Category Archives: My failing sanity

In which I reveal myself as a snob and a lunatic, all at the same time

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I had the most productive weekend!  Shit got DONE around here.  I had a number of things on my to-do list and every one of them was accomplished, even down to the “putting photos in albums” task.  For reasons that I do not comprehend, I find putting photos in albums to be one of the worst tasks, even worse than cleaning the toilet or shovelling the sidewalk.  Our snow is melted, I should add; shovelling the sidewalk is just an example.  In the case of the photo-geddon, I had put off developing pictures for thirteen months; I had photos from Jake’s seventh AND sixth birthdays.  I had upwards of 500 pictures to put in albums, and by the time the weekend rolled around, I was down to about the last 200.  I did get them all in their albums, and I felt a strong sense of accomplishment until my friend Nan asked why didn’t I just make photo books, which would be faster and easier.  Um, because such a radical idea never occurred to me?  Because I must spend hours of my time cropping, developing, sorting, and putting photos into albums in some kind of masochistic plan to suck the joy out of life?

Probably because of the chill in the air, I have been craving soup like nobody’s business.  I wanted to make my favourite butternut squash soup, but with coconut milk instead of whipping cream, but when I went to the grocery store they were all out of butternut squash.  It was puzzling; was there a sudden rush on butternut squash?  Maybe all the seniors in the neighbourhood were hoarding them?  In any case, I decided mushroom soup was the way to go, but never having made it before, I nervously opted for winging it.  I had some fresh mushrooms and some dried mushrooms, and someone had told me that reconstituting the dried mushrooms in white wine made for a lovely mushroom soup addition.  The only problem with that is that I rarely have white wine in the house; I’m staunchly a red wine type of girl.  So, off to the liquor store for this very important ingredient. 

Now, normally I’m a Superstore liquor store kind of girl, and normally I just buy a case of my favourite red and stash it in the crawl space.  I don’t shop around at the liquor store.  The last time I shopped around at the liquor store I found myself singing a duet with a perfect stranger.  A duet of Baby, It’s Cold Outside with strange gentleman in his sixties.  With a cart containing a case of wine, a twenty sixer of rum, and the biggest bottle of Bailey’s available.  This is what comes of shopping around. 

In any event, I was loathe to browse the liquor store shelves in the event that I should burst into song again, although Christmas music isn’t high on my list right now, I wanted to avoid singing “Islands In The Stream” or some such duet with any of the other shoppers, and so my goal was to go into the store, grab a bottle of Gewurztraminer or Riesling – the only drinkable whites in my opinion – and get out.  However, it took a lot of searching to find either of those.  Pinot Grigios and Chardonnays abounded, and so many bottles labelled merely with “White Wine”.  While I do not like to think of myself as a snob, I really had trouble purchasing those, even the ones labelled “Mad Housewife” or “Middle Sister”.  Even though I am both of those.  (Technically, I am a middle child, since I have brothers on either side.  Still.)  I almost got sidetracked by a bottle of “Chocolate Cake Liqueur” which kind of smells a little four horses of the apocalypse to me, and then I almost got sidetracked by some giant bottle of alcohol labelled “Kinky”.  I wish I had bought that.  Finally I found some Quail’s Gate Gewurztraminer AND Riesling.

And I also found, on sale, a bottle of Cupcake wine.  JUST SAY IT, I know you’re thinking it.  I fell for cupcake marketing.  You just can see the winery owners, stroking their goatees, “Well, if we call it CUPCAKE you just know women everywhere will fall for it!  Bwahahaha!”  It’s true.  Women will always purchase things that are in any kind of cupcake motif.  Men certainly will not; not even the most flamboyant man is walking out of the store with a wine labelled “Cupcake.”  In my defence I had tried this wine before and it makes a very nice companion on a Friday night.  Also it is a Shiraz which is my boyfriend.  MY WINEY BOYFRIEND. 

I walked up to the counter with both wines, and the very young man at the counter asked me if I wanted a bag.  “No,” I said absently, “I’ll just double-fist them back to the car.”  Did I say that out loud?  Yes I did.  So I walked back to the car holding my naked wines like an alcoholic mess who JUST wanted to make mushroom soup, dammit, leaving in my wake the two young men at the counter who were probably shaking their heads at having to work in an area with so many lame people.



No, honey, I will not murder you when you cease to be a fast driver.

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Happy Thanksgiving, all my Canadian friends.  Although I’ve always thought that Thanksgiving is among the lamer of the holidays, given that I have never been interested in pie, turkey, or any of the usual turkey-trimmings-pie-fanfare.  And yet, it’s always a good idea to be thankful for what one has.  Right now I’m mostly thankful that I’m not in the car anymore.

We drove out to my in-laws’ house for the holiday, and came back today.  It’s a long drive, and I spent most of it staring out the window, listening to Jedi commentary and Star Wars trivia, queries about how much longer the drive would be, childrens’ voices singing along to vastly inappropriate popular music – “I’ve had a shit day!  You’ve had a shit day!” – and a startling amount of swearing at other drivers on the road, notably those who were driving RV’s, pulling trailers, elderly, and/or driving slow on undivided stretches of highway and speeding up whilst in the passing lanes, making it difficult to pass.  “If I ever get old and start driving like these assholes,” my husband said as he passed an elderly man driving an RV, “Just put a fucking bullet in my brain.”  Sorry babe.  I am never going to put a bullet in your brain.  Possibly you need someone else to carry out that living will of yours, mmm-kay?

I am also thankful for the three Macintosh apples I JUST ate in rapid succession.  One of the best things about visiting the in-laws in October is the fresh produce.  A friend of mine tried to convince me that yes, I could eat a varied diet as a locavore, but I say one hundred miles is not enough.  Fuck the 100-mile diet I say!  And those apples made the drive worthwhile, as well as the twenty pounds of Concord grapes my mother-in-law sent me home with. 

Another thing to be thankful for: it will be another year until we do our family pictures, so I won’t have to put up with the usual family-picture angst from the children about how the clothes I have chosen for them make them look like dorks.  Honestly.  It’s not like I was dressing them up in bow ties or that we were all wearing matching clothes.  My bar is pretty low: I want them in jeans with intact knees, and clean shirts that are not emblazoned with Angry Birds, Lego Star Wars, or similar.  And yet the drama that follows is worthy of an after-school special about a mean mommy who deep down really does love her children.  I have yet to upload the photos, but have a good mind to get our Christmas cards printed with ones that have a good photo of me and husband, while children block out their own faces by pretending to use the force and/or are making faces like Scooby Doo when faced with a large sandwich.  I’m sure I will have lots to choose from.  Merry Christmas!  We don’t know what happened to the children.

Here’s something neat to be thankful for – a yoga friend of mine, who also happens to be a mad talented at making videos, made this video from filming a typical morning practice at the studio.  It’s pretty amazing, I think, and if you’ve ever wondered what Mysore-style Ashtanga is like, well, here it is!  Take a look, you won’t be disappointed.  Fun fact: I am wearing the world’s brightest pink pants. 

Since getting home three hours ago, I’ve baked banana loaf, unpacked everything (well, my husband helped – is he trying to get lucky?  If so, it’s totally working.  Usually I unpack everything alone.), made and ate dinner along with my three apples, cleaned up, and have written this post!  Not bad!  I’m thankful for Wifi, my own foresight in stocking the fridge with long-lifed items before I left, and for my husband, who I will definitely not shoot in the head, if only to show my gratitude for his help in unpacking the luggage.

Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Canadians, and for my dear American readers – happy Columbus Day!  Is that a holiday? 

Feeling the love

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It seems we all have very strong opinions on skinny jeans!  I do feel that we should have learned lessons from the eighties.  I will say this, my very worst hair decision ever – and this is even worse than my 1985 mullet that my mom had home permed – was to cut my hair like Madonna’s in her Papa Don’t Preach video.  And not when she’s dancing in her sassy little black outfit, I mean when she’s wearing her “Italians Do It Better” t-shirt.  Check out the video and you will understand why I will never again cut my hair short.  That very bad haircut took forever to grow out. 

Today I feel extremely self-satisfied.  Between the hours of 7:00 and 11:15 this morning I accomplished the following: showered, dressed, makeup and hair, baked two batches of blueberry muffins, made breakfast for the kids, cleaned the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, walked the kids to school, walked home, walked the dog, baked brownies, and finished a task I have been working on for months – editing, uploading, and ordering photos.  I have not done this task in over a year.  I had Jake’s seventh AND sixth birthday photos to develop.  Good grief.  Now I only have to go pick up the developed prints and put them all into photo albums!  Perhaps if I didn’t put this task off for months and months I wouldn’t find myself going blind, editing and cropping 500 photos. To keep myself from going insane, I put youtube videos on to listen to while I cropped and cropped and cropped.  I somehow stumbled on this video and was reminded again why I watched The Fighter – I was sure hoping to see a lot more shirtless Mark Wahlberg than there was in that movie.  It’s such a good vibration!  Swweeeeeeet sensation!  I have probably watched this ten times already; there goes my productivity.  HE’S LIFTING WEIGHTS AND PUNCHING BAGS.  ONE OF THOSE WEIGHTS IS MADE OUT OF CINDERBLOCKS.  HE HAS NO SHIRT ON.  GRACIOUS.

I had to stop writing and watch that video again.  At this rate I will never finish this post.

Here’s a picture for my lovely blog friend Ciara, who would listen to him read the phone book (does anyone still use phone books?) in his Boston accent:



I KNOW, RIGHT?  If you ain’t in it to win it, then get the hell out.


Goodness, I am so distracted now, I almost forgot what this post is all about!  I’m supposed to be thanking Kerrie over at Family, Food, and Travel for the Liebster Award, and Rhiannon over at Happy Little Feet for the Versatile Blogger Award!  Thanks girls!  As part of accepting the award, I am supposed to give you seven or eleven facts about myself – but I’ll take the average and give you nine.  It’s a little daunting – don’t you all know everything about me by now?  I guess you didn’t know that I once had one of the very least flattering hairstyles ever and that I also have a thing for Mark Wahlberg.  So there are two facts, let me think of seven more:

1. Giving up cheese has made me so very sad.  But it also has pretty much made my premenstrual symptoms disappear.  I hardly ever want to mur-diddly-urder anyone during that special time of the month.  So, call it a break even?

2. I still kind of want to mur-diddly-urder people who misuse statistics or fail to understand that correlation and causation are not the same thing.

3. I am a huge nerd.  

4. The year my little brother was born I read A Little Princess over and over again, and wondered what it would be like to live a) in an attic in London, and b) in a gigantic palace-like place in India.  That summer I also read The Bobbsey Twins Visit The Farm many, many times and pretended that our backyard was a farm. 

5. I don’t ever want to live on a farm. 

6. I was an extremely anxious child, and I bit my nails until I was 24 years old.  Now I’m obsessed with having all my nails groomed to the same length.

7. Since giving up cheese, my standard lunch now consists of a tomato and pickle sandwich.  The humanity!

Thanks for the awards, Kerrie and Rhiannon!  Feeling the love!  It’s such a sweeeeeeet sensation!

Batting 500

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It all started when I read my friend Swistle’s post about behaviours that are “mom-ish” and behaviours that are “old lady-ish”.  For example, referring to youth as “young people today”, fumbling for change while the grocery store lineup expands behind, and so forth.  Swistle said, and I quote:

“Have you noticed that each generation thinks they’ll manage to avoid seeming “old,” as long as they avoid the exact thing their own parents/grandparents did? A woman my age will say she doesn’t want Mom Hair or Mom Jeans—but what she’s thinking of are the current GRANDMOTHER hair/jeans: she’s filed her OWN mom’s style under “mom,” but a generational shift has occurred since then. Angled stacked bobs and cute-messy twisted-up hair with side-swept bangs ARE the Mom Hair! Cute dark-wash boot-cut jeans ARE the Mom Jeans! BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT THE CURRENT MOMS ARE DOING. Our daughters will speak of such styles with distaste, and will specifically avoid them. “Don’t give me Mom Hair,” they’ll tell the stylist, meaning OUR CUTE HAIR.”
An idea sprouted in my brain, my brain that was underneath my “cute-messy twisted-up hair with side-swept bangs”, and that idea was that I am now part of this generational shift.  I am no longer “young people” – which is not news, really – but I am part of the Mom Generation that will be dismissed as lame by our daughters (collectively speaking).  That idea started as a small, uncomfortable kernel and then exploded, like a piece of popcorn.
It exploded when I started flipping through fashion magazines, as one does when one is at the hairstylist getting one’s grey/white roots touched up.  I realized as I looked through that there was not a single pair of boot cut jeans on any of the pages.  I picked up another magazine; same thing.  I picked up an article on back-to-school shopping and saw that all the hottest outfits – worn by young people today –  involve clothing that I wore during my teenage years, distressingly enough.  But it was really the lack of boot-cut jeans on style pages that had me thinking; then I realized that boot-cut jeans are not worn by anyone on popular television shows anymore.
I understand now, perfectly, how certain women who came of age in the seventies could still, twenty years later, be wearing blue eyeshadow that had long gone out of style because they believed that the shadow brought out the blue in their eyes or what have you.  I understand now, perfectly, how a person can cling to something – a bad haircut, a low-fat or low-carb diet – because that was the style during their formative years.  I understand but I am in deep, deep mourning that dark-wash boot-cut jeans have become this to the current young generation:
Do you see what I’m saying here, people?  OUR JEANS have become MOM JEANS.  And, sadly, they are fast becoming passe.  I mourn this piece of knowledge and wish I could go back to not knowing it because really, dark-wash boot-cut jeans are the most universally flattering cut that there is.  It’s true.  There is just no way on earth that this
is more flattering to the female body than this:
And yet I will concede that skinny jeans are better for wearing boots, which I love, and that skinny jeans do look pretty good with a longer top, which is nice in order to hide the muffin-top.  And this is how I found myself in the mall last week, shopping for skinny jeans.
I was helped by a very sweet young thing named Ashley, who never once helpfully told me which jeans her mother preferred.  Ashley, I realized, is not a name I hear on little girls very often anymore.  Most Ashleys that I know are in their late teens or twenties.  There is a very strong trend right now to give little girls old-fashioned names, lovely names that until recently were reserved for our grandmother’s generation: Grace, Isabelle, Ava, Emma, Lily, Abigail.  These do not include my own grandmother’s names, which have yet – if ever – to come back into fashion.

I had a St. Paul on the road to Damascus kind of realization that, if those names that reflect our grandmothers’ generation are in style now, then in twenty years the names that will be in style are what I consider “Mom names” – meaning my own mother’s generation.  In other words, in twenty years, we will see a rash of Barbaras, Beverlys, Donnas, Corrines, Carols, and Lindas.  Can you imagine?  Our granddaughters may be named Barbara and Beverly.  Or maybe Susan.  This is mind blowing enough, but then twenty, thirty years or so after that, we can expect to see our own names come back in fashion as WE become the grandmother generation!  In 2062, top baby names may well be Jennifer, Julie, Michelle, Melissa, Heather, and MAYBE EVEN NICOLE.

My mind is officially blown by this.

After Ashley helped me pick out a couple pairs of skinny jeans, I went to Sport Chek to find, apparently, the only pair of size three boys’ shoes in the entire mall.  In front of me in line was a young girl wearing orange skinny jeans with an actual backless sweatshirt showcasing a completely visible bra.

 Is this the fashion on “young people today”?  Backless sweatshirt revealing not a bra strap, but an actual bra band, worn with orange skinny jeans?  Is this what is sweeping the fashion nation?

It made me feel that maybe, just maybe, my becoming-passe boot cut jeans are not that bad.  After all, they are flattering, right?  Not like this:

Right?  RIGHT?  Although I did notice that high-waisted shorty shorts were being worn by the young crowd this summer, which makes me wonder what is happening.  What is happening in the world today?

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And what do I mean by “Batting 500”?  It’s my 500th post!  I can’t believe I have had so much to say!  And I am so very, very grateful to you, dear readers, for reading and commenting and being supportive.  Thank you.  Stay real.  Let’s wear our boot cut jeans with pride!  xoxo

Cupcakes, shopping, and Junior Mints

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I am pleased to report the happy news that there have been zero barfing incidents since the first day of school.  Although, writing that, I just broke out into a cold sweat thinking that I just jinxed everything and now my children will be up all night barfing.  Cue the Stevie Wonder riffs.

I really, really hope this doesn’t come to pass, and not just for the obvious reasons: tomorrow is Jake’s birthday party!  After the insanity of Mark’s last birthday party, I privately vowed to never host another birthday party as long as I live, but Jake very sweetly only wanted to invite five of his neighbourhood friends – whose mothers I am all friends with – to go play at the playground and then eat cupcakes.  I felt I could really get behind that idea!  And so that is exactly what we are going to do, and the weather is going to cooperate as well, it seems.  At this very moment I have cupcakes in the oven – these cupcakes, if you’re interested – with the promise of making extra peppermint frosting just for the birthday boy.  I’m also wearing my brand new apron:

Isn’t it adorable?  It has cupcakes on it and I’m MAKING CUPCAKES!  I’m going to feature it in an upcoming “Nicole’s Favourite Things” post, but strangely, like kale chips and 70s soft rock, I am the only one in my house who does not revile this sweet apron.  What is wrong with everyone I live with?  I put it on last night to show the kids, who stared at me, making “Uhhhhhhh” noises until Mark said “Mom?  It’s kind of lame.”  I showed my husband, who wasn’t shy about sharing his unfavourable opinion.  But what does he know?  He also said “I thought when you said you had a new apron, it was, you know, the kind that is black and lacy…”  It’s not a French maid outfit, husband.  I’m using it for actual baking, not “baking”.

That was the strangest euphemism for sex ever, no?

Anyway, so cupcakes are on the to-do list today, as well as putting together loot bags.  I went out yesterday specifically to buy loot bag treats, a replacement shirt for the one that was barfed on, and shoes for Mark.  I’m kicking myself a little because – I don’t mean to brag, here, people – I am the most organized person I know.  Yet I fell down on this one.  I bought indoor school shoes for the boys weeks ago, but since they were in sandals all summer, I failed to notice that Mark’s regular outdoor runners were a size too small until the first day of school.  ORGANIZATIONAL FAILURE.  He could barely walk in them, poor giant-flippered child.  So I thought I would just pick up a pair while running all my other errands.

And let me tell you, by the end of the day I was so frustrated and crabby that I was ready to burn the whole mall down.  I went to every single store that sold shoes and I purchased the only pair of boys’ runners in Mark’s size.  THE ONLY PAIR.  I have written many times about my frustration over the lack of selection for boys’ wear, but that really took the cake.  I ended up paying an exhorbitant price for a simple pair of running shoes which will likely be outgrown in six months, although thankfully they can be passed down to Jake as well.  BUT STILL.  Then I attempted to find party favours that were not embossed with Tinkerbell or Barbie, but again, this was futile.  I ended up going to the dollar store where I found not only Star Wars-themed Pez dispensers, but also Angry Birds-themed napkins and bags, and gigantic packages of candy, including Junior Mints!  I hope I don’t eat all the Junior Mints before I get them into the loot bags.  Who doesn’t like a Junior Mint?  They are so refreshing!

So the first week back at school has been full of excitement, hasn’t it?  There are a few other things going on around here that are amping things up a little, such as an in-law visit and preparing for the first school council meeting.  Suffice it to say I’m looking forward to my Friday night cocktails/wine/any alcohol at all.  How early is too early for a drink, really? 

First you tell me that your dog ran away, then you tell me that it took three days

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I’m happy to tell you all that I made it out of the Regina airport!  I know you were wondering.  Well, I had a fantastic visit with my grandma – I’m so glad I went – and I also saw my beloved aunts and cousins as well.  It was, all in all, a perfect visit! 

I didn’t even cry or get lost.  Well, truth to be told, I almost cried a couple of times, but I didn’t, so I consider that a win.  The two hour drive from the airport to my grandma’s house started out quite promisingly, with the exception that I had forgotten to bring anything to listen to and so I had my choice of two music stations and AM talk radio.  In the four hour round trip, I heard Dirty Deeds by AC/DC no fewer than three times, and Dancing in the Dark, Living on a Prayer, and Love Bites twice each. 

I did become a little unnerved after the sun set, driving in the pitch black, along a very bumpy highway on which several skunks had apparently JUST been run over.  I started worrying that I too would hit a skunk and would have to arrive at my grandmas with a stink bomb of a car.  This did not come to pass, fortunately, although at one point in the dark drive I thought it was raining and put on my windshield wipers only to discover that what I thought were raindrops were actually bugs.  Bugs.  Smeared all over my windshield.  While driving in the dark on a two lane highway with semis whooshing by me in the other lane.  I was a little stiff from all the white knuckling, but the trip back to the airport, in the daylight, was much more pleasant.  I could appreciate the big dome-like sky opening up all around me, with the seemingly endless prairie stretching out in all directions, studded with hay bales and pump jacks, the dust from the combines rising like a fog. 

The only other issue I had was when I was back in Regina.  I drove to the airport, then drove past it in order to find a gas station to fill up the rental car.  I drove, and drove, and no gas stations could be found.  I started to get nervous that I would drive too far and not be able to make it back to the airport – I’ve gotten lost under similar circumstances – and so I decided to turn around and head back.  I thought that just paying the ridiculous fee for the rental company to fill the tank would be better than me circling the streets of Regina forever, missing my flight.  But then when I turned, I saw a sign for a Husky station!  Score!  I drove up there, and then stopped, puzzled.  Maybe there was no gas?  Maybe it was just a convenience store and they’d forgotten to take down the sign?

But no, there was a tiny gas pump, hidden by the car getting gas.  Double score!  I perkily went into the convenience store to prepay – as the sign suggested – and the attendant suggested I just go ahead and fill up, and pay later.  Now – and here comes the embarrassing part – recalling that I am a person who does not know how to flip the hood on the vehicle that I have been driving for almost nine years, and that I am a person whose coping mechanism when something goes wrong with the car, even if “going wrong” means “need more washer fluid”, is to burst into tears, I sat in the car for a solid five minutes unable to figure out how to open the gas cap.  Finally, the attendant, probably thinking that I am a complete moron, came out to help.  It turned out that I just needed to press the gas cap to open it.  Oops!  I went to go fuel up but the pump was not automatic.  I stood at the car for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a couple of minutes, trying to figure out WHY the gas wasn’t going into the car.  The attendant spoke to me over the loudspeaker but I couldn’t understand what was said.  Finally the woman who was filling her car came over to me and said “Listen sweetheart, you need to push down this lever, like this” then proceeded to carefully watch me fill the tank, possibly concerned I would start spraying gasoline everywhere then light a cigarette, a la Zoolander.  When I finished and thanked her for her help, she made sure I knew how to close the gas cap – which I DO – and then very slowly and clearly gave me very specific directions on how to get back to the airport.  Thanks, strange lady!  Tears averted!

I should add at this point that I’m really good at math and I can lift heavy things all by myself, so I’m not a total feminist failure.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, my flight somehow missing a violent electrical storm that had shut down the airport for a short period, of which I was blissfully unaware, although my husband was waiting for me in a state of extreme stress.  I also discovered that I grossly overestimate my own importance, since I came home to two happy children, a clean house, and BEDS THAT HAD BEEN MADE, INCLUDING PILLOW SHAMS ON PILLOWS, AND DECORATIVE PILLOWS ON THE BED.  My word, that was almost as good as an unloaded dishwasher. 

Well, hello there, stranger!

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How have you been?  I’ve been away.  I just spent a week with my in-laws, and I ONLY have nice things to say.  We had fabulous weather, we had lots of fun, and I discovered something about myself: I am naturally a rigid and rule-oriented person (this is not part of my self-discovery; I knew that already) but with effort, I can be very easy-going.  I KNOW.  I also realized that by only reacting agreeably to anything that I may have, in the past, taken in a hurtful or negative way, not only diminishes the effect of hurtful and/or negative comments, but it also diminishes the frequency of such comments!  Do you see what I’m saying here?  It’s a miracle of epic proportions!  You know that saying that no one can hurt your feelings without your permission?  Well, I actually think that saying is bullshit.  I mean, take it from the flip side – does that mean we all have license to act like total assholes, and if someone is hurt by our actions, we can simply say that they allowed themselves to be hurt?  I don’t fucking think so.  But I’m here to tell you, in a modified way, that we really, truly, cannot control what others do but we can control our own reactions and behaviour. 

You know what else makes a person calm and easy-going?  Booze and saturated fat.  Just try it; right now, drink three beers in rapid succession, eat half a bag of potato chips, and just see how relaxed you become.  Easy like Sunday morning, I’m telling you.  You will not be bothered by endless conjectures concerning who, exactly, your children take after, or why, exactly, you still get blemishes at age 37.  Who cares!  Another beer?  Yes please!

The kids were astonished by my new persona, who they dubbed Vacation Mom.  Vacation Mom buys potato chips at the grocery store, Vacation Mom allows them to eat Aero bars at 9:30 in the morning, Vacation Mom even went down the waterslides and got her hair all wet at the water park.  Vacation Mom is a lot of fun, but sadly, she’s dead now.  Regular Mom is back.  Regular Mom is also very tired and somewhat brain dead.

This is how my day has been: up at 4:45 to pack up the car, on the road at 5:45.  Drive for seven hours and fifteen minutes, which includes two short stops.  We made “great time”.  Do you have a spouse, or are you yourself someone who loves to make “good time”?  Before we left, my husband and I were talking to a friend who had just made a similar road trip to us, and she mentioned all the places on the way she liked to stop with her kids to break up the drive.  My husband and I both looked at her nonplussed.  We never want to break up the drive.  We always want to just get there already, dammit.  Clearly we are not those “the journey is half the fun” people.  We’re all about the destination.  This surely is some kind of metaphor about our lives but I’m too tired to make the metaphoric leap.

Once we got home we discovered we had an ANT INFESTATION – it was less of an infestation, really, and more of a “the ants have found their way in through a teeny crack in the foundation” but yet I had a slight ant-related meltdown.  Fortunately my husband is very, very good at dealing with such matters, and we seem to have things under control.  I have seen nary an ant over the past two hours.  I unpacked, cleaned things frantically, did a mountain of laundry – despite doing laundry every single day on vacation – purchased groceries not of the potato chip variety, and then, in a stunning climax to this weird day, stabbed myself in the foot with my nail scissors.  I mean, I really stabbed myself.  I am wearing a Hello Kitty bandage as we speak.

This, too, feels somewhat like a metaphor, but I’m TIRED.  I have much to say about vacation, and about the lovely bloggy award that my dear, dear friend Hannah gave me – my bloggy bestie – and about how my dog now has the whitest teeth after consuming approximately, and not exaggeratedly, one hundred Milk Bones over the past seven days.  But I’m exhausted, and I need a shower, and I sure hope said shower gets that creepy-crawly ant-infestation feeling. 

So tell me, lovies, how was your week? xo