I Like to Take Each Step One-by-One

The trees have decided to be massive bitches and release all their leaves.

Yes, trees are female. Or, at least, mine are. Because "bitches" sounds better than "bastards," that why.

We're making the most of autumn, but we have our air conditioner running (the hell, right?) and the sun has been shining so it feels more like Summer v2.1 than autumn -- I'm certain we'll get an ice storm soon, so Kansas can show us who's boss and all that jazz.


But for now, we're chasing bunnies and rolling in leaves.

If You'll be My BodyGuard, I Can be Your Long Lost Pal

A quick stop to the thrift store looking for a replacement lid to my favorite casserole dish (broke months ago and I still cannot find a replacement, sniff) turned into rummaging through the children's books.


Which resulted in a huge bag of books for five dollars - way less than one book at the book store would have cost.

And look! Quiet children! 'Tis a miracle!

Cherry Ice Cream Smile

It's too early for me to be PMS'ing but there you go - I'm pissy. Pissy mckpisserson and I'm not quite sure why but I am.

I'm feeling a bit like this...


And a good bit like this...


With some of this kicked in for extra flavor:

And Different People Have Different Needs

Last week I came down with this amazing crap, because really, it was some amazing crap of flu ickiness that resulted in an eight-day fever.

So the only thing I can really remember over the past eight days is making fun of Kylie's latest stuff toy.

A beaver.

Of course I had to buy her a beaver. I mean, really, wouldn't you be disappointed in me if I didn't?

So I'm sure you can think of a slew of comments to add, but we keep telling Kylie not to get too excited by the beaver. She's really showing that beaver who's boss. Look how far she can get her tongue in that beaver.

And my personal favorite, best be careful to love the beaver, Kylie. It may just magically disappear if you do not.

Oh, and I bought her a sweater.


See? I told you all I've been running a fever for eight days.

Oh No, You Boys'll Never Care, No, You Boys Never Care How the Girl Feels

The other day I picked the boys up from school and noticed something about Griffin across the parkway (wish I could call it a quad, can I call it a quad? calling it a big ass sidewalk seems dumb).

Half his face was missing.

Now, okay, I get it: I'm a drama queen. Duly noted. But! Half of his face was missing. Which resulted me in yelling, in front of 500 bazillion young, impressionable minds, "Griffin! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?"

"Happened to WHAT, Mom?"

"YOUR FACE."

"Oh, I fell."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Stop freaking out."

"Oh, I'm not freaking out."

"Yes, you are. Quit it."

"BUT! YOUR FACE!"

"I just got it dirty."

"No, you didn't. Did you see the nurse?"

"Yeah, she washed me up."

So, after a call to the doctor's office, a call to the school nurse, a call with the doctor and consulting a shoe salesman (much prettier than Al Bundy, I might add). I decided to take him to the ER for a possible concussion.

Dude, after what happened to Darwin I have become this overprotective mother hen who's all hyper-sensitive to head accidents. I know, I know, that was horrible, awful, unfortunate accident but it create some kind of crazed monster in me of protecting my baby's heads at all costs.

So, yes. I full intended to take Griffin to the ER because! He could have a hematoma! It could pinch off some special nerve and damage him! HE COULD DIE!

And I called Aaron. After all, he needs to know our son is going to die, right? Right.

Well, okay. So Aaron talked me off that ledge. Aaron's idea? Motrin. And a mirror. So Griffin could see I'm not a crazy lady. Then a grown-up drink for me to calm my shit down.

After all...


... he only scratched it on pavement.

So if You're Feeling Low Turn Up Your Radio

A couple of weeks ago I got a call to participate in a survey. Normally I take full of advantage of having an advertising degree and work in advertising and be all yeah, no, I work in advertising ::click:: whenever I get such a call.

But this time, this time, they mentioned it was about music before I even had an opportunity to be bitchy.

"Music?"

"Yes, music. We're doing a survey for radio stations..."

"I LOVE MUSIC!"

"Um, great. So I have a few questions..."

"OKAY, DID I MENTION I LOVE MUSIC?"

"Yes, ma'am, you did. Does anyone in your household work in the advertising field?"

Gawdamnitdamnitdamnit. Sigh. "Yes, I do - but! It's on the internet! With blogs!"

"It what?"

"Is on the internet. With blogs. Totally unrelated to the music field." Squee!

"Um... hold, please." ::pause:: "Could I ask you a few questions?"

So after I answered the questions and she decided I could totally participate, I was told to expect a call in the next few weeks.

Last night, the call arrived.

"Okay, ma'am. We're going to play a part of a song for you and you need to decide how to rate it. One is unfamiliar, two is hate; three is don't like, four is tired of it; five is neutral, six is like and seven is favorite."

And then it went like this....




easy, favorite



easy again, favorite



duh, favorite



FAVORITE (and where's my goddamn "omg, this kicks ass!" button?)



like (whew, I bet they were starting to think I wasn't paying any damn attention)



FAVORITE (but kinda old. seriously? shouldn't you be asking me about new stuff?)



"Hey Griffin! They're playing Franz Ferdinand!" "Favorite it, Mom! FAVORITE IT!"



Favorite. Like, duh. Totally.



My poor seven button is gonna break at this point.

And then they played Creed. And honestly, I was going to embed it. But then I couldn't do that to my wonderous blog. Creed? Seriously? I punched that two button about a million damn times.

I Wanted to be with You Alone and Talk About the Weather

Autumn is here and in full swing.

I'm wearing socks, that's how I can tell.


I have lots to do outside, but I'm enjoying the process of just watching. There's plenty of time to do stuff. I just want to watch for now.






We're busy with soccer, homework, making lots and lots of soups and someone traveling his ass off. And a new obsession of baking gluten-free chocolate snack cakes. Nom nom.

I'd Get a Thousand Hugs From Ten Thousand Lightening Bugs as They Tried to Teach Me How to Dance

On Sunday, after "church" (yes, I know, quotation marks, been going for two years and will forever likely put quotation marks around it, SHUT UP) I went to a friend's house to learn how to can.

Oh yes, you heard me right. I am now prepared for armageddon. Between canning and learning all my mad skillz on FarmVille I'm ready for anything.

So I got together with some friends and made a bazillion pounds of salsa.


I got a wonderful lesson in saving every last drop of juice (the look on my friend's face when I wasted about five drops was astonishing), slicing hot peppers with gloves on don't do shit in regards to making your fingers not burn and that when squeezing a tomato that shit is gonna go everywhere.

My OCD nervous tick came out with rage when I begged to stop for a moment to wipe things down. "But we're not done yet, we'll wipe when we're done." Good Lord, these people tortured me.


We ended up "processing" (look at me! canning terminology!) slightly over 100 pounds of tomatoes into salsa and leftover juice.

And my goddamn fingernails are still stained. Pretty, pretty princess is not happy about that.

Takes Me to My Limits

The other night I was taking the Kylie on our evening walk and she kept jerking ahead. Someone needs to teach that damn dog how to heel.

After about five minutes of her shit and being tired of it, I decided to run for a bit.

Now's about as good a time as any to mention I don't run. Like, at all. I jiggle enough as-is, running is like Santa's wiggly laugh on steroids and bringing new meaning to "I don't think you're ready for this jelly."

So I decide, just 20 steps. I'll run for 20 steps. That will be enough to make the dog mind.

On step 18 I decided, hey! This is fun! Let's go for another 20!

On step 37 I decided, easy peasy! Let's go some more!

On step 60 I decided, okay, we're good here. Let's walk.

The puppy? She didn't mind. She enjoyed the running. Of course she did, damn dog.

After walking a minute or two, I decided to run another 60 steps. After two more minutes, I did it again. Then rinse, repeat, and do again for 30 minutes.

By then, I was dragging that damn dog.

The next day I was amazingly euphoric. My chest, legs, hips and arms (arms? WTF?) fucking huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrttttt.

I'm Walking in the Spiderwebs

Last Friday I was emailing with Michelle and she was telling me about the projects she was working on and what have I been working on lately?

Um.... breathing?

Maybe?

To which she replied maybe I'd feel better (not that I'm depressed, I just feel like I'm under 20 feet of water trying to thread to who-know's-where) if I worked on a little somethin' somethin'.

Little did she know I spent three hours (duuuuuuuuuuuuude) the previous weekend just uncovering my goddamn sewing machine.

After eradicating 500 spiders (how I wish I was embellishing that ), I sat down and fixed a pillowcase.

DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, SMALL STEPS PEOPLE.

And then after that, I tore up another pillowcase (with hole! because I have boys! and a dog! and they're rough on things!) (Get it? GET IT? ROUGH ON THINGS! Like ruff? Like a dog barking? Oh, nevermind) and made it bigger and fixed up the torn back.


Yes, I know. You've seen it before. But hot damn, I sewed something.

And, of course, the whole damn house knew I was sewing because I left the basement door open because Aaron was mowing and the boys were watching cartoons and I was screaming at my machine "WHO'S YOUR DADDY NOW?!" and, um, other things when all of the sudden I look up and there's Darwin.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, Dar?"

"Do you like sewing?"

"Yes, I do. I really do."

"Then why did you call it a dirty little bitch?"

::crickets::

"May I have an apple?"

"ABSOLUTELY."

Now I have all sorts of grandiose ideas like working on my quilt and making a new bag and not feeling like I'm drowning in my life.