenings away. Still...the A** remained.
One afternoon while working together at our super fun ice-cream-store-in-the-mall job, J decided to inform me that I did NOT, in fact, have what he considered a World Class A**. To be honest, he felt I could stand to lose about 4" off the back. And instead of just going by "A" (thank you, lazya** softball coach for sticking that one to me), I should be going by Big A. One guess what the A stands for. One guess what I did to his manly bits. (Or so he says...I was sort of blind with rage at that point.)
So A became Big A, J probably won't ever have kids, and after suffering through years of running as the only way to keep the A** in check...that mothertrucker is back.
~Wines
We all have those problem areas, especially when we're expecting. My problem areas are everywhere excluding the areas from my elbow to my hands and my knees to my feet. Always had the skinny forearms and shins. Who needs flat abs and rock hard buns when they have skinny forearms? I mean, really. I'm so lucky. It's genetics, I guess. Thank you Wines for sharing your a**y tales with us. They were first rate fun with a side of oh-no-she-didn't. Now be a good SFTC follower and visit my top gal over at her vineyard.
So here's the topic o'conversation today. I got nothing. Just give me a holla holla holla to let me know you were visiting and have a great weekend!
We all have those problem areas, especially when we're expecting. My problem areas are everywhere excluding the areas from my elbow to my hands and my knees to my feet. Always had the skinny forearms and shins. Who needs flat abs and rock hard buns when they have skinny forearms? I mean, really. I'm so lucky. It's genetics, I guess. Thank you Wines for sharing your a**y tales with us. They were first rate fun with a side of oh-no-she-didn't. Now be a good SFTC follower and visit my top gal over at her vineyard.
So here's the topic o'conversation today. I got nothing. Just give me a holla holla holla to let me know you were visiting and have a great weekend!
MY NEW AND IMPROVED TIMELY AWARDS POST, DECEMBER 4, 2009/
I was awarded the One Lovely Blog Award by M at The Woodchips She is a new follower and blogger and I say thank you Miss M!
I give this award to AJ at Simple Sweet Inspiration This blogger is a wonderful writer, a loyal follower and commenter, woman of faith, and an inspiration to moms everywhere. She is a must follow.
She is also my partner in crime at the BBR - Blog Brew Review - a review hot spot for blogs. She's the nuts and bolts of the place, I'm just a contributer. Contact her if you want your blog reviewed at the BBR and be sure to head on over there if you are looking for a few new blogs to follow.
I was also given the Superior Scribbler Award from the very same AJ - thanks girl!
I forward this award to Joanne at Living Consciously I have a great email relationship with this blogger. She gives me insight and thought to my own blog and makes me ponder the flip side of lots of things. Not to mention her blog is beautifully written and a fun visit every time I am over there. Please give this blogger some crib support and love!
I was given the Remarkable Readers Award from Leigh at Leigh vs Laundry for being a loyal follower and reader of her blog. You're my girl Leigh.
I am to forward this award to five loyal followers. For once I am following the rules. I could name a whole lot more than five, but then I would die from terminal hyperlinking.
Lee the Hotflash Queen
Batcrap Crazy
The Motherload
Stir-fry Awesomeness
A Parent's Life to Behold, Through the Eyes of Insanity & Bliss
I give this award to AJ at Simple Sweet Inspiration This blogger is a wonderful writer, a loyal follower and commenter, woman of faith, and an inspiration to moms everywhere. She is a must follow.
She is also my partner in crime at the BBR - Blog Brew Review - a review hot spot for blogs. She's the nuts and bolts of the place, I'm just a contributer. Contact her if you want your blog reviewed at the BBR and be sure to head on over there if you are looking for a few new blogs to follow.
I was also given the Superior Scribbler Award from the very same AJ - thanks girl!
I forward this award to Joanne at Living Consciously I have a great email relationship with this blogger. She gives me insight and thought to my own blog and makes me ponder the flip side of lots of things. Not to mention her blog is beautifully written and a fun visit every time I am over there. Please give this blogger some crib support and love!
I was given the Remarkable Readers Award from Leigh at Leigh vs Laundry for being a loyal follower and reader of her blog. You're my girl Leigh.
I am to forward this award to five loyal followers. For once I am following the rules. I could name a whole lot more than five, but then I would die from terminal hyperlinking.
Lee the Hotflash Queen
Batcrap Crazy
The Motherload
Stir-fry Awesomeness
A Parent's Life to Behold, Through the Eyes of Insanity & Bliss
Thursday, December 3, 2009
MY NEW AND IMPROVED TIMELY AWARDS POST, DECEMBER 3, 2009
I have been awarded the Bad Ass Blogger Award by Hotpants at Handbags & Handguns. Thanks girl!
I give this award to The Official Blog of Krimsin She's good. Check her out. And why not follow? It is Christmas, ya know. I swear I gotta beg you thankless weasels for every crumb.
I have been awarded the Sparkle Award by Holly at 504 Main. Thanks Holls!
I give this award to 3 Boys + One Hubby = What Next? She's a real gem. Get it? The award has a diamond on it. I need to stop the crap. Seriously, she's a loyal follower and writes great short posts that are fun to read and she always has a thought provoking quote with her post. She's good.
I am sure there are more awards out there lurking and I may stumble upon some once I get through my comments! So if you don't see yours here, you will see them in an upcoming post.
I give this award to The Official Blog of Krimsin She's good. Check her out. And why not follow? It is Christmas, ya know. I swear I gotta beg you thankless weasels for every crumb.
I have been awarded the Sparkle Award by Holly at 504 Main. Thanks Holls!
I give this award to 3 Boys + One Hubby = What Next? She's a real gem. Get it? The award has a diamond on it. I need to stop the crap. Seriously, she's a loyal follower and writes great short posts that are fun to read and she always has a thought provoking quote with her post. She's good.
I am sure there are more awards out there lurking and I may stumble upon some once I get through my comments! So if you don't see yours here, you will see them in an upcoming post.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I COULD DO WITHOUT THANKSGIVING. ACTUALLY, NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT, IT CAN JUST GO TO HELL. AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN IF YOU MAKE A FUSS.
Many of you know my Christmas tree (and all other decorative Christmas trimmings) have been up since a few days after Halloween. I took a lot of heat for expressing my inner Jingle Dingle so early. I battled via blog comments, email, and Facebook. There are a lot of vicious Thanksgiving people out there.
For whatever reason, most likely my deep-seated need to be liked and accepted, I feel I must explain why I decorate so early and then maybe some of you will take pity on this rather harmless expression of premature Yuletide cheer and set aside your it's-too-early-to-celebrate Christmas anger and what-about-Thanksgiving outrage.
It only began a few Christmases ago. Christmas 2005 to be exact. I put up my tree right after Thanksgiving or the first weekend in December, like most folks. I was actively involved in my community, my stay-at-home-mom support group, my weekly playgroup, my church, and other family events. Throughout the season it felt like there was something planned every other day.
The decorating of the Christmas tree. Gift wrappings. Ornament exchanges. Yankee swaps. Cookies with Santa. Handel's Messiah concert at the church. Candlelight Walks on the town square. The Christmas Parade. Black Friday. Christmas Eve candlelight services. Holiday parties hosted by friends and family. It was a whirlwind of happiness, joy, and Christmas cheer.
It was the best holiday season in my life And it was here and gone and so fast. Why does time speed up the older we get? I wanted that time to go on forever. But it can't. Nothing that good ever does.
So I decided after that Christmas, that I was a grown adult and I could decide when my holiday season would begin and when it would end. And I was determined to make it last as long as possible. Regular time already goes too fast. Holiday time is here, done, and gone before you get the lights untangled. Why not make it as long as possible? Why not? Exactly!
So hate me if you must, but I refuse to go back to my old ways. My kids live it and they love it. I love it. I get to feel like a little kid again. And you know what? It makes me feel happy, and giddy, and wonderful. And I chose wonderful. For me. For my kids. For as long as possible. For ever.
What have you done that was a little 'out of the norm' that you took some heat for? Or what is something you do that you would take some heat for, if anyone knew that you did it. Does that make sense? Probably not. Whatever you got for me, post it in the comments!
For whatever reason, most likely my deep-seated need to be liked and accepted, I feel I must explain why I decorate so early and then maybe some of you will take pity on this rather harmless expression of premature Yuletide cheer and set aside your it's-too-early-to-celebrate Christmas anger and what-about-Thanksgiving outrage.
It only began a few Christmases ago. Christmas 2005 to be exact. I put up my tree right after Thanksgiving or the first weekend in December, like most folks. I was actively involved in my community, my stay-at-home-mom support group, my weekly playgroup, my church, and other family events. Throughout the season it felt like there was something planned every other day.
The decorating of the Christmas tree. Gift wrappings. Ornament exchanges. Yankee swaps. Cookies with Santa. Handel's Messiah concert at the church. Candlelight Walks on the town square. The Christmas Parade. Black Friday. Christmas Eve candlelight services. Holiday parties hosted by friends and family. It was a whirlwind of happiness, joy, and Christmas cheer.
It was the best holiday season in my life And it was here and gone and so fast. Why does time speed up the older we get? I wanted that time to go on forever. But it can't. Nothing that good ever does.
So I decided after that Christmas, that I was a grown adult and I could decide when my holiday season would begin and when it would end. And I was determined to make it last as long as possible. Regular time already goes too fast. Holiday time is here, done, and gone before you get the lights untangled. Why not make it as long as possible? Why not? Exactly!
So hate me if you must, but I refuse to go back to my old ways. My kids live it and they love it. I love it. I get to feel like a little kid again. And you know what? It makes me feel happy, and giddy, and wonderful. And I chose wonderful. For me. For my kids. For as long as possible. For ever.
What have you done that was a little 'out of the norm' that you took some heat for? Or what is something you do that you would take some heat for, if anyone knew that you did it. Does that make sense? Probably not. Whatever you got for me, post it in the comments!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
WOULD YOU EAT THANKSGIVING DINNER BEFORE EVERYONE ARRIVED? IF YOU WOULD, YOU ARE A MORON, AND NEED TO BE JACK SLAPPED IN THE FACE, AT LEAST TWICE.
I am re-posting my Thanksgiving Day post, in case you missed it --- because I have nothing else to post and also because my daughter had to make another trip to the doctor to have her meds changed, as the prescribed antibiotics were not effective and yesterday she was refusing liquids. All she wants to do is sit on my lap and watch Elmo. Not very conducive to blogging! So I apologize to all of the faithful readers, I will get some new material up as soon as I can get this little lady back on her feet! And here ya go ...
Am I known as an individual who struggles with punctuality? Absolutely. This has been (one of) my lesser-liked qualities through out my life. I've always wished to be a morning person and a stickler for time keeping. Somehow I've never managed to master either. As I grow older, I have improved by leaps and bounds, but at times it is still an issue. Like every single Sunday.
Cut to a Thanksgiving dinner scheduled for 1 pm. I was driving to my parent's home from forty minutes away, (while the rest of my family live in the same town), and I arrived at seven minutes past 1:00. I walked in the house and saw my entire family sitting at the table, passing the turkey, and buttering the rolls. I was at about a 50 on the Ah Hell No scale. It was not as if I had been hours late. And even worse, it felt as if I were being taught a lesson.
As you can well imagine, this put a stick so far up my craw, that I'm not sure whether my body composition isn't 2% walnut to this day. I was so mad. You can't even fathom how mad I was. And we all know that anger is just the wig hurt wears on bad hair days. It was all I could do to sit and eat, when what I really wanted to do was grab some sort of heavy longish spiky weapon and start busting up the place. And truly, if it weren't for my son, I would have turned tail and left.
Cut to Christmas morning. Every year we're rushing, rushing, rushing, because my son (much like his mother) does not wake at the crack of dawn to open presents. By the time we wake him up, open gifts, go through stockings, pick up trash, get showered, eat breakfast, load the car, and get on the highway, it's a mad rush to squeeze everything in. We don't have time to stop and savor our family Christmas. My kids don't get to open their toys out of the box or play with them or even look at them for more than a couple of seconds because we've got to hurry, hurry, hurry. This annoys me. A lot. One particular year it annoyed me more than usual. That year, I decided we would savor Christmas morning. If they were going to eat Thanksgiving dinner when I was seven minutes late, what would they do when I was seven hours late?
I was actually three hours late, but not only did they eat dinner, break down my Grandmother's huge buffet table and put away all of the food, but they also opened all of the presents. We had missed absolutely everything. After three hours, that was understandable. And it didn't really matter much to me. I was too busy teaching them a lesson. But it mattered immensely to my son. He didn't have to say anything. I could see the bewildered look in his eyes and recognized it as the same one I must have had on that Thanksgiving afternoon.
How could you? Doesn't it matter if I'm not here? Even a little bit?
I could have kicked myself. In my quest to prove a point, I had hurt the person I love most in this world. An innocent little boy and my precious son. And the cost of ruining his Christmas wasn't worth it. I vowed to sacrifice my own family's time on Christmas in an effort to always be on time to family gatherings, and not because my family had taught me a lesson
...but because my son had.
Okay, there's got to be some good stuff out there! What is the crappiest thing your family ever did to you? Holiday or otherwise. And get out of here you my-family-is-great people! Show me your scars! SHOW ME YOUR SCARS! Whatever you've got, POST IT IN THE COMMENTS!
Am I known as an individual who struggles with punctuality? Absolutely. This has been (one of) my lesser-liked qualities through out my life. I've always wished to be a morning person and a stickler for time keeping. Somehow I've never managed to master either. As I grow older, I have improved by leaps and bounds, but at times it is still an issue. Like every single Sunday.
Cut to a Thanksgiving dinner scheduled for 1 pm. I was driving to my parent's home from forty minutes away, (while the rest of my family live in the same town), and I arrived at seven minutes past 1:00. I walked in the house and saw my entire family sitting at the table, passing the turkey, and buttering the rolls. I was at about a 50 on the Ah Hell No scale. It was not as if I had been hours late. And even worse, it felt as if I were being taught a lesson.
As you can well imagine, this put a stick so far up my craw, that I'm not sure whether my body composition isn't 2% walnut to this day. I was so mad. You can't even fathom how mad I was. And we all know that anger is just the wig hurt wears on bad hair days. It was all I could do to sit and eat, when what I really wanted to do was grab some sort of heavy longish spiky weapon and start busting up the place. And truly, if it weren't for my son, I would have turned tail and left.
Cut to Christmas morning. Every year we're rushing, rushing, rushing, because my son (much like his mother) does not wake at the crack of dawn to open presents. By the time we wake him up, open gifts, go through stockings, pick up trash, get showered, eat breakfast, load the car, and get on the highway, it's a mad rush to squeeze everything in. We don't have time to stop and savor our family Christmas. My kids don't get to open their toys out of the box or play with them or even look at them for more than a couple of seconds because we've got to hurry, hurry, hurry. This annoys me. A lot. One particular year it annoyed me more than usual. That year, I decided we would savor Christmas morning. If they were going to eat Thanksgiving dinner when I was seven minutes late, what would they do when I was seven hours late?
I was actually three hours late, but not only did they eat dinner, break down my Grandmother's huge buffet table and put away all of the food, but they also opened all of the presents. We had missed absolutely everything. After three hours, that was understandable. And it didn't really matter much to me. I was too busy teaching them a lesson. But it mattered immensely to my son. He didn't have to say anything. I could see the bewildered look in his eyes and recognized it as the same one I must have had on that Thanksgiving afternoon.
How could you? Doesn't it matter if I'm not here? Even a little bit?
I could have kicked myself. In my quest to prove a point, I had hurt the person I love most in this world. An innocent little boy and my precious son. And the cost of ruining his Christmas wasn't worth it. I vowed to sacrifice my own family's time on Christmas in an effort to always be on time to family gatherings, and not because my family had taught me a lesson
...but because my son had.
Okay, there's got to be some good stuff out there! What is the crappiest thing your family ever did to you? Holiday or otherwise. And get out of here you my-family-is-great people! Show me your scars! SHOW ME YOUR SCARS! Whatever you've got, POST IT IN THE COMMENTS!
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