Tonight we were attending the viewing of the mother-in-law of DH’s father’s sister (got that?).  I got all gussied up like it was a hot date, mostly because my choices were yoga pants and stained graphic tees with sneakers or my sexy leather boots with a knee skirt and cutesy sweater. Earings, necklace, you name it.  Except when I was trying stuff on, like stuff I wore this summer? My adorable light-weight sweaters and skirts?

THEY DID NOT FIT.

As in, I could barely zip up the skirts, pull them over my arse or button a sweater or blouse.  Don’t even get me started on the stockings that I couldn’t get over my thighs.  These were all things that fit me less than three months ago. A year ago, some of them were slightly too big.

And now they are too tight.

Either some gnomes decided to sneak into my house and switch out my clothes as a really bad practical joke or every shrunk in the wash.

I’m going with everything shrunk in the wash. Sounds good, right?

Because the alternative?  The alternative is I stepped on the scale and found out I gained yet another five pounds.  That’s thirty pounds since my anniversary last year.  I’m eating like crap, I’m not getting any sleep, my clothes don’t fit and I am barely getting exercise in again because when I have the choice between sleep or a three-mile jog, GUESS WHICH ONE I PICK, Y’ALL.  Go on, guess.

I can dream about jogging while I am sleeping. When I am jogging, I can’t sleep.  That’s how I justify it.  And now that I’ve written that out, I see how pathetic that justification is, just like when I justify that I need fries for lunch, or need to get SOS for breakfast or need ice cream because it was a bad day and I deserve it.  I am not getting younger.  Thirty pounds in a year.  If I do that again, I will be in the morbidly obese category for my height.  I deserve a healthier me and so does my family.

I’m kicking my arse and taking my own name. Time to get serious.

Thanks to Daylight Savings coming to an end, I have been getting very little sleep around these parts.  Bugaboo has difficulty with any sort of change in his routine, and just putting the clocks back an hour (at which time most people get an extra hour.  N.O.T.) is enough to send him into a tail spin. Combine that with an ear infection, bowel troubles and a chest cold and we’ve taken four steps back, my friends.  This staying up until nine or ten and waking up at four thing has to go. And while five hours of sleep is enough for some people, I ain’t one of ‘em.  I need a solid eight just to function. I need that at least a week straight to feel human.

When I don’t get enough sleep, I am moody and cranky.  I eat too much and eat too much of the wrong stuff.  I can’t get the energy to climb up and down stairs.  I sit and stare at the walls, knowing I should probably get some housework done.  My feet feel like lead bricks, I can’t exercise (I get five minutes into it and I’m winded and get a headache, I’m so tired). I’m depressed, because I’m eating like crap and not exercising.  I feel guilty because I’m snappy with the kids and dog.  I am frustrated because I don’t have energy to do anything.  This time of year is difficult enough for me (THANKS, SAD!).

I know, whine, whine, whine.  Blah, blah, blah.

Same old story. I’m always complaining about my yard being muddy or my kid not sleeping or bowel issues or my wretched pets.  And yet, people keep coming back to read this drivel.  Either I’m writing something interesting, people read it out of pity or they are getting paid to come here.  If it’s the latter, I need to get in on this fine deal because I’ll read boring crap if it involves getting paid.  I’ll do just about anything to keep the Stay-at-home gig going for a little while longer, because it’s best for my kids that I’m available. You know, in case you are about to take a nap to catch up for the previous night’s lack of sleep  and kick off your shoes and the phone rings so you get it and it just happens to be your kid’s school, the one over an hour away?  And you thought you had three hours to get a nap, get showered, fold clothes, do dishes and get dinner started before the first school dismissed and the second school dropped your kid off.  But instead you have to go GET your kid because he’s been crying all day and they cannot figure out what his malfunction is so driving there and back takes up over two hours and when you get back from the road adventure he is bouncing off the walls (NO, BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS) And he’s miserable and breaking things and destructive and then when you pick up the other kid and your other young charges the kid you picked up sick might, say, climb on the roof of the minivan in the pick-up line and cause you to shriek for him to get down in front of everyone inducing dirty looks from pick-up mommies (because, you know, I let him climb out of his car seat and climb up there).  And when you get home it’s more escaping, more hand-biting, more destruction and when he finally falls asleep (at the wrong time!) you sit down to read his Evaluation report for his upcoming IEP and read things like him being in the bottom 1% for his age in JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING.

This is why I need more sleep. So I have a faster reaction time and I’m more equipped to deal with things like car roof surfing, ceiling tile eating and obnoxious early morning waking.

And I know there are run-on sentences and missing punctuation and probably split infinitives and misspellings, and guess what?  I cannot coherently write my name, so y’all are SOL.

And I’m starting a movement to abolish Daylight Savings Time.  WHO’S WITH ME????

I often have waaaaay too many things rolling around in my head.  In other words, I have tons I want to say, I just can’t get it OUT, you see.  So when I stumble across what other people are saying, and it’s what I’ve been thinking, I get all, “OMG!  That’s it!  They just put into words what I’ve been thinking!”  And I get giddy and silly and I’ve got to share it with everyone I know.

So.  The marriage equality thing?  This guy says what I want to say.  Except he says it waaaaaay better than I ever could.

The Phillies?  Who dat?  Poor Cole Hamels, the scapegoat of the city.  How quickly people jump off the bandwagon.  And man, do they jump on and off with ferocious speed here.

I’m not Anti-vax or Pro-vax.  But this is how I feel about this situation.  Complete neuro shutdown from a flu shot?  Can you say conversion disorder?

Beware on social network sites. Just sayin’ (I knew there was a catch!  I KNEW IT!).

Hows ’bout them apples!

Of course, I might just be peevish because I’m cranky because I’m tired because I’ve got a sick kid (and a husband who thinks it’s ok to feel me up when I’m snuggling with sick kids.  N.O.T.).

 

Here’s the thing about grief and pain.  It eventually gets easier to live with but it never actually goes away.  And then sometimes, when  least expected, WHAM!  It smacks a person upside the head and screams, “HERE I AM!  THOUGHT I WAS GONE, DID YA?  WRONG!”

I’ve been mulling this post over for several days in my head. I didn’t want to come across as whiney or cause anyone to pity me. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or depressing.  I’m not asking anyone to do anything, say anything or try to make me feel better. But it is what it is.  And what it is IS this:

I am never going to get over the fact that Bugaboo ain’t like everyone else.

There. I said it.  Feels good to have it out in the open.  As talented as I am when it comes to pressing on in the face of adversity, it is wearing me down, making me tired, making me sad and basically making it very difficult to get out of bed in the morning.  I was literally admonishing myself this morning. What’s your problem? I thought you were over this!  C’mon!  Move forward!  Forget about the past! Can’t you just forget it?

But the thing is, I can’t just forget it.  It will never go away.

Friday I went to Bug Boy’s school for their yearly Halloween Parade. It’s fun for the kids, they love dressing up and showing everyone their costumes.  They have some very unique, homemade outfits.  Bug Boy’s class, being the last class at the end of the hallway on the top floor, gets to lead the parade.  They come out first.  I ran down after helping the kids dress, grabbed my spot at the end of the parade route and waited, camera in hand. I was happily snapping pictures of the kids, smiling, calling out the names of our friends and neighbors.  And somewhere towards the end, the first grader began to parade out.

The first grade. The kids that we have known since they were babies.  Their mothers and I sat at the pool, park and playground, nursing our babes, chatting about how awesome it would be when they were all in first grade together.  They would all be in soccer and music lessons and scouts.  They’d be best friends one day, enemies the next and then make up and be even better friends. We couldn’t wait for that.  The only problem is that Bugaboo was not with them.

He wasn’t at the parade.

It finally hit me, just then. All this time I had the attitude that, “Oh well!  Bugaboo is taking a different path.  No big deal.”  Except it is a big deal, to me.  My head suddenly started to spin, the crowd noise became drowned out by the roaring airplane engine noises in my ears. My mouth instantly became dry. My heart began to pound in my chest and my feet felt like lead blocks.  I was having a panic attack.

Bugaboo doesn’t attend our local school. He isn’t in class with any of them.  He isn’t taking the bus with his friends.  He isn’t at the soccer field at an ungodly hour with them on Saturday mornings.  And while I thought I was ok with it, the truth is?

I’M NOT.

I’m not ok with it. I’m not ok that he won’t ever live on his own or take care of himself. I’m not ok that he won’t get to make most of his decisions from now until adulthood. I’m not ok that he won’t be hanging out after school, jumping his bike over home-made ramps and knocking up for his buddies. I’m not ok that I have to keep locks and alarms on our doors, padlock our gates so he won’t escape and lock up anything he could possibly eat in the house, due to his little Pica problem (he was eating drop ceiling tiles in the basement last night).  I’m not ok that I cannot sleep at night, either due to the fact that he’s constantly awake (even on sleep meds) or because I’m petrified he will sneak out and I won’t hear him.  I’m not ok that I have to be hyper-vigilant and that I cannot keep him safe.  I’m not ok that he won’t be like them, those supposedly-normal kids.

Now, I love my boy. I love him the way he is.  I love him with every ounce of my being. I live and breathe for my family. I’d be lost without them.  But the truth is, I didn’t sign up for this. I know I have to live with whatever I’m handed, but it’s a stupid cliche. The person who said that first did not have a disable child.  I DON’T WANT TO LIVE WITH IT!  I know I might sound like a spoiled brat, but there it is.

/END RANT.

Ahhhhh…this blog thing is very cathartic.  I feel better already.  And the previous rant may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I’ve gotten 4 hours of sleep on average for the past two weeks.

 

Hey Babe,

Happy Anniversary! Hard to believe that it has been that is has been a luck thirteen years since we took the plunge.  Lucky for you, I don’t suffer from a fear of triskadekaphobia, a fear of a fear of the number thirteen.  In fact, about the only thing I’m afraid of is not having another thirteen years with you.  And thirteen times thirteen. And so on.

Where was I?

Oh yes, anniversary.  The other night I was feeling all nostalgic-like and decided to pull out an old Halloween costume, my beloved Star Trek Starfleet Red Ensign Uniform. I made it myself, right around the time I first met you (Yeah, I’m a geek, WHAT OF IT?). You remember, right? I was that crazy redheaded bowling alley attendant, dating my high school sweet heart, thinking I was gonna marry the guy (WRONG OH WRONG OH WRONG GLAD THAT DID NOT HAPPEN).  I was a vegetarian with a no concrete plans for the future and a propensity for losing things.  And breaking things.  And forgetting things.  And…how’s about that, I still have no concrete plans, a propensity for losing, breaking and forgetting things and…

Anywho, you walked in.  I started talking. I didn’t stop talking.  I broke up with the high school sweetheart, started dating your best friend, saw you again at the friend’s birthday party, his girlfriend showed up and we…well, we got to know each other REALLY WELL over a couple of chasers.  We got to know each other so well, your friend was pretty ticked off.  He didn’t come to our wedding. No surprise there.

We’ve had our ups and downs.  We broke up, got back together three weeks later and got engaged after that.  Then the whole drama with your father started, he made you choose between us, you picked me.  You said it was a no brainer, easiest decision of your life. I’ll never forget it.

You supported me through four college majors (no, you really SUPPORTED ME).  Even though you told me you thought I was a ghost coming down the aisle to marry you, and I was REALLY LATE because I forgot my train, you still married me.  Even though I got pregnant the same freaking day I finally got my college diploma and teacher’s certificate, you still loved me.  Even though you thought you’d never be a good Dad, because you didn’t have one to learn from, you ended up being the best Daddy on the planet.  Even the neighbors’ kids think you are a great dad and want to hang out with you.

I don’t put caps on condiments and you end up dropping them. You drink out of the orange juice (note to guests: do not drink the orange juice here) carton.  I don’t clean the hair out of the shower. You kick your shoes off in the middle of the floor.  I talk. A lot. TOO MUCH. And you don’t. Ever.

We’re yin and yang. Total polar opposites. Those dating tests and quizzes would never, ever match us up.  In fact, the dating websites would never match us up.  But that’s ok, because fate has.  We’re perfect for each other.  It doesn’t getting better than this.

We may not have the most romantic marriage and the odds may be stacked against us, due to Bugaboo’s issues, but we’re gonna make it, babe. I don’t ever wanna be with anyone else but you.

YOU COMPLETE ME (quick, name that movie).

If I don’t say it enough, I’m sorry.  I mean to, really.  I just usually remember when I’m up at 3am with the boy and you are sawing logs, or you are taking him for a ride while I try to take a nap.  So let this serve as a warning  for you.  I think of you every single moment of every single day.  I still can’t believe that after all of this time, you still think I’m hot and sexy in my Starfleet uniform. Even when I’m struggling to fit into postpartum jeans.  And I’m seven years postpartum.  I feel like the luckiest girl alive.

Thank you, babe!

And, I promise that perhaps by our next anniversary?  I’ll put the cap back on ALL of the condiments, so you don’t drop them and they don’t go all over the floor, appliances, ceiling and cabinets.  That’s how much I love you.

Love,

Me.

Ps – Happy El Dia De Los Muertos. The most romantic day of the year.

I feel bad when I buy those picture frames with all the holes in them. You know, the collage frames?  I almost don’t want to take the insert out with the models on it because those people look so happy in those pictures.  One time I inserted my own pictures over the models and left two of the models in there to see if anyone would notice.  I almost wanted those pretty people to be in my family.

When I got to the grocery store I cannot resist the compulsion to rearrange the spices either in Alphabetical order or in the order of Scarborough Faire. You know, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme?  This year, I grew them in my garden like that.  I’m not kidding, either.

For the love of all that is good and holy, Please use YOU’RE for YOU ARE and THEY’RE for THEY ARE.  I know it’s OCD (or CDO, in the right order) but it makes me insane.

People who abuse animals and children are psychopaths and must be put into a boiling pit of lava.  That is all.

I’m wearing the Star Trek costume that I made nearly twenty years ago for Halloween tomorrow.  I had to let it out a bunch make a few minor alterations but I am happy it still fit, considering I’m twenty-five pounds more to love.

My husband is wearing his usual, “This IS my costume” tee-shirt.  He’s very festive like that.  He also has a shirt that says, “Bah Humbug!”

I think Halloween parades and parties at schools are dumb. In fact, I think all school parties are dumb. There, I said it. I wish they didn’t have them.  Halloween is my ABSOSMURFLY favorite celebration, but it is absurd that they take an entire freaking school day for this.  Just sayin’.  Celebrations and Holidays belong at home.  Including that “Winter Holiday” party that we have.  Sheesh.

I think the food in the school cafeteria leaves very much to be desired but I let my boy buy it anyway because HE EATS IT and even eats the fruits and veggies sometimes.  Last week, when I asked him to please take the fruit (because I heard that the cafeteria people were not allowed by the gov’t (this is true) to force kids to take anything), he answered, “But MOM!  It has high-fructose corn syrup in it!  I’m not eating that!”  That’s my boy.

When I take my son shopping with me, he makes sure I stick to an imaginary $100 budget that his father thinks we should stick to.  So he stands there adding it all up in his head, makes me put things back and stands at the register and says, “$101!  PUT SOMETHING BACK!”  Because, you know, I want my husband to go shopping with me.  Sheesh.

The first place I gain weight is in my arse.  The last place I gain it is in my girls.  The first place I lose weight is in my girls. The last place I lose it is in my arse. Ironical, isn’t it?

Every time I hear a song now I think about whether or not to put it on my iPod if it has a good running beat. As in, for when I go running.  I’m hooked.

Death By Chocolate ice cream from the PSU creamery apparently has magical sore throat healing powers. It also can solve the current economic crisis, third-world hunger and can cure rickets (that part is true).

So.

We still have three houses up for grabs.  And all three are on my side of the street. On my block, even.  Three out of the four houses DIRECTLY next to mine.

Is it something we said?

Just in case you were thinking it was THE REMAINING NEIGHBORS, I will clarify why they are all moving.  An older gentleman lived in the house four houses down and his wife died last year. He recently had a stroke and moved in with his daughter. So his overpriced dilapidated fixer-upper is for sale (estates are always interesting). Two houses down the older couple is moving because THEY HATE KIDS.  Or, more precisely, she does. These are the lovely neighbors who called the cops when we roasted marshmallows with the kids.  The also complain when the kids write on the sidewalk with chalk. You know, because it’s not like chalk washes off or anything.

The one that is hitting us the hardest, though, is our next-door neighbors.  Polite Boy, Little Miss and Middle Child (and their parents. And dogs.  But you probably knew that) are moving.  We are very, very, VERY upset about this.  And they kinda don’t want to move but have no choice.   Unfortunately, their landlord was a total bung-hole and didn’t bother to make payments on the mortgage on the house or pay taxes for two years. TWO YEARS. And he never told them.  Just kept going like it was business as usual, never mentioning a word until someone showed up at their door and served papers.  Less than sixty days ago they found out the house was going for sheriff’s sale and they had to find a new place and they weren’t happy about it, since they lived here for four years. Our kids are friends, I watch their kids on occasion, our dogs play together. It sucks. These are the kinds of neighbors that we can borrow spaghetti sauce or a cup of sugar from (and do, more frequently than we’d both like to admit).  Our boys are best chums.  We talk over the fence nearly every evening when our kids are playing and we take walks on nice nights all over the neighbor hood and talk about nothing everything. We were married on the same day (same year), have the same dishes, our husbands went to high school together and we found out we are related (distant cousins, but STILL!).  And they tolerate Bugaboo hoping the fence and running into the house.  Mostly.

Let’s just say that with them moving, there will be a big, gaping hole in our neighborhood.

The good news is that they found a new place that is twice the size for the same price in the same school district. Our kids will still see each other at school. We can still have playdates and sleepovers.  But it won’t be the same.  We are really, REALLY gonna miss them.

Boohoo.

Please, someone with kids move here!  QUICK!  Your only requirements (besides the ability to pay the mortgage on any of the three properties) is that you have to like kids, have to tolerate them turning around in your driveway with their bikes, must like dogs, must like attending camp fires in the backyard during the summer, must be willing to lend me a jar of sauce when I forget it or hand me my spare house key when I lock myself out. Oh, and you have to want to live in a really awesome school district.  And?  You have to be willing to have a half-nekkid seven-year-old in your house or yard once in a while.  That’s all. Pretty easy, really.

Sigh.

 

I’ve been doing this Flylady thing on and off for nearly five years.  At a time when I needed my skin saved, her system totally saved it. I was post-postpartum, sick as a dog, miserable and overwhelmed with a special-needs baby and didn’t know my arse from a hole in the ground (except my arse is MUCH BIGGER AFTER HAVING BABIES SINCE IT’S THE ONLY PLACE I GAIN WEIGHT).   Enter Flylady. As the husband put it, “Flylady saved our marriage!”

Seriously? If you cannot follow this system then you can’t follow directions. It isn’t hard.  And if your issue is all the e-mails?  TURN THEM OFF.  Just follow the basics, I promise you it will be better. My house isn’t perfect but it is ALWAYS close enough to have guests.  A mere straighten and vac and a quick wipe and they can even use the bathroom. On months when I actually get some sleep, I do detailed cleaning and decluttering. After a while it becomes automatic.  You don’t have to THINK about it. I automatically get clothes out for the next day when the kids are in the tub and I’m getting out pjs.  I automatically pack lunches while cleaning up dinner. See, the whole point is for things to become ROUTINE. It’s a beautiful thing, especially when you have kids with special needs who thrive and depend on order.

Now, they not only depend on order, they rely on me to provide it.  I am supposed to keep sh*t together around here and I don’t always do that. I could whine and complain about how difficult my life is but I won’t.  Y’all get it, I think.  Everyone has their tough times, right?

One of my favorite things to do with Flylady is couch diving. For those of you who have not joined the flylady cult:

Go to your couch, start running your hands along the edges of the cushions. Lift them up if you have one of those fancy-schmancy couches that actually does that.  Stand back in horror when you see what’s in there.  I’ll wait while you pick your jaw up.  Then go get your handy vac, dustbuster, what evs. Start cleaning it up.  Line up the fun stuff to see how much crap you find at the end. I also do under my couch, because that stuff is also fun to find.  Things like:

• three tennis balls
• eleven cents in change
• a super bouncy ball
• nerf darts
• a matchbox car
• legos
• two permanent markers
• pepperoni that was dry and dark brown. Ew.
• at least a handful of pasta
• enough crumbs to feed a third-world country (ok, it was like a box of crackers)
• shredded dog toys ala puppy
• six granola bar wrappers (for little boys who like to sneak the when told no just before dinner)
• petrified quesadilla
• feathers (from my poor, poor silk-down pillows)
• unidentifiable organisms that surely could start the next plague

And this was just one week’s worth.

It’s disheartening, for certain. I work my arse off (not really, because DAMMIT IT, IT IS STILL THERE) and it’s always one step forward and two steps back.  I’m at the point where I don’t care if walls get painted, walls get joint compound, carpets get replaced or we patch the leak in the kitchen ceiling (from nightly re-enactments of the Titanic in my bathtub. I only wish I was kidding).  It’s just going to get destroyed because my kids are monsters and they destroy everything. This is why I never, ever have people over. Certainly not people I know well. Certainly not moms from school.  I don’t want them seeing the sorry status of my house.  You know, early american Goodwill?   Someday I hope to do something like, I dunno, run the vacuum?  And have it stay like that.  FOR AN HOUR.

But hey, at least I get enough done during the day that it doesn’t get WORSE, right?  They don’t have a vacation coming up any time soon so I can keep up.

Couch diving. Try it.  But wear gloves the first time, especially if you have kids like mine.  It’s like Forrest Gump and a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.

 

I spend the better part of the year ignoring my impending birthday.  I mean it, I forget about it, try not to let others know when it is, avoid the phone that day, hide the cards from the mail.  Birthdays are just not that important to me.  If you are only as old as you feel, I’m gonna be twenty-five forever.  Right?

Here’s the funniest part.

I spent the better part of the weekend tending to sick kids. A few folks knew what was coming and we kidded about it a bit.  I kept saying, “Yeah. I’m definitely not 38.  I’m TWENTY-EIGHT!  SO PBLTT!!!”  And we joked and laughed and that was that.

Then I was sitting there last night, watching EMHE with my sick boy (who, three days later, still has a temp of 103.  Which is better than the 103.9 it had been but certainly worse than the 102.7 it had been for part of the weekend) and it hit me.  I’m not turning 38.

I’m turning 37.

Which is the problem with not celebrating your birthday and avoiding it at all costs.

You don’t know when it is.  And you certainly don’t know how freaking old you are.

Which is precisely why I ignore them. That way, I go by the old-as-you-feel thing and I FEEL FREAKING GREAT!

Take that, Father Time.

I blinked and OMG IT’S FRIDAY.  It sounds awfully cliche, but it’s true.  This week just flew by.  Now, what was it that was keeping DG busy this week, dear Internets?  Dare you ask?

Monday, DG was still recovering from the mystery migraine that plagued her during her sister’s wedding.  So she woke up, got the kids off to school and proceeded to SLEEP ALL DAY. Ok, it was only four hours or so. But still equally glorious.

Tuesday, DG tried to clean up her pigsty castle and then entertained her adorable nephew for a few hours. Don’t argue. He’s adorable. Just look:

Wednesday, DG was in the car pretty much all day.  First she dropped off her kid at school, since the evil bus driver is still driving.  Then she went ran to the grocery store, dropped off recycling, picked up her cans (that she dropped off in stealth mode at her friend’s house, since DG’S tiny town doesn’t do plastic), went to the post office, dropped off at Goodwill, picked up a prescription and stopped to get a new DVD burner for the computer because?  BUGABOO.  Then she picked up the two little boys she babysits, took them home for lunch, played and played and played, took them home (and met their momma at the train station because it was fun), picked Bug Boy up from school, drove home, got Bugaboo, drove to his appointment and drove home again.  And then it was 8:00.  Day over.

Thursday, DG went to Bug Boy’s IEP meeting and it was THE BEST ONE EVER.  No, really. His team at school is amazing, they all love him. They all think he is bright, polite, cheerful, kind and loving.  Lucky for us, he saves up the raging temper episodes until he gets home. BUT!  Progress!  He’s making it!  As in, waaaaaaay above benchmarks, this kid.  And his behavior has improved, he raises his hands in class, he catches up on all of his work, he FOLLOWS directions AND!  He loves school. They couldn’t say enough great things about him.  I’m happy we are finally on the upswing with this kid.  After the BEST IEP EVER, I babysat the EASIEST BABY EVER.  No really, she is EASY.  Happy, cheerful, playful and sweet. The kid cries for two seconds, if at all.  She amuses herself with doors while I do dishes. She takes a half-hour to walk five houses down because she wants to stop and look at everything. It’s such a pleasant experience, watching NORMAL kids.  And then, DG received another dog-sitting dog.  This one is small and cute and quiet but she’s…um…let’s just say she needs doggy Jenny Craig.  She’s a bit…um…rounder than most dogs her size.  We’re gonna work on that.  She’ll be here 2-3 weeks.  She and Shadow are good chums. She and Bristol? NOT SO MUCH.   And I might keep her and give them Bristol, because BRISTOL THE WONDER DOG ate my DIVA CUP.  And I’m not happy, because it was a brand-spanking-new one that I JUST got (it was clean, no worries) and I had to run out to the pharmacy last night and buy actual female supplies and I’m just pissed off about it.  Grrrr…puppies…grumble…grumble…good thing she’s cute.

Cute dog being attacked by evil-puppy.

evil puppy behind bars

And today?  Today DG has her weekly massage (after she drops off the boy). Then she has to come home, bake for tonight’s bake sale at the fall fair, make a Chinese Dish for UN luncheon day at school, go to UN luncheon, clean up UN luncheon, come home ,try to nap fast, tidy up the house, go pick up boy from school, come home to get other boy from his beloved bus, wait for babysitter for Bugaboo, go pick up nephew, take five kids to the school’s fall fair, drop nephew off, go home.  And by then it will be eight o’clock.

And just so you know? DG will spend the weekend completely ignoring the fact that there is impending doom on Monday.  Impending Doom in the form of Turning Another Year Older.  Sigh.