xmas 2010

Bright Red Filmstrip Christmas

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So Powerful

It's 1230 on Friday and after a really rough night of kids waking up with snotty noses, I really should be getting them down for naps. But my friend just sent me this email. She said I would be "moved to tears," "Praise God." Those two combined never move me to tears. Actually, not much moves me to tears.

Here I am smiling and crying, my kids confused out of their minds. We're watching a million versions of this awesome concept (Sound of Music in Central Station in Belgium? My kids are dancing their butts off right now, asking if we can do this in the mall sometime. eh ha, probably not)

ps sorry facebook friends, I know I just posted it. I love it so much.

oh nuts!

Peppy got neutered yesterday.  As I wrote as my facebook status, my excitement to his procedure was completely disproportionate.  I was so excited for him to be gone for 36 hours, I didn't even know what to do with myself.  Turns out, I fell asleep (with the gate open!) at 7pm, woke up not fearing the kitchen and him growling for food.  Unfortunately when I asked the girls if they missed them, 4 year old said, "meh, not really."  I didn't understand the stress that Peppy is until he was gone.  But now he's back.

Mr Incredible walked in the house with a shimmer (or was it a tear for Peppy?) in his eye telling me not to laugh.  I don't normally laugh at people or things, or altogether immature scenarios, but seriously:

sorry too lazy to turn this around

Peppy you look like hell

You would never know that the little dude just had his balls cut off.  (crass, sorry, i know.  but fur realz).  He's not lost an ounce of Pep in his step (well maybe an ounce or two.)

Which is taller, a square or a rectangle?

If you read my other blog, you know that I have this looming Christmas (sans alcohol, I might add) party coming up.  There is little to dread, much to look forward to, but if you read my last post, the former becomes what I look forward to and the latter is what I dread.  The Irish in me, again.  Fall back excuse.

Right now my dread is that I don't have hot shoes.  This is muy, muy bothersome for me.  First of all, I had a group of 10 or so people tell me the other day that they think I'm taller than Mr Incredible (a rectangle always looks taller than a square).  This does not fly with me.  I used to very confidently wear heels with him (we are both 5'9).  Now I feel as though I'm going to be stuck wearing- what?  Flats and dress with tights?  That, too, does not fly with me.  (and if you're wondering, my "hot shoes" that I had suddenly started making my legs feel less Sarah, more Bristol-esque.  In other words, salvationarmy.)  I know I could get away with boots, but flat boots are cazh.

So what's a girl to do?  My best advice to you is to stay tuned.  Because I'm at a loss.

kiwi

versus Mr Inc.  Who looks taller to YOU

   

There's a Ned in all of Us

Ned: Do we know 'im?  Do we love 'im?  Yes and Yes.  As a matter of fact, I'm A Ned.  There is one in every functioning relationship.  Keep your eye out for this.  There is always a negative emotional person, and then there is the better half, and yes I said BETTER half that is realistic, level headed, easy going.  And all of these qualities will end up infuriating Ned.  WHAT do you you think you're BETTER than ME!?

These past 4 or so days have been particularly tough ones.  I've been overly negative emotional, hyper sensitive, hyper critical.  Pretty much verbally abusive, and when Mr Incredible rubs my back and says, "sweetie, you're doing great!  You're gonna get through this, it's just a rough patch" I roll my eyes and tell him I'm fat.  Because that is what I KNOW will get me a negative emotional response.  Works like a charm.

Let's take, for instance, giving the baby medicine.  Mr Incredible suggested I should because she was feverish and cranky.  You would've thought that he asked me to lug the tv from the basement and hook it up to the computer from the DVI to the HDMI cable.  I moaned and groaned so afraid that for SOME reason me giving her medicine was going to work out.  "Why don't YOU do it?  It's your first day off in 6 weeks and all YOU'RE doing is sitting watching football."  And when he replied, "sweetie, I just went out and bought the medicine, and actually I'm working on my homework" all I heard was "oh, baby, it's just the Opt-World HDMI cable you'll have to use to hook it up.  You can do it!"

So I pulled myself up by my boot straps, and I did it.  I gave the baby Tylenol.  And it spilled all down the front of her, on the floor, on my Dry Clean Only sweater.  I lost it.  I threw the teaspoon and exclaimed that it was HIS fault, damnit.  Why did he buy the RED STUFF?????  MY Baby only likes the PINK STUFF!!!  He calmly replied, "well, next time we'll have to use the dropper."  In other words, the HDMI switcher, ya know.  I started having a mild anxiety attack.  And then baby fell asleep.  And once again, I realized it was all alright.  Everything's okay.  It always is.  But the prospect of what COULD happen is always looming.  Always in front of my face.  It's the Irish in me.

Crossing Fingers

Today will be the moment of truth.

Remember how the van bit the dust?  Yes, well it has been sitting at the car shop since then until we could decide what to do with it.  Much is involved in that decision.  First we have to clear everything out, which in itself will be epic.  I have everything from sunscreen to boots that don't fit anyone to my my marriage certificate.  ha.  Really.  Then we have to decide where to dump it.  Did you know that there is a fine to bring it to a dumpster???  Absurd.

Procrastination patience always prevails.  My dad just so happened to run into the Car Dealer and he delivered good news.  If we can drive the van to the lot, and they can find something wrong with our right axel (it's been recalled) then they will give us either a rental car until we buy a new car, or they will give us money towards a new car.

I didn't want us not having a car to be a family affair, but my dad and Mr Incredible are going to try try try to make the van drive from the shop to the store.  My Dad following Mr Inc in case the car breaks down.  When I told my dad that I would follow him so my Dad didn't have to be involved, he looked at me as though I was asking him to direct me toward the best dating sites or to give me internet fax reviews.  In other words, he thought it was absurd for me to risk waiting on the side of the road with the girls in tow, while we waited for the tow truck.

So everyone silently at your computers say a little "vroom baby vroom" for me.  And the monstrosity called minivan.

Scrub my Hub. ewww as in clothe him.

Remember how I said that most of my family is in the medical profession?  Yes, let's talk about that.

Unlike most/some people, I have no fear or dread of the hospital, dentist offices, nursing homes.  As mentioned in my previous post, I lovvee them.  Mostly because I've never been traumatized by any of the above (knock on woooooood) but also because I was exposed to these things all the time.  The biggest and probably only problem I've had with my experience with the nursing profession is that no one (Mom, Dad or Sister) let me ever have any say in what scrubs they wore.  Always modest, always blue.  I'm talking to you, too, Mr Incredible.  If I was a nurse, no matter what the establishment (because i do what i wunt) I'd totally be sportin hot pink scrubs.

get this man some SCRUBS!

I remember going into this medical uniform retail with my mom when I was little.  Oh!  The Looney Tunes and the Barbie and the Valentine's Day scrubs.  And my mom bought white.  Probably because her patients- people like that morbidly obese man who kept his gun on top of the donut box, or the woman who claimed that her leg felt "wiggly" when my mom later realized she had maggots crawling in her leg wound- would not've so much appreciated dinosaurs with band-aids.

So here we are, Mr Incredible approaching the end to his nursing school.  I'm waiting, just wondering, even though I know, that he, too, will never ever wear character scrubs.  And I'm starting to appreciate that a little more everyday.  Because who really trusts a man wearing mens' nursing scrubs with designs on them, anyway?  Then again, I don't trust too many men that wear white sneakers, either.  ;)

The Grandiosity of Assisted Living

I went to college to become an Occupational Therapist.  Mainly because I love LOVE helping people.  I don't know why, it's in my bones.  It's probably because I come from a family of Health Care people.  Nurses, mainly.

If I've ever told you anything about my work ethic, we all know... what work ethic?  Zero.  It's embarrassing and shameful that a person like me can really make Denny's have a hard time ticking.   There are two jobs, however, that I positively loved.  Enough to finish my shift and not call in sick once a week.  (I don't know why these jobs kept me around.  I must have the kavorka.)  The first one is a group home.  I LOVED these people.  (Not the workers, though.  Isn't there always one named Kathy The Smoker who hates the world, her ex husband and her daughter that won't move out of the house at age 37?)  One of the residents was always yelling.  HI KIERAAAAA.  MAYBE DA NEXT TIME I CAN SEE YOUR BABYYYYYYYYY.  WHO FREW DAT AT MEEE?  She was also very strong with behavioral issues.  In other words, she could snap your neck if you didn't watch your back.

Then there was the public masturbator.  This is no lie.  This one time I brought him to a baseball game.....

Then there was Doug, who was obsessive compulsive and obsessed over (including but not limited to) my dad, jack fm, me, other workers, anesthesia (my dad's a nurse anethsetist).

Job number two was an assisted living home.  I was a "dietary aide" aka lunch lady.  Then I was promoted (demoted?)  (moted?) to "residential aide" aka the dirty work.  Where I had to scrub just about anything and anyone in the building.  And give medicine!  and put on pressure stockings!  and lotion in unreachable places!  buuut ilovedit.

So maybe I like having "rewarding" jobs, but I think what it really boils down to is shower stools, double shower heads and floral bath towels.  It's like a taste of luxury.  Or is it a taste of what's to come?

New blog

I'm sure if I add anymore blogs to your reading list you'll need some major saline solution or a travel time machine.  Maybe you'll just need some FreshLook Contacts in case you work your eyes to the nub.  (Although a friend's experience tell me to only soak contacts in a sterile saline solution for contacts- or else you'll do your eyes more harm than good.)  TANGENT.

But have you heard?  I've started a new blog with a bad idea.  90 sans alcohol.  As suggested, and as strong as it sounds, maybe, um, recommended to me.  You'll have to go read it to know what I'm talking about, because I'm not going to label myself with a "drinking problem" on two blogs.  That's too much for my fragile self. 

Speaking of fragile self, I am sick like whooooaaaa today.  Sick as in if I told you anything about it I would be giving you TMI.  But I think it's probably the flu (hopefully 24 hours seeing as though I haven't ralphed in 5 hours.)  Little triumphs, here, little triumphs.  

But at least we all know it's not a hangover I'm nursing.

Swagger

I need some major help. I need you to dish on CARS! Mr Incredible says things like "soooo have you looked into what car you want to buy yet?" Um no Mr Incredible. I crumble under pressure like that. I can tell you the cars I won't be getting: A jetta (yes I'm talking to YOU mr-incredible-tiny-car-that-I-fall-into), A Toyota Camry (the reviews say niet oh and i need a 7seat min), A 16 passenger van.

And all of those conclusions lead me no where. All of those decisions made me realize I should've brought the car into the auto repair as soon as I saw the bleepin check engine light instead of waiting until the car started shaking at a red light 45 minutes away from home.

Let's do what I do best. If I don't know the solution I procrastinate!: (I know I've already posted this)

The Problem with No Wheels

So here I am on day three (four?) with no wheels.  I'm actually really really loving it.  ie My excuse to exercise.  However there is just one teensy problem with no wheels.

When I was born my 7 year old at the time sister asked if I was Italian.  Because I came out with SO MUCH dark, thick hair.  We're Irish and German, no we're not Italian, no I'm not the post man's daughter, I just got the only strand of hairy dna in my entire ancestry.  So if you're anything like me there is no doubt to the question 'If you could have only one thing while stranded on a deserted island what would it be?'  umtweezersduh.  Not that I'm prideful, but more that my rescuers wouldn't mistake me for a gorilla.  AND if you're anything like me then you know there is no light like natural light.  Not even halogens.  So basic "if and only if" math says 'if you are hairy and only if natural light is suitable to do a thorough job then you tweeze in the car.'  No doubt.

these are the things I learned in college.  ie to be super woman

Unfortunately I didn't think of that when Jamie the tow man towed my car and all 4 sets of tweezers away.  To it's final destination.  Well, no, actually just the car shop.  But 4 days for my face is final destination.


Yesterday emerging from the shower my two year old said, "Peppy pooooped."  This sort of um, shit, throws me over the edge.  So I went into our family room to find it.  No where to be found.  No where.  But it stunk to the high heavens.  Then I saw it: smears on the couch.  I nearly lost my head and Peppy nearly lost his life when I decided that some fresh air would do us good.  (after wooliting the um, shit, out of our couches and scrubbing them.)  So we walked to Walgreens.  On the way I realized Peppy was covered in fecal matter.  We dropped Peppy off at the groomer to get bathed.  Then picked up 2 sets of tweezers at Walgreens.  Then went to Pizza Hut for dinner.  Then walked home.

So friends, I'm happy to report that our house smells fresh, Peppy's ass is fresh, my face is fresh and I'm a new woman.  All with out a car.

thank you Duquesne.  For making yesterday possible. 

DUNH DUHN DUNH another one bites the dust.

And so the day has come.  As inevitable as taxes.  My Ford Windstar with two hubcaps has bit the dust.  After thousands of dollars and hundreds of thousands of miles, here we are, homebound.  I really don't mind being homebound, it's kind of a nice excuse to stay home and rearrange rooms.  

But remember how we refinanced?  Well we can't get a new car until our refinancing goes through.  Probably in a few weeks. But why not go a few weeks more and cushion some money if we already have to wait?  So here we'll be.  Unless we cram ourselves into Mr Incredible's tiny tiny car.

And what type of car should we get?  I would love a Traverse.  But that's out of the budget.  (what budget?)  It's probably between a Swagger Wagon and a Honda Odyssey.  Or really anything big.

So let's all take a moment of silence for big green van.

Thank you.

Pink to Crimson

The only time in my life I've ever been relieved to find that I had low comment numbers on a blog post was yesterday.  So shame on you if you didn't read it, because you'll probably have no idea what I was talking about.  OHHHbut I'll explain.  I wouldn't leave you hanging that bad.

Over the weekend I received an email to do some advertising on my blog (for money!  Oh for the love of money.)  My friends were over as I was checking me email.  And we may or may not have been carousing.    Anydrinkfest I eagerly (oh so eagerly!) replied to my email just to have my gmail go apesnap on me.  So I googled this person's name who sent me the email and clicked on the link that brought me no where.  All I could find was his facebook, linkdin, myspace.  But then, oh then, I saw something about a virus.  So I looked at it and behold! I found it, I caught him!  This "man" was not a man, he was a virus (from which I'll with hold his name.  Because I leaked it like whoa this weekend.)  A virus that gives you all sorts of popups!  I virus that is a nuisance, though not that  bad.

I panicked and like any other good blogger I blogged about it immediately (after the headache subsided the next day).  I titled the post 'I'll be damned, ________.'  And damned was I when I received an email from him this morning.  Damned was I when I rechecked my references.  Damned was I when I realized you should never drink and read emails.  Or research spam and viruses.  Damned was I when I realized I lost my visions of laying in a bed of cash that I'd earned through blogging (without using Adsense!).  Damnit.

But in all seriousness, I do owe this guy a sincere apology.  It is totally not my style to slam someone's name, especially all over the www.  But I really did think that his name was the name of a virus, so I didn't have any hesitation.  I was sure satellites were watching in my windows all day, until I got his email.  I felt like such a predator.  Sorry, ______.

Now who wants their business in my sidebar???

Caffeine

I'm 14,000 times overjoyed.  But in all reality, it probably boils down to the excessive amounts of caffeine in me.  My BFFFFFFFFF in reality and virtual reality started a blog.  Friends, she is my BESTFRIEND4EVA.  I've been trying to get her to blog since I began blogging.  She's stubborn as an ass and likes things on her own terms, so 1.5 year later here she is.

And people, this is the start of something good.  Not only is it a buzz in itself, I am a new blogger and we are going to conquer blogger one post at a time.  Starting with soap.com.  ahem.  Anyway.  You really ought to go follower her.  She's desperate.  Yes she's desperate.  Words that she wouldn't dare say, but I'll most def say for her.  Stay tuned.  And go check out my better third (Mr Incredible could not be excluded from that.  But there's nothing weird going on, either.)

strangely we have next to no pictures together.  she has really fast blink reflexes.

Refinancing

We just recently refinanced our house, interest rates are a whopping 3.75%.  We had a couple of options; we could've kept our monthly payment the same and lowered it to a 15 year mortgage, or we could've kept it the same and gotten a loan for our kitchen (so we could have room for a normal kitchen table- so sick of those high stools), but we decided to keep it at 30 years and have the option to pay nearly $300 less.  Sweet.  A bunch of my friends have refinanced, too.

I love finding out new ways to get lower payments.  By divine grace a realized that the girls qualified for super cheap health insurance- that's a saved at least $200!  But with all of these saved payments we'll probably just be putting them (soon enough) to a new car with hubcaps.  Because have I told you?  Poor little minivan is breaking down more than it's running.  Well, not quite true, but it stutters more than it runs.

Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. ps this is a major TMI POST

I'm debating about how detailed to get with this post.  This much I'll tell you.  I've never cared so little about drinking 1180 calories worth of cranberry juice in my life.  I will gain one inch (and that's a compromise, calories, so don't push it) around my waist if the burning OH THE BURNING will go away. I do not once more want to sink to my knees because I have to go SO BAD then crawl to the throne and have nothing come out.  Tinkle constipation, friends.  That's what I'll call it.  Because calling it a UTI would be TMI.

So let's leave with a little poll.  You know I love polls.  Situation: We have 1 roll of toilet paper left.  I'm dashing through Wegmans with vitamin C, cranberry juice and water.  I pay, and go into the bathroom so I can make it until I get home.  In the bathroom I realize that we are in the midst of running out of toilet paper (at home), and at the rate I'm going (or not) we'll be out in the morning.  Would it be unethical to steal a roll from Wegman's bathroom?  Remember:  THE BURNING.  I cannot possibly run to the opposite end of the story to get toilet paper.  Let's have at it.

ps.  I did not steal any toilet paper.  I also did not run to the other end of the store to buy some.  I merely put it out of my mind and figured I would cross that bridge when I get to it.  That's always a bad decision.  I always make that decision.

Ay Caramba

I've gone Spanish and come back.

I can't believe I've become just another wasted space in the blogosphere!  I've neither participated or contributed to the blog world.  I'm tellin ya, it's this damn dog. (peppy I'll love you til the ocean turns to yogurt.  Or you get hit by a car.)  peta leave me alone.  He's fine!  Although, he did run into the street today, but since goose, deer and golf cart crossing are all too common on my street the drivers navigated little Peppy just fine.

So how are you, friends?  (I know, the most awkward rhetorical question possible for a blogger to ask.)  I've been good.  Busy.  I have this completely unnecessary itch to spray paint all of the insides of my cupboards.

And I've put myself on a spending freeze.  Why, you ask?  Frankly, I have no idea.  Go figure I made this "commitment" to myself as I was pouring the last glass of milk and chomping on the last piece of produce in our house.  The girls had crushed pineapple for snack today.  My friend and I had champagne and shrimp cocktail for snack today.  And peanut butter on spoons.  Siccckkkk.

I'VE to bed.  I will I WILL check in soon.

Much love from ME to YOU.  Whoever reads this and comments will get a special prize.  I'm not sure what yet, but believe me.  Because YOU are my faithful ones.

blog bullletin

Friends:

Hello, it's been awhile (part 14)
CSN has given me another promotion (yay).  Last time I mentioned (yes, a mere mention!) I was able to purchase a wonderful quilt for the baby's nursery!  It looks sooo good.  I'll take a pic soon.  I love it so much I'm actually going to get another one to have matching twin beds in the nursery (soon to be the big girls' room)

In all honesty, CSN is worth taking a look at.  It's like a high quality Walmart online.  I has anything from dining room chairs, to quilts, to dog strollers.  yesssssssss.

Here's the quilt I got (and what I'm getting another of)

Put through the wringer

Well congratulations, me!  I've had my first mean anonymous commenters on my last post.  Although, really they're not that anonymous.

I wrote a (mean, in retrospect) comment on someone else's blog.  Along the lines of, wow that was boring. Only because I'm every day thoroughly entertained by this person.  I've read the blog for at least a year every day, sometimes checking MORE than once in hopes that there'd be another post.

My comment:  funny?  Apparently not.  Hurtful?  Apparently so.  But whoa Uncle Sam did I get some nassssty things said about me.  On that blog.  On facebook.  AHHHH and such is the life of being able to say whatever you want to another person because this is all virtual.

Hey, at least I didn't try to disguise myself and comment as Anonymous.  Righteous.

Mustard's never tasted so good

You know how discouraging it is when you just can't shake those last 5, 7, 10 pounds?  Me too.  Especially since I haven't been working out, the weight that I'm at looks even heavier because it's not lean muscle.  It's fatty fat.

My perfectly fitting jeans are fitting very imperfectly, and I'm always tugging at my clothes so they don't ride up, ride down, get bunched in the wrong places.  Such a frustrating place to be in.  The biggest problem of it all seems to be my appetite and love of all food/drink.  That plus no self control has ground moving effects.  Quite literally.

Poor Mr Incredible could hardly stand one more three-lettered question or comment.  Clue: ends in t, starts with f and has a vowel in between.  And 'fit' is not the correct answer.  My poor children, even though they have not expressed in so many (or any at all) words, could barely stand one more day of me jumping for dear life into my jeans, red faced and sweating, and anxiously albeit politely asking them to leave my room so they could not watch in horror the spectacle I was creating.

So I'm taking some very sound advice and trying to go no carb for 2 weeks.  14 days.  No big deal.  Really what I should be doing is sleeping with a plastic bag over my head.  Because that's easy to do for 14 days too.

It's 1pm on my second day of no carbs.  I politely declined a Tim Hortons egg, cheese and sausage biscuit and a donut of any sort.  And then when I came home shaking from the effects of too much coffee and no carbs (carbs=food) I downed 2 ninety seven percent fat free hot dogs.  I was licking the ketchup and mustard off of my plate as fiercely as I would've licked chocolate icing off of an unsuspecting two year old's birthday cake.

It's that bad.  But only twelve and a half more days to go.

Have you done any no carbs?  How did you survive it?

This post brought to you by Bristol Palin and Oh! Calcutta

Ugh this pic doesn't even do them justice

When I heard today that Bristol Palin is going to be on Dancing With the Stars, I knew I had to honor the Palins immediately.  I needed to find an occasion to wear those shoes.

  I'm 5'9.  And so is Mr Incredible (height may or may not be his only un incredible characteristic.)  And what better place would I have to wear these than an Indian restaurant?  Where I can one up small Indian men two times with 1) my height 2) my thick (er?) Buffalo accent?  I bet Bristol felt like me, too.

Bristol are you feeling self conscious than your leg is bigger than his head?  Very relatable tonight, Bristol.  Very relatable.

Sarah, why do your legs look so much hotter than mine?:

and this pic DOES NOT DO MY LEGS JUSTICE.

One Oh! Calcutta martini (two parts liquor to one part pineapple juice to one part Indian cologne)

Indian waiter, "you get rose he get beel."

Do I have loose ends not tied up?  Have I made a complete thought throughout this whole post?  Sorry.  Oh! Calcutta.  and mr incredible's left over beer.  good. night.

At least the title was good

I'm Irish (like I don't wear that on my sleeve) hence I'm morbid.  It's just in the blood.  The running joke in my family, for instance, is that no party is complete without my mom's "untimely and tragic" story.  There needs to be at least one for the "Opa!" effect.

So really, what should I've expected when I read a novel by an Irish 23 year old?  A series of untimely and tragic events, of course.  But I didn't expect that.  I expected the book to be just as wonderful and moving as the movie P.S. I Love You.  (I don't even really like movies, let alone get effected by them.  During ps I love you I was streaming tears the entire time.  I'm not sure if pregnancy hormones had anything to do with it, but I'm not willing to take the risk that it wasn't.)   The cover of the book says that it's by the same author.  Which should've been my second red flag.  If you like a movie so so much, chances are the book can't live up to the movie.  And isn't it always a shame when you read the book then watch the movie?  ( I hear Eat, Pray, Love is exceptional.)

and And that was the only credit that the book cover gave to this book.  No New York Times reviews.  No reviews at all, really.  No preface (not that a book needs them, because frankly, I never read them.  Although I always realize in retrospect that I should've read the preface.  This happens every single time.)

So.  With all that being said, I need to say one more thing.  I never thought that I'd be the type of person that would write a bad review on a book.  It is someone's piece of art, after all, and who am I to slander that?  Why would I deter someone else from reading it?  (especially since it's just a depressing novel?)  I have no answers to that question other than I can't believe I wasted 450 pages (but only 3 days, if I might add) to read it.

It was series after series of missed meetings with the true other.  And then when they're fifty and divorced and baby mamas and baby daddys and failures failures failure and 415 pages of FAIL they decide "oh my true love!  We've been "best friends" (let's face it you can't have the opposite sex be your best friend through marriages et cetera et cetera) since we were 5 now let's get mawwwwied even though your post menopausal and we have a combined three children in three different countries.  AND you're a successful doctor who only cares about work and YOU'RE always bitching about being a single mother and the manager of a hotel who didn't even pass health dept regulations."  And you're attracted to each other why?

There is one thing I was impressed with, however.  Apart from the epilogue, the whole book was written via letters, emails, Instant messages.  But when I think back about the story, the times and places of events are very clear.  That is the one and only thing that I would describe as "talent" or literal "piece of work."  But boyy, was this book a piece of work.

I also like the Title (main character's name) Rosie Dunne.  Who wouldn't want to be named that?  And I liked reading it in my own version of an Irish brogue.  That was the one thing that kept me from scratchimg my eyes out.

So if you're ever in the mood to read a very frustrating story that uses phrases like "gone mental" and "demented" and every 150 pages mentions a drag queen named "Miss Behave" to jazz the story up, this is definitely the book for you.

But clearly, I don't want to talk about it, so keep it to yourself.

I'm off to read about training my puppy, for a dose (or more) of reality.

I get by with a little help from my friends (followers?)

We all remember the days of celebrating when we'd have one more follower.  I remember clearly the day that I was up to my fourth follower and first random commenter.  I shouted for joy and told Mr Incredible (among others) and I quote: "A professional blogger commented!"  I'm realizing a year or so later that she wasn't "professional" she had a lot of followers.  Again, my mantra applies, tomato tomahto.
.....
Wait.  Who am I kidding?  I still wait for just one more follower.  And a different commenter.  Heck!  I even got an anonymous commenter the other day!  The only reason I was sad was because I wasn't verbally harassed by he she (it?).  And I'm still, STILL waiting for the day I get a Cambodian spammer in my comments section.  That's official like relationship status on facebook official.

But alas.

So I'm imploring your help.  Because when Jen says that she's blogging for her job (pffff) and Emcy asks "how do you have 104 followers?  Not that I care how many followers I have...*trailing off...* (pfff) and Rose is "online journaling" we all just know that they are new bloggers who haven't come to grips with Step 1: Admitting.  Admitting that we are powerless over our need to be noticed.  To have followers.

We all want to be leaders of a circus.  In our case, it's a virtual circus.  Which is pretty thought provoking.  Descartes, anyone?  (Rose?)

So I'm going to strongly advise you to go read their blogs and follow.  Follow.  Follow.  And I'm going to proudly list them on my blog roll under my (not yet existent) Friends and family Blogs.  I always thought those friend and family blogs were such a Below the Belt Move.  Like saying, "these are outrageously awesome blogs under 'My Faves,' but please excuse my Friends and Families' blogs."  Not so, friends.

I guarantee youll be slightly envious of their way with words.  Dormant Gloria Steinman?  Yes please.  Delightfully and maybe overeagerly assisting policemen (while describing her husband as having a 'clipped bark'?)  Uh thank you yes.  Chicken wings (too many?)?  Forgetting to  take out the garbage (again?)?  Now that is empathy at its finest.

Welcome to the Family

I've discovered something new about me today.  I'M NOT A NATURAL AT DOG REARING.  I've discovered something else about me today.  I take back all the times I self deprecatingly shook my head at people when they would say that I'm natural and good mom.  BECAUSE I AM.  My new dog told me so.

New dog, you say?  Kiera, what's this?  Answer:  I don't know!

Here's the story.  We wanted a labradoodle.  We as in I suggested a dog to Mr Incredible.  Ya know, someone to play fetch with.  Labradoodle- hypoallergenic, relatively mild, kid friendly.  I always wanted a big dog.  So it met the criteria.  Yesterday we go to the pet store, conversation as follows:
Me: Mr Incredible just so you know if there's a labradoodle in there I'll want it immediately.
Him: No, we're going to go through a breeder, not the pet store,
Me: Just sayin.

Lo and behold, there was the sweetest lookin' labradoodle you ever did see there.  (commence whining and my argument why we should get him right.now.)

Until took him out and played with him, that is.

Just a flesh wound.

My sweet little timid, timid, scared of any living thing (potato bugs included) children asked to play with a puppy that was little and sweet.  We chose a little Havanese puppy.  Upon delivery to my arms the pet shop worker said, "this dog is basically dead it's so chill."  

Right. up. my. alley.  Eldest daughter held this dog (!!) for 15 minutes (!!!!).  And then said "I want to buy him."  *heart melting*

Blah blah blah I can't believe I'm giving you all these details.  

cut to the chase next day we bought dog.  Named him Peppy.  

I did my research on Havanese dogs, but maybe not so much dogs in general.  A) You have to take them out in the middle of the night?  B) You have to let them "cry it out in the cage?"  THIS is the point that I'm emotionally detaching myself.  None of my kids "cried it out" in their cribs (and btw, they sleep through the night in their own bed (cept the baby is still in our bed))  But I'll be damned if a dog ends up in bed with me.  I'll be damned.  C) Dogs have "rest time" and "play time."  I thought dogs just laid around all day waiting to harass the mailman.  No?  No.

Needless to say, I'm more tired than I've been in a while.  Although this is the nice type of tired because my body isn't recovering from labor.

Meet Peppy

in all his glory.

With Pep in his step.

Beef-a-reeno

This restaurant
plus

these horses standing outside of it
made me laugh out loud remembering this:

rusty!  no!

Miley has it wrong. It was a party in Can-AH-da

I'm back!  What?  you didn't miss me?  Oh, it's because I was on a long weekend.  Not a vacation.  There it's been clarified.

What I look like on vacation.  no for real.

I'll begin at the beginning and the end.  We went to Blue Mountain in Canada.  It's a ski resort only it was summertime.  So it was a summer resort on a mountain.  It was ah!mazing.  It's an hour and a half past Toronto.  If you're thinking, "ooo I love big cities!" redirect your thinking to, "note to self: never go on vacation when you have to drive through a ginormous city."  Unless you super fluffy heart traffic jams, of course.

Did you know that if Toronto were in the US (tomato tomahto, ay?) it would be the third largest city after nyc and la?  Approaching the big city, I thought, 'Ikeas! skinny people (maybe even famous)!, musicals! and Asians!'  Round number two:  Approaching the city I thought, 'Please God don't let there be more traffic jams that creep up so fast on you that I'll get whip lash and more importantly, will let the kids wake up."

I won't get into all the wonderful nitty gritty details of it.  But this much I'll say:  Starbucks under our hotel room.  Tim Hortons in Canada.  Pool.  Beach.  Mountain.  Someone else washing all of our dirty towels.  Beer.  Martinis.  Wine.  Live music.  Need I say more, friends??  Need I say more.

Front: capri sun. Back: cranberry lime martini.  It's not everyday that I have martinis. (garnished with limes, that is.)

There's a fungus among us (but I decided to blog about something else)

I'm tired.  Have I ever mentioned that before?  I don't complete full sentences, thoughts, really anything other than appetite, when I'm this tired.

Have you ever read design interior blogs when you're tired?  Gone to TJMaxx when you're tired?  Tried ordering off the dollar menu?  Decided between an ice cream sandwich and York mint patty?  (I ate both plus another york mint patty.  the big ones.)  Gone to AAA to rent a van with all four hubcaps?  DMV?

So now I'm tired an anxiety ridden.  I'm not good enough and AAA and DMV employees have successfully made me feel inadequate and have left me wondering if my children are in fact comparable to ferrets.  (So I didn't brush their hair today!!!!!)  Most importantly, I'm frantically calling, emailing, scouring craigslist for a dresser like this:
(mind you I'm not trying to get a new bedroom furniture sets.  This is for our living room/den)

to turn into this:

via

and I want to turn this:

 

into this:

via

Oh the list could go on.  

Thank GOD I'M GOING ON VACATION TOMORROW.

Hopefully I'll come back Monday (oh, whatever, it's a long weekend.  I call them vacations) with wonderful pictures and stories and the best Irish tan you ever did see.  

See you thennnnnnn.  <3 <3 <3  

(the mere thought of vacation and my fingers just typed 790 words per minute.)

My Mahtha

After many years I am slowly coming to grips with Martha.  Martha Stewart that is.  My mom always made it very clear to me that Martha was a daughter hating, stock stealing know-it-all.  Which I heard as 'she makes gaudy crafts and has people who housekeep for her.'  And newstand Enquirer magazine covers told me that she doesn't rock a thong bathing suit very well.  Notice that "doesn't" doesn't mean "can't" or "won't" or "strongly advised not to."  All these thing made me steer clear of her.

Fast forward (rewind?) four years ago when I had expiring frequent flier miles.  Choose from the following: Martha Stewart living, Fishing, Golf, Southern Living.  Obvious.

Needless to say, I've fallen in love.  Martha, I love you and all of your turquoise orange stuff and crafts and print out lists and recipes and cookies of the day that I receive via email every single day.  And your paints!  oh, your paints, Martha!  I was in a bit of a white wall hell when you withdrew your line (maybe they withdrew the line from you) of paint from Lowes.  But you know that Home depot would pick up those pieces.

Today I was in celebratory retail therapy mode (again) (Mr Incredible's semester is over) at TJMaxx and I found Martha's cookbook for $12 from 50.  I don't know whether I should eat it or read it cover to cover or start baking feverishly.  Fat and furiously.

My little snowflake of respect for martha has now snowballed out of control.  Sure!  I'll make sesame cookies.  Sure!  I'll make nautical coasters.  Yes!  I'll hang up your must have for a laundry room list up in my laundry room.  Of course!  I will sweep the floor every night if you tell me to, Martha.  Actually I'll lick it for you.  What's your favorite Martha craft?  cookie?  list?

Let's talk Martha.

vacation

I've been a ball of nerves recently.  And it so happens that kids have been climbing and kicking and sitting right on that ball.  Muy mal.

Since I am American and my July has been so patriotically busy everyone EVERYONE is overtired.  My kids are adrenaline rushed overtired.  Simply put: they're so tired they can't sleep.  My head has been spinning.  Yesterday everyone woke up uber early from their naps which put me in a fit of rage.
Me:  God, you need to take my rage away, please, thanks?
God:  Plan a vacation
Me: omg, God, you're so smart.
...
Hiiiiiiiiii kids!!!!!!!!  I'm so happy you're awake!  I love you and I don't care that you're whining incessantly because we're going on vacationnnnnnnnnnnn

Do you have any suggestions for a vacation spot (relatively cheap) in the Northeast?  I made the humongo mistake of googling it.  We'll pass on family massages, thanks.

I think I'm ready

Whoa now that was one heck of a hiatus.

Hi!  I'm back and I might even be ready to commit.  Fingers crossed.

For a while there I just kinda lost my mind.  I'm busy being bored.  Bored as in Mr Incredible is home 6 hours a night and I need. to. fill. the. days.  So I shop.  I shop for food, I shop for me, I shop for Mr I, I shop for my family, I shop for birthdays that will occur in November.  Expensive habit, I know.

I've also been busy being American.  Because if you're not busy in July then you're not American and your passport should be revoked immediately.  Many a hotdog's been ate and an icecream cone been slurped (lie I don't like cones).  Beaches have been tread upon and pool's a peed in.

The whole gardening spiel that I wrote about?  Niet.  Too sticky, too many bugs.  And it only looks okay.  Which, if you think you know me, means that my towel is just about thrown in.  For this year anyway.

See you tomorrow?

Hello, I've missed you (kinda) but the break was worth it

You know how the longer it is you go with out calling an old friend, the longer the conversation is going to be, which puts off the call further?  Helllllllo blog.  So where to begin, old friend?

My basement:  turns out it's not sewage, might not even be a foundation problem.  Might be Roto Rooter are just this side of "professional plumbers."

What I've been doing:  remember how I've said I can only really deal with one creative outlet at a time?  Well I am a full fledged gardener (maybe.)  I've transplanted (!!!!) a bush, I'm planting so many perennials I could have a mini nursery (not true).  I've been weeding, watering, planting, Miracle growing, planting, planting.  Weeding.  I super puffy fluffy heart gardening.  I'm already bracing myself for the loss I'll have to endure during the winter.  Unfortch, once I take the winter break from it, come next spring I'll have no idea what the h I got myself into.  Maybe not, we'll see.  Carpe diem.

For a while I really felt like I had nothing much to say that was anything less than a Jewel song from her Spirit album.  I was consumed in serious thought full of angst about the world we live in and what will become of me and who? who? is it that I love so much who will die first?  Was that  a run on sentence?  sorry.  Orange you glad I didn't blog these past couple weeks?  I was pretty much zero fun.  I completely delighted in my dread because it was a feeling of hopelessness it was just something to think about.

I totally have to get some pics up on this drab blog.  I'll take some of my garden.  And maybe the big pile of carpet that we ripped up from our basement before we found out it wasn't sewage.  Maybe I'll tell you what I've been buying these days.  (recovery of a somber mood = retail therapy.)

this makes me happy sad.  watch it.  happy sad as in why did i eat all those cookies last night.

And my foundation will be sturdier

If my posts turn into one word sentences, or I just stop posting all together, call 911.  Since I feel like I'm up to my neck in germs, I'm taking matter into my own hands and fumigating the house with bleach.  It's my only choice because our BASEMENT FLOODED AGAIN.  I am a powerless creature relying heavily on Roto Rooter, bleach and the blessing of BFI trucks.  Thank you, garbage men, for taking all of my soiled (think same word usage as in a hospital, nursing home etc), wet goods every Monday morning.

Roto Rooter man is downstairs in my basement replacing my sump pump again (in less than a month) saying things like "Some things to tackle," and "your work cut out for you" and "$4,000- $5,000."  We have another plumber coming to give us an estimate on the $1,800 fix in the next "few hours."  (you get why that's in quotes, don't you?)  And soon we'll have a FOUNDATION man coming within the next day because we need a new foundation or some crazy jazz because soil and sand is "weeping" through holes that the previous owner drilled in the ground.  Hence our sump pump dies every time it rains.

So I'm left with approximately 4 brain cells, the power of prayer and my fist beating my chest "O Domine, Miserere, O Domine Miserere, Iesu Christe, Miserere"

My spring cleaning is more thorough than you-ourrrrrs

Did anyone else get those torrential down pouring (more like side pouring) rains a few days ago?  We did.  And boy, was it shitty.  Pun intended.  Lot's of pun intended.

Rain is like an erratic teenager.  So much potential to be so good, but even more potential to be devastating.    So much good comes from it, yet so much damage can be done.  Mama don't know whether to love im or hate im.

Last month we got a notable amount of rain and our sump pump went kaput on us.  There was flooding in our basement, we had to throw out some of the girls' toys, but really the dehumidifier took care of us.  Probably not the correct way to go about a mini flood, but it turned out fine.  $500 dollars later and a new sump, I thought we were in the clear.  I was wrong.

Most of the rain that came (in our most recent storm) was during the night.  When I woke up first thing in the morning to get Mr Incredible's scrubs out of the drier, there was ankle deep water in about half of out basement.  Psh, a little rain water never hurt anyone.  So I waded through it, shook off my wet feet, went back upstairs to tell Mr Incredible that we were flooded.  again. and worse.  Hung up my pants to dry because why would I wash them?  just a little rain water on the bottoms.  We called the plumbers again, thinking maybe?? it was a faulty sump, even though I could hear it still running still.  The plumber came (8 hours after they estimated) and couldn't figure it out.  Next morning they sent another plumber to figure it out.  I was (still) barefoot and was (still) wearing these:

the said pants that air dried then I slept nice and cozy in bed with them the next night.

K, really bad picture from two years ago.  But they're wonderful girly dandelions blowing in the breeze pajamas.  sigh.  So glorious.

So I'm downstairs in the basement with the plumber and I picked up a few toys off the ground to put them on a shelf as he was saying something along the lines of "eureka! I've got it."  .....  "don't pick up anything else without gloves on, k?"  ....  "You're basement has been flooding with sewage.  Your town is notorious for this."  .....

me: "you mean I'm stepping in my...."

him: "and your neighbors..."

ARE THE DOT DOT DOTS AS LOUD TO YOU AS THEY ARE TO ME TYPING THEM?  

All my dominoes fell into place and it made sense.  My basement was smelling like a bad gastric blowout that you find only on porta potty walls.  The first day I went into the basement I was sliding around.  Ya know, the same feeling as stepping on the bottom of a duck infested pooped pond.  All my white to-be-washed pile of towels developed brown rings around them. 

ARE YOU NAUSEOUS YET?  ARE YOU NAUSEOUS YET?  My jaw is tight just typing this.  My toes were squishing in not just our OWN fecal matter, but my geriatric neighbors, too.  Prune juice, laxatives and grapefruit.

So this is what I've been doing, friends.  Double gloving it, throwing out anything that cannot handle concentrated bleach, moving furniture, washing washing washing, Xacto knifing our carpet, bringing dripping poop laden carpets, toys, garbage upstairs.  This is what I'm doing.

Please don't never return back to my blog because I wrote a poop post.  This was such an exception and I pray that I'll never have write anything as nauseating again.

Did I mention that to get this fixed is an estimate $1,800??  As in I have a van with missing hubcaps can't we please start saving for a new one?  No, we need to make sure poop will never backwash into my house again.  Me thinks I need to learn the bus route.

Throwing in the proverbial towel. Or at least wanting to.

I'm stuck.  Winnie the Pooh stuck.  If I just don't eat the damn honey I can get out of what I started.  But I love honey.  And so it goes with blogging.

I went out for a delightful wonderful time with my good friends tonight.  In absolute passing they mentioned how my blog is scratch your eyes out uppity.  Of course this is what stuck with me for the rest of the night.  That I don't let on to my true self, feelings, etc.  Other people have said the same thing to me.  And a friend's friend read my blog (once) and thought I'm super perfect.  (wait, okay, I just flattered myself a million times over, but that's along the lines of what people were saying).  I do try to take a positive spin on my blog.  a) who wants to read people's woes? (answer: a lot of people.  so they can "relate.") b) what if ex boyfriends are reading this (answer: yes, I'm that vain) c) why the h would I want to air my dirty laundry (answer: at least my dirty laundry is smeared bananas on the shoulders of shirts)

But honestly, I've had a pretty shitty week.  Then again, "shitty" is relative.  I could not think of a life that I'd rather have.  Because I love my life.  So I guess this all is the viscous cycle of am I acting cheerful or AM i cheerful?  TBD.

Mr Incredible and I have been at each other's throats.  I (still) haven't printed one picture since my 8 month old was born.  I've hung nary a picture on our wall to decorate the house.  When I asked Mr Incredible if my love handles were coming back he answered that "maybe I should just start walking some more." (no, that's not emotionally abusive or insensitive, I expect him to answer those types of questions in honesty)  My kids, particularly the eldest, are painfully shy and it can be so frustrating sometimes because people cannot see all that she has to offer.  Sometimes I feel like in wanting to please everyone I please no one.

But really?  That's really what I have to complain about?  I have a good life.  I suppose it is a cheery life, full of life, love and more love.  But I do fight with my husband, yell at my kids, make a fool out of myself, and have elephants and cougars and a mirrored wall in our bedroom.  I'm fiery and emotional and sometimes feel not good enough.  It's not perfect, but what is?

Maybe 'Imperfect Daisies; The Tale of a Real American Housewife' should be more like The Tale of a Cheerful American Housewife; or Sarcastic American Housewife; High Strung, Low Energy American Housewife; Disregarding American Housewife

SUGGESTIONS?  you know I love your opinions.

No money in the world

This is not an obituary.  They're alive and kickin' despite what these close up photos say.  

Just sayin', I wouldn't have it any other way.

You know this isn't a mommy blog.  But I do own bragging rights.