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    Happy Friggin’ New Year!!!

    January 1, 2009

    I am so hung over.  You know when you go to a party and all night everyone is drinking and a) no one thinks to put a pitcher of ice water on the table to keep the natives hydrated or b) even makes ice so now everyone is drinking drinks without ice?  And that crappy hostess is you? And you get hung over because now you have eaten salt-laden goodness for a total of like 6 hours and you haven’t had anything to drink other than illegal sips from someone else’s Anchor Steam because wielding your very own beer after you have pried your fat pregnant belly under the table is just frowned upon by even the loosest of folks?

    I’m too old for this.  I laughed so hard last night I actually laid my head down on the dinner table and cried.  That might have been when my husband started his falsetto/vasectomy voice across the table or maybe when I was rehashing for the 6th year in a row the story about my gay ex-boyfriend’s emotional breakdown of nuclear proportions in my kitchen one New Year’s Eve and BeBe didn’t think it was funny because she was drunk thanks to that Trader Joe’s Sparkling Limeade and vodka concoction and then someone asked if Carl and I used to date?   Which we never dated but we did have that marriage pact and then Carl got emotional and thanked Derek profusely for marrying me.  I really can’t pinpoint the crying party but I do think the top half of my bra was hanging out my shirt for the better part of the night and when I commented on it, Amy said, “who hasn’t seen them?” That would be my girls, which were hanging out the top of my bra.  The crying in laughter was definitely NOT when Carl strayed from our 8 year New Year’s Eve script and brought up my ex who threw about the Baby Jesus or his reference to my church as “The Pickup Church.”  or the reference to my match.com years.  I mean days.

    The Cake Lady spent the better part of the night being “on” and hobbling around on her bum knee due to an unfortunate mini motorcycle accident and then there were all manner of “bum” stories.  Who knew “bum” meant so many different things to so many people.  PopPop offered again to birth my child for me and while I am sure he is an excellent plumber, I mentioned I may have to pass on that one.  The Husband was forced to tell The Boy to stop “grating the guests” which could have referred to either The Boy’s attempts to use an actually cheese grater on Tom’s arm OR screaming loudly and annoyingly in a manner which would have suggested that bedtime would have been helpful, say, 3 hours earlier.   Dinner wasn’t on the table until 9, the host was pissed off because his grilled tenderloin was cold (so you are saying I should have started the green beans earlier?) and his exact helping of potatoes dauphinoise wasn’t cooked enough (mine was org@asmic, thank you very much) and I think he was still pissed off because of the damn vasectomy from last month.  Seriously, get over it.  By 11 he was hammered and then he was really funny, which is why I married him.  Which is not to be confused with the vasectomy, which is why I am staying married to him.  Derek did his best to share the marital disharmony by making Amy her very own bucket of popcorn from my brand new popcorn maker that Tom did NOT buy for Amy for Christmas and I don’t know if they fought on the way home because of it.

    Matt and Deb waxed wistfully nostalgic about their kids growing up so fast and college applications and we folks with small children looked at them like they were crazy.  Because they are.  Time has stopped over here.  So much so that when the clock struck midnight, we missed it.  It was only at 12:01 that someone realized.  No, wait.  I think that means that time is moving faster.

    I need a Gatorade. Happy 2009!

    Go on over to PBS Supersisters and tell me your best impossible NY resolution.   And just know that that 50 pounds is going to be 60 by March, at the rate I’m going.

    add to sk*rt

    Luckily he’s not anything like his brother

    December 21, 2008

    I went to a Holiday Cookie Exchange party the other night at The Cake Lady’s house.  It’s only been since I have moved to this house that I have “friends.”  Before I had “friend (Hi, B, Renee, Cath!!!  Singularly and never in the same place)”  Now I go places in packs like the rest of you popular people have been doing for years.  I pee with other people now.  It’s nice.

    Of course I didn’t tell The Boy that I was going to The Cake Lady’s house because if he knew I was going to be with his lover Harrison then it would have been all over.  I just told him that I was going out with Wendy.  And the interrogation began.

    E:  momomomomomomomom.  I want to go with you and Wendy.
    K:  You can’t.
    E:  Why?
    K:  Dad would miss you.
    E:  Dadadadadad.  You wouldn’t miss me.  Why can’t I go with Mom?
    D:  How come you always put on makeup when you go out with your girlfriends?

    Um, cause I’m hoping to pick up the guy who cleans out the fish tank across the street?  It’s a vag1na party, for heaven’s sake.  I’m putting on makeup to cover the fact that I am twice the weight of every person who will be at this party and will be nibbling on nothing, complaining about moving from a size 2 to a 4 during the holidays.  A juniors 4, that is.  Nothing says “Look at my face instead of my ass that can barely fit through a doorway” like harem red lipstick.

    K:  You can’t come.  It’s just for moms.
    E:  But MOM.  I want to go to Wendy’s house too!!!!
    K:  You can’t go to Wendy’s house.
    E:  So you are going to Wendy’s house?

    Rookie, rookie mistake.  Had I been the interrogator, I would have given the suspect my best “SUCKER” face.  His father looked on in dismay.  The kid is 3 and he just flipped his mother.  This isn’t looking good.  Wendy showed up in the nick of time and brought a plate full of kick ass cookies just for the kids.  We left. Apparently their father let them have two and then they had to go to bed.  He put the tray up on top of the fridge.  We had an awesome time at the party and I talked too much.  That happens when they only let you out of the psycho ward every 6 months for visitation.

    The next day the kids were being kinda quiet in the kitchen and there was some noise but I wasn’t paying attention because I was busy taking the 600 dead lights off the tree and putting on the new strands.  I love Christmas.  Because the lights had to work the first 20 minutes I put them on the tree and then put all that breakable stuff around them.  Dammit.  Suddenly I heard The Husband YELL.

    It appears that The Baby (you read that right) decided that he and The Boy needed some of Wendy’s stash and he found a stool in the laundry room.  He brought it out and put it against the counter.  He climbed onto the counter, up on the microwave and began reaching across the top of the fridge from the top of the microwave for the cookies.  When he couldn’t reach them, he decided to just push the tray over onto the floor for easier access.  Why do all that work for one when you can have 20?  It was only then that The Dog decided that maybe he too should indulge in some reindeer games.  When The Husband entered the kitchen, he said there was a feeding frenzy on the floor, with the kids trying to eat faster than the 95 pound Lab.

    You tell them never to stand on the top of the microwave, but do they listen? No. You think you lock the stools up in the laundry room but does that stop them? No.

    I’m so glad my husband is leaving me alone with these children tomorrow. Go to work. Really. I’ll be fine. I have to wonder what happened to that last pack of matches though…

    add to sk*rt

    The post where I offend everyone about their Thanksgiving traditions

    November 30, 2008

    K:  Dan is talking crazy about appetizers for Thanksgiving.  Because there isn’t enough to overeat on Thanksgiving.  Although I do so love the carmelized onion dip. 
    D:  We always had a pickle and olive platter.  It’s very traditional.
    K:  Did you just say a pickle and olive platter is traditional?
    D:  Very.
    K:  Um, were your grandparents born in Washington state?
    D:  Yes.
    K:  And your great grandparents?
    D:  I think they were born in Washington too.
    K:  So your great history of “tradition” is a few generations born on that OTHER coast?
    D:  Yeah.  What are you trying to say?
    K:  How long have your people had tradition?  I mean, you’ve only been there for like a hundred years.  It’s not your people settled in the birthplace of the freedom.  Traditional?  It’s not like they fought in the Revolutionary War.  I’m not saying I AM a card-carrying member of the DAR but that’s due to laziness.  Hundreds of years of laziness. 

    This would be the point were I apparently crossed the line.

    D:  HEY, my PEOPLE fought in the Revolutionary War.
    K:  As members of the French army.  That hardly counts.
    D:  Um, this country couldn’t have won the war without the French.

    It’s only been how many years since those words have been spoken? And will they ever be spoken again? I think not.

    K:  Sure, your people did make that road up the street from our house that is now known as The Ultimate Shortcut to Ikea.  But you know what I’m saying.  Pickles and olives for a Thanksgiving appetizer?  Seriously?

    add to sk*rt

    Signs you can’t survive on 4 hours sleep a night.

    July 9, 2008

    K: The Boy has been depressed all day.
    Cake Lady: Why has he been depressed?
    K: He’s depressed because his name doesn’t have an “H” in it. I have an “H” in my name.
    Cake Lady: He DOES have an “H” in his name.
    K: No, he doesn’t.
    Cake Lady: E-T-H-A-N.
    K: Eat, your name has an “H” in it.
    TB: No, it doesn’t, Mom. You told me it didn’t.
    K: It does.
    TB: NO, IT DOESN’T.

    Oops.

    add to sk*rt

    Where, oh where have my car keys gone? Oh, where, or where can they be?

    June 26, 2008

    The car keys are gone again. What moron has one key to a car? Oh, that would be the moron who is still living in her basement because she is too cheap to fix her air conditioner and doesn’t want to pay $300 for a car key.

    Miss America/The Cake Lady: Why don’t you get a key made? I’LL pay for a key to be made.
    K: Um, it costs $300.
    MA/TCL: Not if you get a regular key.
    K: But I can’t find anyone to make one for me. Other than the dealership.
    MA/TCL: Oh, WE can find someone who will do it. I can promise you that.

    I’ll just save us all time now and tell you where it was the last time I remember. Hopefully The Husband will read this on his way home from work on the train and won’t ask me. The Baby got his grimy little paws on the wallet/key combo just after I gave Josh all my money. As I watched The Baby attempt to take everything out of the wallet, I snatched it away from him. And then everything goes to gray.

    Let’s face it. Today is just like any other day. Any other day except that I needed to drop off Kimberly’s shirts to her at The Party Store Logan’s Costco. Even Sarah tried to help me find them. She tried to help me find them by cleaning my kitchen. Sarah is Miss America’s sister. Nothing. But now all my dishes are clean.

    I called Chocolate Fountain Fairy Godmother.

    CFFG: At least if it was The Baby, you only have to look close to the ground.
    K: Actually I just found a wine glass on the top shelf of the cabinet above the sink. I’m gonna have to say all bets are off here.

    Miss America offered to take me to the train station to pick up the truck. She actually offered to take me all the way to Costco. Kimberly offered to come get the shirts. Sheesh. We were on our way out the door when L.A. drove past. She slammed on her brakes and the window came down.

    LA: What are you girls doing?
    K: She’s gonna take me to the train station to pick up the truck because I can’t find the car keys.
    LA: Does that thing even have gas in it (pointing to the parked Volvo)?

    She was referencing the other day when my husband was supposed to take the car to the train station so I could spend $9 in gas to drop stuff off at recycling. He couldn’t take the car because it wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t start because it was out of gas. HEY!!! $3.89 a gallon will hit you in the ovaries. I don’t want to pay that. Which meant the car went down to below empty and wouldn’t start. I have the $1.89 a gallon gas my husband bought way back when for the lawn mower but I’ll be damned if I am going to put gas in the car if I can’t even find a damn key to start it. Know what I am saying?

    K: No. No, it doesn’t have gas in it.

    MA/TCL: You haven’t put gas in it yet?

    K: Why would I put gas in it?

    I have been through three trash cans and have done everything shy of turning him upside down and shaking to see if they fall off of some part of him.  I’m giving it 24 more hours, then I’m taking the car off of the insurance.  I mean, I can be saving all sorts of money around here.  And the only thing I’m losing is my sanity.

    add to sk*rt

    At least we have our health (stop that coughing over there)

    June 9, 2008

    OK, you think I may have fallen off the face of the earth? Well, you see, there was the broken A.C. unit upstairs. Two techs later and a “thank you, ma’am, that will be at least $2100 to fix. And by the way, it doesn’t have any refridgerant in it. Which means that you have probably killed the only part of the unit that wouldn’t have needed to be fixed for another 12-14 years.”
    No problem. We know how to adapt. So what if that news came on the hottest day of the year so far. Three digit hot. Buy Mega Millions tickets and move down into the basement where the air conditioning still works. Actually it works on the first floor too. We are golden. Sure we’ll have to all sleep in one 10 x 10 room, a la Little House on the Prairie style, but it’ll be fun. An adventure, if you will.

    Then there was the big storm. The storm that my husband warned me about as I dropped The Boy off at his little nature camp at the local park. Tornado warnings? This isn’t Kansas, people.

    Until I came out of BJ’s. I saw it rolling in and I had that cart going at least 15 miles an hour. Everyone thought I was crazy in the parking lot but I knew exactly what was about to happen. I slammed the door with The Baby inside as the storm hit with rain pelting me and the wind blowing my shirt over the top of my head. That moment I knew panic. The phone rang and my husband told me that it was really bad. As I raced down the road, I saw huge bolts of lightning hitting what appeared to be the park where I had left my son. At an outdoor camp. I passed downed trees and practically threw up. I roared up to the camp to find the counselors carrying kids to the minivan to drive them across the lot to the concrete bathroom. I threw the kids in the car and raced home. Except I had to get out once to help a group of 10 people try to move a tree out of the road. We got home to find the power out. And apparently a tree in the back yard was struck by lightning and the top came down, taking out about 5 trees in it’s wake. And the fence. But it wasn’t on the house. It left a massive dent in the ground where it landed. Which is better than on our heads.

    Then the car broke down today on the interstate as the temperature hit 100 at 10:40 in the morning. I called the Cake Lady and she was on her way. Then my phone went dead. So there I was in the middle of 16 lanes of traffic, in 100 degrees, with two kids in the car and no cell phone. I stood by the car for 15 minutes before these really nice guys in a garbage truck stopped to help me. Maybe it was the tears streaming down my face that made them stop. Maybe they were just angels. I don’t know. I couldn’t get it together and one just handed me his phone. Who to call? There are funky rules about the interstate. You can’t just call a tow truck. It has to be a tow truck with some sort of agreement with the state. I rolled the dice.

    Operator: 911, what is your emergency?

    K: I’m sorry to call 911 because this isn’t an emergency but my cell phone died and I don’t know the non-emergency number for the police so I can call them because I am broken down on 395 in 100 degree temperatures and I have two babies in the car.

    Operator: Ma’am. That IS an emergency. Where are you?

    Not 90 seconds later the VDOT emergency assistance guys rolled up. I love my husband and all, but I think I could have kissed those 250 pound ZZTop looking guys who got out of that truck.

    My children? Everything is a friggin’ adventure. I blame this on my mother’s genes. The ability to see the excitement in even the most frustrating times. The guys left their truck running with the A/C on and I got in with the kids. The Baby? Just tried to drive the damn truck off the entire time. The Boy? Fascinated, OBSESSED with the handle to the window. WTH? That truck was so retro.

    The Cake Lady drove up, took the kids and upon extensive discussion with ZZ Top, I was off to Auto Zone to buy a battery and bring it back so they could put it in for free. For THAT? They got cigarettes, cold water and beef jerky.

    Sure my car died as I rolled into my driveway. Sure the battery solution that cost $84.95 isn’t the solution and I’ll probably have to park my car because it will be too much to fix. But bad things come in threes. And I had my three. So now I’m off to sleep LHOTP style in the basement. Unless that’s the sound of locust I hear outside my window…

    add to sk*rt