Category Archives: My failing sanity

Anyone else have a crush on Mike the hitman?

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Wowza, it’s been quite a strange week.  I was eyeing the bottle of wine on the counter, wondering if it would be acceptable to enjoy a glass before dinner; it’s a Friday after all, I spent ninety minutes standing in the playground this afternoon, my husband is working late as usual and what the hell.  I need no more excuses.  I cracked that baby open and am now enjoying a polite, lady-sized glass which will be replaced by a few big-ass trashy ones later.  IT’S FRIDAY.

Yesterday I was contemplating ending it all, or at least drinking myself into oblivion, because I could not get the song Crystal Blue Persuasion out of my head.  Those of you who have been watching Breaking Bad may understand why this is pertinent.  My husband and I have been watching this show for a few months now, and now that we are all caught up on episodes, I am feeling bereft and wondering what I have left to live for, on weekend evenings at least.  Anyone want to talk about Breaking Bad?  Because I’m kind of upset it’s all over until the SUMMER.  I’m also realizing that there is something inherently wrong with me; no one else seems to have a crush on Mike the hitman.

Crystal Blue Persuasion was soon replaced by – oddly enough – Old Time Rock and Roll.  If there is a song that can possibly be more “get people out on the dance floor at a wedding”, I would like to know what it is.  In fact, dancing with my husband’s best friend – who was our wedding MC – to that song is one of my favourite memories from my wedding.  Other than getting married to my awesome husband and being totally the centre of attention, of course.  That was pretty fun too.



Old Time Rock and Roll seems a standard at weddings, bringing about nice memories of happily drunken dancing.  See also: YMCA, Do the Locomotion (with the bride leading the chain), Macarena, Celebration, and, of course, the Chicken Dance.  For my wedding, my brother gave me a card with a picture of a very drunken guest, tie on head, yelling at the band “Play Freebird!” while the bride and groom danced sedately.  The caption: “Why You Shouldn’t Have an Open Bar”.  We did have an open bar at our wedding, however I am fairly sure we didn’t play Freebird.  Freebird!  The 70s was a great time for such songs.  Freebird, Baby Don’t Get Hooked On Me, and By The Time I Get To Phoenix.  All songs about how monogamy is the WORST, apparently, and only suckers go for it.  Suckers who do not wish for a life of loneliness and STD’s, I guess.  The other day I was listening to Summer Breeze, one of my favourite songs, and I was struck at the idyllic picture of domesticity it portrays, given that it was written in the 70s.  Did the writers not know that casual and unprotected sex was where it was at?  *draws a square in the air with fingers*

A little note on open bars: I voiced a slight concern about one of our wedding guests – a notable messy drunk – and my aunt gave me these words of wisdom, “There is a drunken idiot at every wedding.  In my case, it was my husband.”  BURN.

I opened up my computer today and in the “news headlines” was a story about child stars – where are they now?  The star in question pictured was Tina Yothers, so I had to click on the link since Tina Yothers looks uncannily like one of my cousins.  It turns out that Tina Yothers – and most of the other child stars – are not really doing much, from a Hollywood standpoint, unless you count reality television, which I do not.  However, I was stunned – STUNNED – to discover this little piece of information: Leonardo DiCaprio was on Growing Pains.  He was?  This feels like something I should have known, although why I should know this I’m unsure since I essentially am terrible at pop culture.  I’m not as bad as my dad, however, who confuses Will Smith with Samuel L. Jackson.  DAD.  It’s the Fresh Prince versus Mace Windu.

My plan for this post was to copy Amber Strocel and compile a “happiness list” but right now I have wine and After Eights on it.  Oh, and this cashew “cheese” recipe.  Oh!  I just thought of something else: my husband, dear man, bought me my very own copies of The Breakfast Club (Judd Nelson – where is he now?) and Say Anything (ditto Ione Skye).  Squee!  That’s happiness right there, on a DVD.  Ditched in the Malibu! It’s your castle!  I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.  Diane Court is a show pony, and you, my friend, are a stallion.   

Am I digressing?  I’m digressing.  There are lots of things that make me happy but at the moment I cannot adequately organize my thoughts into a list.  I got too distracted after I found this kind of awesome live version of Freebird on youtube.  And this bird you cannot tame.  Also this post has taken longer than I initially thought to write, and now I’m onto big-ass trashy glasses of wine.  What are we talking about?  Whee!  Happy Friday!

Such a cliche

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I don’t know if you could detect it, but when I wrote my last post, I was very low in spirits.  One might even say that I was blue.  I later realized that it was Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year!  I was sad on Blue Monday!  I’m a walking cliche. 

The tide has turned, so to speak, although I have a School Council/ Parent Association meeting tonight that I’m looking forward to in the same way I look forward to a pelvic exam, or perhaps tooth scaling at the dental office.  But – and maybe this is just the coffee speaking – I am feeling equal to the task.

Speaking of the school, yesterday was Dress As What You Want To Be When You Grow Up day, which is the WORST school spirit day ever.  It is the only spirit day in which I discourage participation.  It’s a terrible concept.  Unless a child wants to be something that requires a uniform, or that has a “typical” look, planning an outfit is simply an exercise in frustration.  For example, both of my children have the career goal of “wealthy businessman” and, let me tell you, there is no good way to accurately portray this with what they currently have in their closets.  Mark ended up opting out altogether, while Jake, after some thought, decided to dress up like a “wealthy businessman who is doing business on the golf course”, wearing khakis, a golf shirt, and his orange Ricky Fowler hat.  When I picked him up at lunch he changed back into his jeans, confessing that he felt the explanation would have taken too long, and so he did not tell anyone he was dressed up. 

My children’s obvious materialism aside, does this not seem like a ridiculous dress-up day?  When I was a child my career goal was to be a concert pianist.  How does one dress up like a concert pianist?  A long sparkly gown?  I was talking about this to a friend yesterday who suggested an appropriate outfit would be wearing something with musical notes all over it, to which I say NO.  No concert pianist would ever wear a sweater with musical notes all over it.  That would be perhaps an appropriate outfit for a retired music teacher, maybe.  Apparently my kids have inherited my tendency to want reality only when dealing with Dress As What You Want To Be When You Grow Up day.  Fortunately their lack of participation will only result in two less points for the Red Team, and therefore the world will keep on turning.

Who are we kidding.  The world is going to keep on turning, even if the stakes were higher.  I came across this piece by Anymommy which gently and beautifully reminds us that we all make choices:

I just don’t want to choose judgment over understanding. Because the minute we mark our choices as right by marking other choices as wrong, we lose the power of choice.
 
I loved this piece so much, and it said so eloquently what I’ve been feeling lately.  I have been bombarded with the Facebook equivalent of op-eds about the following topics: breastfeeding, cloth diapering, home births, the Waldorf system of education, hockey, native land treaties, veganism, co-sleeping, rescue dogs versus dogs purchased from breeders, vaccinations, gun control, the government fucking up the country, the government saving the country, and – my personal favourite – the failure to buy into a particular home business is equivalent to failure to care about one’s health or financial well-being.  And while I recognize that social media is a reasonable outlet for one’s personal opinions, i.e., this blog, I also vehemently object to its utilization as a stick of judgement with which to beat people.  I am going to choose understanding over judgement, and continue to resolve to remember that merely because something does not take great importance in my life, that does not mean that it is not greatly important to someone. 
 
In other words, I think I’m ready for the meeting tonight.

"I think you need a pin, dear."

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I had a rather strange and upsetting weekend, which I am not going to talk about except to say that my role as School Council/ Parent Association Chair is priming me for a career in diplomatic relations.  Or perhaps, given my experiences of this weekend, I can now apply for a job as a very, very low-stakes hostage negotiator.  In any event, I had moments of maybe I should quit this ridiculous job, which was echoed by my husband’s view of when are you going to quit this ridiculous job?  My zen state was severely tested, although I think the situation has now, happily, been resolved, even though the process made me feel simultaneously wrung out and irritated that something so unimportant could take so much time and energy. OM SHANTI.

My zen state was also severely tested by all the swearing in my house this weekend.  Football, you know.  Saturday was fine but the Sunday games left a blue cloud in the living room: Seattle “shit the bed” and the officiating in the Patriots/Texans game was “fucking moronic”.  However, the Pats came out on top, which made my husband happy; I was less so when I realized that we were watching the Patriots’ “Fifth Quarter” when I could have been watching the Golden Globes.  Instead of looking at all the fashion, I was wondering how heavy Vince Wilfork’s Mr. T-style chains were, and if I put them on would I tip over, and also what’s with the hat?  In any case, at some point my husband took pity on me and changed the channel.

I’m no Tom and Lorenzo, but I do enjoy fashion, which is the only reason, save entertaining hosts, (shout-out, Tina and Amy!) that I watch awards shows.  Frankly, I couldn’t care less who wins or loses or what their speeches are like.  I’m into it for the dresses!  And the Botox-spotting, which is always kind of fun in a disturbing, schadenfrude-ish sort of way.

A few years ago I wrote about Sophia Loren and her terrible, terrible plastic surgery, and in response one of my girlfriends said that reruns must be hell for actresses: the constant reminder of what one used to look like.  That comment stuck with me.  If my face was my fortune – which it most emphatically is not – it would be very difficult to see the ravages of time on it.  As it is, I have a hard enough time looking at this recent picture of myself:

Forehead wrinkles and undereye circles!  Granted, this picture was taken mere days after my bout with Norwalk, and a number of sleepless nights due to my children’s bouts with Norwalk, but still.  It’s hard for me to look at, and I’m not exactly a world-renowned beauty.

These days, most actresses are beautiful.  There isn’t much room for “character” actresses anymore; there is so much pressure to be beautiful and physically perfect.  I can understand, then, the impetus for surgical options; I don’t condone it, and I think that such unnatural interventions just look…unnatural and strange at best, but I can understand why an actress would start reviewing her options in her mid-to-late thirties.  Roles start to dry up with the drying up of the reproductive years.  Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if one’s career and livelihood depends on looking younger, thinner, sexier, more gorgeous than the competition, well, then, one must do what one must do.  It’s a sad testament to our appearance-obsessed culture, but it’s a reality.

I came across this old picture of me, circa 1995, getting ready (i.e., drunk) to go out dancing with girlfriends:

Hoo boy!  I had a rack back then.  Even though I appear to be wearing very high waisted jeans, my perkiness is still pretty obvious.  If a perky rack and smooth, youthful skin was my livelihood, you can bet that I would be pretty depressed looking into the mirror these days, what with my deflated bosum and my grey roots and the horizontal lines permanently etched into my forehead, not to mention the network of fine lines around my eyes.  However, it’s not, and I’m not, but that’s not to say I don’t understand the angst that must drive women – and men too; I’m talking to YOU, Kenny Rogers and Sylvester Stallone – to the surgeon’s office.  It’s sad, is all I’m saying.

Speaking of perky racks, I noticed a definite trend last night; that of the deeply plunging neckline.  Can we all agree that this is just not a good look?  I also recognize that it’s important to MAKE A STATEMENT, but if that statement is “I have lots of double-sided tape and also I better not sneeze”, then I’m not sure that’s the one you want to make.  For example:

This would be such a cute look and dress, were it not for the neckline.  The neckline brings it down from glamorous and classy to kind of trashy and slutty.  See also: Sally Field.

Sally, I love you, and I think this dress is gorgeous – EXCEPT FOR THE NECKLINE.  As my grandma would say, “I think you need a pin, dear.  Or maybe a nice brooch.”

Now, Jennifer Lopez is beautiful, and she has a va-va-voom figure, but I really dislike these kinds of dresses, the “nude without being nude” genre.  They remind me a) of figure skating outfits, and b) nylon nighties of the type found in the Sears catalogue.

I don’t think I’m a prude – after all, on the beach I wear tiny little bikinis that, borrowing a phrase from Laurie in Little Women, “reveals a whole new Nicole”, but I think two of the loveliest dresses of the evening were those worn by Adele and by Julianne Moore:

Stunning, am I right?  And no double-sided tape required!  No fear of a wardrobe malfunction, just plain loveliness.

You’re going down, bitch.

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Well hello, my friends.  I hope you have been making merry in the past few days.  It has been so frigidly cold here, but I’m kind of glad – it gives me an excuse to be extremely lazy and slothful.  Kids in their jammies into the afternoon?  Well, why not?  We’re not going anywhere in this weather, certainly.  I myself have been oscillating between frantic bursts of activity and the inability to rouse myself off the couch, watching episode after episode of, un-festively enough, Breaking Bad. 
 
Yesterday my husband left the house very early to purchase suits, ties, and dress shirts at Boxing Day prices.  He came home two and a half hours later to a house completely devoid of Christmas decorations.  It’s called Boxing Day for a reason, around here anyway.  On December 24th I idly thought that I would keep the decorations up until the weekend at least; by 8:30 a.m. on the 26th I was sprinting up and down the stairs with boxes, cleaning all flat surfaces obsessively, fueled by a pot of non-boozy coffee.  A therapist would have a field day with me and my clutter obsession.  I couldn’t control the thousands of Lego pieces in various stages of building.  I couldn’t control the piles and piles of chocolate and candy boxes festively and happily adorning my countertops.  But dammit, I could take down the tree and all the decorations.  Tree, you’re going down, bitch.
 
After all, four solid weeks of 24-hour-a-day festive spirit is probably good enough.  Now that the house is clean, I am happily sinking into holiday sloth, reading my new pile of books and having heart palpitations during Netflix episodes of Breaking Bad while the children build Lego and play Wii and laugh hysterically about the board game that my brother gave them, “Mr. Bacon’s Big Adventure”, wherein the worst thing that happens is that the bacon slice-shaped game pieces get sent to “Vegan Alley”.
 
The dog, though.  The dog.  Just when he had resigned himself to having a tree in the living room, he seemed to have a doggy nervous breakdown as I packed the ornaments back in their boxes.  He followed me around sadly, worrisomely.  The despair he felt when the living room was being put back to rights was nothing compared to Christmas morning despair, though.  Even the doggy beef jerky I bought him did not make up for the Christmas morning paper chaos.  The poor, long suffering dog.  He couldn’t bring himself to step on the discarded piles of wrapping paper, yet he couldn’t stop moving either.   
  
 



WHAT’S HAPPENING?  IS IT THE APOCALYPSE?

Meanwhile, I am enjoying the winter break with the kids, contemplating the annual chocolate dilemma – which is better: gorging with abandon, or making them last by eating them at a conservative rate? – playing Just Dance on the Wii and immodestly announcing to the world that I am awesome at the California Gurrls routine, and cycling through all my new pajamas:

 
SNOOPY!  Not pictured: the Miss Piggy motif pajamas, and the pink ones with hearts. 
 
How has your holiday season been so far?  Is your tree still up or should we split the therapist fees?  Did you receive some nice gifts?  Tell me all.  xoxo

Full Moon, and the Werewolves (of London) are coming

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For those of you who keep track of moon phases, which may or may not be many people, there was a full moon on Wednesday.  For me, a full moon means no yoga – it’s tradition to not practice on full or new moon days – which translates to extra sleep.  For some, however, it means that the Wolfman is transforming and we’re all going to die.  This is the only possible explanation for the craziness in my neighbourhood of late.  First – and this is very disturbing – my neighbour informed me, and then I later saw on the news, there has been a serial arsonist in my neighbourhood, conjectured to be a resident who has, apparently, been on a rampage, setting cars and garages on fire.  WELL THEN.  Where am I living?  This isn’t East LA.  Given my lifelong fear of fire, this is not sitting well with me.  Soon I’m going to be sitting up late at night, at the window, with one eye peeking out behind the drapes and one hand on my (theoretical) shotgun.  Get off my lawn, motherfuckers. 

Tuesday afternoon I went to my once-a-week restorative yoga class.  This is, for those of you who aren’t familiar, a gentle-stretch-and-relaxation class that I find helps with my regular, somewhat rigorous, six-day-a-week yoga practice.  This class generally consists of me and a whole lot of much older women, and I almost always relax to the point that I fall asleep, only to jerk awake with my feet up the wall, hoping I wasn’t snoring or drooling.  Anyway, I finished my class and in my blissful, zen-like state, decided to just “pop in” to the post office to “quickly pick up” some stamps.  BIG MISTAKE.  It was madness in the post office, madness.  There were people sending off packages everywhere, who needed many different shipping methods and insurance and whatnot, and I certainly do not begrudge anyone that.  It is the season for sending packages, and it is only the end of November.  But.  I would have been fine to wait ten minutes in line while the only two employees in the store figured things out.  I am a stay at home mom and I still had forty minutes until I had to pick up the kids; it’s not like my schedule is packed here, people.  I just spent 75 minutes in a semi-nap state.  I have time on my hands and I assume that senior citizens do too, which is why I was a little disturbed when an old lady physically pushed me aside, budged in front of me when the man at the counter called for the next customer, saying that she only needed to buy stamps.  Hi.  Me too?  I was a little startled, and then I started laughing with the sixty-ish man behind me, who was my witness in this ridiculous little power play.  I mean, what am I going to do, shove the old lady out of the way, saying that NO FUCK YOU OLD LADY I NEED SOME STAMPS.  STAND DOWN.  Of course not!  I turned to the man and told him to please not push me aside, I would be super fast with my stamps.  He tipped his old man hat to me, and we shared a laugh.  Good times and new friends in the post office.  

I’m going to go out on a limb here and go against the common classification of the elderly: in my experience – which is vast, since I live in a neighbourhood made up with a significant majority of seniors – the characterization of elderly men as being “grumpy old men” and elderly women as being “sweet old ladies” is incorrect.  I have never been hit in the backs of my legs by a grocery cart pushed by an old man while standing in line for groceries.  On the other hand, I have had impromptu duets with old men in the liquor store.  Old men hold the door open for me, say nice things about my boys, and are generally easy-going and friendly.  Old women are very frequently pushy, crabby, and mean.  The post office incident is just one more nail in the coffin of the “sweet old lady” stereotype in my mind.  I don’t even want to talk about the old lady who was ringing the “ring for service” bell like she was a toddler who just realized that pressing the little button on the pretty silver bell makes a jingly noise, but angry.

Yesterday I went to the liquor store, having discovered that I am down to my last bottle of wine.  We can’t have that.  I like to buy my wine at the Superstore liquor store because they always have deals if you buy in large quantities, as I am wont to do.  I was carrying my case of Shiraz to the cash register when I noticed a whole rack devoted to no-name wine.  And by no-name, I mean those yellow labels that Superstore is famous for.  The labels read “red wine” and “white wine” with nothing else.  I was actually a bit taken aback by this, and asked the cashier if anyone actually purchased no-name Superstore brand wine.  He answered yes, and that the wine was “actually really good”.  I looked at this young man, with his giant stretched earlobes that contained cork-looking circles in the manner of a Masai warrior, and was silenced.  I could no more imagine Superstore brand wine as being “really good” as I could imagine those giant stretched earlobes to be an attractive and fun idea.  I could imagine hobos enjoying that wine, perhaps, or maybe the spoiled bastard who has been setting people’s cars on fire for fun.  I can totally understand how Sipowitz and Kelly and Martinez go batshit on their perps, because – om shanti and zen-states notwithstanding – I would too.  “You’re going to Riker’s, you little bastard.  You’re going to be in with all the whores and the junkies.”

After my wine purchases, I was meeting a woman at Starbucks to talk about our school council and fundraising ideas.  I was paying for my seriously overpriced peppermint tea when a man came up to me and asked if I was Jennifer.  No, I’m Nicole.  He told me he is on a blind date and was looking for Jennifer.  OH BUT IF I HAD SAID YES.  There are a lot of Jennifers out there, sir.  What if my name was Jennifer?  The hilarity that would have ensued would have been comparable to a Three’s Company episode.  In any event, Jennifer did show up and it was very clear that she was not into him at all.  Part of this could have been the fact that he was very eager and enthusiastic, to the point of making everyone uncomfortable.  I tried to eavesdrop as best I could but I was discussing fundraising ideas and trying my best not to seem like a full-moon lunatic.

FEEL THE ENERGY

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Every month, I realize anew that my complete lack of energy for a week, followed by super-strength-energizer-bunny energy is actually related to my, how shall I put this, lady cycles.  And yet every month I find myself wondering what is wrong with me, and why am I so tired?  Last week everything was a massive effort: yoga was slow going, walking the dog was exhausting, making the beds was the wooooooorst.  I could barely heat up pasta sauce and boil noodles without collapsing on the kitchen floor; then yesterday I woke up with the “I’m going to clean the house!” feeling, and found myself scrubbing that same kitchen floor, moving all the appliances and polishing the granite, and washing down all the cupboards with a homemade solution of hot water, vinegar, and dish soap.  Later I grocery shopped, played Just Dance with the boys – earning myself four stars on A-Ha’s Take On Me, just saying – created a recipe for and made tomato coconut soup, and took the dog on a brisk, long walk.  Anyone want some waffles?  Guys?  Waffles?  I enjoy these energy bursts but a little less variance would be nice.

It was a lovely weekend, complete with my husband’s office Christmas party on Friday and a potluck party on Saturday, where I developed an obsession with eggplant, specifically with vegan eggplant rollatini.  My friend gave me his recipe and now I’m going to attempt to recreate it.  Maybe I’ll make it for Christmas Eve dinner, so I can have something to eat while my husband and children eat steak.  Christmas Eve we spend at home, traditionally watching Elf and moving Jake’s bed into Mark’s room so they can have a “sleepover”.  Lately I’ve been thinking that we should have a Christmas Eve food tradition.  On Christmas Day we go to my parents, where my mom makes a turkey and I gorge on variations of yam and sweet potato dishes and chocolate Yule log – the best dessert ever – but Christmas Eve…well, Marilyn said it best.  We asked the boys what they wanted for a special Christmas Eve dinner and they unanimously requested barbecued steak.  In December.  But my husband agreed to suck it up, bundle up and barbecue, so I think having a vegan eggplant rollatini for myself and for anyone else who might try it (i.e., no one) might be just the ticket.  Festive meals in the Boyhouse – steak and eggplant.

The other day I was listening happily to my 70s soft-pop station and singing along.  I was making dinner at the time and had my hands full, so when Baby Ima Want You came on, I called into the living room to get one of the boys to turn it up.  “I love this song!” I said.  “I DON’T.” Jake said emphatically.  “This is a VEGETARIAN SONG.  Meat-eaters like songs that are more rocking.”  Out of the mouths of babes, I say.  Not that I don’t enjoy some good rocking tunes myself, but it seems he is onto something.  We have been classifying music as vegetarian and carnivore ever since.   

I am feeling very festive today: it’s less than a month until Christmas, and last night we turned on our outdoor lights, the excitement hangover of which has caused me to hum Christmas songs all morning.  Have yourself a merry little Christmas, I sang while blow-drying my hair this morning, and when I turned off the dryer I discovered the boys were also singing Christmas songs, but the kind where they were celebrating the snow turning red from dead Santa, along with Batman being stinky and Robin laying eggs.  We have also been celebrating the return of the fireplace channel on TV.  Nothing says festive excitement like watching the crackling logs of the fireplace channel, interspersed with the thrill of seeing the plaid-shirted guy put another log on, or poke the fire.  Squee!  At least once a night, at least one of the boys makes a comment about Santa coming down chimneys and becoming consumed by the fires therein.  


Speaking of being burned, I was putting something into the oven and I accidentally touched the upper rack and burned the back of my hand.  Then, two days later, I did the exact same thing in the exact same place.  This tiny burn hurts so much it is making me extraordinarily sympathetic to actual burn victims.  The thoughts in my head go something like this: wahhh, my hand hurts so much!  Shut up, you baby.  Think about people who have burns all over their bodies!  Think of that!  But my hand hurts!  Wah!

Busy Bee

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It was “Dress as Your Twin” day at school – a day where kids get “spirit points” for their “colour squad” if they dress the same as someone else, and my kids took it to the extreme, dressing in the exact same outfit, down to the socks and underwear.  Extra points for that?  I am volunteering in Jake’s class this afternoon; apparently I will be cutting things out and gluing them to other things, which is certainly not my forte.  I hope I don’t need to use a glue gun.  The last time I volunteered for such an in-class activity, it was when Mark was in kindergarten and I accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with the scissors while cutting out doors on milk-carton birdhouses.  I was, apparently, not modelling good scissor behaviour. 

I thought it would be sort of fun to help out in Jake’s class, but evidently I am the only one.  Jake is not exactly thrilled by this invasion of his personal space, so it’s good that his teacher phoned last night and asked if I would do the work in the library, not the classroom, as it is too crowded.  The other day I was bringing a backordered book to his classroom, and his entire class was so! excited! to see me! but Jake continued to just do his work like I wasn’t even there, responding to my greeting with a talk-to-the-hand type nod of his head.  Later he chastised me a little: “I’m supposed to be doing work, not getting distracted.”  Okay.  This is the same child with whom I fist-bump when saying goodbye in the school lineup.  I’m not sure what is going to happen when he’s a teenager. 

I have a very busy weekend ahead of me, socially.  Normally my weekends consist of a whole lot of nothing, but I actually have two events this weekend.  One is my husband’s office Christmas party, and so I will wear a nice dress and heels and everything!  I really love office Christmas parties, even the super boring ones, because I get to wear a dress!  And eat food that is not prepared by me!  And engage in small talk!  I am the motherfucking queen of small talk.  I can small talk with everyone from your elderly aunt to inanimate objects.  BRING IT ON, PEOPLE, and how about all this snow?

The second event is a vegetarian potluck at one the home of one of my beautiful yoga friend’s.  I am tasked with dessert.  My husband not-so-secretly wants to sneak in hamburgers.  Speaking of which, I received a copy of Rachael Ray’s new cookbook for review.  I accepted because cookbooks make me squee, but I’m realizing now that Rachael Ray’s recipes are not exactly vegetarian-friendly.  There is bacon in everything, including the cupcakes, which seems very, very strange to me.

I have been doing a lot of volunteering at the school, and so when Jake received forms for swim lessons I quickly stuffed them into their envelope without checking off the “Yes! I can volunteer!” box.  NO I CANNOT.  I refuse to stand in the wet, gross, germy change room with hysterical children, trying to locate someone’s sodden socks.  I loathe the school swim lessons anyway: the way the kids never, ever pass a level, the waivers I have to sign indicating no liability if my child drowns or gets hit by a car walking to the pool or succumbs to death and/or dismemberment in running-on-the-deck related ways, the way the lessons are always in the dead of winter and the children all seem to be hacking up a lung or wiping their runny noses in the pool.  No, I will not volunteer to supervise in the change room.  I just hope to escape dismemberment myself from today’s volunteer activity.