The girls decided that I needed a little sprucing up. Here are the results:
Now I'm all ready for the red carpet. Eat your heart out Hugh.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
It's a good thing you are cute!
Dearest Max,
You drowned my iphone today. And had the worst, indescribable diaper issue today during my cycling class. Didn't you care that I ate creme brulee last night and a creme puff? I don't even want to talk about the iphone. I need some time.
Your Mother.
Monday, January 26, 2009
A tale of a crazy woman and her neighbor's library card.
"Where's Max?" I find myself asking this question in a panic more times than I want to admit during the day. Sometimes to Kate, Ella or Jackson and sometimes out loud to myself. There are times during the day when 30 seconds has gone by and I realize that I have not been aware of him; plenty of time for him to run out the front door, shut his fingers in the back door, empty out a kitchen drawer, find the butter knives, crawl up the stairs and climb in the bathtub fully clothed and turn on the water, flush (insert object here) down the toilet, re-program the cable, erase all the phone numbers on my cell. You get the idea.
I was innocently searching the freezer for something palatable for children when out plopped my gigantic, Costco sized bag of mixed vegetables onto my head and all over the floor. It's nice being covered in mushrooms, baby carrots, snow peas and red peppers but it's even nicer when they are frozen. I groaned and mumbled a few things that I won't share. I grabbed the remaining veggies and lugged them outside to my not-quite-so-stuffed-with-oversized-veggies freezer. I had just barely secured the culprits in my freezer when out came Jackson to see what I was up to. He greeted me with these lovely words, "Don't worry, Mom. I locked the door so Max can't come out." Now this wouldn't concern me except I knew that all the other doors were locked and I did not have my keys. Jackson had unwittingly locked us out and locked my 16 month HOLY TERROR alone in the house. Panic, panic, panic! I ran as fast as my heeled shoes and dimply bottom could take me down to my neighbor's house. I'm not sure I was even coherent when I tried to explain what had happened. My nice neighbor, let me in and I called a lock smith while she ran up with her baby to see if she could jimmy the door open with a her Clark County library card. I quickly followed. I could hear Max crying. I grabbed the library card and bent the thing to all heck and back, but was able to pop the door open. I saw my little Max's face: red, blotchy and wet. He grabbed me and said, "mamamamama." I realized that I would rather wear boy-short bikini bottoms (a nightmare, believe me!) & an unpadded bikini top (the horror!) with a snake draped all over me (Hate snakes. HATE!) than not be able to get to Max when he needs me. Then I proceeded to embarrass myself by starting to blubber in front of my neighbor.
I like to sometimes pretend that I am someone who has her act together. You know, not a hair out of place, that sort of thing--right out of a Jane Austen novel. I'm thinking Emma Thompson in Sense and Sensibility but with more cleavage and a hat with a feather in it. Like a frying pan smacking me in the face, I am reminded that image is not real. Not even close. So maybe I should just give it up and admit that my bra is roomy, my laundry is piled to the ceiling (at least the stuff that made it to the laundry room), my windows are covered with finger prints, I spent too much money last month, I forgot to pay my electricity bill, my heels are scaly and my toes still have black nail polish on them from Halloween (gross, I know!), and my car needs to be washed and has needed to be washed for weeks. And now I can add to that list that I sob in front of the neighbors. Not dainty little tears-- big fat, blow your nose kind of slobbery blubbering tears of relief. Maybe my fantasy needs a little tweaking (I'm keeping the cleavage). Maybe I do. I don't really care as long as I am there when my children need me.
(I'm trying to end this blog in a Grey's Anatomy sort of fashion. You know, where they make more meaning out of whatever happened in the episode and sum it up in a tidy fashion at the end with a syrupy deep thought. But really, it's over-kill at the end of the episode that leaves you running for your remote so you don't have to listen to it? How'd I do?
Crap, I just confessed that I watch Grey's Anatomy, huh! (Only occasionally, in my closet, with a blanket over my head.) I'm really giving away too much here. Next, I'll be talking about The Bache....)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Spastic Spandex Alert
Since Valentine's day is coming up, and since I know you all love men in spandex tights here's a little eye candy tip for you: Wednesday, 10 a.m., my gym, man in full length purple spandex pants complete with pink thunderbolts and sweat band to match. Enjoy.
Monday, January 12, 2009
All praises to the great and wonderful iphone...
I've been thinking about this for awhile:
Why an iphone is better than a man:
An iphone doesn't leave its dishes in the sink for three days.
An iphone doesn't steal the covers or snore for that matter.
An iphone entertains your children.
An iphone is always willing to go shopping.
An iphone always wants to listen to your music.
An iphone is always willing to keep you occupied.
An iphone doesn't care if you haven't washed its underwear.
An iphone can tell you the weather.
An iphone can teach you Spanish.
An iphone doesn't cough on you.
The end.
(When you spend so much time alone, you try and look on the bright side!)
Check in tomorrow for my ode to Macbook...
Monday, January 5, 2009
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